My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  There’s a professional dog-walker. One of those ladies who has about ten or so dogs on leashes. And this lady is heading out of Tompkins Square Park at one hell of a rate because right in front, straining at his leash, is Brandy. He’s making for the gumball machine and dragging the lady and the nine or so other dogs behind him.

  ‘Stop right here!’ I say to Abdul and leap out.

  Brandy catches sight of me and totally forgets ‘hashed-liver-flavor-dog-treats’. He hauls the professional dogwalking lady and the nine other dogs towards me instead. He covers my face with doggy kisses.

  ‘You know this dog?’ asks the lady, panting.

  ‘Yep, he’s my dad’s dog, Brandy.’

  ‘He sure has a mind of his own.’

  ‘Has he had his walk?’

  ‘We’ve been twice round the park.’

  ‘OK, I’m going to my dad’s right now. I’ll take him.’

  The dog-walking lady doesn’t need any more reassurance that I’m the bone fide daughter of this dog’s owner. She seems only too relieved to hand him over.

  Brandy climbs haughtily into the limo while the other dogs look on, and spreads himself out on the back seat.

  When Brandy and I arrived at the loft, it was Dad who opened the door.

  ‘Oh . . . hi, Holly! Great to have you coming to stay,’ he said. ‘Oh, you’ve got the dog . . .’ He looked really guilty.

  ‘Dad! How could you hire a dog-walker?’

  ‘Well, what with the rain and the microbes . . .’

  ‘Dad, it was only a cold.’

  ‘Besides, I’ve been busy,’ he said.

  ‘Busy?’

  Dad put an arm round my shoulders and walked me into his music room. There was a load of score scattered around the place, all marked up in Dad’s wild black notation.

  ‘You’ve been writing music?’

  He nodded. He had that old, crinkly smile on his face that I remembered from way back.

  ‘That’s brilliant, Dad!’ I said, hugging him.

  He grinned. ‘Well, yeah, I guess. I had to find a pretty damn good excuse to get out of walking that dog.’

  ‘By the way, where is everyone?’

  ‘That’s the odd thing. Seems like some lucky star’s been shining overhead. Max got this call from a guy in LA. He’s out there writing lyrics right now. And Fred’s been optioned for a feature-length art movie.’

  ‘Cool! What about Marlowe?’

  ‘When I looked in on him this morning, I found he’d gone too. I guess his agent must’ve called at last.’

  ‘So it’s just us here?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Brilliant!’

  Saturday 7th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  I wake up to find Dad is still asleep. As usual there is absolutely nothing to eat in the loft, so I call up the deli.

  I order a list of totally healthy organic foods that I know Dad should eat. Then I ring them again and ask if they could include a box of Lucky Charms and a bottle of Strawberry Kool-Aid.

  10.30 a.m.

  I take Brandy for a walk and get back to find Dad’s in his music room.

  So I settle down to email Rupert. I have to plug my laptop into Dad’s phone line. He hasn’t even got broadband – the loft is positively prehistoric.

  Once plugged in I’m faced with the same old problem.

  ‘Hi, Rupert . . .’

  ‘Hi there . . .’

  ‘Rupert . . .’

  10.32 a.m.

  The deli delivery arrives and Dad wanders through with the crunchy bag of groceries.

  He leans over my shoulder. ‘What you doing, Holly-Poppy?’

  Do I get a chance to concentrate? No way.

  ‘Just sending an email.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘If you must know, my old tutor.’

  ‘What? Mr Walrus?’

  ‘No, the one before that. Rupert.’

  ‘Rupert!’ says Dad. ‘Now hang on. Didn’t your mother have to fire that guy for something?’

  ‘We were only having a hamburger together. She totally over-reacted.’

  ‘That young man is far too old for you, Holly.’

  ‘I’m only sending him an email. He sent one to me.’

  ‘So you’ve been corresponding?’

  ‘No. Yes. Dad, don’t get heavy. He’s in Tanzania!’

  This seems to reassure Dad.

  ‘OK. I guess if he’s out of the country that’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Dad has totally broken my concentration. This is SO-OO not fair. I give up again. The minute I log off, the phone rings.

  It’s someone for Marlowe.

  ‘He’s not in,’ Dad calls from the kitchen. ‘If it’s his agent, take down the details.’

  It isn’t his agent, and whoever it is doesn’t want to leave his name.

  I can hear Dad taking the groceries out of the bag. Is that the sound of a box of Lucky Charms? Then there is a kind of shriek.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  I rush to the kitchen door, thinking maybe he’s found a tarantula in with the bananas or something. If so, I’ll have to save it before it gets stamped on.

  But no, he’s staring at the front page of the New York Times.

  There’s a picture of Mum and Marlowe coming out of some New York night spot with the headline SHOCK SWITCH – KANDHI TO WED.

  ‘I thought she was meant to be engaged to Oliver Bream,’ says Dad.

  ‘Errm . . . kind of NOT,’ I say. ‘At least, not really . . .’

  But she couldn’t possibly dream of marrying Marlowe, could she?’

  At that point the apartment phone rings again.

  Dad goes to answer it. I hear him say, ‘OK, I’ll tell him.’ He puts the receiver down and the phone instantly rings again.

  ‘Marlowe? No, who wants him? Who? No, I don’t know where he is.’

  The next time the phone rings Dad simply picks it up and shouts ‘He’s not here!’ and slams it down.

  ‘Oh my God!’ says Dad. ‘I thought I’d escaped from all this.’

  Sunday 8th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  There have been press photographers camped outside our front door since dawn, trying to catch a glimpse of Marlowe. Our assurances that he is NOT in the apartment, and that we don’t know his whereabouts, are not heeded.

  Dad is SO-OO not happy with the situation. He says it’s ‘an invasion of his privacy’. And a few things way stronger. And he’s been really grumpy with me. In some way it all seems to be my fault – which I suppose it is in a sense. Mum would never have met Marlowe if I hadn’t brought her to the apartment.

  Dad refuses to go out any more. In fact, currently no one’s leaving the apartment except for Brandy. The press have even found their way round the back to the fire-escape exit. We are literally prisoners. All my good work has come to nothing. The dog-walker has been re-hired. Even Brandy is looking depressed. He is back to the humiliation of being walked with nine other dogs, and they’re all pedigree so no doubt make bitchy remarks about him – at least the females probably do.

  In the middle of all this I find I have a call on my brand new mobile. Hardly anyone’s got my new number yet, so it can only be Mum. It’s from the Vegas Plaza.

  ‘Hollywood, babes! Are you all right?’

  ‘Mum! Have you any idea what you’ve done?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes! We’re holed up like hostages in the apartment. And it’s all because of you and Marlowe.’

  ‘But Marlowe’s here with me . . .’

  ‘In Vegas?’

  ‘Of course we’re trying to keep the whole thing secret, but . . . You want to speak with Hollywood, darling?’

  Marlowe comes on the line.

  ‘Hi, Hollywood! Have there been any calls for me?’

  ‘Calls? There have been nothing but calls for you!’

  ‘Yep, looks as if my car
eer might be taking off again,’ he says in that happy-go-lucky brainless tone of his.

  ‘Could you put me back to Mum, please?’

  Mum comes back on the line.

  ‘Mum!’ I hiss. ‘Can I speak to you without Marlowe listening in?’

  ‘Well, I guess so . . .’

  There are sounds at the other end like Mum shutting herself in the bathroom.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean what’s going on?’

  ‘What about you and Oliver?’

  ‘Oliver?’ says Mum. She lets out a sigh and switches to her deeply pained voice. ‘After the way he hurt me? But that all seems ages ago now.’

  ‘Mum! It was two days ago.’

  ‘Hollywood, sometimes I don’t understand you. You go on and on about not liking Oliver. Then, when I dump him, all of a sudden he’s flavour of the week.’

  (Once again Mum has rewritten history. Now she’s the one who’s dumped Oliver.)

  ‘But Mum, you can’t go out with Marlowe.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because . . .’ I try to think of the right way to put this. Like take his hat off and you won’t find a brain underneath. Like if you laid all his girlfriends end to end they’d stretch right the way down Broadway. Like he’s only using you, Mum, to salvage his career. But right now, I know Mum doesn’t want to hear any of this, so I say: ‘I don’t think he’s right for you, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, he seems right for me right now. Marlowe’s what I need after the way I’ve suffered. You do realise I have a concert tonight? I have to feel good about myself. I can’t go out on stage unless I do. Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’

  I give up. I can’t fight Mum and her professional ego all at once, so I reply, ‘Good luck, Mum.’

  ‘Thank you, babes. Now you take care, OK?’

  ‘You take care too, Mum.’

  I click my mobile shut.

  6.00 p.m.

  There’s an insistent buzzing on the intercom. It’s been going on all day. We don’t dare disconnect it because we need to have food delivered.

  Dad’s sitting in a heap watching TV, which has been on non-stop. Brandy’s asleep on Dad’s bed.

  This has gone on long enough.

  I walk to the door.

  ‘Where are you going, Holly?’ asks Dad half-heartedly.

  ‘I’m going to sort this whole thing out once and for all.’

  I take the elevator down to the ground. As I open the front door I’m blinded by camera flashes.

  ‘Stop!’ I say, holding up a hand. ‘If anyone wants to know the whereabouts of Marlowe Feisher, he is in Las Vegas, staying at the Vegas Plaza Hotel. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  There are a few shouts of, ‘How’s Kandhi? Has she told you her plans?’

  But basically the press disappear from sight like water sliding down a plughole.

  All of a sudden – GLOOP – they’re gone.

  Monday 9th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  All is peace in the apartment. Dad’s working in his music room. I quietly take Brandy off for his walk because Dad seems truly involved in his music and I don’t want him to break off.

  It’s a sunny day and we’ve been round the park once and are on our second lap, when someone comes up behind me and grabs me! I totally freak out because, for a lightning flash, I think Mum’s right about all those murderers and molesters and kidnappers.

  Brandy’s growling fit to bust as I hear a voice in my ear saying, ‘Hi!’

  It’s a voice I know only too well.

  ‘Shug! Let me go. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was just passing in a cab and who should I see, walking her dog in the park, but Hollywood Bliss Winterman! So being a good stepbrother, I thought I’d stop by and say hi.’

  ‘Well, doesn’t look like you’re gonna be a stepbrother now, does it?’ I start walking at some pace. ‘Come on, Brandy.’

  Shug keeps up with us. ‘Not if your mother plays around with other guys when she’s meant to be engaged.’

  ‘Your dad started it by going out with that Vanessa girl.’

  ‘Uh-uh! That Vanessa girl pre-dated the engagement.’

  I stop and stare at him: ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That Vanessa picture was a publicity shot. From the film festival, three weeks back.’

  ‘That’s not what the papers said . . .’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s what it was.’

  ‘You mean, your dad isn’t going out with that girl?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So how did the press get hold of the idea they were?’

  Shug bends down and starts fiddling with the laces of his trainers.

  ‘I guess someone must’ve told them,’ he says.

  ‘You . . . It was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘Hang on. Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘OK, I’ll come clean. My dad’s in a kind of state. Someone let on about who leaked that story. In fact, he’s totally mad at me. So’s Vanessa. They say I’ve got to put the whole thing right.’

  ‘Why doesn’t your dad simply call Mum up?’

  ‘He tried. She wouldn’t listen to him.’

  ‘You mean, your dad’s in a state because Mum’s going out with someone else?’

  ‘Improbable as it seems, yes . . .’

  My mind is racing. This means Oliver must really care for Mum. But Mum’s switched to Marlowe now. What a mess!

  ‘And now you’re expecting me to sort this out for you?’

  Shug looks at me like a whipped dog. ‘Not expecting, exactly . . . But look, Holly, couldn’t you just call your mum and tell her it was a mistake? I mean, the press get these things wrong all the time . . .’

  Why should I? Why should I help Shug? I stretch myself up to my full height. The power! I want Shug to beg, to plead, to go down on his knees and grovel. It’s SO-OO good to see him suffer!

  So I say, walking somewhat faster, ‘No way! This is your problem. You caused it, you solve it.’

  ‘Great!’ says Shug, practically running to keep up with me. ‘Thanks a lot. I’ll know where to come next time I want a favour.’

  ‘I don’t see you doing me any favours.’

  We’ve stopped at the kerb. An empty cab is just rounding the bend, so I hail it.

  I hold the cab door open for Shug.

  ‘Nice of you to drop by. Have a good day,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, get a life!’ he snaps as he slides into the cab, slamming the door behind him.

  Afterwards

  I reckoned I’d earned a Coke or something to celebrate this encounter, so I went over to where Al was winding down the awning over the café.

  ‘It’s going to be a hot one,’ he said. ‘You want an iced tea? Lemonade?’

  ‘A Coke would be nice.’

  ‘How’s your dad?’ he asked when he came back with a couple of chilled bottles. He sat down at a table with me.

  ‘He’s good. Very good. He’s writing music again.’

  ‘You don’t say! Do you think he might start recording?’

  ‘Not unless some recording company comes and knocks his door down. Dad’s not exactly pushy.’

  ‘But if people knew he was writing again . . .’

  ‘No one seems interested in Dad any longer. Mum’s the one everyone raves about.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ said Al. ‘Still, if he’s willing to do a gig here any time . . . You know the offer stands.’

  Tuesday 10th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  As predicted, Mum’s Vegas concert was a massive success. Dad and I watched it on TV. The cameras kept on swinging back to focus on Marlowe, described as Mum’s ‘new companion’, who was sitting, complete with his ten-gallon hat, in the VIP seats.

  The people behind him must’ve been pretty peeved that they’
d forked out all that money for seats when they only got a view of a hat. But I guess they had the compensation of getting their faces on TV whenever he lurched to one side.

  The show ended with this stunt where Mum appears to fly down from the ceiling and across the auditorium perched on a trapeze. Of course it’s done by a body double who is a real trapeze artiste, but nobody knows that – including Marlowe, by the look of it. At any rate, he did a very convincing act of looking shaken out of his wits.

  Wednesday 11th June, 10.00 a.m.

  Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer

  I was just composing a congratulations email for Mum when the loft phone rang. Dad answered it.

  ‘It’s someone for you, Holly.’

  ‘Is that Holly B. Winterman?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hi! Great to get you. I’m calling from Teen Hits. It’s a cable programme. You must have seen it?’

  I had. Actually, I seldom missed it. They have this live show every Saturday where they interview up-and-coming people in the charts. There’s an interviewer called Gerry Maine, who’s quite young and cute and baby-faced, who I had a crush on for ages when I was a kid.

  Programmes like this were always trying to get hold of Mum, but I knew there was no way. Mum only does really big-time shows like Oprah’s. And she never does live shows in case she louses up.

  So I said, ‘I guess you want to interview my mum. I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to her publicist.’

  ‘No, it was you we wanted to talk to.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘We’re doing a feature on what it’s like having a star for a parent.’

  I was about to say ‘No’ (unlike my mum, I have a real phobia about performing – even the school carol concert totally freaked me out), when a thought struck me. This would be an opportunity to put in a good word for Dad. I mean, all the record companies watched the programme. That’s how they picked up new talent. Dad was more like old talent for sure, but you never knew. It would give me a chance to mention his name – to say he was writing music again.