My Life So Far

by Chloe Rayban

  ‘She had a lucky escape.’

  Mum looked me in the eyes, sincerity oozing from every pore. ‘Yes, Hollywood, I am going to be a mother to him and I hope you’ll do your bit and be a sister.’

  ‘A sister!’

  I remembered the way Shug looked me up and down. The suggestive comments he always made. I dissolved into giggles.

  ‘I don’t know what you find so funny. Now, I’m meeting Oliver for dinner. He’s got to fly off to Italy tonight – they start shooting his new movie tomorrow.’

  Thursday 19th June

  The Plaza Residenza

  Vix is in Mum’s office trying to write a press release to communicate to the media that despite all the reports that have been flying back and forth:

  a) Mum’s Not-Proper-Engagement is NOT OFF.

  b) It’s now a Proper-Engagement and it’s ON.

  Vix is in a really bad mood. Not only is this a very difficult press release, but she herself doesn’t believe in marriage. It offends her feminist principles. Every time anyone mentions a word like ‘ring’ or ‘dress’ or ‘cake’ she positively bristles.

  Mid-morning I get a text from Becky:

  william – 3rd violin

  is so cool! we’re sharing

  a score in orchestra

  practice

  Bx

  Hmm. How can people be SO-OO fickle? But I text her back:

  go for it

  seems like

  you’ve got a lot in common

  HBWx

  Later

  I find Mum busy in the salon with Mr Bateman, her lawyer, drawing up a pre-nuptial agreement (pre-nup for short). Which is basically a way of saying ‘paws off’ to any potential husband who wants to get his hands on her money.

  When I go to the kitchen for breakfast I find Thierry busy riffling through his cookery books working out if he can provide a buffet for a thousand people totally out of fresh raw food. I quietly help myself to a bowl of fruit salad and yogurt and take it back into the salon.

  Mum is lying on her couch flicking through a magazine while Mr Bateman reads a list out to her. She’s looking really bored, although I guess this is pretty important.

  Mr Bateman wants to make sure that should this marriage not last, Mum will still be in possession of:

  Item 1) Her penthouse in the Plaza Residenza

  Item 2) Her Greek island

  Item 3) Her palazzo in Venice

  Item 4) Her beach house in Belize

  Item 5) Her castle in Scotland

  Item 6) Her yacht in Monte Carlo

  Item 7) Her stable of race horses

  Item 8) Her two Picassos, her one Matisse and her Damien Hirst

  Item 9) Her Kandhi Store designer label, including Kandhi Klub Klassics

  Item 10) ‘K’, her own perfume, including all spin-offs – right down to scented drawer liners

  Item 11) ‘K.W. Inc.’, her record label

  Item 12) ‘In the Kan’, her film production company

  Item 13) ‘UnKanny’, her organic food company

  Item 14) ‘Kan-Kan Klubs’, her string of nightclubs throughout the world

  Item 15) ‘Chateau Kandhi’, her vineyard in California

  Item 16) The royalties from her biography ‘Kandidly Yours’

  Item 17) The profits from her movie ‘Supernova’

  Item 18) The royalties from her children’s book ‘Kandy’s Kingdom’ and all Kandy dolls and their accessories, including the new ‘Kandhi limo drive-in kar wash’

  Item 19) ME...

  ‘But Cyril,’ Mum interrupts . . .

  Mr Bateman pretends he hasn’t heard her. He drones on: ‘. . . all items using the word Kandhi or the symbol “K” as it relates to Kandhi the person or property or used as a logo or brand name . . .’ He pauses to draw breath.

  ‘Cyril, this marriage is going to last. It truly is true love this time,’ Mum insists.

  Mr Bateman is SO NOT impressed by this. He’s small and bald and I reckon he’d need a legal definition of the words ‘true love’ before he’d allow them into his vocabulary.

  ‘You said that last time,’ he says in a flat tone.

  ‘No, but Cyril, I’ve never felt like this about anyone . . .’

  ‘You said that too,’ he adds in the same flat tone, and continues: ‘. . . any item purporting to have come from the Kandhi empire unsolicited will be in breach of –’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, show me where to sign,’ says Mum. ‘I’ve got to be measured for the dress in twenty minutes.’

  She gets up from the couch and catches sight of me.

  ‘Hollywood, babes! Come and say hello to Mr Bateman.

  ‘Hello, Holly. Wow, you’ve grown!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bateman.’ (He gets to his feet. He now reaches up to somewhere near my chest.)

  ‘You just hang on there while I sign this stuff, then we can talk,’ says Mum.

  Mr Bateman is shuffling through sheaves of paper and has passed Mum his fountain pen. Each time Mum signs, he runs a big leather-bound blotter over the signature. I wonder if he realises the value of that blotting paper. True, her signature is round the wrong way, but it would still fetch a fortune on eBay.

  When Mr Bateman leaves, Mum says, ‘Well, at least that’s all settled.’ She wanders into the bedroom to find the right height heels to be measured in.

  I follow. ‘Isn’t Oliver going to mind, Mum? I mean, isn’t marriage meant to be about sharing “all your worldly goods”?’

  ‘True. But unfortunately, Hollywood, so is divorce,’ says Mum. ‘Cyril is one of those people who likes to err on the safe side. You can’t blame him – it’s in his blood, he’s a lawyer. Now where are those Manolos? I’ve got to be at Armando’s by twelve.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  ‘Of course, you’re expected, babes. Who else could design your bridesmaid’s outfit?’

  12.30 p.m., Armando Mezzo – First Floor Private Clients’ Suite, Fifth Avenue

  The showroom is lined with blow-ups from Armando’s latest couture show. There’s not a sign of any bridal wear. We’re clearly more at the drawing board stage.

  Armando’s looking a little frayed from his overnight flight, but he’s fussing round Mum like she’s the first bride ever.

  ‘White!’ he’s saying. ‘It’s an idea, yes, maybe . . .’

  ‘You don’t think white?’ demands Mum.

  ‘We-ell,’ says Armando, obviously searching for the tactful way to put this, ‘white is very much First Wedding, don’t you think? And this is your . . .’

  ‘Second,’

  ‘Third,’ Vix corrects her.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to count Fernandez. That only lasted a week. Never trust a polo player,’ says Mum.

  ‘Hmm,’ says Armando. ‘Of course, there’s always off-white, or pearl or cream or beige . . .’

  ‘Beige!’ says Mum. ‘That’s like sackcloth! This is a wedding, Armando, not a pagan ritual.’

  ‘That’s debatable . . .’ mutters Vix under her breath.

  Mum’s heard this. Suddenly she’s on the defensive.

  ‘Vix! Do you have to be like . . . like the witch at the christening?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ replies Vix.

  ‘You are not going to spoil my day. Why don’t you take yourself down to Tiffany and discuss rings? I want matching designs. They’ve got my size, I’ll have Oliver’s sent over.’

  ‘Right,’ says Vix, taking up her organiser. ‘I’m off to Tiffany . . .’ she drops her voice as she passes me and adds, ‘for the shackles.’

  Once Vix has left, Armando summons up a swatch book. This has seventy different versions of off-white. He opens it at the pure raw silk section. These silks are handwoven from the thread of silkworms fed on specially selected mulberry buds. Mum flicks through the swatches to keep him happy. I can see she’s set her heart on white.

  They have a little argument and then settle on ‘pearl’. It’s whi
te with just the merest hint of pinky-cream in it.

  ‘And for zee bridesmaid?’ says Armando, suddenly remembering to use his foreign accent.

  ‘Anything but pink,’ I say quickly. (I once had a v.v. bad experience wearing pink in Paris.)

  ‘But pink is perfect to go with zee pearl,’ says Armando. ‘And for a beautiful young girl . . .’

  He’s not going to get round me by flattery.

  ‘Anything but pink,’ I insist.

  Armando sighs and suggests I have the pearl too.

  ‘Won’t we look too alike?’ asks Mum.

  ‘Ah, but wiz a different cut . . .’ says Armando. ‘Marguerite, will you bring in zee book of modèles?’

  Marguerite, the minute antique lady Armando takes everywhere with him, staggers in with a white leather-bound book.

  Reverently Armando places it in front of Mum. Mum starts going through it. I lean over her shoulder. The dresses are shown as sketches. They are all yummy. But Mum is going through them at speed with little grunts and sighs.

  ‘Mum, that one’s gorgeous!’ I stop her at a particularly heavenly design.

  ‘It’s no good, Armando, you’ll have to design me an original.’

  They start discussing it. Mum wants it low-cut but demure, short to show off her legs, and with a big train to trail behind for maximum effect. Armando is doing sketches as she speaks. At length, they agree on a drawing. It’s a strapless, backless dress with a tight, short skirt which kind of dips down behind and fans out into an endless peacock’s tail.

  After Mum’s dress, mine is easy. Mum says that it mustn’t have a low neck because bridesmaids need to be demure. And it shouldn’t be short because I’ll be standing behind her and she doesn’t want everyone ogling my legs. In the end they settle on a high-waisted dress that goes up to my neck and down to the ground. My arms are judged innocent enough be shown. And it’s going to be in the palest palest shell pink.

  ‘See? Holly is zee shell to go wiz zee pearl,’ says Armando. Which just about sums the whole thing up. Great!

  1.30 p.m., in the limo going back to the Plaza Residenza

  I sit staring out of the window at the crowds thronging the streets of the city. Hundreds of them, thousands of them, millions of them – all with homes and lives that are so nice and homey and normal. Most of the them will be taking a commuter train home tonight, to an ordinary home in an ordinary street. My American dream home is one of these. It’s a white clapboard house in a street lined with trees. Not a large house, but big enough for me to have a room up under the eaves where I can look out on my dad doing ordinary things like mowing the grass and my mum . . . errm, yes, here she comes carrying a basket of freshly picked fruit. Soon the house will be filled with the rich heady smell of home-baked blueberry muffins . . .

  ‘You OK, babes?’ Mum interrupts my train of thought.

  ‘Umm, fine. Why?’

  ‘You look kind of . . . pensive.’

  ‘I was just thinking . . .’

  ‘Umm? What about?’

  ‘Oh, nothing really. Just what it would be like to be one of those people out there – I mean, like, an ordinary person.’

  Mum peers out of the tinted window. ‘Yes, I know, poor things . . . but they can’t all be famous.’

  ‘No, Mum, you don’t understand. I’d like to be normal. Just an ordinary person for once.’

  ‘You are an odd child. All those people would give their right . . . whatever-it-is to have what we’ve got.’

  ‘I know, but Mum, now you’re going to marry Oliver, we’re going to be more famous than ever. I mean, like we’ll have all his fans too.’

  ‘Mmm. Just think what it will do for my career.’

  ‘Mum, you never think of anything but your career. You never do anything but work. When did you last have a vacation?’

  ‘Vacation?’

  ‘You know, those things that other people take? They pack all their stuff up and go places. Interesting places.’

  ‘There’s no need to take on that tone Holly.’

  ‘No, but Mum listen, I don’t have school for another ten whole weeks and there’s ages to go before the wedding . . .’

  Mum looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You know, Holly, you may be right. As a matter of fact I was thinking of taking time off before this marriage. I’ve told Vix to cancel all my engagements.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was planning to go some place and detox. Oliver’s got to stay over in Italy shooting that Centurion thing of his, so I’ll be all on my own.’

  ‘So we could spend some time together. We could get out of the city. Go somewhere where nobody knows who we are!’

  ‘Hmm . . . maybe we could do that log cabin thing. Walk in the forest, bathe in the lakes, feel the fresh wind on our faces . . .’ muses Mum.

  ‘Exactly!’

  Thursday 19th June

  In a four-by-four en route for Pookhamsee, way out in the Appalachian Mountains

  Mum’s driving. She looks tiny behind the wheel of our four-by-four. She’s dressed for the part, though, in a checked shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots, and she has her hair scraped up into a ponytail. I’m wearing my cowboy gear that she brought back from Vegas.

  Mum’s singing. Not the kind of stuff she sings on records, but silly campside stuff like ‘She’s a comin’ round the mountain’. I’m doing the ‘when she comes . . . when she comes . . .’ bit and we’re both in giggles because I keep coming in late and flat.

  She’d wanted to book us into this luxury log-cabin resort – each suite had its own infinity pool and personal 24-hour butler – but I put my foot down. If we were going to have a true log-cabin experience, we needed an authentic log cabin. So a friend of Dad’s has lent us a place way out away from it all. It’s so authentic we’ll have to pump our own water and it doesn’t even have a telephone. But it’s surrounded by umpteen square miles of virgin forest and it’s on the edge of a lake we can bathe in. I’m hoping we may get a sighting of bears but I haven’t mentioned this to Mum yet – she’s not exactly into wildlife.

  We’re not taking any of the entourage with us. Not even Thierry. We are actually going to self-cater. Which shouldn’t be too difficult, seeing as Mum will only eat raw food.

  We’re also going without bodyguards. Sid and Abdul have been given time off as this is a strictly girls-only vacation – except for Brandy, who’s laid out on the back seat. We’ve borrowed him from Dad as stand-in security.

  Even Daffyd and June are getting a holiday. Daffyd has flown back to Bangor where, at last, he’ll have time to marry Bronwyn – although it may have to be a Register Office as it’s such short notice. I’m wondering if she’ll manage to cram the twelve bridesmaids into the office with them.

  7.00 p.m.

  We left before dawn and we’ve driven all day, but it still doesn’t look like we’ll get to the cabin before nightfall. At seven in the evening we are climbing steadily up a road that snakes its way through a dense forest of pine trees. I’m map-reading – a rather queasy business on this winding road.

  ‘Keep an eye out for a turning that says Chug-a-hoopee Ridge,’ I tell Mum.

  ‘Right or left?’

  ‘Errm . . . right.’

  We go another thirty miles and we’re still climbing. Although it’s summer the air outside is getting cold and a mist is rising. There’s a sheer drop on my side which I haven’t told Mum about because I know she’d freak out. I just pray we don’t meet anything coming the other way. This becomes more and more unlikely as darkness falls. Only a madman would drive down this road at night.

  ‘We should be there by now,’ says Mum.

  ‘I know. I wonder if we’ve missed it.’

  ‘It’s near a town called Salinec and we haven’t seen a town in ages.’

  ‘But Salinec was way back,’ I point out.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, it was.’

  We have to go another ten miles before Mum finds a place wide enoug
h to turn round.

  It takes three more hours of searching before we eventually nose the car into a forest clearing and find our ‘truly authentic backwoods log cabin’ illuminated in the car’s headlights.

  Mum is exhausted and I have a headache.

  ‘Is this it?’ demands Mum.

  ‘It must be. We’ve tried all the roads and there’s no other building.’

  Mum climbs out of the car and stretches. I follow her. Brandy yawns and looks reluctant to descend. I just hope we don’t have to push him out.

  Well, the cabin certainly is authentic. Some of the gutter is hanging loose and there’s a deep drift of leaves going up the steps. It doesn’t look as if the place has been visited in years.

  I try to distract Mum from the cabin by pointing out how brilliant the stars are and how silent it is.

  There’s a scurrying sound from above which sounds ominously rat-like.

  ‘What was that?’ says Mum clutching me.

  ‘Probably a pine marten,’ I say.

  ‘What’s a pine marten?’

  ‘A cute little furry thing. You’ll love them.’

  ‘Vermin! I think we ought to go back right now.’

  ‘Mum, we can’t go down that mountain. It’s too dangerous at night.’ I now tell her about the sheer drop that was on my side. She freaks out.

  ‘I’ll sleep in the car then,’ she says.

  ‘Don’t be so silly, it’s fine. Now the key is meant to be hanging in the woodshed. Where’s the woodshed?’

  ‘That whole thing looks like a woodshed to me,’ says Mum.

  The woodshed is a kind of lean-to on one side of the cabin. It has a pump fixed to the outer wall and there’s a door with a heart cut in it from which comes the unmistakable smell of a chemical lavatory.

  We hadn’t thought of bringing a torch. I fumble through a skein of spider webs before I locate the key.

  ‘Got it!’

  ‘Thank God for that! At least I can have a shower,’ says Mum.

  I force my way through the drift of leaves. The key turns with difficulty in the rusted lock and we stumble in.