My Life Starring Mum Read online

  MY LIFE STARRING MUM

  Chloë Rayban

  Contents

  Wednesday 22nd January The Convent of the Sisters of the Resurrection – otherwise known as School

  Thursday 23rd January, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Friday 24th January, 9.30 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Saturday 25th January, 6.00 p.m. La Vendôme Intercontinental, Paris

  Sunday 26th January, 0h45 La Vendôme Intercontinental

  Sunday 26th January, 9h45 La Vendôme Intercontinental

  Monday 27th January, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero Hotel, London

  Tuesday 28th January, 3.10 p.m. precisely, The Penthouse Suite (sorting my life out)

  Wednesday 29th January Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Thursday 30th January, 8.30 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Friday 31st January, 11.30 a.m. Suite 6002

  Saturday 1st February through to Monday morning

  Monday 3rd February, 9.30 a.m. The Penthouse Suite

  Tuesday 4th February, 8.30 a.m. Suite 6002

  Friday 7th February, 1.00 p.m. Suite 6002

  Saturday 8th February, 8.00 a.m. Suite 6002 (being myself)

  Sunday 9th February, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6002

  Monday 10th February, 12.00 p.m. The Royal Trocadero ballroom

  Tuesday 11th February, 11.00 a.m. Mr Crookes’s waiting room, somewhere in Harley Street

  Thursday 13th February, 12.30 p.m. The Royal Trocadero Executive Infotec Suite

  Friday 14th February, 9.00 a.m. The elevator, the Royal Trocadero

  Saturday 15th February, 1.00 p.m. Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale

  Sunday 16th February The Penthouse Suite

  Monday 17th February The Penthouse Suite

  Wednesday 19th February, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6003

  Thursday 20th February The Penthouse Suite

  Friday 21st February (Mainly) Harley Street

  Saturday 22nd February, 6.30 p.m. Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale

  Sunday 23rd February, 7.00 a.m. Suite 6002

  Tuesday 25th February, 9.00 a.m. Reception, the Royal Trocadero

  Wednesday 26th February, 8.00 a.m. Suite 6002

  Thursday 27th February, 6.00 a.m. Suite 6002

  Friday 28th February, 12.30 p.m. The Penthouse Suite

  Saturday 1st March, 9.30 a.m. The Penthouse Suite

  Sunday 2nd March, 10.00 a.m. Suite 6002 (Black Sunday)

  Monday 3rd March, 9.30 a.m. Suite 6002

  Tuesday 4th March, 8.30 a.m. The Penthouse Suite, The Royal Trocadero

  Wednesday 5th March, 5.30 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Thursday 6th March Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Friday 7th March, 2.30 p.m. Suite 6003

  Saturday 8th March, 10.00 a.m. Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale

  Sunday 9th March, 10.30 a.m. Suite 6002

  Monday 10th March (otherwise known as The Longest Day), 10.00 a.m. Suite 6003, The Royal Trocadero

  Tuesday 11th March, 8.30 a.m. The elevator of The Royal Trocadero

  Wednesday 12th March, 11.00 a.m. The Penthouse Suite, The Royal Trocadero

  Thursday 13th March, 12.30 p.m. Suite 6002

  Even Blacker Friday: 14th March Suite 6002

  Saturday 15th March, 9.30 a.m. Suite 6002

  Sunday 16th March Flat 209, Hillview Mansions, Maida Vale

  Monday 17th March, 10.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Tuesday 18th March, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Wednesday 19th March Suite 6003, The Royal Trocadero

  Thursday 20th March, 11.00 a.m. The Penthouse Suite

  Friday 21st March The Penthouse Suite

  Saturday 22nd March, 8.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Sunday 23rd March, 8.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Monday 24th March Suite 6003

  Monday 24th March through to Monday 31st March

  Monday 31st March!!!!!!!!

  Tuesday 1st April, 9.00 a.m. Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero

  Wednesday 2nd April Suite 6003

  Thursday 3rd April, 7.45 p.m. The second casting

  Also by Chloë Rayban from Bloomsbury

  For Laura Cecil

  without whose unreserved enthusiasm

  this book would never have been written

  Wednesday 22nd January

  The Convent of the Sisters of the Resurrection – otherwise known as School

  It was right in the middle of the signing of the Declaration of American Independence that my life changed suddenly, dramatically and for ever.

  Maureen Nicholson came bursting into history just as Thomas Jefferson had his pen poised – saying that I had to go up to Reverend Mother’s office right away. Leaving the future of the US of A teetering in the balance, I made my way, with a sinking heart, past the plaster statue of the Virgin Mary and the kitchen’s burnt cabbage smell. What was it this time? Had someone split on who’d been key mover in the liberation of the biology lab frogs?

  Reverend Mother had her ‘pained saint’ expression on.

  ‘Sit down, Holly, dear.’

  I sat.

  ‘Now, listen. I’ve had a call from your mother –’

  ‘My mother!’

  ‘Well, not, in actual fact, your mother. But that secretary lady who always deals with everything.’

  ‘Mum’s PA.’

  ‘The thing is. I don’t want to alarm you. But there’s been one of those nasty threats again.’

  I sighed. I’d become resigned to curfews, all my sports away matches cancelled, being de-listed from form outings. I’d been gated so many times I’d started to forget what weather felt like. I’d better explain. It’s all because of Mum. You see, my mum is Kandhi! OK, so now you’re doing that big wide-eye thing. And you’re going to come out with stuff like: ‘No way!’ or ‘You’re kidding!’ or ‘I don’t believe you!’, as if anyone in their right mind would claim to be Kandhi’s daughter if they could possibly avoid it. A fact which I’ve managed to keep quiet at my current school since right here I’m called Holly B. Winterman (short for Hollywood Bliss Winterman): Winterman being Dad’s name, Hollywood being where I was conceived, and Bliss? Well, that’s just typically Mum. I mean, I used to tell people who my mum was at my last school before she got so famous. But even back then they’d started to treat me like my whole body radiated fame like those kids in the hot oat cereal ads. I even got asked for my autograph – my autograph – as if her fame had kind of rubbed off on me or got passed down through the genes or something. Pukey.

  ‘It’s just that this time,’ Reverend Mother continued, ‘your mother and, to a certain extent, the school too, are taking the threat seriously.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, unable to think of anything more incredibly deep and meaningful to say.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this, Holly. And we’ll miss you.’

  ‘Miss me?’ I kind of squeaked.

  She nodded. ‘I’m afraid the school simply cannot provide the level of security that your mother feels necessary.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again.

  Reverend Mother got up and came over to me and patted my hand. ‘Your mother is sending a car with full security to pick you up.’

  ‘A car? Security? When?’

  Reverend Mother glanced at her watch. ‘It should be here within the hour. It’ll be lovely for you to see your mother again, won’t it? How long is it now?’

  ‘Umm, ages … I forget … She’s been on tour.’ My mind was racing. I hardly knew what I was saying.

  ‘Holly, dear. You must realise that this is for the best.’

  ‘But what’s going to
happen about school and all my work and books and –’

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing. It will all be packed and sent on after you.’

  ‘But … Where am I going? When am I coming back?’

  Reverend Mother dropped her gaze. ‘We’ll have to review the situation when the time comes. It’s really up to your mother. She seems to prefer to have you with her, which is understandable in the circumstances. I’m sure she’s got it all worked out.’

  ‘But she can’t just take me out of school. There must be laws against it or something. What if I don’t want to go?’

  ‘Now, listen, Holly. If we have to clamp down on security, everyone’s freedom will be restricted. It’s simply not fair on the other girls.’ Rev Mum’s facial expression had changed from ‘pained saint’ to ‘dutiful Head’. ‘My dear child, you must see that.’

  So there it was. I was given thirty whole minutes to grab some essentials, and leave.

  Later: in the limo en route to …?

  The limo is swishing along and these security outriders on bikes are swishing alongside. I can’t believe I was so cruelly rejected by the school. And in my hour of need. I don’t think they can even consider themselves Christian any more. Aren’t Christians meant to stand by those who are persecuted? Selflessly. Of course, I have to realise that I don’t really belong in the school. In fact, I wouldn’t have been a pupil at the Sisters of the Resurrection at all if Mum hadn’t ‘got religion’. It was straight after she came out of rehab. She ordered me back from the States where I was living with Dad and said that she was really and truly going to be a ‘mother’ to me from now on in. She hung crucifixes everywhere and burned candles all day and ordered loads of books from Amazon with titles like The True Path and Redemption. Then she signed a brand new recording contract with DBS. And the crucifixes all came down and the books were binned and I was packed off to this convent boarding school. Which I kind of got used to. Even liked. I mean, it was what I called ‘home’, before I was so heartlessly chucked out.

  2.00 p.m., The Royal Trocadero Hotel, Piccadilly, London

  So this is where we were heading. Is it plush or what? The doorman’s got white gloves on and loads of gold spaghetti on his shoulders. And there’s this red carpet leading right down from the hotel doorway across the pavement and into the gutter.

  I climbed out of the limo in my school coat and beret feeling so-oo out of place in my current surroundings, but was kind of whooshed in anyway.

  Inside, I was greeted by a man in a black suit. Soon as he set eyes on me he did this ‘you might well be royalty’ half-curtsy-bow-thing and welcomed me to the hotel like he owned it. (I found out later he was only the manager.) I wasn’t quite sure if I was meant to shake him by the hand or what. But he turned tail and led me to the elevator. He escorted me up three floors and opened a door to a suite with a flourish.

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. Just ring down for anything you need.’

  The door closed behind him with a kind of muted ‘thunk’ like a safe door.

  2.30 p.m., Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero Hotel

  So here I am, a prisoner in this kind of ultra-luxurious prison cell. Honestly, I swear, the carpets are so thick you squish down into them like walking on sand or something. And you wouldn’t know you were in a city because of the double glazing, which means all you can hear is a kind of slow hiss of the air-temperature control. And the door’s so thick you wouldn’t know if there was anyone else in the hotel. So if you screamed or something no one in a million years would hear. Like if I was attacked I’d have to crawl to that cord in the bathroom which says ‘In an Emergency’ and pull it. (That’s if I was too maimed to get to the phone and ring Reception.)

  Not that I’m taking this threat thing seriously. I’ve kind of got used to threats. Like you do, when your mum is like the tenth richest woman in the world. Mum – if I’m up to date that is – comes somewhere below those billionaire Wal-Mart ladies but before Madonna and the Queen of England. So if I did get kidnapped she’d be able to pay up and get me back, even if they asked for enough to fund a medium-sized war or something. And she wouldn’t miss the money ’cos she could just make loads more. Knowing Mum, it would probably come under the heading of ‘Publicity’ anyway, and she could get like ‘tax relief’ on it. Which has just given me the horrid little sneaking suspicion that this whole thing might have been dreamt up by her publicists. Because her last solo album only won one Grammy and she apparently totally freaked. Or at least that’s what Dad told me. But maybe he was just the teensiest bit jealous. Like, he’s not the mega-star he would have been, had he stuck with Mum.

  Actually, he hasn’t won any Grammys at all. Which he puts down to the fact that the stuff he writes is too ‘pure’. But I’m inclined to think it’s ’cos he doesn’t write that much any more. Since he got that massive settlement when he and Mum divorced, he maybe doesn’t have the motivation. After the divorce Mum moved back to the UK and I stayed in New York with Dad. Mum was born in Britain while Dad is American – which makes me half and half, or neither one nor the other, depending on how I feel at the time. Anyway, when I lived with Dad he had this totally cool loft apartment in SoHo where there were loads of other people hanging out a bit like Friends, except I got the distinct feeling that some of them were rather more than ‘friends’. Oddly enough I never saw any of them doing any work. They seemed to be on a perpetual holiday. Then Mum got this idea in her head about Dad being irresponsible and hauled me over to England and sent me to boarding school. Which Dad totally freaked over. So you see, my parents really don’t see eye-to-eye. Sigh.

  But Dad and I still keep in touch. Admittedly Dad only communicates by sending me postcards. But I know he cares loads for me deep down.

  With nothing more pressing to do I checked out the bathroom and delved into the supply of free stuff in the little basket on the marble vanity top. There was Arpège scented soap and shampoo and conditioner and all these little glossy boxes with the Royal Trocadero crest in gold on them with cotton buds and cotton balls and emery boards and body rub.

  I’d just about exhausted the possibilities of total body maintenance when my phone rang. I lifted the receiver:

  ‘Hi, Holly. Is that you?’ It was Vix – Mum’s PA. ‘Kandhi’s ready to see you now. You can come up. It’s the ninth floor – the Penthouse Suite.’

  I swallowed. I always get this kind of jittery feeling when I’m going to see Mum. Like she’s going to judge me somehow. And I’m not going to come up to the mark.

  I climbed into the elevator to find there was a bellboy with a really cute uniform inside. It was just the two of us so I thought I should say something. I mean, he didn’t look that much older than me.

  ‘Hi!’ I said. ‘Can we head up to the ninth?’

  He kind of grunted in reply and looked dead in front of him while he pressed the elevator button. Maybe talking wasn’t in his contract.

  On the ninth floor, I emerged from the elevator into a corridor wide enough to drive the school bus down. Outside the Penthouse Suite there were loads of big glossy flower shop bouquets piled up as if someone had died or something.

  The door was opened by Vix, who held a finger to her lips.

  ‘Hi, Holly,’ she whispered. ‘We’re a bit pushed on time but she can give you ten.’

  Beyond her I could see Mum. Or was it Mum? A figure was pinned to a swivel chair swathed in white like the victim of some accident. On all sides of her, people were swarming around. Daffyd, Mum’s personal hairstylist, was blow-drying her hair, which was curiously and unaccountably blonde. A manicurist was at work on her nails and June, Mum’s make-up artiste, was standing poised ready to move in. And uh-uh, she’d had her lips collagen’d again. She had the phone on speaker and was involved in a loud and public conversation.

  ‘Yeah, I know it’s not your fault, but someone must’ve let on, or they wouldn’t’ve have known she was there, would they?’ Without drawing breath she continued, ‘Hollywood B
liss, babe! Come and give your mama a kiss.’

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  I leaned over and received a collagen-y kiss on each cheek.

  ‘(Hold on, Mike …) My God, you’ve grown! What have you got on? … (What? So even if they quadrupled security it wouldn’t make it safe, would it?)’

  ‘My school uniform?’

  ‘(Look, Mike, I’ll have to put you on hold …) Now, babes, I’ve been so worried about you. What with this threat and everything …’

  ‘But Mu-um, you can’t just take me out of school. I mean, I’ve got like exams and stuff. I’ve got a whole load of coursework, which if I don’t get in –’

  ‘Look, Hollywood babe, we’ll talk about this later. I’ve got to be on location within …?’

  ‘Sixteen and a half minutes,’ cued in Vix.

  ‘Right, we’ve got a lot to fix. Vix, ring through for a complete range of Kandhi Store to be sent over for Hollywood right now. Eights and tens – she looks so in-between. And get her something to wear on her feet. Size …?’

  ‘Nine.’

  Mum’s brow creased. ‘Trust you to have your dad’s feet.’

  ‘But I can’t wear Kandhi Store. That’s for kids,’ I protested.

  ‘You’re not thirteen yet. You are a kid.’

  ‘I am thirteen and two months and eleven days, for your information.’

  ‘Oh, babe, did I miss your birthday?’

  ‘No,’ cut in Vix. ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘You sent a Harrods voucher for £250 and a signed photograph of yourself,’ I said.

  (For your information, the signed photograph raised more than the Harrods voucher when I put it up for auction on eBay.)

  ‘Whatever. So … you can just wear Kandhi Store for the cameras. Vix will get you something else to slouch around in if you must.’

  ‘What cameras?’

  Mum looked vague. ‘Well, you are my baby, my one and only daughter … (You still there, Mike?)’

  The hairdryer ceased and June moved in with the makeup trolley. She started massaging in white base-coat. Mum seemed to have forgotten I was there.