My Life Starring Mum Page 3

  Speaking of keeping in touch – I’ve tried texting Becky but it’s mobile curfew at SotR, they must all be in class. Sigh.

  Eventually in desperation (I mean, I’ve practically taken to scratching lines to mark the days in the Royal Trocadero wallpaper) I rang through to Vix.

  ‘How’s things? Is it safe to come up?’

  ‘Fine. She’s, errm … gone out,’ she said.

  Odd, I thought. Early for Mum. But maybe she had a video shoot.

  ‘What am I meant to do? I asked.

  ‘What would you generally be doing?’

  ‘Double biology, it’s Friday.’

  ‘Oh.’ I could hear the boredom in Vix’s voice. Clearly, the last thing she wanted was a thirteen-year-old to look after.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘If I take one of Mum’s heavies with me, and go in disguise or something, I could spend that Harrods voucher.’

  ‘Well …’ said Vix.

  ‘Otherwise, you’ll just have to come down and play Monopoly with me. Or Scrabble …’ I threatened.

  This had some effect.

  ‘What kind of disguise?’

  ‘My school uniform. Why not?’

  ‘Hmm. Well, maybe. But you’ll have to take Sid and Abdul. And you mustn’t be more than an hour.’

  ‘OK! Thanks, Vix!’

  ‘I’ll probably get fired for this.’

  ‘Only if I get kidnapped.’

  ‘Just don’t. OK?’

  I flung on my uniform and was totally ready by the time Sid and Abdul rang on my buzzer. They took me down in the elevator to the basement and escorted me along a grotty corridor past the kitchens and out through a door that said ‘Press bar to open’.

  Outside, Mum’s limo was waiting in a back street.

  It only took five minutes to get to Harrods.

  The limo door was opened by one of the Harrods doormen in his sludge-green uniform. He kind of saluted, which didn’t do much for the incognito bit. But in actual fact I didn’t have much faith in being inconspicuous anyway. I mean, a thirteen-year-old girl in school uniform flanked by two seven-foot bodyguards?

  Soon as we were inside Harrods I led the guys straight to the confectionery department and stocked up with two kilos of blueberry jelly beans. (Ten quid! Ouch. But this was a wise investment, as you’ll see later.) Then we went up to Harrods’ young fashions department.

  Dazzling racks of Kandhi Store practically filled the sales area. Ignoring these, I headed for the display of jeans. I searched in vain for my leg length while Sid and Abdul stood with their hands crossed in front of them, doing that 360-degree-head-turn-and-eye-swivel thing they teach you at Security School. Shoppers were starting to pause and try to figure out who I was. An assistant who had been alerted by our painfully obvious attempt not to be noticed, homed in.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked all agog, clearly making mental guesses as to who I might be. (That Onassis girl? Too young. One of Fergie’s girls? Too skinny. Madonna’s daughter? Too old.)

  It turned out that the only place I could possibly find jeans to fit was the men’s department, which was handy because I actually got some peace to try them on while Sid and Abdul did some sneaky and totally off-the-record trying-on of a load of Hugo Boss stuff.

  I actually bought Sid a totally extortionate black sleeveless polo neck as a bribe not to tell Mum about ‘our little outing’, seeing as he wasn’t interested in jelly beans like Abdul. (He’s kind of addicted, but only to the blueberry ones.)

  I also bought myself three boys’ T-shirts, plain white, plain grey and plain blue, and then I saw a pair of incredibly cool Converse trainers which meant I was left with £57.24 on the voucher and twenty-two minutes exactly until our hour was up.

  So I escorted Sid and Abdul up to my favourite part of Harrods – the pets department.

  That’s where I saw this adorable minute grey angora rabbit. It was in a cage all alone with no other bunnies to snuggle up to. And its nose was kind of wiffling. I mean, it hardly looked old enough to be weaned. And it was only twenty-two pounds. Which apparently is a bargain for a long-haired lop-eared rabbit.

  So then I just had enough left for a smart green petcarrying holdall with ventilation holes. A litter tray. A pack of rabbit mix (junior). And a bag of kitty litter. (But they said it was OK for rabbits too.) And a book called How to House Train Your Rabbit’ cos, as you know, I don’t hold with keeping animals in cages.

  And then we had to rush to be out and back in the limo in time with the whole lot packed in green Harrods bags. Except for the rabbit, which was in the holdall on my lap. Which luckily didn’t look like a pet-carrying holdall at all. Because I had a sneaking feeling that the Royal Trocadero might have a negative pet policy – apart from maybe guide dogs.

  In the limo I gave Abdul the first kilo of jelly beans (I reckoned it needed a fairly generous bribe to keep quiet about the rabbit). And Sid had his polo neck. So that should be OK.

  11.10 a.m. (Back in my suite)

  ‘Thumper’ doesn’t seem to want to stay in the closet. Although I made it really cosy with a nest of cotton balls in the little basket from the bathroom. Plus his litter tray. He actually prefers to stay inside my brand new T-shirt. So I’m lying on the bed reading aloud to him from How to House Train Your Rabbit. You can never start too young, it says – there, you see.

  That’s when there’s a buzz on my doorbell.

  ‘Oops!’ I peek through the spy-hole. Oh my God, it’s Mum!

  With lightning speed Thumper is in the closet and I’m back at the door.

  Mum comes in breezily.

  ‘Hollywood Bliss, baby. Isn’t this lovely? Don’t you just love the Trocadero? It’s my all-time favourite hotel. Isn’t it just so-oo homey?’

  She seems to have totally ‘wiped’ our fight of yesterday.

  ‘Ummm.’

  ‘Oh, I see Vix got you some jeans. Well, I s’pose you don’t want to stay dressed up all day. I remember when I was your age. I was such a tomboy, always up trees.’

  My eyes widen. According to Gi-Gi, Mum’s encounters with nature were pretty thin on the ground.

  There is the faintest scrabbling sound from the closet. It seems Thumper has unfortunately taken this moment to put house-training theory into practice.

  ‘Funny smell in here. Kind of wholesome,’ says Mum, sniffing the air thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s the flowers,’ I say, leading her away from the closet across to the complimentary bouquet. ‘I think it’s sandalwood.’

  ‘Heaven,’ says Mum. ‘Now, listen. I know, babes, that I’ve been a simply terrible mother to you …’

  ‘Oh, no.’ (A fool would have agreed with her and caused a full-on domestic).

  ‘No, listen. I’m going to make it all up. I’ve got plans. From now on where I go you go …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Umm. So how would you like Paris – this weekend?’

  ‘Paris?’ I say weakly. I mean, I’d like Paris. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. But it’s hardly fair on Thumper, is it? He’s barely got used to not being in Harrods. Another change in environment could have serious psychological consequences.

  ‘Well, I’m really happy here –’

  ‘So sweet of you. You don’t want to cramp my style. But you won’t. It’s all fixed. You’ve got an hour to pack.’

  ‘But what about my school stuff, and weren’t we meant to be getting me a tutor and –’

  ‘All in good time. Babe – you know what I think?’ Mum kind of grabs me and holds me at arm’s length and stares hard into my eyes. ‘I don’t think you’ve had enough fun in your life, and Mama’s going to put that right.’

  ‘Oh … really?’

  12.45 p.m. (en route for the VIP Suite London Heathrow)

  We’re all here. Mum and Vix, Daffyd and June, Sid and Abdul, and me (and Thumper, obediently staying nice and quiet in his carrying holdall).

  I mean, I was a bit worried about taking him with us, but I could hardly leave hi
m at the mercy of the Trocadero’s chambermaids (and their vacuum cleaners – he’s small enough to go right up the nozzle) for a whole weekend. And as I recall, whenever I’ve travelled with Mum we’ve gone first class and we’ve been above queueing up to go through those X-ray thingies like ordinary travellers. In fact, we’ve kind of been whisked through to the VIP lounge (like now) and then escorted on to the plane.

  1.00 p.m. (queuing at one of those X-ray thingies!)

  I am totally hyperventilating. It must be the increased security since all those terrorist attacks or something. Or maybe last time I travelled with Mum was only on an internal flight. But anyway, all the bags are so obviously having to go through one of those X-ray machines. Oh, how I wish I had secreted Thumper under my T-shirt or hidden him under a hat maybe. They’d never have been able to tell if he wasn’t some extra rounded bit of me. But as it is I can see us both moving up the line. And now they’ve taken my backpack and my mobile phone … and …

  ‘Can I just carry this one through? It’s got like re-ally breakable, fragile stuff in it. No?’ It has to go in the box like belts and loose change and keys and things.

  I watch in silent horror as this ghostly image of the holdall appears on the security screen with this tiny, perfect, trembling rabbit skeleton inside.

  Oh my God. All these hooters and blinking lights are going and these guys with semi-automatic weapons have appeared out of nowhere and we’re surrounded.

  ‘Is this your bag, Miss?’

  ‘Umm …’

  ‘Would you mind opening it for us?’

  Thumper looks totally traumatised when I unzip the zipper. I mean, you hear about rabbits freezing on the spot, but he’s gone totally, totally rigid. If he grows up with a behavioural problem I will sue.

  It gets worse. Apparently, I am not just carrying an unauthorised item on-board a plane – like he was a bomb or a knife or something (or a hijacking threat – like he could chew his way through the pilot’s neck maybe?). No, I’m also flaunting quarantine laws, animal export regulations, animal cruelty guidelines and all the health and safety rulings of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. And Thumper only dropped one v. small rabbit poop on the conveyor belt, which I would have thought was like totally forgivable in the circumstances.

  And worse still. He is being confiscated. Some evil animal handler in a white uniform has appeared and he’s picked Thumper up by his ears.

  So, you can understand why I totally lost it at that point.

  In fact, the handler and I had a full-on row in which he insisted that he personally wasn’t taking any risks because for all he knew Thumper might be a rabid rabbit.

  ‘A rabid rabbit! No way!’ I point out that this rabbit is (or was) travelling from the UK to the continent and not vice versa and that to my knowledge there is no rabies in the UK.

  This silenced the handler. But it doesn’t stop him confiscating Thumper.

  Nor does the fact that I’m currently totally bawling my eyes out. Because I have a horrible suspicion about what happens to confiscated animals.

  Saturday 25th January, 6.00 p.m.

  La Vendôme Intercontinental, Paris

  Mum is a STAR. I know I’m often totally negative about her, but there are times when I’m truly awed by her finer qualities. I still don’t know how much money she had to hand over to the RSPCA to come and rescue Thumper. But they can most probably build a whole new animal hospital with it. With a CAT scan and everything (which I guess will do other animals too). But she oh-so stood her ground, refusing to budge until Thumper had been collected by one of their representatives to be taken into a shelter for safekeeping. And the whole of Air France Flight AF 21 had to wait too because our luggage had already been loaded in the hold, so the plane wasn’t allowed to take off without us. But Mum saw to it that all the people on board got a complimentary bottle of champagne to make up for the delay, which is so truly romantic when you’re on your way to Paris. So in a way, the whole episode has done some good all round. I’m just trying to work out how I can get Thumper back as soon as we return to London …

  6.30 p.m.

  Vix has popped down to say can I be on standby, ready and dressed for dinner at 21h10 (which is the way they write it in France).

  ‘I am dressed,’ I point out.

  It appears the restaurant we’re going to has a no-jeans door policy. I’m meant to be dressed in Kandhi Store.

  ‘Small problem. I didn’t pack the Kandhi Store stuff.’

  ‘But you had two whole suitcases!’

  My suitcases are standing there beside us in the room, still unpacked and still filled with litter tray, kitty litter, rabbit mix (junior), basket with cotton balls, teddy and a complete rabbit assault course (for essential body development) cleverly contrived from various items loaned from the Royal Trocadero.

  Vix lost it at this point and stormed off to consult Mum.

  It was Mum who rang down. ‘You all right, babes?’

  She still had on her ‘concerned and understanding’ voice. She was being so nice about Thumper. I was starting to feel uneasy. Was she up to something?

  ‘Don’t worry, we can just pop out and buy you something hot. I’ll meet you in the lobby.’

  ‘But Mum, it’s nearly seven. The shops’ll all be shut.’

  Not a problem. Apparently, Mum only shops when the shops are shut.

  So I wait in the lobby until Mum arrives dressed down to look incognito. Mini mac, Dolce and Gabbana stiletto-heeled boots and, in spite of the fact that it’s pitch dark and pouring with rain outside – dark glasses.

  The minute she steps out of the hotel it’s like lightning striking from all sides. Behind a human chain of La Vendôme’s uniformed doorkeepers, the photographers have formed a solid wall of human flesh. Each of them is trying desperately to attract Mum’s attention.

  Mum flashes her dazzling ‘publicity smile’ while holding up a shielding hand of protest. This always amazes me. How does she do it? I mean, the minute someone trains a camera on me, I instantly lose the ability to coordinate lips, teeth and eyes.

  Almost before we know it, Sid and Abdul have frogmarched us down the line and into a limo and the doors have thunked shut. We slide into the night. Only to come to an abrupt halt about thirty-five seconds later. The rue St Honoré, where all the coolest designers hang out, is apparently just round the corner. We’ve stopped outside a double-fronted boutique that’s all glossy and glitzy but has a row of models made out of what looks like straw, giving them the odd effect of a load of fashion victim scarecrows. I note the initials etched into the glass. A.M. Armando Mezzo – Mum’s fave designer. The boutique has a discreet ‘Fermé’ sign up yet, sure enough, there are lights on inside and the doors are sliding open for us.

  Armando himself comes out to greet us. He’s flanked by three female assistants all looking as if they’ve just stepped off the catwalk. Once we’re all safely in, he and Mum do a load of air-kissing and standing back and admiring each other. Eventually they notice I’m there too.

  ‘And who’s thees?’ says Armando, giving a pretty good imitation of an Italian accent. (He is in actual fact from the East End of London.) There follows the usual long amazement-session about how tall I am and how could Mum possibly have a daughter so old. The three assistants do a synchronised purr of agreement. Mum brushes it all aside and they get down to the business of what I’m to wear. All eyes focus on me. I wish I didn’t feel so totally lame. I can’t imagine Armando Mezzo having clothes anyone like me would be allowed to wear.

  I cast a nervous glance towards the scarecrows. There’ll be no scruffy delving through racks here. The scarecrows are wearing the only clothes in the shop – a minimal body covering assortment of baby pink and blue gingham-checked hot pants and bras trimmed with broderie anglaise. They have matching strappy stilettos and handbags shaped like watering cans. It seems this is Armando’s new spring/summer collection.

  ‘And eet’s for tonight?’ says Armando, lookin
g alarmed.

  ‘You’ve got it. We’re dining at eight thirty sharp,’ says Mum, refusing to be fazed.

  I can’t think why she’s making such a big deal about this dinner. I mean, it’s just her and me.

  ‘But it’s gonna have to be last season’s,’ protests Armando.

  ‘Look, Armando. No sweat. Anything’ll do. So long as it’s not jeans.’

  Armando and the assistants go into a little huddle. There is a flash of long glossy legs as the three women disappear into the back.

  Armando chivvies us along to some squishy sofas. We are offered drinks but Mum declines anything but water – still spa water, no ice.

  The assistants are back in seconds. They’re now wearing white gloves and each is carrying a huge glossy black box. These are opened in turn. Out of folds of crunchy purple tissue come a strapless white mini evening gown – yumm. ‘Too sophisticated,’ says Mum. A black leather bustier and tight thigh-length pants – wow! But ‘Far too old for Hollywood.’ And finally a short sleeveless dress in brilliant coral pink with a jacket to match.

  ‘Perfect,’ says Mum.

  ‘Mu-um!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going to look like a flamingo in that.’

  ‘Rubbish. It’s fine. We’ll take it.’

  ‘But you don’t even know if it’ll fit!’

  ‘By seven forty-five eet will feet,’ says Armando, and he plumps his hand down on a bell.

  A minute wrinkly lady all in black with a tape measure round her neck and a pin-cushion attached to her wrist materialises out of nowhere. Before I know it, I’ve had every single bit of me measured (including my feet) and we’re back in the limo.