My Life So Far Page 3

  Mr Wallace has put down my Chemistry book and is looking through my Maths book, making little grunting noises through his nose hair. He is SO NOT impressed by that either. In fact, he’s saying in a rather cross voice that if I don’t ‘pull my socks up’ the nearest I’ll get to treating animals will be clipping nails in a poodle parlour. And I’ll be lucky to get that.

  ‘Mr Wallace,’ I say, looking him straight in the eyes, ‘have you no faith in the powers of education?’

  He pauses there. ‘Well, yes, I suppose where there’s a will and the dedication to put in some hard work –’

  ‘Exactly. I mean, where would Einstein have been, or Churchill . . .’ (From what I’ve heard, neither of them got off to a very good start.)

  Mr Wallace and I spend an intensive two hours working on something called bonding. The bonds have little oblique lines going in all directions. By the end of the morning my exercise book looks like it’s had a bad attack of cellulite. I’m told to memorise all these bonds by tomorrow.

  1.00 p.m., lunch hour (at last!)

  When I’m let off for lunch I go to the dining room to see if Mum’s there. She’s not. And neither are Vix or Daffyd or June or anyone I know. There are all these smartly dressed people having ultra-smart lunches. I just can’t face eating there on my own. The only other option is to have lunch with Mr Wallace. The thought of eating face to face with his nose hair is more than I can bear.

  I take refuge in the restroom and consider the alternatives. A room service lunch alone in my room? Or no lunch? I stare at my reflection. I’m in jeans and a grey polo top. I look like any other teenager. Without Mum or a limo or two six foot seven bodyguards, how would anyone recognise me? All I’ve got to do is behave like a totally ordinary person and no one will give me a second glance.

  So I walk out through the hotel lobby with a relaxed stride.

  I was right! Nobody took the least bit of notice of me. Once in the street I’m struck by the total euphoria of being ALONE. This may sound odd to you, but you haven’t had the life I have. I’ve had to live under threats of kidnapping. I’ve been hounded by the press. Normally, I’m driven everywhere in an armoured car with tinted windows. Being out alone I get my first heady taste of freedom. This must be what ordinary people feel like all the time!

  I wander along the sidewalk that skirts the park, checking out the horses that pull the carriages for tourist rides. I’m happy to announce that all the horses look well fed and well groomed and most have their noses happily stuffed into their nosebags and are having a peaceful munch on their lunch. This makes my tummy rumble enviously. What I need is a burger or a hot dog. And then I realise I don’t have any money. Here I am, daughter of the tenth richest woman in the world, and I don’t have a dollar in my pocket. I consider going back into the Wessex and borrowing some cash from the concierge, but I’d be bound to be spotted by someone from Mum’s entourage.

  No, if I want an hour of freedom I’ll have to ignore my hunger pangs. I turn my back purposefully on the ice-cream vendor who is parked down the street. (Oh, what I’d give for a choc chip vanilla!) and head away from the park.

  After twenty minutes or so of purposeful walking the welcoming doors of Bloomingdale’s beckon to me.

  Inside, all is warm and light and glossy. I stroll along nonchalantly, for all the world like any other normal teenager, browsing through the yummy-smelling perfume department and sampling all the samplers till I smell like some horribly clashing mixed floral bunch.

  Then I take an escalator up to check out the fashion department. I find there are loads of girls a bit older than me searching through the racks of evening dresses. They all seem to be with their mums and they look as if they have something pretty important on their minds. And then I realise what they’re doing. They’re choosing prom gowns!

  I lurk behind a rail of full-length sheer chiffon and watch.

  You wouldn’t think a person like me, who has everything she could possibly want, would be envious, would you? But I was. I was envious of all those girls who would shortly come whooshing down the family staircase dressed for the prom. Each of them with a dad taking photos and a mum standing there tearful with pride . . . and some nice ordinary boy to escort them to the car.

  But I’d never go to a prom if I didn’t go to a school.

  That’s when it came to me. I should stand up for my rights. I was not going to put up with Mr Wallace (and his nose hair) any longer. I had a right to schooling like any other girl my age.

  2.30 p.m. Oops! I’m a bit late back

  I’m in trouble. Mr Wallace, assuming I had lunch with Mum, has rung her to ask where I am. Mum was none too pleased at being interrupted during what she called ‘a very important lunch appointment’. She wants to see me at the end of the day, which suits me because I want to see her too – about school.

  Mr Wallace and I spend the afternoon catching up on Maths. Or at least half my mind is doing Maths, the other half (or maybe three-quarters) is fantasising about which of Bloomingdale’s prom dresses I will wear when I’m elected Prom Queen of the real American School that I’m about to persuade Mum to send me to. Mr Wallace seems to sense the fact that my mind is not truly on my work and piles on the pressure.

  He sets me three whole algebra exercises to do for homework.

  4.30 p.m.

  As soon as I’m released from classes I go up to Mum’s suite.

  ‘So where did you have lunch?’ she demands.

  ‘Nowhere,’ I reply truthfully.

  ‘No one has lunch nowhere,’ she says.

  ‘OK, if you really want to know – I went for a walk. Then I looked round Bloomingdale’s.’

  ‘You went for a walk? You mean alone?’

  ‘Yes. In broad daylight, along with a million or so other people.’

  ‘Holly! Anything could have happened to you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like anything.’

  ‘In Bloomingdale’s?’

  ‘Wherever!’

  ‘I was only taking a walk. Other kids my age are allowed exercise.’

  ‘You’re not just any kid, you’re my daughter. And you are not to go out alone. Do you hear me?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Life’s not fair, Holly. You’d better get used to it.’

  ‘No. I won’t get used to it. I have a right to some personal liberty. And education! Why can’t I go to a school like other girls my age?’

  ‘Holly, you are prey to all sorts of people – kidnappers, extortioners, muggers, murderers! There’s no way you can go to an ordinary school. It’s simply not safe.’

  ‘I know Dad would let me.’

  ‘Hollywood, don’t you side with your father against me.’ Mum was really getting angry now. But so was I.

  ‘It’s my life. I’ve got two parents. I shall side with whom I like,’ I snapped back.

  8.00 p.m., Apt 12, 1794 South Mercer – siding with Dad

  Dad opened the door to me: ‘Hi, Holly-Poppy! Your mum’s been on the phone. What’s this fight about?’

  I peered past him into the apartment. ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Fred’s making a suspense movie. He’s got them all hanging off Brooklyn Bridge.’

  I walked in and slumped down on one of the beanbags.

  ‘So what’s up?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Mum is trying to keep me prisoner. She won’t let me go to school. She won’t even let me out on my own.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’s got a point. This is New York, honey.’

  ‘Dad, I don’t believe it! You’re on her side.’

  ‘Now, I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘Other kids my age go out alone.’

  ‘It’s only because we care about you.’

  ‘You weren’t much older than me when you left home for good! You had your own band by the time you were sixteen!’

  ‘Yeah – well, maybe. But things were different back then and besides, I was a boy.’

  ‘So
it’s one rule for boys and another for girls?’

  ‘It’s not because you’re a girl, Holly. It’s because you’re Kandhi’s daughter.’

  ‘If anyone says that again, I shall scream!’

  ‘Come on, ease up. Look, we’re going to have a great evening. I’ve ordered up all your favourites.’ He pointed to a stack of DVDs. Oh great! He’d got The Jungle Book, Mary Poppins and Chicken Run. Didn’t Dad realise I’d grown out of stuff like that?

  ‘And I’ve got popcorn and Doritos and . . .’ He shook the packet. He’d bought me Barnum’s Animal Crackers.

  ‘Oh thanks, Dad. Cool.’ He missed the sarcasm. He was too busy sorting out the DVD. He put on The Jungle Book and plonked himself down beside me.

  I sat fuming while Dad tried to get me involved in the movie. He was fooling around, making silly animal faces and swinging his arms like Baloo, even singing along to some of the numbers. As he shoved the box of Animal Crackers under my nose for the fifth time, he caught sight of my black expression.

  ‘It’s OK. I’ve saved you the giraffes . . .’ he tried.

  That’s when I grabbed the remote control and put the DVD on Hold and said: ‘Dad, do you think we could talk for a bit?’

  Dad settled back in his seat and said, ‘Sure. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  ‘Dad, neither you nor Mum seem to have noticed that I, Hollywood Bliss Winterman, am growing up.’

  ‘Yeah, I noticed. You’re up to my shoulder.’

  ‘Listen, Dad. You’ve got to realise I’m not a child any more. I need to get out and meet people.’

  ‘Holly-Poppy, you’re meeting people all the time.’

  ‘Not people my own age.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said Dad, looking thoughtful. ‘Like boys and stuff?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ he said. ‘Now, Holly, a girl in your position has to be careful.’

  ‘Careful? Why?’

  ‘You can’t date just any boy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Guys are going to be after you because of your mum. Because you’re rich. Even maybe because they want to sell their story: “My Date with Kandhi’s Daughter” – all that kind of stuff . . .’

  ‘The way things are, boys won’t be going out with me at all,’ I said grumpily. ‘I’ll never get a chance to meet any if I don’t go to school.’

  ‘You’ll meet boys soon enough.’

  ‘Don’t you think I should go to school like other kids?’

  ‘School? I thought that was the place most kids wanted to quit.’

  ‘Be serious for a moment. This is important!’

  ‘Well, you know your mum’s in charge of your education.’

  ‘Dad! Take a look at yourself. Won’t you for once stand up to Mum?’

  ‘Now look here, Holly, I don’t really have a say in –’

  ‘Of course you do! You’re my dad.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s your mum who’s paying for your education.’

  I got to my feet. ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this. What does it matter who’s paying? I don’t think you really care. Not enough to fight for me. You know what you are? You’re a loser, Dad.’ I could feel hot tears pricking in my eyes as I said it.

  Dad stood up too and started stacking the DVDs.

  ‘It’s late, honey. You’re tired. I’ll call you a cab.’

  ‘Yeah, I think you’d better,’ I snapped.

  Wednesday 21st May, 1.00 a.m.

  The Wessex Hotel

  I’m lying in bed feeling really guilty about what I said to Dad. I’ve hardly been back a day and I’ve shouted at the one person who has always been on my side. I called him ‘a loser’ and that was really horrid.

  I start thinking over all the cool things Dad has done for me. Like the time he was going to take me on a trip to a safari park. We didn’t actually get there, but that was because I got the mumps. Dad made me take a nap and when I woke up I found he’d turned the loft into our very own safari park. He’d torn pictures out of magazines of forest, and plains and mountains and stuck them all over the walls. And he’d brought in a load of plants and made a kind of jungle. Then he’d hidden Animal Crackers all over the apartment, so that I had to find them. He had penguins in the icebox and hippos in the bathtub and tigers roaming through the shagpile rug. There were monkeys hanging from all the light fittings – they kept falling on our heads for weeks after.

  I guess 1 a.m. in the morning isn’t that late to call someone up. Not Dad.

  ‘Hi Dad, it’s me.’

  ‘Hi, Holly-Poppy.’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I can’t sleep because I shouted at you.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have called it shouting – more like raising your voice maybe.’

  ‘Thanks for getting in Animal Crackers.’

  ‘Maybe . . . errm . . . I should let you choose the movies next time.’

  ‘So you’re not mad at me?’

  ‘Honey, I’m never mad at anyone.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know.’

  9.00 a.m., The Wessex Hotel Executive Conference Suite

  I simply have not had time to do my homework. I try to explain to Mr Wallace that this is because I’ve been too busy ‘sorting my life out’.

  Mr Wallace’s nose hair positively bristles at this. ‘How am I expected to tutor you when I have to contend with this sort of attitude?’ he grumbles.

  We work on through the morning with Mr Wallace in a really bad mood and me in a worse one. I don’t even get a lunch break. Mr Wallace has sandwiches sent down so that we can work through and catch up. He eats these with a really martyred expression on his face – normally he’d be tucking into three substantial courses in the Wessex Dining Room.

  While he’s not looking I send a text to Becky.

  greetings from the wessex high security block

  how was your date?

  2.00 p.m. and beyond

  The afternoon is no better. At four o’clock I get a text from Becky. It’s just one word:

  Blissful!

  Hmm. Not much of an answer from a best friend. I think at the very least I deserve details. I text back.

  has he x’d you yet?

  This is important. Promise you won’t tell a soul, but . . . although I’ve reached the age of nearly fourteen, I’ve never ever kissed a boy. I mean, not properly on the lips. You have to understand – my opportunities have been severely limited. A convent school since the age of eleven, and then living under total round-the-clock armed security with my mum. The opportunities for kissing boys have been thin on the ground – in fact, not on the ground at all . . . Becky, however, is at an advantage – she’s in a mixed sex school. Is this fair?

  Mr Wallace rudely interrupts this important train of thought. ‘Is that a mobile phone I see you with, Holly?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wallace. It is.’

  ‘Hand it over, please.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mobile phones are not allowed in class in schools. I think we should respect the same rules, don’t you?’

  ‘No I don’t, Mr Wallace.’

  ‘I don’t think we need to argue over this. It’s a small enough matter.’

  ‘It may be a small matter to you, Mr Wallace, but it’s pretty important to me.’ He confiscates my phone all the same.

  I watch it disappear into the nasty dark recesses of his briefcase. There goes my lifeline to the outside world, my link to the only person who truly understands me – Becky. I glower at Mr Wallace as he sniffs self-righteously and snaps his briefcase shut.

  For the rest of the afternoon I steam over the algebra exercise he’s given me. In my present mood the symbols don’t seem to mean anything. My mind is busy devising cunning plans to evict Mr Wallace from my life.

  a) I could accuse him of sexual harassment. I glance over at Mr Wallace. He’s
busy scratching at a dried gravy stain on his tie. No one is going to believe that.

  b) I could bribe Abdul to drive him out somewhere – like maybe Central Arizona – and abandon him. Knowing my luck he’d manage to hitch his way back.

  c) I could suggest he’s a terrorist threat and harbouring a weapon of mass destruction in his briefcase. I once spotted a lethal-looking pork pie festering in there.

  Not surprisingly this train of thought doesn’t do a lot for my concentration.

  Sometime (but feels like for ever) later . . .

  I’m watching over Mr Wallace’s shoulder as he goes through my work making cross walrussy grunting noises, double-underlining things in red pen.

  ‘I’m sorry, Holly. This isn’t good enough. I’ll have to keep you in after class.’

  I growl at him that I’m being ‘kept in’ anyway – like for life.

  ‘That’s it!’ he says in a nasty clipped tone. ‘An hour’s detention.’

  ‘But this isn’t a school, Mr Wallace! And I never had detention with my last tutor.’ (If only!)

  ‘Believe me, this is hard on me too,’ he says with a self-righteous sniff. He opens his briefcase and takes out a copy of the Times Educational Supplement.

  Even later...

  I can hear him licking his fingers and flicking over pages and breathing through his nose hair while I bend over my books, which is SO-OO distracting. I bet he’s got something far more exciting secreted inside that TES. I send him the evilest of evil hate-vibes.

  It’s OK for him. He’s getting paid to be here. In fact, it now occurs to me, he’s probably getting double pay for overtime!

  I can feel a headache coming on. The walls of the conference room seem to be closing in on me. The air conditioning is hissing in my ears. And to top it all Mr Wallace has nodded off and he’s SNORING!