I wake up and lie in bed wondering what to do today. At school every minute was crammed. I’ve never had so much time on my hands. I daren’t ring Mum for hours yet to ask what she’s doing.
I decide to go down to the hotel’s health centre in the basement and have a swim. I don’t expect they’ve ever seen a navy regulation SotR swimsuit down there before.
I’m just doing my fifth length when I notice a little huddle of Trocadero guests has gathered and is staring through the glass window that separates the pool from the gym. They’re on the swimming pool side, and whatever it is they’re staring at is in the gym.
I haul myself out of the pool to check out what it is.
I don’t believe this.
It’s Mum. She’s laid out like a prisoner on a rack doing amazing stretchy things. There’s a guy standing by who looks like he’s just dropped out of a Mr Atlas Contest. He has a permatan and his biceps are so well developed I swear he can’t get his arms down by his sides.
I force my way through the huddle and enter the gym.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Hollywood, babe! Meet Gervase, he’s from Argentina. Isn’t he wonderful?’
Gervase ripples his muscles in my direction and condescends a smile. ‘Please to meet you.’
Gervase, it appears, is Mum’s new personal trainer (Mastermind of the Raw Food Diet). Mum’s really worried because she overdid it just a little yesterday at lunch (she had half a glass of dry white wine instead of water) and thinks she may have gained a few grams. She is busy working these off. It seems Gervase actually has a system for working out how many calories Mum can burn per minute per machine. She still has half an hour to go on this one.
The machine leaves her just enough breath to speak.
‘So what have you planned for today?’ she pants.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh.’
‘I thought maybe we could do something together?’
‘Umm …’ Pant. ‘Sure.’ Pant. ‘What?’
‘Oh, anything. Nothing special. Just spend Sunday like ordinary people.’
A frown passes across Mum’s brow. She obviously hasn’t the faintest idea what ordinary people do on a Sunday.
‘Like?’ Pant.
‘Like, I don’t know, maybe visit the zoo, or a museum. Have a burger. Or just maybe take a walk.’
At around eleven thirty I meet up with Mum and Sid in reception. Mum has dressed down, i.e. no stilettos, no designer labels, no Gucci sunglasses. I think she must’ve borrowed some stuff from Vix. She’s wearing jeans, sneakers and a lime-green fleece. No one in their right mind would confuse her with Kandhi. Sid is wearing similar casuals. We look for all the world like a mum and dad and daughter on a day out.
Our ordinariness is somewhat marred by the fact we leave in the limo. But when we arrive at Madame Tussaud’s (because that’s what Mum’s chosen) we leave it discreetly round the corner and head for the Waxworks on foot.
Mum pauses as its familiar dome comes into view.
‘Oh-my-God there’s a queue,’ she exclaims.
I shrug. ‘So?’
‘Do you mean to say we have to stand in line?’ she asks. I don’t think Mum has ever queued for anything. Well, not since she’s been famous anyway.
‘That’s what ordinary people do, Mum.’
‘But it’s starting to rain.’
Sid offers to go and get an umbrella from the car.
‘No need,’ says Mum. ‘Just go to the head of the queue and tell them I’m here.’
‘No, Mum. What did we agree? We’re going to have an ordinary day. Besides,’ I lower my voice. ‘Do you really want to get mobbed?’
‘No, I s’pose not,’ Mum agrees grumpily.
Mum and Sid and I huddle under the umbrella for half an hour while the queue inches forward. Mum is starting to fume. She is making hissed asides about the inefficiency of the museum and how they ought to sell priority tickets like a kind of Museum Queue Club Class.
At last we get in. Sid and I get a brochure and are taking a polite interest in dull, famous people like President Nixon and Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill while Mum steams ahead hardly looking from side to side.
We catch up with her as we approach the ‘Stars of Stage and Silver Screen’ section. This must be where she’s been so keen to get to all along. But she hasn’t exactly lingered there. No, she’s now heading back towards us at some pace, shoving her way through a little clump of people who have stopped by Marilyn and Fred Astaire. For some reason Mum’s furious. She’s far madder than she was in the queue. She’s even madder than she was when she flung the seafood platter …
I about-turn and fall into step beside her.
‘Mum, what is it?’
‘Just go down there and look for yourself,’ she snaps. ‘I’m going to see if I can find someone who’s in charge of this pathetic charade.’
Sid and I dutifully go and look.
We make our way past Cher and ABBA, Madonna and Michael Jackson, Kylie Minogue and Britney Spears. And then Sid stops and says, ‘Uh-oh.’
I home in on the problem. There’s Kandhi looking large as life and dressed to kill but pushed right to the back. I mean, she’s hardly in the limelight, she’s hardly in the light at all. No wonder she’s mad.
Nobody from the management was available. Not on a Sunday. The girl behind the ticket counter and the guy in the little back office who manned the phones each had quite an experience that morning. Mum didn’t actually say who she was, but I think they must’ve had a strong suspicion. (After this I reckon they’ll be eternally grateful the other celebs they deal with are made of wax.)
But now it’s lunchtime. We don’t go to McDonalds. No, this ‘ordinary’ family goes to ‘Sunset Strip Diner’ – London’s most exclusive American-style restaurant where the walls are made of video screens and for the cost of a burger you could buy yourself an average cow. But the burgers are yummy and Mum actually eats meat for once. She settles for steak tartare and a rocket salad.
‘Well, anyway,’ she says eventually through a mouthful. I reckon maybe starvation must’ve contributed to her anger. I mean, one whole hour burning off calories? ‘At least I was in there,’ she continues as she wolfs down another huge mouthful. Then something resembling a smile appears on her face. ‘Apparently they’ve put Sheherazadha into the back room. She’s now in their reserve stock.’
I ought maybe to explain here that Sheherazadha is Mum’s pet hate. She’s hated like only one superstar can hate another. (Bloodcurdlingly.) They came into the charts about the same time. And to start with, every time Mum had a new single out, Sheherazadha like pipped her to number one. Thankfully, in recent months, Sheherazadha has been building up her film career and she’s kind of disappeared from the music scene. I’m just praying she doesn’t make it in films or Mum will be unliveable with.
Round about three o’clock the rain stopped and the sun came out so we decided on the walk. Except Mum said just walking with nothing to look at was boring, like you might as well be on the walking machine at the hotel – which actually does have something to look at because it’s got a video screen which allows you to walk your way through a choice of the Grand Canyon, the Pyramids, or, if you really want to burn calories, the Himalayas.
Anyway, we took the limo out to the Royal Botanical Gardens at Kew.
At the ticket booth, they gave us a map of the gardens and Mum spent quite some time talking to the man at the gates as he pointed out the various things there were to see.
‘Right,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll lead the way.’
‘Can’t we go inside the greenhouses?’ I asked. ‘They’ve got one with a tropical climate.’
‘Hmm, hothouses,’ said Mum. ‘So stuffy. Maybe later.’ And set off at a considerable speed with the map.
Sid and I followed.
‘What do you think she’s looking for?’ I asked Sid.
He shrugged. ‘Search me. Never known your mum to take an interest in plants.’
Mum shot round the lake and disappeared between two vast hothouses. We caught up with her standing in front of a big round flowerbed covered in mulch. A gardener was at work hoeing between the plants.
‘Can you tell me where I can find the roses?’ Mum was asking.
The gardener leant on his hoe and waved an all-encompassing hand. ‘Take your pick,’ he said.
‘These are roses?’ said Mum incredulously.
‘Unless I’m very much mistaken,’ said the gardener.
‘OK, so roses are your thing. Can you show me which is the one called “Kandhi”?’
Sid and I exchanged glances. ‘Last Chelsea Flower Show,’ said Sid. ‘I remember now. Someone named this rose after her.’
The gardener put down his hoe and led Mum to a far bed. There was a rather small plant whose leaves were going brown at the edges. It looked as if it had been pruned to within an inch of its life.
‘But what’s wrong with it?’ demanded Mum. ‘It should be covered with all these huge pink blooms.’
‘Not at this time of year, miss.’
‘Well, can’t you put it in a greenhouse or something? Look at its leaves. They’re all kind of droopy. I reckon it’s being attacked by something.’
The gardener straightened up and looked at Mum sideways. ‘Well, if you look at it this way, miss. In the world of nature, you can’t all be blooming all of the time. Summer comes, that’s the time for your roses. Other times is the turn of other plants. For everything there is a season, as they say.’
‘Well, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Mum.
‘Mum,’ I whispered, pulling at her sleeve. ‘Of course he knows. He’s a gardener. At Kew.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Sid. ‘My gran grows roses. They’re not much to look at at this time of year.’
We started to lead Mum away before she could make more of a scene.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ said the gardener, as we were leaving. ‘My daughter’s a great fan of yours. You wouldn’t sign an autograph for her would you, Miss Kandhi?’
‘What I don’t understand is how he knew who I was,’ said Mum in the limo when we were on our way back.
Sid and I both cracked up at this.
I lay in bed that night thinking about our day. Mum has this phrase she trots out:
‘You can’t be a bit famous, babes. You’re either famous or you’re a nobody.’
That’s what it is, I suddenly saw. All the time, she needs to prove to herself how famous she is. She can’t be just ‘ordinary’ like everyone else – or ‘nobody’ as she puts it. That’s why she has to keep sizing herself up against every other celebrity.
And then I realised that I was part of it. She couldn’t let me be ‘ordinary’ either. Everything Kandhi touched had to be glossy, glitzy, out of the ordinary. Above all me, because I was a part of her. Sooner or later, if Mum had her way, I’d have to be a star too.
I thought about this for a long time into the night and then fell into an uneasy sleep in which I dreamt that I was a waxwork in Madame Tussaud’s all dressed up to look like Mum. But inside I was really me. But since I was made of wax, I couldn’t speak or move. I couldn’t escape from inside, or tell anyone I was there. I just had to stand rigidly glued to the spot while all these people filed by staring at me.
I woke with a start and lay there wondering what it meant.
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However, I didn’t dwell on it too long because I quickly realised it was now MONDAY and after my singing and dancing lessons I’d be spending the afternoon with RUPERT and if I was going to erase the terrible impression I’d made last week, I’d better do my homework (you see I’d been far too busy to get down to it over the weekend). So I got up really early and lay in the bathtub learning the sonnet he’d set me.