I go next door for my music lesson, but no Jasper. When I ring down to Reception to find out what’s happened to him, I’m put through to Vix. My lessons have been cancelled indefinitely. Jasper will be working with Mum for the foreseeable future. He’s director/producer on ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.
‘But what about me? What am I meant to do?’ I complain.
‘I don’t know. What do people usually do? Read a book,’ suggests Vix.
I do this half-heartedly, followed by a half-hour of arch-flexing exercises. After this I can barely walk so I hobble up to the ballroom for my dance class.
Stella doesn’t turn up for my dance lessons either. Apparently she’s strained a tendon and has to keep her leg up till the swelling goes down.
So I stare out of the window and wonder what everyone at school is doing right now.
To my relief Rupert has turned up for lessons.
He’s sorted through the books and put all the maths and science books to one side and is insisting that we concentrate on English lit. Shakespeare in particular.
We are doing this play called The Taming of the Shrew. Naturally, I like the title. But I soon to find that the ‘shrew’ in question is not one of those sweet little long-nosed, velvety mouse things but a rather cross woman who argues a lot.
Rupert and I start out by reading the play through together. He reading the hero’s part, this guy called Petruchio who’s trying to ‘tame’ the heroine; and me the heroine, who’s called Kate. I can’t help noticing that Rupert is really brilliant at reading – honestly, he should be an actor. I’m kind of hypnotised by the way his lips move …
Sigh.
After we’ve gone through a few pages Rupert stops.
‘Holly, could you put some feeling into it? You’re meant to be angry, waspish. You’re meant to hate me, OK?’
‘Oh, right, sure …’
I try really, really hard to sound as if I hate Rupert. Believe me, this is not easy.
I muddle my way through a long speech which starts with:
‘ “Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak. And speak I will. I am no child, no babe …” ’ (If only!)
Rupert stops me again. ‘You’ve got to try and spit the words out, Holly. Think of how a person behaves when they’re really angry at someone …’
Suddenly I have this vision of Mum with the seafood platter.
‘OK, I’ll try again.’
I get to my feet. I stand, knees slightly bent, like Mum did. I narrow my eyes. I imagine that Oliver is right there in front of me and the seafood platter is just within my grasp. Then I let rip. I can hear my voice in my head sounding just like Mum …
‘ “… My tongue will tell the anger of my heart;
or else my heart concealing it will break,
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words …” ’
‘Errm, was that all right?’
Rupert is standing stock-still, staring at me.
‘Wow … that was really good, Holly. Where did that come from?’
I glow all over. Praise!!! Praise from RUPERT, like he’s really impressed by something I’ve done?!!! This is the best moment of my life EVER!
I shrug. ‘Well, you know. We’ve all got it in us, I guess.’
The lesson ends in a kind of heady daze. Rupert thinks I can act. I can act Shakespeare!
I’m back in my room taking a bath. I’m lying in the bathtub totally dreaming that Rupert and I are really famous, like we’re in this movie and I’m acting really cool in front of the cameras with no problems at all.
No, not only am I NOT crippled by stage fright, I am actually enjoying being the centre of attention. Which normally, as you may have gathered, is SO NOT me. Seriously, I have a phobia about performing. It’s like the phobias people have about flying, or spiders, or snakes. My phobia just doesn’t happen to have a name, that’s all. Maybe it should – like ‘performaphobia’, for instance: the irrational fear of making a complete dick of yourself in front of an audience.
But when I’m with Rupert this phobia’s cured. In my bathtub fantasy we’re walking down a red carpet to our very own world première and all these people are crowding in on either side applauding like crazy.
I get out of the bath and dry myself. I want to rush up to Mum’s suite and maybe read that bit out loud to her to prove that ‘Yeah, there is a bit of the performer in me after all. Like, those genes haven’t totally passed me by.’ So I ring Vix to see if Mum’s free. I can hear from the bleeps that Vix’s phone is still on transfer. She answers me in a hushed voice.
‘Who? Oh, Holly, it’s only you. No, I can’t talk right now. Looks like we’re going to be in the studios all night at the rate we’re going.’
In the background I can hear Mum’s voice being played back over and over, singing a phrase from ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.
‘Oh, I see. Well, I guess I’ll order up something from room service and get an early nigh—’
Vix has already rung off.
I’ve had my lonely supper and I’m wondering if I can find someone to talk to.
I peep out of my door. There aren’t even security guards to talk to as they don’t patrol my floor any longer. It turned out that those ‘nasty threats’ were all from the same person – a madly obsessed prowler who had this ‘thing’ about Mum. He’s been rounded up and put behind bars. So we’ve gone from ‘High Alert’ to ‘Medium Alert’ to ‘Not Alert At All’. The security guys currently spend their time playing pool in the hotel leisure centre.
The hotel is really still, like there’s no one left alive in it. Even the muzak’s been turned off – there’s only the steady hiss of the air conditioning.
The only other person who isn’t involved in the Heatwave is Sit. I decide that even if he is meditating he could probably do with a break.
Sit’s suite is on the seventh floor, which is not so grand as the sixth. The carpet is just that little bit less poumphy and their light fittings don’t have little crystal bits hanging off them, but it’s still pretty grand for someone who’s meant to be ‘relinquishing all worldly pleasures’.
The smell of joss sticks leads me to Sit’s suite. The door has been left slightly open. But I guess if your only possessions are a bedroll, a faded saffron robe and a begging basket, you’re not going to be paranoid about security.
‘Sit?’ I call out. ‘Can I come in?’
There’s no answer, so I push the door further open.
Sit isn’t in the suite. I note that he has rearranged the place somewhat. He’s pushed the couch to one end and up-ended the bed against it. The bedside rug has been laid out in front of a sort of altar where the joss sticks are burning.
But what grabs my attention – what totally stops me in my tracks, what makes my jaw drop – is not a tubby smiling figure of a Buddha, like you’d totally expect to see on that altar. No, it’s a blown-up photo of Mum. I now notice that there are more photos of her stuck around the walls. (I totally hope Sit has used Sticky Fixers or there’ll be no end of a scene when he moves out.)
This confirms in my mind the niggly doubt I’ve had all along. Like, I thought he was too good to be true. It’s clear now that Sit is just another fan.
Fans – they’ll do anything to get close to Mum. There was even one who glued himself to the underside of Mum’s limo with superglue. Luckily for him, security found him on a routine under-car body search. But it just shows how obsessed they can get.
I creep out of the room and pull the door to behind me, wondering what to do about it. I mean, it’s not as if I think Sit is dangerous or anything. Maybe it would be kindest to keep the whole thing to myself.
Still nothing happening. I’ve done my homework and I’m not even tired. I check my mobile.
Hey, there’s a text from Becky!
you’ll never guess what!
i’ve been selected for:
a) miss world
b) pres bush’s new mars mission
c) young musician of the year !!!!!!!!!!
Young Musician of the Year – it’s like this talent competition for all young people who play classical stuff. Win it and you’re lauched on a career as a top international performer. It’s like coming number one in the charts in the States and the UK simultaneously – in fact worldwide. Wow! Becky! So all that dedicated practising has paid off! I am so proud for her. Forget SotR no late calls ruling. I ring her straight away. She answers immediately.
‘Becky! You are a genius!’
‘Hi, Holly!’ comes the whispered reply.
‘You must be over the moon!
‘Shhhh!’
‘Becky, you still there? You sound all muffled.’
‘I’m under the covers. Someone might hear.’
‘You’re in bed?’
‘Holly, it’s after lights out.’
I had totally forgotten that SotR has this obsessive regime. The girls are meant to be asleep by ten thirty because they have to be up at 6.00 a.m.
‘But you’re going to be on TV and everything.’
‘I’m only shortlisted. There are loads of us in the violin trials.’
‘But I know you’re going to win.’
‘Honestly, Holly, I’m happy just to get on the shortlist. I’ve got to go now. Keep texting me, OK?’
She rang off. I was left thinking how different this was from Mum. If she wasn’t the best at something she wasn’t worth living with. (‘There’s only one number one, Holly. If I don’t get that I know I’ve failed.’)