Chapter 8

Weeks went by.

The search for my Dad may have gotten off to a lucky start, but reducing the list of names soon morphed into a mammoth project that demanded many late nights locked away in my room with only my iBook for company. Everyone in the house was too busy to notice. I guess they just figured that I had finally decided to hit the books pretty hard. And at least they mostly left me alone. Only Martina appeared to be suspicious of my sudden devotion to studying alone in my bedroom. Everyone else seemed impressed by my newfound zeal for homework.

It was a good thing that I had access to the more useful web sites for movie industry professionals. Arnie, my Mom’s agent, was a total techno-phobe (the man needed help with his cellphone), so he had been happy to give me his password (which he never used anyway) in return for one very unsuccessful lesson in using a computer. The lesson, last Spring had been a complete waste of time. In the end Arnie had decided to avoid any device that featured a microchip. But he still gave me a $100 bill to thank me for the ten minutes that it had taken him to reach that conclusion.

I knew what I was looking for. Or, at least, I knew my Mom’s dating history. And the fact was (contrary to many press reports), my Mom rarely dated at all, plus, she never dated actors. In fact, when I really gave the matter my full attention, I realized that I had only ever known my Mom to date cameramen, lighting directors and directors. I assumed her dating preferences were somehow guided by a professional vanity, I mean those were the guys who you counted on to look good. And vanity was a serious business in Hollywood.

So I carefully tailored my search and after many, many late nights I finally managed to reduce my list to a shortlist of three.

But I knew that there was only one way that I was going to find out which of them was the real deal – and that was to meet them for myself (once I had eventually found an address for each of them).

That was going to be tricky.

Not only would I need to somehow escape Bob’s security and bodyguards, but there was also the press to consider. My life was one Big Brother trip. Someone was always watching the house. Bodyguards followed me everywhere (except school) and the Press were parked right outside our door.

Too much interest from the London paparazzi wasn’t just annoying – it threatened to expose my new ‘normal’ identity and to dead-end my search for my father. And so trips to and from school each day had evolved into the sort of escape tactics that must be a constant feature of the Witness Protection Programme.

It was different for Mom.

Sure, she didn’t want a camera shoved in her face each time she walked out the door. And yeah, there was always the pressure to look great and to smile. But the fact remained that my Mom, like all famous actors, needed the press as much as they needed her. I mean fame is not like a light switch that you can just turn off and on each time you have a new movie to promote. My Mother’s face had the power to sell magazines. And those magazines had the power to sell tickets to her movies. People were hungry for even the crummiest detail about her love life or her diet tips. It was that crazy level of popularity that had turned her into a mega-star. Her fame was as important as her actual acting talent.

Mom had been smiling for the cameras since she was just one, when a combination of my Grandma’s pushy ambition and my Mom’s already adorable face made her the Betsy Bubbles Baby of 1972. So it wasn’t exactly in her nature to complain too much about the press.

But the strain was beginning to show.

I had never seen Mom work so hard, but I knew that that busyness could work to my advantage.

When I walked into her office she was running through some sort of bizarre vocal exercises with Sebastian.

‘Tiny tuna, tiny tuna, tiny tuna, tiny tuna.’

‘You’re home,’ she said, as soon as she spotted me.

‘Mom, will you please drop the accent?’ I begged.

‘Your Mother needs as much practice as she can get,’ said Sebastian. ‘Perhaps it would help if you could adopt a more native tone. A few elementary elocution lessons could be just what you need.’

Sebastian had been subject to the withering stare of mine too often to appreciate its full power. He dutifully exited the room in his usual theatrical manner.

It was only then that I realised that Mom was already in her sweats for her evening run with Dave. The dark London nights provided her with some degree of cover for her daily run. It often took Bob some pretty impressive manoeuvring with the studio limo to shake off the press. Sometimes Andre even drove a decoy car. But usually Mom could morph into an anonymous runner once she had her hood up, kept her head down and had Dave setting a pretty demanding pace by her side.

Trust me on this one, the whole keep-fit routine is a definite downside to the celebrity treadmill. Sure, my Mom is gorgeous – but she really has to work at it. So talking to her as she contorted herself in a series of bizarre stretches in preparation for her run was nothing new.

‘We haven’t had much fun together in London, have we honey?’ she said.

Her legs were stretched far apart and her elbows were rested on the floor as she spoke. The look on her face displayed zero effort but maximum guilt.

This was good. I could work with this.

‘It’s kinda hard to see any sights when I’m hiding from British photographers,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mom, looking like she really meant it (but who can ever tell with an actress?). ‘I want us to spend more time together as a family.’

The guilt-button was within easy reach.

‘Oh, you mean like Thanksgiving?’ I said.

Now she looked really hurt.

But, you know, sometimes the truth really does hurt. Last week had been the worst Thanksgiving of my life. I mean, who knew that the English did zippo to even acknowledge the biggest American holiday? Mom had had to work, and I had to go to school.

Our Thanksgiving dinner had turned into a sad affair that had been conjured up by Andre and Portia (don’t ask me why). Maybe it was their total lack of experience in the kitchen, or maybe it was Dave’s insistence that the meal should meet Mom’s strict dietary requirements (no meat, no wheat, no dairy), but the whole thing had been a total wipeout.

Unfortunately the tradition of each guest sharing their thanks for whatever was most important to them had not been forgotten. And as I listened to Andre give thanks for something totally lame, like J.Lo, and Mom go all sentimental and give thanks for all of the love in her life, I wondered what it was that I should be truly thankful for? As I looked out at the miserable English weather and sucked on my pumpkin smoothie, I wasn’t exactly feeling very grateful. In the end I opted to give thanks for family, but I don’t think that anyone actually got the joke.

I waited for an opening offer from Mom.

‘How about we go shopping?’ she said.

A shopping trip, especially one with my Mom was the very last thing that I needed!

‘Please Mom, the press wouldn’t leave us alone. Remember the last time that you tried to visit Neimann Marcus incognito? I don’t think Portia’s hair has completely regrown since that fan grabbed her. Besides, it will be crazy out there with Christmas shoppers.’

Now she was smiling.

‘But here’s the cool thing,’ she said, ‘we will have the biggest department store in London to ourselves for a whole two hours. It’s all arranged for next Tuesday night.’

There was no getting out of this.

‘Great,’ I lied.

But before I could register my request for a little breathing space, disaster struck. Bob walked into the office with the sort of worried look that I had seen many times before.

‘I’m afraid that you won’t be going on that run this evening,’ he said. ‘We’ve just received some footage from the studio security cameras. It looks like Thomas Anderson has shown up in London.’

Suddenly all of the colour drained from Mom’s face.

I understood why.

Some fans just get a little too enthusiastic. They get so caught up in their idol that they sort of forget to have a life of their own. They just show up at every occasion where they might get a glimpse of their star in the flesh. That might be sad, that might be sweet – but it’s not dangerous. Only a few crazies ever cross the line into the sort of threatening behaviour that was strictly the territory of the stalker.

Like dieting and exercise, stalkers are another inevitable downside of celebrity life. Mostly they like to creep-out their chosen star just enough so that they become aware of their existence. So they hang around outside their home and write strange letters in green ink.

Weirdoes like those were the reason that I had to manoeuvre around such tight security.

Thomas Anderson had been pestering my Mom for years. She had taken out regular restraining orders to keep as much space between him and her as she could possibly get. I didn’t know all of the gory details, but I knew that they had been pretty sure that Anderson had been behind a break-in at my Mom’s apartment in New York. They could never prove it, but Mom had been pretty shaken up by the message that he had left on her bathroom mirror. It had been scary enough for her to drag me half way around the world.

And now Thomas Anderson had just shown up in London. This was serious.

As Bob ran through the increased security arrangements that we would need, Mom grasped my hand tightly. And I knew that I would have to get very creative if I was ever to break free in search of my Dad.

Seven Significant Downsides to Being a Celebrity

1 You can’t leave your home if you don’t look fabulous

2 A perfect figure is mandatory - so are daily diet and exercise

3 Zits are not allowed

4 Photographers follow you everywhere

5 Strangers will stare and ask for your autograph

6 People you have never met will have an opinion of you

7 You instantly become a magnet for weirdoes and stalkers