Chapters 15 & 16

Chapter 15

Christmas cheer wasn’t exactly in abundance at home or at school.

British tabloids had somehow gotten hold of the story of Mom’s stalker problem. A huge bouquet had been delivered to the house while Mom had been working at the studio one day, and luckily Bob had decided to check it out. He found a razor in the heart of each of he twelve red roses. You can imagine how Mom reacted. I mean, who wouldn’t be freaked? And once the press heard about it (somebody was obviously blabbing) they just wouldn’t leave us alone. There were so many journalists and photographers camped outside our house that, even if I hadn’t been grounded, I really wouldn’t have been able to go anywhere.

Trips to school had evolved into high-speed dashes that left me hiding under blankets on the back seat until I could be certain that we had shaken off the paparazzi. It wasn’t the best way to start the day. But with only three days left to go before the end of term, I didn’t want to blow my cover.

Christine had been unusually silent since sending me that note. But I knew that it was just a matter of time before she made her move. She was obviously looking for something… Why else would she have tried to freak me out with that note? She would have just blabbed unless she wanted to use her information to bribe me in some way. I knew that she wouldn’t blow my cover without making some sort of demand of me. All I could do was wait until she made her move.

Plus, as if I didn’t have enough to worry about, I had finally flunked French. The results were posted on a noticeboard for all to see, and for the first time in my life my name was listed next to the word FAIL. It was all very brutal and very public. Obviously St Saviours’ was less concerned with the self-esteem of its pupils that it was aware of the many benefits of peer pressure. A note was pinned to the wall instructing me to see Mrs Butler-Masterson at my earliest convenience.

There was no point in stalling. I set out towards her office to get the inevitable tongue-lashing over and done with as soon as possible.

As it turned out, Miss Fairgrove, the school secretary (and the oldest person I knew to still plait her hair) was unusually absent from her post. The door to Mrs Butler-Masterson’s office was open and I was just about to walk in when I heard a familiar voice. It was Marnie.

‘Thank you Mrs Butler-Masterson,’ she said.

‘And so you should thank me Marnie Bradshaw,’ she said. ‘You scholarship girls are almost over-indulged. Not only are you pardoned our considerable fees, but you expect free books and uniform expenses as well!’

‘Here, take these books for next term. I expect to see them back, in mint condition mind, when the year has ended. Just keep up those grades and take my advice – steer clear of the American girl. I really shouldn’t have to remind you that you cannot afford to get into trouble.’

Marnie muttered her thanks and I only just managed to hide myself under a desk before she made her exit. I knew that she wouldn’t have wanted a witness to her humiliation.

But before I could get too mad on behalf of the school’s scholarship girls, and Marnie in particular, I was joined under the desk by the unmistakable Doctor Martin boots of Miss Fairgrove. A single plait dangled down as she bent over to see me.

‘May I help you?’ she asked.


There is never a good time to bring home a bad school report. But flunking French so soon after the whole business with Martina and while my Mom was so stressed-out was spectacularly bad timing.

Given those circumstances I felt that my decision to bury the bad news until after Christmas was totally understandable. Madame Le Maistre had given me a pile of studying to do over the holidays so that I would have a better shot at passing my re-sit of the exam in January. I fully intended to hit the books pretty hard.

But before I could do anything to put a positive spin on the situation, Mom decided that she needed to have a quiet word with me in her office.

I knew then that something was up.

People only ever want to deliver bad news one-to-one. Awards and victories are always big, public affairs. No good ever came out of these confidential conferences – not for me, anyway.

The disappointed look in Mom’s eyes told me all that I needed to know. It was obvious that she had heard about my results. I should have guessed that a school like St Saviours would never trust its pupils to hand over the school reports – especially the bad ones.

She grasped both of my hands in her own as she sat down beside me on the sofa.

Now there is something that you have really got to understand here – my Mom is the highest paid actress in the world for good reason. There is nobody on the planet who can beat her when it comes to displays of raw emotion – both real and imagined. It’s something that has always complicated things between us. Mom could always beat me, hands down, when it came to any actual domestic drama. It wasn’t fair! Wasn’t I supposed to be the one with the unpredictable hormones and the mood swings? When exactly did I get to have crying fits and temper tantrums? At times like these I had learned to just let my Mom get on with it and to be clear of the situation as quickly as possible.

‘Honey, are you happy at school?’ she asked.

‘It’s okay,’ I lied.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘You know that I want you to be happy sweetie, I want that more than anything…’

Oh no, I thought, here comes the drama – easier to just cut to the chase. I decided to come clean.

‘You know that I failed French,’ I said, matter-of-factly.

‘Honey, I’m sure you did your best,’ she said with tears in her eyes as she squeezed my hands even tighter.

‘It’s okay, I’ll just do the re-sits at the end of January,’ I said. But Mom would not be swayed from her own pre-pepared script.

‘I may not be the best Mom in the world, I know that,’ she said, pausing for either dramatic effect or for some protest from me.

‘It can’t be easy for you with me being so busy and all of this craziness.’

What could I say? She was right on the money with that one.

‘Anyway, like I’ve always said, I’m sure that everything always happens for a reason. And guess what? I got the dates for my promotional trip to Paris just this morning when I heard about your French results.’

Dear God, no, I thought. Not another trip.

‘Mom, you know how busy you always are with these press junkets and opening nights – we wouldn’t have any time together.’

‘Honey,’ she said, looking at me straight in the eye, ‘I will make the time. You and I will go to the opening night of “Soldier Sisters” wearing the latest French fashions. We will have a lot of fun.’

My hopes for a low-profile future suddenly took a nosedive.

But I smiled anyway.



Chapter 16

Maybe it was because Thanksgiving had been such a total disaster, or maybe it was because we had to make the best out of being thrown together at a time that had everything to do with real families, but we all made an effort to enjoy our Christmas in London. The weather was our only real disappointment. After years of hot Christmases in L.A. we had hoped for some snow, but all we got was the same cold drizzle that had dogged us since our arrival.

It was almost noon before everyone finally showed up in the main living room – there had been some serious partying the night before. Andre and Portia looked positively ill. But since we had declared that Christmas would be a day for slobbing out (p.j.s and sweats were mandatory, all diets were strictly forbidden), they blended right in.

Apart from the shopping spree, Mom insisted that gifts be kept simple (the only exception had been the diamond earrings that she had given to me). Part of the fun of the day was seeing what presents everyone would come up with when they were limited to either making each item or spending less than ten dollars.

Being the only official kid present, I was the sole focus of an uncomfortable amount of attention. It was just as well, then, that I actually liked most of my presents. Andre had managed to knit me a multi-coloured pouch for my MP3 player. Bob gave me a cool looking whistle on a little silver chain that I actually wanted to wear and Tony was just a little too keen to try out the skipping rope that he had bought for me (could that man ever sit still?). Thankfully, Sebastian was absent. He had opted to spend Christmas with some theatrical friends of his and he had neglected to leave any presents (surprise, surprise).

Portia’s gift confused me at first. What did I want with a copy of French Vogue? But it turned out that it was her very individual way of offering me a little help with my French. Who knew that she had lived in Paris for two years?

The only truly crumby gift came from Martina – but then I hadn’t exactly expected too much. She certainly made her point when she handed me a new diary ‘to help me get organised.’ But I wasn’t about to lock horns with her. I mentally listed the reasons why, just to keep myself smiling;

1 I didn’t want to ruin Christmas day for everyone else
2 I did not want to be grounded for a minute longer than I had to be

It was a desperate hope for more normal Christmases to come that helped me make it through the huge dinner. I waited until the champagne began to flow before I made my exit.

The badly-wrapped gift that was waiting for me outside my door was a surprise… There was no tag attached and when I picked it up it felt like a sweater. Had Andre knit me yet another gift? And would I actually have to wear this one?? Andre had a worrying affinity with bright colours and as I unwrapped the gift I made a mental note to myself that I would only wear an ugly sweater within the privacy of the house. But I quickly realized that this gift had not come from Andre…

It was immediately obvious that the garment that I removed from too many layers of paper had not been produced by Andre’s knitting needles. The blue sweater looked like some sort of sports kit. As I held it up against me in front of my mirror I noticed two things;

1 It was way too big for me
2 There was an envelope hidden inside..

I picked up the sealed envelope from the floor. It had my name on it, but I didn’t recognize the writing. I tore it open, ignored the cheesy design of the Christmas card cover and began to read. It was from Peter.

Bliss,
Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. So now you have the official strip (last season’s – sorry) for Chelsea, the greatest football team in the world (forget anything you may have heard about Manchester United). And you also have your secret email, which I’ve sealed to the back of this card for extra security.
Happy Christmas,
Peter


My fingers quickly pulled at the folded sheet that Peter had taped to the card. And then I saw it;

Subject: Edward Moore

For a second I almost couldn’t breathe.

I read the text twice. There was no mistake. Enclosed was the last known address of the lighting director Edward Moore. The details that they supplied were five years old, they said, and they did not have a telephone number. They were still trying to source contact details for Robert Grand (the director) and it was possible that he had moved abroad.

But the fact was that I now finally had the address of a man who had a 50 / 50 chance of being my father.

I was ecstatic.

The New Year would be the best year of my life.