A Very British Sort of Bliss

Chapters 26 & 27

2008-01-13T03:41:00.000-08:00

Chapter 26

Once the press got news of what had happened, they went nuts.

Suddenly anger at Angel’s last-minute failure to show-up to her movie’s opening night turned to sympathy. With all of the sensational elements of our real-life drama (big star, stalker, hostage daughter, blah, blah, blah) there was no way that they were ever going to allow us to recover in peace.

And so the decision was made to hold one mega press-conference in Paris, in the hope that they would then just leave us alone. Journalists and photographers had surrounded the hotel. It was impossible to move beyond the confines of the suite. So the venue for the media-frenzy was a no-brainer. A platform had been built in the ballroom of the hotel, and less than twenty-four hours after our ordeal, they were ready to assemble reporters and film crews from around the globe for the interview with Mom.

I knew that all of the press attention was the very last thing that Mom needed. I saw her look out of a window that faced the huge avenue at the hotel front, to see that the media there had brought traffic to a halt. The sound of sirens and horns didn’t exactly do anything to create an atmosphere of calm.

‘It’s time to go,’ said Martina.

Mom nodded.

‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ said Andre. ‘I mean, I’m sure we could always escape through the kitchen, or something. And now is as good a time as any.’

That made Mom smile.

‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘they would only find us. Let’s get this over and done with.’

But just as we were about to leave, Dina Baden burst into the room. She was carrying a bouquet of roses that was almost bigger than her. Mom rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. She had already seen too many interviews with Dina. The woman had seemed quite happy to exploit the publicity that surrounded our trauma to get as much airtime as she possibly could.

‘Darling, tell me you are not planning to face those cameras alone,’ she said.

‘Dina,’ said Mom, ‘ I know that you are worried about me – I’ve just seen you say so on the news – but I can assure you that I will be fine.’

‘And no hard feelings, I hope,’ said Dina.

‘Hard feelings?’, asked Mom, ‘why should there be any hard feelings?’

‘Well, I know that personal assistants like Martina are hard to come by. I just hope you don’t feel like I’m cutting off your right arm or something.’

Dina suddenly faltered when she saw Martina becoming flustered.

‘I’m not speaking out of turn, am I?’ asked Dina. ‘You do know that Martina is coming to work for me.’

Mom looked at Martina as though she had expected no less.

‘Martina is a free agent,’ said Mom coldly. ‘She can leave now. Turn’s out we have got very different priorities. I’m sure you two will be very happy together.’

And with that Mom turned to make her exit. She opened the huge doors of the suite to reveal a security guard that was of presidential proportions. Bodyguards lined the hall to the elevator. It was all pretty intimidating. Two huge, black-suited guys even escorted us into the elevator. You could tell that they were the real deal because they managed to stay totally frozen and silent, despite Andre’s lame jokes and Portia’s constant flirting.

Mom squeezed my hand as the elevator doors slid open. There was no turning back now. We could all hear the busy hum of the hundreds of excited reporters who were there to get all of the gory details.

We were escorted to a small, private, briefing room that had been arranged next to the press area. A group of busy publicity people came to a halt as soon as Mom entered. The room was silent except for a bank of television screens that were tuned into every imaginable news network.

A black-suited, blond woman greeted us quickly. She spoke fast as she briefed my Mom.

‘There are more than one hundred journalists present; all of the major t.v. networks are represented. They are just hearing a police statement – so they have all of the salient facts. From you, they will be expecting more detail of the emotion and the drama. Most will be broadcasting this thing live so you might want to measure your words carefully.’

Suddenly another of the black-suited publicity women told Mom that she had thirty seconds. The countdown had begun.

Andre fussed over Mom’s hair while Portia added a little powder to Mom’s face. It gave them each something to do. The fact was that we all knew that Mom had to go out there on her own. I only had time to tell her that I would be waiting, before she was ushered out to face the world alone.

Although I had grown up with surrounded by images of my Mom, it was bizarre to see her face suddenly appear on the bank of screens, when she had literally just slipped into the next room. Her appearance prompted a blaze of flashlights and the clamouring of journalists; all desperate to ask a question.

She conjured up a smile and raised her hand to ask for some hush. The room quietened.

‘Before I take any questions, I have some people to thank,’ she said. ‘Yesterday, my friend and bodyguard saved not only my life, but also the life of my daughter.’

She paused briefly as her voice began to crack. After a breath she continued.

‘I would like to acknowledge Bob Ward’s brave actions in wounding and apprehending our attacker. It is a miracle that no lives were lost yesterday. And I would also like to thank the French police force for their prompt arrival on the scene. They have been very helpful and supportive throughout.’

‘I can take some questions now.’

Every journalist in the room was suddenly pleading for her attention. She picked a familiar face – the entertainment anchor for one of the major US networks.

‘Is it true that Thomas Anderson had been stalking you for some time?’ asked the glamorous young woman.

‘Yes,’ said Mom, ‘he had continued to harass me despite numerous court proceedings and restraining orders. Although we had no idea that he had travelled to Paris.’

Angel pointed to a serious-looking man for her next question.

‘Do you have any idea why he chose to target your daughter?’ he asked.

Mom hesitated before she replied.

‘If anyone ever wanted to really hurt me then the very worst thing that they could do would be to attack the thing that is more precious than my own life. I’m no different to any mother. My child is everything to me.’

She cast her eyes downwards, towards the podium, in an effort to compose herself before she asked for the next question.

A beautiful, French-sounding woman stood up to address my Mom.

‘Madame,’ she said, ‘what on earth were you doing in that street when you should have been attending your movie’s premier?’

Angel stalled and the cameras went wild to see her suddenly look so unprepared.

‘I was there on private family business…’ she said vaguely.

A hum of interest rose within the room. They knew that they had touched a nerve – they were obviously not going to let this go.

‘It is not something that I can discuss,’ Mom said, looking anxious.

There was uproar among the reporters and I could see Mom begin to crumble. It was not something that I could allow to continue.

Nobody noticed as I opened the door that led to the stage.

But my arrival on the platform next to my Mom caused a huge flurry of flash and even louder demands from the journalists.

‘No honey,’ said Mom to me, ‘you don’t have to do this.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘but I want to.’

The clamouring continued, it was impossible to be heard, so I did the only thing that I could do under those circumstances; I reached for the whistle that hung around my neck (the Christmas gift from Bob), and I blew. It was much louder than it looked. The effect was immediate. There was total silence.

I lowered the microphone to my level.

‘Listen guys,’ I said, ‘we really do not need this kind of post-traumatic stress.’

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘Mom knows that I don’t like cameras and she does her best to protect me from people like you.’

There was more laughter. I hoped that my heart was not going to explode out of my chest, because it sure felt like it was just about to do just that.

‘But you asked my Mom a question that I should really answer. My Mom was on that street yesterday because of me. I ran away. I lied and I ignored security.’

Mom squeezed my hand.

‘Maybe sometimes you guys think that you own my Mom. Maybe sometimes I think that you really do. But yesterday my Mom had to be there for me. And I’m glad she was.’

I held back the tears, desperate not to appear on t.v.s around the world looking like some complete sugar-coated, loser.

‘My Mom does not have to explain herself to you guys. You can all love Angel as much as you like, but you have to remember that she is my Mom and sometimes I need her too.’

Mom hugged me then. And I knew that the photos that they were taking of that moment would be the kind of syrupy family numbers that I had always hated. Those pictures would haunt me forever. But you know what? I didn’t even care….

Chapter 27

Of course, going public in Paris like that wasn’t something that I could ever take back. My face and my name were out there for everyone to see. There was no place to hide. And maybe, I thought, there never really had been any need to hide. I was who I was. People could choose to love me or to hate me for who I really was. If all that they could see me as was my mother’s daughter, well that would be their problem, not mine. It was time to start living my own life.

But my confidence almost evaporated when I saw Peter standing in the courtyard. He was clearly waiting for the limo that had collected us from the airport and he looked serious. A grateful hug from my Mom did nothing to shift his gaze from me. Andre and Portia quickly followed Mom’s lead in hurrying indoors. But before Portia finally disappeared behind the back door, she signalled to me to smile and to fix my hair. Her well-intentioned advice was not only embarrassing, but unnecessary. I knew that Peter and I were beyond any form of polite flirting.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Peter spoke.

‘I want you to know that I did what I thought was right,’ he said, moving a little closer towards me.

‘I know,’ I said, trying to sound more casual than I really felt. ‘The computer was a dumb idea. When Andre asked me what you would like for a gift I should have suggested a soccer ball or something.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Peter asked laughing.

‘You know,’ I said, feeling confused, ‘the whole gift fiasco.’

‘Forget about it,’ said Peter. ‘After everything that’s happened.. Well I just wanted you to know that I didn’t tell your Mum about your Dad’s address because I was angry with you. I told her because I wanted you to be safe. When I heard that you were missing I knew that nothing mattered more than that. So I hope that I didn’t drop you in it or anything.’

I took his hands to comfort him. In that moment I had forgotten about all of my very confused feelings for Peter. I moved only to reassure him. But when our fingers touched it was like electricity. It sounds corny, I know, but I quickly discovered that all of the clichéd talk of love that I had ever heard had some basis in reality, because I could have sworn that there was an actual (and very pleasant) electrical circuit connecting us together as our fingers intertwined.

And when he kissed me… I don’t honestly think that there are verbs to describe just how I felt. But I knew that I would always remember my first kiss and probably I would never experience a kiss like that ever again.

So yes, I chose to go back to St. Saviours while Mom continued filming in London. Only this time there would be no pretending. It would be the same dorky uniform with a whole new attitude. They hadn’t seen the best of me yet.

Sure, I got a lot of attention on that first day. But this time I chose not to glare at anyone who happened to glance in my direction. All news becomes stale and I knew that they would (eventually) stop talking about the drama and maybe even get to know the real me.

There was so much that I wanted to say to Marnie that I didn’t know where to begin when I finally caught sight of her in the hallway on that first morning. She didn’t seem to notice me as I walked towards her. There was something in the trophy cabinet that had her full attention. I stood behind her and waited.

Her eyes caught sight of my reflection in the glass of the enormous display case. And without turning around, she spoke to me.

‘I see they managed to get your name right,’ she said.

And I looked to see that the name ‘Bliss J Drew’ had been added to the long list of winners on the base of the huge debating trophy.

I nodded, unsure of what to do.

‘Look Marnie, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘for everything…’

But she raised her hand to show that she did not want to hear what I had to say and she turned around to face me. She was smiling.

‘So are you coming round to mine later then?’ she said.

‘No, you’re coming round to mine,’ I replied.

‘Cool,’ she said.

And we walked together towards the classroom.

Chapter 25

2008-01-09T01:52:00.000-08:00

The touch on my shoulder made me jump. After the day that I had had, I was not exactly expecting any friendly gestures. I turned quickly to meet this latest threat.

It was Mom.

She towered over me, a vision in the shimmering Versace dress that had finally been selected for her big opening night. Her make-up had been ruined – even waterproof mascara had its limits.

We looked at each other for a long, silent moment. She seemed to be examining me for injury or harm. I was looking for evidence of her anger. On a scale of one to ten, I had pretty well gone beyond any measure of bad behaviour. I had lied to everyone, I had stolen, I had broken every trust. What did she think of me now?

She sat down next to me and gently touched my face as if to check that I was real. And then she pulled me to her. She pulled me to her and she held me like she would never let me go. As she whispered to me, she rocked me gently.

‘Baby, baby, are you okay? I thought I’d lost you honey. I thought I’d lost everything…’

We held on to each other as we sobbed.

‘Mom, I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I’ve been so dumb.’

She pulled away and looked me straight in the eyes.

‘I haven’t exactly been a prize-winning Mom lately, now have I?’ she said. ‘I’ve let you down honey, I should have seen this coming.’

‘How did you find me?’ I asked.

‘When I saw the note you left,’ she said, suddenly sounding pretty choked, ‘well, I called the house in London, to see if you had left any clue. Peter told me about your plans..’

There was a painful silence.

‘Honey, Robert Grand is not your Dad,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said, trying to stop the tears.

‘You should never have had to go searching for the truth all on your own. It’s my fault. I should have told you about your Dad a long, long time ago. It should never have come to this.’

So I was finally going to hear the truth in the most unlikely of settings. It was just lucky that there were no fans or photographers around to see my Mom and I as we held on to each other on that dirty sidewalk in Paris.

Mom squeezed my hand before she spoke.

‘Bliss, I want you to understand that I did what I thought was best. You deserved a great Dad. It used to eat me up with guilt to know that I could not give you the one thing that you most wanted. I’m sorry about that.’

‘But you should know that, at one time, your Dad and I were very much in love. He was the only actor that I ever dated. When we met it was love at first sight.’

It was good to see her smiling at those memories.

‘His name was Daniel Duffy. He was Irish – so I guess that explains the red hair, huh? Honey, we hadn’t planned on having a baby. It was a shock to both of us when we found out that you were on your way. And it was more than he could handle. He was a young man…’

‘If he had lived I’d bet that you would be the best of friends. You are like him in so many great ways. But sweetie, he died before you were even two years old. He was only twenty-five. It broke my heart…’

It was a lot to take in all at once – finding out who my Dad was and then losing him again. The tears that I cried were for a man that I would never know. My fantasies, however stupid they may have been, were no longer there to comfort me. I would never know my father.

‘Could I see a picture of him?’ I asked.

‘Honey,’ said Mom, trying to console me, ‘he was in a couple of movies that we could watch together.’

I tried to smile.

‘We’ll never be a family now, will we?’ I said.

‘We’ve got the best kind of family in the world,’ said Mom, with huge passion. ‘We’ve got a family that has chosen to be together. We’re tied together by love, even if we don’t share the same blood. You know, Bob has been watching over you ever since you took your first steps. In fact, he’s sitting over there in the car right now just waiting to take you home. And Andre and Portia may not be the most conventional people in the universe, but they are as crazy with worry about you as any real Aunt or Uncle could possibly be…’

I tried to lighten things up.

‘Has anyone ever explained to Ellen that she is the Grandma of this little troupe?’

Mom laughed and squeezed my hand.

‘Shall we go home then honey?’ she asked.

‘Where is home now?’ I wondered, out loud.

‘Same place it’s always been,’ Mom answered, ‘wherever we happen to be – together.’

We stood up. And as we waited to cross the road to the safety of Bob’s car, I knew that everything would be all right now. It occurred to me that happiness never came from getting what you think you want (like a dream dad), but from wanting all of the cool things that you already had (like a totally weird family).

But life can change in an instant.

The weirdo seemed to come from nowhere. It was the look of total horror on Mom’s face that made me turn around to see him. At first, the only thing that I noticed was that he was standing way too close to me. Then I saw the knife. He grabbed me before I could move. As I twisted to make my escape, he brought the huge silver blade up to my throat. The sharpness of the cold weapon made me too scared to breathe anything but the shortest of shallow breaths. I did not move.

‘Looks like I finally got your attention now Angel,’ he shouted. ‘All of those cards and letters; I tried to get through to you, I really tried. But you wouldn’t listen, would you? You got the police involved. They think you don’t want me.’

‘It’s all a big mistake Thomas,’ said Mom, visibly shaking. ‘Just put down the knife and we can talk about this.’

That only made him increase his already tight grip on me.

I realised then that I was in the hands of Mom’s most violent stalker – this was Thomas Anderson. No wonder Mom and Bob had been so paranoid about security. I tried not to think about anything but surviving.

‘Why did you ignore me Angel? I thought we understood each other. You know that I love you more than anybody,’ he said. The sweat from his shirt made me want to gag, but I focused on staying totally still.

‘Thomas I know that you love me,’ said Mom. ‘And that’s how I know that you would never hurt my daughter. Why don’t you just put down the knife now? I promise we can work this out.’

Mom took a step towards him, smiling her reassurance. But Anderson was not about to be charmed into submission. He pulled me tightly by the hair and he kept the knife firmly to my throat as he took a step backwards.

‘Stay away,’ he warned her, ‘you made me do this. It’s your fault that it had to come to this. Don’t make me do anything that you would regret.’

Mom quickly froze to the spot.

‘You don’t want her Thomas. You want me. So why don’t we just switch places? Let her go and then we can talk. It will be what you want – just the two of us.’

His grip on my hair loosened as he considered Mom’s offer. I twisted around slightly, away from the stench and the hold of the maniac.

It was then that I spotted Bob. He was hiding from view behind one of the parked cars on the empty, tree-lined street. With a flick of his hand, he signalled for me to wait. It wasn’t as though I had too many options. Still, the sight of him made me feel that there was real hope of escaping with my life.

Mom continued to talk to Anderson in a calm and reassuring tone. It was probably the most worthwhile exercise of her acting talent.

Only a crazy man could have believed her promises of a new life together. But as she spoke her soft words of a future that would never be, I could feel Anderson begin to relax. His grip on my hair loosed and he dropped the knife to his side.

That was my chance.

Tony had always appreciated my need for a form of exercise that would be a little more challenging than pilates. Suddenly, all of those lessons in kickboxing were about to be put to the test. I tried to clear my head before I made my first move. If I could put some distance between me and the weirdo, then I knew that Bob would take care of the rest.

This had to work.

With all of the energy that I could muster, I threw my elbow into the side of Anderson’s ribs. This freed his grip on my hair. Before he could react, I turned towards him and kicked him hard between the legs.

I did not wait to see him crumple. There was no time to lose. I ran towards my Mom.

It was only as I reached her that I heard the shot.

Chapter 24

2008-01-06T03:22:00.001-08:00

I had plenty of reasons to feel nervous on the cab ride over to my Dad’s place. What if his English was as bad as my French? Did I even know the French word for daughter? Come to think of it, how was I hoping to explain myself in English??

I was unprepared when we pulled up outside the huge old apartment block that was home to my Dad. The journey had been too quick. Only my pathetic language skills prevented me from asking the driver to go around the block a couple of times. I threw a fifty Euro note towards him and made a quick exit.

It was obvious that the building had seen better days. There was a hint of the elegance that once-was hidden under a shabby and ageing exterior. An old lady was busy washing the tiled floor of the shared stairwell as I examined the address that I had written down (despite the fact that I knew it by heart). He lived in apartment 3B.

The old lady shouted something at me as I walked across the newly-washed floor. What was the French word for sorry?

‘Merci,’ I shouted.

Oh no! That was thanks.

‘Je suis Americain,’ I said, in a terrible accent, as though that was some sort of excuse for my bad behaviour.

She shrugged, obviously still annoyed.

I made my way up the enormous stairway. It looked as though the place had once been some great, old mansion, but there was little evidence of grandeur now. I could hear a baby crying somewhere and the strong smell of some very garlicy cooking drifted through the building.

When I finally arrived at the drab-looking door of apartment 3B, I took a deep breath. This was my big moment. Please God, I thought, don’t let me blow this.

There was no doorbell, so I knocked.

Nothing happened.

What if he wasn’t home? I hadn’t even thought of that. Was I just going to wait until he got back? I mean, I couldn’t exactly go back to the hotel and I doubted that one fifty euro note was going to get me very far.

I knocked louder, feeling my panic grow. That did it. I heard a loud crashing noise coming from inside. Had he fallen over? Great, I had managed to injure him before I had even gotten around to the rather sticky introduction. Great.

A man’s voice muttered loudly before the door was opened and I was glad that I had no clue what it was he had just said. This was not getting off to a good start.

But just one glimpse of Robert Grand was enough to make everything all right. He had red hair… HE HAD RED HAIR!
I was struck dumb.

He rubbed his eyes as though he had just woken up. It took him a while to focus. He did not look pleased to see me. But I just stood there smiling like one of my Mom’s stupid fans when they had finally got to meet their idol.

I had to speak.

‘Are you Robert Grand?’ I asked in my very broad American accent.

He rolled his eyes.

‘No, I am not Robert Grand,’ he said, imitating my accent, ‘if you are going to speak my name, then you must at least say it properly; it’s Robert Grand,’ he said, delivering his name with the sort of beautiful French pronunciation that I would never be able to match.

‘Are you looking for money?’ he asked suspiciously, looking around me.

‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. I came just to meet you,’ I said, wondering how I would continue. It was big news to break to someone on their doorstep. But I had to start somewhere, so I began to muddle something together.

‘Didn’t you direct Angel in that movie…’ but before I could finish my question, he had run down his dark hallway and I heard the unmistakable sound of vomiting. It made my own empty stomach heave, but, even so, I decided to follow him inside.

Once I had heard a reassuring flush I decided to peek inside the bathroom to see if he was okay. I watched silently as he ran cold water over his head.

‘Don’t tell me you are a fan of Angel,’ he said.

‘Not exactly,’ I answered.

‘Good,’ he said, as he staggered across the living room and pulled open the drapes.

He winced at the flood of sunlight that filled the room. And one glance around the place told me why. There were empty bottles everywhere. He must have had a serious hangover.

‘Had a party here?’ I asked, picking up a bottle.

He pulled the bottle away from me and took a big, thirsty swig.

‘A party for one,’ he said. ‘Some people just don’t recognise real talent when they see it.’

I nodded dumbly.

‘Hollywood has poisoned the imagination of everyone. Nobody wants to hire a director with some flair and originality anymore. Everything has to look the same. They have no vision.’

He was totally ranting now, and I was his captive audience of one.

‘You know they fired me? I finally sink to their level and agree to make their stupid car commercial and what do they do? They fire me. Can you believe it?’

He slumped down into a chair.

‘It can’t be that bad,’ I said, trying to console him.

‘Save your American optimism for someone who actually needs it,’ he said glumly. He took another swig from the bottle.

‘I don’t think that’s going to help you,’ I said.

His glazed eyes tried to focus on me once more. He pointed an accusing finger in my direction.

‘Who are you anyway?’ he said.

This was my chance, even if the timing totally sucked.

‘Look, I know this will probably come as a shock to you, but I am your daughter.’

‘Excuse me?’ he said, looking a bit more sober.

‘I’m your daughter.’

‘And your mother is?’

‘My mother is Angelina Drew. My mother is Angel.’

He exploded into a booming, cruel laugh.

‘You know, little girl, I would never have believed that I could actually laugh today, but you did it. You certainly did it.’

He was laughing at me. It made no sense.

‘But it’s true,’ I said.

‘She told you that?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I mean, I knew the woman was a prima donna, but I never thought that she was a liar.’

‘I figured it out for myself,’ I said, with no conviction.

‘Well, you figured wrong,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t stand the woman. We didn’t share so much as a cup of coffee.’

He took another long swig from his bottle before he turned his hard gaze in my direction.

‘Get out,’ he said, ‘get out. Go look for your daddy somewhere else little girl. I’ve got real problems to deal with. I do not need the problems of some spoiled brat.’

I froze to the spot. How was this happening? Everything had gone so wrong.

‘Get out,’ he screamed, throwing the now-empty bottle of his at the wall.

And so I ran.

I ran out of the apartment. The tears started as I ran down the stairs. My body was overtaken by some sort of raw shock. I felt everything and nothing. My mind was a blank. There was no purpose or direction to my flight, but my legs ran as fast as they could carry me. Even my rapid breathing seemed strangely automatic and alien.

Of course I should have stopped when I reached the road. There was no need for me to have even crossed the road. After all, where was I going? But rational thought had deserted me and none of the normal rules seemed to apply. So I ran. I ran without looking. Who knows, maybe there was even a part of me that wanted to get hit by a car?

The screeching of the brakes is a sound that I will never forget. It was as if everything suddenly happened in slow motion. I can remember the look of terror on the face of the young woman who was driving the red Renault. Did I actually hear her scream?

It was all a weird frozen instant.

Looking back, it was a miracle that the car stopped only an inch or so from me. But that particular wonder was hard to appreciate just then and in the calamity that followed.

I stood rooted to the spot as the now very pale-looking lady emerged from her car. She was screaming at me; screaming at me and crying at the same time. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word that she was saying. I remained mute as she held me by the shoulders and shouted at me. When she let me go, I thought it was over. But, instead, she delivered a sharp slap to my right cheek.

I staggered back onto the path and watched her drive away. Sitting on the sidewalk, it was suddenly impossible to feel anything but the huge tide of pain that threatened to wipe me out.

I knew that I could not go on.

Chapters 22 & 23

2008-01-03T05:21:00.001-08:00

Chapter 22

The publicity machine that is a giant part of every Hollywood movie rolled into action early on Thursday morning. Our trip to Paris had been organised by the studio and so we were treated to the inevitable private jet for our short trip. The plus side of this deal was the fact that we didn’t have to worry about fans. The downside was the guaranteed presence of other industry types.

Howard Morten, who seemed unable to speak his own name without throwing in his title (he was the Vice-President of Marketing), ushered us on to the jet. He displayed all of the gushing, unchecked enthusiasm that was mandatory among publicity people. He was positively excited as he ran through Mom’s schedule for the three-day event.

‘I have got to tell you that we are getting some great feedback from the press screenings for the movie. The word is that the critics just love ‘Soldier Sisters’. They love it. So we have scheduled a full day of interviews today and some more tomorrow before the premier.’

Mom failed to radiate her usual charm. Her silence obviously rattled Howard as he started to gush some more. The poor guy had no way of knowing that all of his enthusiasm would be wasted on my Mom while she dealt with the fallout from our most recent domestic disaster. She always got totally freaked when I froze her out. Like all actors, she felt the constant need to share her feelings. Refusing to participate in her dramas was my only weapon in these situations. Besides, I was so not interested in anything that she had to say. She had humiliated me in my finest hour. My life in London was over – nobody believed in normal, old Jayne Drew anymore. I didn’t even want to think about Marnie’s revised opinion of me…

The annoying studio guy did not know when to stop. Like many before him, he tried to buddy-up with my Mom by showing me some attention.

‘Hey, Scamp,’ he said (what did he think I was, a dog??), ‘will this be your first time in Paris?’

I looked at his big, phoney smile and gave him my most withering look.

‘You don’t have kids, do you?’ I said.

That seemed to do the trick. He wandered off to take Martina and Bob through the schedule.

We were travelling in reduced numbers, apart from Martina and Bob, only Andre and Portia had come along for the ride. And for a change, everyone was hard at work. These publicity junkets were always hectic and manic affairs. I hoped that that busyness would work to my advantage. Somehow, I would have to break-free of everyone so that I could finally get to my Dad.

The jet was just about to taxi for take-off when Dina Baden emerged from the bedroom suite. Dina had co-starred in ‘Soldier Sisters’ with my Mom, and from the way that Angel rolled her eyes, I knew that it had not exactly been a positive experience.

Andre had reported that Dina had actually described Angel as a ‘mother-figure’ in her recent press interviews. But despite that nugget of gossip, she was all kisses and smiles and she approached us.

She took her seat opposite us and next to Martina as the engines revved up.

Dina looked perfect. Sure, maybe the blonde hair was a little over-styled, but even at that early hour, she looked like she had just stepped from the pages of some expensive cosmetics commercial. I studied her face as we taxied down the runway. Something was definitely missing. Having met so many young actresses just like Dina, my guess was that it was either a brain or a personality.

The announcement came from the Captain to fasten our seatbelts for take-off and Dina turned to Martina with a helpless expression.

‘Could you?’ she asked, glancing down at her still-open seatbelt. ‘I don’t want to damage my manicure.’

‘Of course,’ said Martina, ‘you’re not travelling alone are you?’

Dina’s eyes filled up as she clasped Martina’s arm.

‘My assistant’s in hospital – she says she has appendicitis or something.’

Martina consoled her.

‘How totally unprofessional,’ she said.

They smiled in a creepy, mutual admiration.

The romance and beauty of Paris was kind of hard to appreciate on the short trip from the airport to the hotel. We emerged from the limo to be directed into the sort of 5 star establishment that never varied, no matter where in the world you happened to find yourself. Our suite was nothing less than you would expect for the highest paid actress in the world, but it could have been anywhere. There was nothing particularly French about my first taste of France.

I had decided that I would be a model citizen on that first day. I didn’t want to do anything that might make anyone in the group suspicious. And besides, I knew that I would need to get my bearings and to come up with some sort of a plan before I actually tried to make a break. Our time in Paris was limited. I knew that I would have only one chance to find my Dad in this city.

And so, when Mom was hustled out to begin her series of interviews, I didn’t protest when Portia rolled a packed clothes rail into my bedroom. The opening night was looming, and it was time to play dress-up. Portia was just doing her job. She had no clue that I had absolutely no intention of going to the dumb premier. My life as a celebrity spawn was about to come to an end.

I did not complain. It was the least that I could do for Portia. I didn’t want her to remember her last attempt at grooming me as being a total disaster. It wasn’t too difficult to play along. As I looked through the selection, it was pretty obvious that Portia had done her best to come up with some outfits that might actually look half-good on a skinny, thirteen year old, red-headed girl.

In the end, maybe as some sort of a cosmic reward for my effort, I actually found something that I liked. It was a black, silk suit with pants – simple and very understated. I studied my transformed self in the mirror. This would be how I would look when I finally met my Dad.

I hugged Portia.

‘I love it,’ I said, over-whelmed at the thought of seeing my Dad in only a few hours time.

Portia squeezed me back, looking tearful.

‘You are beautiful,’ she said.

Chapter 23

I went to bed early that night. The tourist maps in my room would help me to figure out the best route to my Dad’s place, and I knew that I needed to have a good escape plan by the next morning.

It was hard to sleep.

By Friday morning, my plan was clear to me. I knew that Robert Grand (my dad!) lived in the next quarter of the city. There was no way that I would find my way around the Metro system on my own. I would need a taxi and that would require some cash.

This was a problem. I had about £5 in my purse, and that was probably not enough, and it was definitely in the wrong currency. I needed Euro dollars, and I needed lots of them. My credit card wouldn’t help me now.

There was no way that I could ask for money without arousing suspicion.

I had never stolen anything in my life, but suddenly it seemed like my whole future hinged on a few Euros that (probably) nobody would even miss. Besides, I figured, it was less stealing than it was borrowing without consent. I had no choice.

Once the suite had quietened down after lunch, I made my move. I was alone, apart from the two large bodyguards who stood at the entrance door. There would be no point in looking for the money in my Mom’s room – she never handled cash. It was usually Martina or Andre who settled her bills.

It felt wrong to open the door to Martina’s bedroom without her consent. I mean, bedrooms are sacred spaces that should never be violated. But I knew that if I wanted to respect Martina’s privacy, then I would have to get this over and done with as quickly as possible. Luckily her distinctive red wallet was on her bedside table, this would be easier than I had expected. I moved fast and helped myself to two crisp 50 Euro notes. A large sigh of relief escaped from my chest before I heard the click.

Martina stood in the doorway holding her latest device – a cellphone with a built-in camera.

‘Now that’s what I call a Kodak moment,’ she said, smiling.

I rushed towards her.

‘You don’t understand,’ I said.

‘You know what they say,’ Martina grimaced, ‘the camera never lies. Although, I must say, I never had you down as a thief. Still, with this evidence, my guess is that you have just bought yourself a one-way ticket to Arizona. Your Mom is going to be very, very disappointed.’

She grabbed me by my elbow and moved me towards my room. The woman was stronger than she looked.

‘You’ve got to let me go,’ I said. ‘I can explain.’

‘I’ll just bet you can,’ she said as she shoved me onto my bed. ‘You’ll have enough time to come up with plenty of explanations.’

The door was slammed shut and from the outside, I heard the lock turn.

I was trapped.

Andre always said that when God closes a door, he opens a window. There was only one way that I was going to get out of that hotel room, and that was straight down the fire escape. It was my only option, although that fact was of no comfort to me as I realised just how far away the pavement is when you are looking at it from the ninth floor.

I was grateful to be wearing pants as I worked my way down the first of the flimsy ladders. My hands clenched on to the thin metal rails, knowing that my life depended on them. There was no time to feel scared. I could not afford to freeze. Besides, I had to move quickly so as not to attract any attention from the street below. This was my one chance. Nothing was going to stop me from meeting my Dad.

In my rush to make my exit, I hadn’t exactly stopped to think about the panic that I would be creating. I had left my security device on my bed, along with the briefest of brief notes – ‘gone to see my Dad.’ The explanations would all have to be made much later, once Mom had calmed down.

When my feet finally hit the street, I paused only to dust myself down. As I hailed a cab in front of the hotel, I noticed that a huge billboard poster of my Mom was staring down at me from the wall across the street. It caused me to hesitate, but only for a moment.

All of my lame French deserted me and I handed the taxi driver a copy of Robert Grand’s address. I was grateful that Martina had neglected to take the stolen Euros away from me.

With a huge sigh of relief, I relaxed into the back seat of the cab. I was finally on my way.

I had no way of knowing that, almost at that same exact moment, a parcel had been delivered to the hotel that would change everything.

When Bob finally opened it and saw the blood-stained photograph of me (taken as I had arrived at the hotel) he knew that Anderson was in town. And he knew that I was in great danger.

But I was way beyond his protection.

Chapters 20 & 21

2008-01-01T07:41:00.000-08:00

Chapter 20

As it turned out, a week of freedom was exactly what I needed to finally track down Robert Grand.

My motivation to find my father had never been higher. And given that Portia’s idea of helping me with my French study was keeping me in constant supply of a mountain of the latest fashion magazines from Paris, I had plenty of time to devote to my search.

Life was becoming very claustrophobic. Being grounded meant that I could not leave the house, under any circumstances. The bodyguards and cctv cameras were more like prison wardens than protectors. There was no way that I could contact Marnie. And there was certainly no escape.

But there were some distractions.

Tony was sweet enough to offer me extra kickboxing lessons each day (so that I could channel my anger!). And don’t imagine that I was anything but supremely motivated in my punching and kicking.

Plus, of course, there was the matter of Sebastian. It was a pleasant surprise to see that somebody in the house could actually manage to get into more trouble than me. Bob had set up a sting to see just who was behind all of those leaked stories to the media. And even though (in an ideal world) I would have loved nothing more than to have seen Martina take the bait; it turned out that our resident snitch was Sebastian. For all of his big talk about culture and his fancy theatrical friends, it turned out that he was not above a bribe from the ratbag reporters who laughingly called themselves professionals. So Sebastian got his marching orders. And I, at least, had the satisfaction of knowing that my days of being ordered to ‘e-nun-ci-ate’ were finally over.

But even that didn’t lift my mood.

I knew that I was reaching some sort of serious low when I found myself actually looking forward to returning to St Saviours. The three days that I would spend at school before the trip to Paris would be my only opportunity to escape the craziness of home and to finally explain myself to Marnie.

But you know how it is, just when you think you can’t sink any lower; BAM! There it is – even more bad news.

The letter from Miss Moore arrived early on the Tuesday morning. I opened it lazily. Having spotted the school crest on the envelope, I had expected that it would be just some sort of lame, written confirmation of my suspension. But what I read left me choking on my bagel. It was a reminder that the final of the school debating championship would take place on the Wednesday following my return to school. And the topic? Wait for it;

“The breakdown in family life is responsible for the breakdown in society”.

And I was expected to argue against!

Just what I needed... Like I even knew what a family was!

It was getting harder and harder to imagine that my name would ever make it onto that school trophy. But I wasn’t about to back down from a fight with Christine Smythe. Somehow, despite everything else that was happening in my own crazy universe, I still planned to whoop her ass.

If it’s true that bad things happen in threes then I had surely had my lot. The suspension, the French revision and the debating final were all the bad karma that I needed at that point in my life.

After all of that I guess I deserved a lucky break.

And on my very last day of suspension happiness finally came knocking on my window; which was sort of surprising when you consider that my bedroom was on the third floor… I looked out into the courtyard to see Peter Worthing throwing pebbles to attract my attention. As I leaned out of my bedroom window I was overcome with embarrassment at the total Romeo-and-Juliet-type quality of our first meeting since Christmas. I really hoped against all evidence and experience that I wasn’t blushing.

‘Ever thought of using a door?’ I hissed.

‘Heard you were in enough trouble already,’ he smiled. ‘Come down, I have something for you.’

He waved a white envelope in the air and I didn’t waste any time in making my way downstairs. But before I left my room I remembered to grab the gift that I had asked Andre to buy for Peter, it was a late Christmas present, but I just knew he would love it.

The cold air hit me as soon as I walked outside and I wondered what it was in Peter’s British genes that allowed him to stand there without an overcoat and with no visible signs of hypothermia. I was determined not to shiver for two reasons. First, because I knew that shivering AND blushing would not be an attractive combination. And secondly, because I didn’t want to do anything that would cut short our time together.

‘Thought you’d want this,’ said Peter, handing me the envelope.

I toyed with the envelope and attempted to make small-talk.

‘Did you have a nice Christmas with your Grandmother?’ I asked.

‘What do you care?’ said Peter excitedly. ‘I mean, yes, absolutely, I had a great Christmas. But don’t you want to open that?’

‘Sure,’ I said, stalling.

‘Well go on,’ said Peter.

I tore open the envelope and stopped to take a deep breath before I dared to look at this latest email. There was no point in getting my hopes up. It was probably asking too much to expect to have a telephone number or an address for the one man who I now knew to be my Dad. So I thought I was pretty composed before I read the message, but when I saw that I was finally holding Robert Grand’s address in my hands, my legs just sort of buckled. And I had to sit down on an icy cold stone step. Peter immediately sat beside me.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked, sitting beside me. ‘For a second there I thought you were going to faint.’

‘It’s just so much more than I expected,’ I murmered.

‘No offence,’ said Peter. ‘But when I was printing that out for you I couldn’t exactly help but notice that it was just a name and an address.’

‘But you don’t know whose name this is,’ I said, tears suddenly pouring down my cheeks. ‘This is my Dad’s name. And you know what the really amazing thing is? I mean, apart from the fact that I have gotten through thirteen years on this planet without ever meeting my Dad?’

Peter shook his head. I don’t know if he was more startled to see me falling to pieces like that or to see the combination of snot and tears that I was attempting to wipe away with my sleeve.

‘My Dad lives in Paris,’ I said. ‘My Dad lives in Paris. And somehow the Universe has finally cut me a break here and I will get to see my Dad in just a few days. Can you imagine?’

Peter was exhibiting the sort of baffled and emotionally distant expression that was the trademark of British men everywhere. But I didn’t care. I hugged him anyway. In my very Californian way, I threw my arms around him and hugged him with no thought as to when I might let him go. And you want to know the best thing? After a couple of seconds, Peter finally hugged me back. It was an afternoon of breakthroughs. Peter was the first to pull away.

‘Bliss, are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Everything is going to be okay now,’ I said smiling. ‘And I couldn’t have done any of this without your help.’

‘It was nothing,’ said Peter, flushing slightly. ‘I was happy to help.’

‘I have something for you,’ I said, remembering the gift that lay on the step next to me. I handed it to him confident that I was giving him something almost as precious as the message that he had just delivered to me.

He accepted the gift cautiously.

‘Just tell me that this doesn’t contain anything that is in anyway related to Manchester United,’ he said.

I nodded, smiling with excitement.

‘Great then,’ he said, ‘I’ll love it.’

He started to tear at the wrapping. But he froze as soon as the gift wrap finally revealed the laptop computer of his dreams. The silence worried me.

‘It is the right model?’ I asked.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Peter, ‘this is almost £2,000 worth of computer.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said.

Peter turned to me and for a moment I thought he might actually explode.

‘Don’t worry about that?! Don’t worry about that?!’ he said standing up.

‘What kind of world is it that you live in?’ he yelled. ‘Do you think that everyone has a price? Do you think that everyone can be bought?’

He handed the computer back to me and kicked at a pebble.

‘I thought you were different,’ he said. ‘I thought we were friends. But then you go and pull a rich girl stunt like this.’

‘I have news for you Bliss Drew, I cannot be bought.’

Chapter 21

Those days before the trip to Paris were the most emotionally confusing in my life. On the one hand I was totally psyched at the prospect of meeting my Dad in Paris. But on the other hand I had nobody to share in that excitement. Peter had made his feelings pretty clear. And Marnie was so closely supervised once I returned to school that I couldn’t get within ten feet of her.

I had to stay positive. I dreamed of a life that was free of St Saviours, free of confusing hormones and free of lies. Besides, there were bound to be some pretty cool schools in France – places were a little individuality and a somewhat grungy fashion sense was actually embraced. And I promised myself that I would tell Marnie the truth once my search was finally over. And Peter? Well, Peter would always be a memory.

But with only 24 hours to go before my trip to Paris I had an important score to settle…

I couldn’t imagine a school in the whole of Los Angeles that could get so excited about a dumb debating competition. But obviously nerds ruled in St. Saviours, because the whole school was buzzing. A special assembly was even held that morning to warn all of the girls to be on their very best behaviour that afternoon as we were to be joined by the Board of Governors and some parents.

Frankly, I did not need the extra pressure of that warning, although I was relieved that Mom knew nothing about the event. At least, if I crashed and burned, there would be no significant witnesses.

Christine Smythe did her best to freak me out before the big event, although that was hardly surprising… She cornered me while I sat alone nursing the last of a lunchtime smoothie in the deeply-depressing dining hall.

‘I expect that it will be easy for you to be an apologist for the single-parent family,’ she said.

‘Excuse me?’ I said.

‘You heard me,’ said Christine, coming closer. ‘It’s always people like you who create chaos. Look at all of the trouble that you’ve already caused since you came here. But then again, what can you expect from the product of such an utterly dysfunctional family – if you could even call whatever it is that you have a family.’

I so wanted to leap over the table and to deck that nasty piece of work. But something in knew that that was just what she wanted, and so I managed to contain myself. In fact, when I stood up, I looked pretty cool.

‘Christine,’ I said, ‘if you are the product of many generations of happy families, then all I can say is thank God the world is evolving. Why don’t you save your fighting talk for the stage?’

I started to walk away, only stopping to make one final quip.

‘Oh, by the way, I checked my Mom’s diary and she’s busy. But, you know, if you want to go ahead and blab just go ahead. But I don’t think that Mrs Butler-Masterson will be too impressed if you cause another security alert.’

That would keep her quiet. Christine was so not going to blackmail me.

As I sat on the stage, with the other five finalists, I watched the hall fill. It was hard not to feel intimidated. Not only was the crowd huge, but in the centre of the stage (next to the podium) sat the debating trophy. The thing was at least half my size and older than any house that I had ever called home. It loomed large over all of us finalists; reminding us that we were there for only one reason – to win.

It was hard to spot Marnie, as the teachers, governors and parents had taken all of the prime seats, leaving many of the girls with no option but to stand.

Delia Denton, the brainiest girl in the whole school was seated next to me and I couldn’t help but notice that she was suffering from a particularly bad attack of nerves. It was her muttering that I noticed first. She was saying the same word over and over again in a low but firm voice, ‘focus, focus, focus.’ Meantime, her right foot seemed to have developed a life of its own, it tapped about madly while clenched both of her hands together until her knuckles were white.

It was painful to see her in such a state. I just had to give her a little performers’ tip before we started.

‘Just imagine that everyone in the audience is totally naked,’ I said, smiling.

She looked as though I had just told her that I was a Martian or something, so I tried again.

‘I think it even works if you imagine they’re in their underwear,’ I said.

Thankfully my failed intervention was interrupted by the booming voice of Mrs Butler-Masterson as she got things started. And she didn’t waste too much time on pleasantries.

The first girl to speak looked like a lamb going to the slaughter. Her argument was lost by her small, quivering voice. It was a sad reminder of the need to deliver your point with total conviction.

I planned to sell my side of the debate in my very own Californian way. Unlike any of the others, I carried no notes. My case would be delivered from the heart, not the head.

Although it pained me to admit it, Christine Smythe made an impressive performance. Her argument was made in the style of some big-shot attorney for the prosecution making a closing speech that laid the blame for all of the world’s social ills on those who did not fall into her rather conveniently tight definition of family.

I knew that I would have to pull out all of the stops if I was to teach Christine a lesson in humanity.

It was time for me to approach the podium. I focused on my breathing and on delivering my first sentence with everything that I had got. This had to be great.

‘I want to be clear about this,’ I boomed, ‘the family has not broken down, it has simply evolved. There is not a person in this room who is not a part of a family. Does having a step-mother, a half-brother or, heaven help us, just one parent, make us any more likely to cause trouble? Does it make our families any less real? Of course not! Let’s use this opportunity to break down some myths and barriers. Could I ask you please to stand up if you come from a so-called broken family? Stand up if you come from a family where there has been death, divorce or separation.’

It was a risky move. Nobody wanted to be the first to stand. At least nobody did until Marnie stepped forward from the back of the hall and stood alone in the aisle. For a half a second it looked like she might be the only one with the guts to be counted, but then Miss Moore stood up.

I heard Mrs Butler-Masterson gasp.

Miss Moore smiled and whispered an explanation. ‘Father had to raise me alone after Mother ran off with the milkman. He did a marvellous job, marvellous.’

Suddenly and almost simultaneously it seemed as though almost half the hall was standing. And it wasn’t just the girls who stood – some of the Governors and parents also stood.

I had to work with this.

‘All of you who are standing, answer me. Do you come from a family?’

‘Yes!’ came a pretty convincing reply.

‘I can’t hear you,’ I shouted.

‘Yes,’ they roared. I noticed that Miss Moore was definitely entering into the spirit of things.

‘Are you breaking down our society?’ I asked, holding my hand theatrically to my ear.

‘No!’ they shouted.

‘Well let’s hear a round of applause for the modern family,’ I said, clapping.

The now buzzing crowd re-took their seats as I completed my argument. There was no doubt that they were eating right out of my hand. It was a great feeling.

I oozed confidence as I started to make my closing points.

But a couple of late arrivals almost forced me to lose the plot.

What did they think they were doing?

Mom could never blend. Any time she attempted to disguise her true identity, she only ever succeeded in drawing even more attention to herself. She was guaranteed a curious audience in St Saviours because she had had decided to show up late wearing her (fashionably faux) fur coat with sunglasses and a bright silk headscarf wrapped dramatically around her hair and neck.

Meanwhile, Andre appeared to be wearing one of his brighter shirts (or maybe it only seemed that way in the rather drab surroundings of the school). Plus he had gone more than a little heavy with the hair gel. I mean, who could have missed such a bizarre-looking couple as they made their way to two empty seats in the front row?

I almost stuttered over my words as I tried to take it all in. This was a complete and utter disaster.

Andre gave me a wave as I struggled to finish my case. The huge applause that I received as I returned to my chair, suggested that nobody had really noticed my sloppy ending.

As the final two speakers did their thing, I ignored my uninvited guests. With a little luck, they would leave before anyone knew that they had anything to do with me.

Escape was impossible as we were all subjected to a twenty minute talk on the history of St Saviours while the judges deliberated. I was too freaked to listen, but the fact that many of the people in the hall appeared to be losing consciousness told me that Colonel Blattering could benefit from some performance-enhancing tips.

The return of the judging panel came as a relief to everyone. And once again, Mrs Butler-Masterson did not waste any time over the formalities. She did not look pleased.

‘Perhaps it should come as no great surprise that our new American student is such a talented performer,’ she said.

I blushed and prayed that she would reveal nothing more.

‘And while I must point out that the most popular argument is not necessarily the most intellectually stimulating, it is indeed my duty to award this year’s debating trophy to Jayne Drew.’

There was an enormous cheering.

Mrs Butler-Masterson continued, ‘Given these unique circumstances, I think it might be appropriate for Jayne to receive the trophy from her mother. Could I ask Mrs Drew to join us?’

I saw Mom hesitate, but her weakness for an audience was as strong as my own weakness for Oreo’s. It was hopeless. There was nowhere to run.

Mom removed her shades as she made her entrance. I rushed forward in the hope that we could get the whole award-giving thing over as quickly as possible.

But we were forced to pose for photos as Mom handed me the trophy.

‘I’m so proud of you honey,’ she said to my horrified face.

Probably someone would have recognised her famous smile anyway, but before that could happen, Christine let out a shout.

‘It’s Angel!,’ she said, ‘it’s Angel!’

And with that nugget of information, all hell broke loose. It seemed as though a thousand girls (and their parents) were all suddenly charging in our direction.

It had to be the worst day of my life.

Three Other Uniquely Low Points in my Existence
(there have been many)

1 The day ‘Santa’ asked me for my Mom’s autograph
2 The time the paparazzi managed to get shots of me in my Nativity play (I was 4 years old, pictures of me dressed as a Wise Man are still in circulation)
3 The day my second-grade teacher, Mr Philips, crashed his car as he saw my Mom collect me.

Chapter 19

2007-12-30T05:40:00.001-08:00

When people already have an over-developed sense of drama, you can’t expect them to behave too rationally when they’re faced with an actual crisis.

My Mom totally over-reacted to the whole thing. She went nuts. I mean, she completely lost her perspective. So I had skipped school – so what?

But for some reason, everyone in the house took it all so personally. Suddenly I was the bad guy.

‘Do you know how close we were to calling the cops?’ said Andre. ‘I mean your Mom had me going through the holiday snaps so that we would have a recent photo of you to show on the evening news. We were this close to calling Scotland Yard.’

I had to roll my eyes at that one.

Even Martina felt the need to chip in with a comment, although she did so with a smile.

‘You know that they had to finish filming early just so that your Mom could go home. Do you have any idea what that will do to their schedules? Plus, it will cost a fortune.’

‘Was it the uniform?’ asked Portia. ‘Could you just not stand to wear that thing a second longer?’

What was I supposed to say???

I knew that there was no way that I was going to win this one. The best thing that I could do was to lay low while everyone went collectively crazy. Mom would figure out a punishment and I would take it – whatever it was (just so long as it didn’t involve some rich kids’ boarding school in Arizona).

The funny thing was that everyone was so busy with their own theories and assumptions about my bad behaviour that no-one really bothered to ask me why. I had decided that afternoon, while I travelled back to London on the train, (oblivious to the panic that my absence had created), that I would take Mrs Moore’s last piece of advice to me. Can you believe it? I had decided to tell my Mom everything. There was no chance of that happening after the latest theatrics.

This was so not what I needed.

There was no reason for me to spill out my guts to any of them when they had all so obviously tried and convicted me without any of the actual facts.

I was better off on my own anyway. The solitary confinement of my bedroom would give me a chance to get my head around everything that had happened.

They had confiscated my cellphone, so it was impossible for me to talk to Marnie. Seeing her looking so small and shaken-up as she had stood next to Butler-Masterson wasn’t something that I could forget. This was totally my fault. I had dragged Marnie into my scheme and there was no way that I was going to stand by and watch her pay the price for my lying. Marnie had worked hard to get her place at St Saviours. I wasn’t going to give them an excuse for kicking her out.

I had to make them understand that she was really not involved. She didn’t even know who I was…

And who was I, anyway? My search for my Dad had done nothing but land me in a heap of trouble. Maybe it was better not to know than to deal with the more bitter truth of disappointment? Probably there was not and never would be a flesh-and-blood father who could match my vision of a dream dad.

But even though my journey had been tough, the fact was that it had really only left me with one option. By a simple process of elimination, there was only one man left who could possibly be my dad – and that was Robert Grand.

Did I really want to confront him? (That was, if I ever got to go anywhere alone again before my eighteenth birthday and I actually got my hands on his address). Could I handle it?

There was no choice to make. I knew that. Anyway, I was already in so much trouble that a little more couldn’t possibly hurt me.

Just then I heard the familiar knock of my Mom.

I sat on my bed and tried to mould my face into something that looked suitable contrite.

‘Come in,’ I said.

Mom looked tired. It was unusual to see her look anything less than perfect.

‘It’s been quite a day, hasn’t it,’ she said, sitting next to me.

She wasn’t wrong there – I nodded.

‘You really had us scared Bliss. Have you any idea how I felt?’

Great, we were back to how she felt – that must have been some kind of record.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes. But I wasn’t playing her game. I looked away.

‘Knowing that you were out there in a huge foreign city and having no idea whether you were safe or not…’

I had to put up some sort of defence.

‘Mom, I skipped school – that’s all. Nobody kidnapped me. I was never in any sort of danger. I am not a kid any more. So what if I fall off radar from time to time?’

That hit a nerve.

‘We discussed the security situation. You know that right now is not a good time to go falling off radar. I may not like the tracking device and you may not like the tracking device, but we have to accept that these things are for our own protection. It is simply not possible for us to have a normal life.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘it is not possible for you to live a normal life. It doesn’t have to be that way for me.’

She stood up now.

‘The fact is that I am your Mom.’

‘You don’t need to remind me.’

‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

‘Do you think that I am ever allowed to forget who my mother is? Think about it. I mean it’s because of you that those photographers are parked outside our front door. It’s because of you that nobody at school can know my real name and it’s totally because of you that I am supposed to walk everywhere tagged like a dog.’

My outburst took even me by surprise. Mom drew a long breath before she replied.

‘Don’t try laying this on me. I know that it’s not always easy for you, but there are plenty of benefits to having a Mom like me. You lead a very privileged life.’

She paused, obviously trying to calm her anger.

‘I’m not the only single Mom in the world and I’m not the only Mom who works to earn her living. I am sorry that sometimes I am too busy to spend a lot of time with you. But, you know, that’s life for lots of families. You alone are responsible for your actions and you must face the consequences.’

I said nothing. This was a hard-nosed side of Mom that I didn’t get to see very often.

‘Do you have any idea what happened when you skipped school today? Once the office phoned to check that you were actually ill, we had a full alert. Your friend Marnie was surrounded by a bunch of bodyguards within three minutes of that call. Can you imagine how frightened she must have been? Or how scared she must have been when she had to answer to the principal?’

‘Mom,’ I interrupted, ‘none of this is Marnie’s fault.’

‘I know that and you know that,’ she said, ‘but it has taken a lot of explaining to the school.’

‘You didn’t go down to the school, did you?’ I asked.

‘Of course not,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to start a full-out media alert – that would not have helped. But I did have to make a lot of promises on your behalf, Bliss, so that you can go back to school after one week’s suspension.’

‘Like what?’ I said defiantly.

‘Like this will never happen again. Like you will have some leave so that you can travel to Paris with me before the your French exam. And like you will stay away from Marnie. Your friendship is officially over and if she means anything to you, then you will do what’s best for her and leave her alone.’

My face must have crumpled a bit then, because Mom’s tone softened.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘sometimes love is tough. I am doing this because I love you. Maybe it is selfish of me to have dragged you halfway around the world just so that we can be together. Maybe you would be better off and safer in that school in Arizona. I don’t know if this is going to work. But I have bought you one last chance. You have got to believe that you don’t need to do any of this to get my attention’.

She didn’t stick around for a response. It was pretty obvious that she had finished her sermon and like everyone else she had jumped to her own conclusions about what was going on with me.

I promised myself that if I ever had a kid of my own, then I would never make the same mistake.

How difficult would it have been to just ask me why I had skipped school? Was nobody interested in the truth? I mean, who could blame me for telling nobody about my search for my Dad? It’s not as though anyone would have listened to me anyway…

Five Ways for a Parent to Alienate their Kid

1 Never Listen
2 Punish first – ask questions later
3 Work long hours
4 Talk about nothing but their own problems, feeling, etc.
5 Issue threats

Chapters 17 & 18

2007-12-27T04:32:00.001-08:00

Chapter 17

When Mom decided to have a little talk with me about the ‘security situation’ just before I returned to school, I was less than focused. I had bigger and more exciting things on my mind. Besides, I figured that it was nothing more than the usual blah, blah, blah. My ears only really tuned into the conversation when I heard mention of a device.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘could you repeat that last part?’

‘Sure,’ said Mom, ‘in fact Bob can show you one right now.’

‘It’s very discreet,’ said Bob, holding out a red-coloured badge that was no bigger than a nickel. ‘You can just clip it on to your shirt or your skirt. This technology is so minute that some people even have them implanted under their skin.’

‘Are you crazy?!’ I exploded.

‘Honey, we only want you to wear it when you’re out of the house. It’s really no big deal. So long as you wear this tiny thing we’ll know exactly where you are and we’ll know that you are safe. I mean, it’s not as though we’re asking you to do something that I’m not prepared to do myself,’ said Mom, clearly showing me the small blue badge that was pinned to her bra strap.

‘Isn’t it enough that there are bodyguards and photographers practically everywhere I go? Why don’t you just put me on a leash? I mean, it’s not as though anyone actually wants me. All of this is about you and it is totally not fair,’ I said as I made my way towards the door.

There was no point in waiting for a reply. I knew that this whole device thing was totally non-negotiable. The best I could do was to bang a few doors just to show them how much the whole thing sucked.

The fact that all of my movements would be tracked on some electronic map suddenly made my plans to visit Edward Moore very complicated. As I returned to St Saviours I was certain of three things;

1 Marnie would have to cover for me while I skipped school and hopped on a train to see Edward Moore – she would need to wear the device so that everything would at least look normal.

2 And that meant that Marnie could not be told the truth. There would be no reason for her to help me if she hated me for lying to her about everything.

3 So, somehow, I had to keep Christine quiet…..

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want to keep lying to Marnie. But I just couldn’t afford to gamble her support. So I gave her some lame story about my step-dad forcing me to wear this electronic tag so that my Mom and I wouldn’t try to skip the country without him. She totally bought the whole thing. It was almost painful to see that she trusted me so completely. I felt like a complete louse. But I promised myself that I would make it up to Marnie once I had settled things with my Dad. When all of this craziness and sneaking around was behind me I would tell her the truth. She would understand.

And even though I knew just how much trouble she would be in if we got caught, she agreed to help me just as soon as I asked. She didn’t even have to think about it. And so it was all set. I would skip school the very next day, while Marnie wore my tag.

All I had to do was to make sure that Christine kept her mouth shut…

Girls like Christine are depressingly predictable. If they have some dirt on you that they are keeping to themselves, it’s only because they want to make you sweat while they calculate the price of their silence. I decided to get straight to the point with Christine.

‘So what do you want?’ I asked.

She tried to look surprised by my question.

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘don’t waste my time.’

Christine surveyed me carefully before replying.

‘You know, you can never have too many friends,’ she said, with her nose in the air. ‘There is absolutely no reason for someone with your credentials to go slumming it with the likes of Marnie Bradshaw when you really are more suited to me.’

I didn’t hide my snigger, but nothing was going to throw Christine; she was on a roll.

‘Think of it Bliss,’ she hissed into my ear, ‘we could do what friends do. You could visit me and I could visit you. I’d bet your Mother would just love to meet one of your little English friends. And you know I’d be the soul of discretion.’

So that was her price. She wanted to meet Angel.

It was never going to happen. But I needed to buy myself some time.

‘My Mom’s pretty busy right now,’ I said.

Christine looked unimpressed. I needed to offer something more concrete.

‘Just give me a week,’ I said, hoping that that would be enough.

Chapter 18

As I sat on the train the next day, I was too busy concentrating on the names of the stations that we were speeding though to worry too much about what was going on at school. The handover had gone pretty smoothly. I had stood at the gates of St Saviours with Marnie and we had waved goodbye to Andre. Once his very bright car had finally disappeared from sight, there had been just enough time for me to cover up my uniform with a black hooded jacket and to give Marnie the device before the bell rang. I had then hopped on a bus that I knew would take me to Waterloo station.

It was only when I found myself standing in the middle of that enormous, bustling train station that I almost lost my nerve. Everyone around me seemed to know exactly where they were going. And what did I have? All I had was a piece of paper with an address that was five years out of date.

But failure was definitely not an option. I decided to concentrate on the constantly changing information board while my tummy did somersaults. By the time that I had finally figured out the platform that I would need, I had pretty well calmed down.

It was a surprisingly short trip.

As the concrete maze of London gave way to a vista of fields and trees, I knew that we could not be far from Guildford. It was just a pity that I was not in tourist mode to enjoy the cathedral town in the busy commuter belt. I hadn’t exactly seen too much of England since my arrival.

I tried to look mature beyond my years as I hailed a cab outside the station. The last thing that I wanted was any awkward questioning from an interfering driver. So I busied myself by talking (to nobody) on my cellphone while I handed him the address.

His silence and my anxiety netted him a big tip once he deposited me safely outside No 7 Cherrywell Close.

I probably should have been scared when I found myself standing alone on the street once the cab had left. But for some reason it was impossible to be too freaked-out at the thought of knocking on the door of such a sleepy looking house, in such a quiet place.

It was all so wonderfully normal.

I had decided to play it cool. I’d say that my Mom had suggested that I drop in and say hi while I was in town. It would be no big deal, right? And anyway, what were the chances that this Moore guy would ever get an opportunity to tell my Mom that I had paid him a visit?

Somebody was obviously at home. The sound of the doorbell had caused some small-sounding dog to spring into action. The high-pitched barking was only quietened with the closing of some internal door. I could hear footsteps. This was it.

But when the front door was opened, I came face to face with a white-haired old lady who was no taller than me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘maybe I have the wrong address. I was looking for Edward Moore.’

Was it my imagination or did she blanche slightly?

‘You’d better come in dear,’ she said.

She led me into the front parlour. It was stuffed full of the most wonderful chintz that I had ever seen. The over-stuffed sofas, deep rugs and busy wallpaper were all as I had ever expected to find in an English living room. It was all so much more authentic than the bare wooden floors and modern furnishings of our London pad.

Even the old woman looked so much more like an actual grandmother than my own Grandma (this lady’s face had obviously never been introduced to the knife of a plastic surgeon). Her hair was tucked into a neat bun, although it was frizzy at the edges. And her lavender cardigan looked as though she had probably made it herself.

It all felt very real and very comforting.

But I was surprised when the old woman sat down in the armchair opposite mine. Where was Edward?

‘Have you come a long way?’ she asked, smiling gently.

‘Oh, you know, not too far, just from London this morning,’ I said, trying to sound way too cool.

‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you sound as though you’ve travelled a lot further than that,’ she said.

‘Oh yes,’ I said, smiling and pointing stupidly at my throat. ‘Well yes, I am visiting from California.’

‘So you’ve come a long way to see Teddie then.’

‘Well my Mom said that I should drop in and say hi if I was in the area. They worked together a long time ago.’

There was a long and painful pause.

‘Listen, there is no easy way to say this, even after all this time. Teddie is dead.’

And with that bombshell, I felt myself burst into the kind of gut-wrenching sobbing that you would only generally witness among pre-schoolers. The tears could not be stopped. I cried uncontrollably.

It was a response that was as shocking to me as it was to the old lady. Her own grief-stricken face was now filled with concern. She sat next to me and held my hand as she offered me a beautiful, scented, handkerchief from the pocket of her cardigan.

‘There, there dear,’ she consoled me. ‘Just you let the tears out. Let the tears out and you’ll feel much better, I promise you.’

She sat with me for some minutes before my sobbing subsided. It was only then, when I had begun to calm down that she offered to make me a nice, sweet, cup of tea.

I tried to pull myself together while she was busy in the kitchen. It was insane for me to feel so devastated by the death of a man who I had never met, even if that man had a 50 / 50 chance of being my father.

It was then that I spotted the cluttered shrine of photographs and awards that Mrs Moore had obviously created on the shelving next to the fireplace.

My eyes ran across the many pictures of Edward Moore, looking for clues that might tell me something of the kind of man that he had been, and, more crucially for me, for any similarities that we might share. The pictures told a story of the too-short life of a much-loved man. There were film awards – lots of them. Tons of photographs had been taken on various holidays and movie sets; some even showed Teddie with some pretty impressive celebrities.

It was then that I spotted the crucial evidence.

Tucked away, at the back of the middle shelf was a photo of Teddie with Mom. It was even signed; ‘To my Teddy Bear, with all my love, Angel.’

So it was true, then.

I stood, paralysed to the spot, holding the picture of Teddie & Angel – holding the picture of my Mom and Dad.

It was almost too much.

I didn’t even hear Mrs Moore return with her tray of tea and biscuits. She joined me in silent reflection of her dead son before she handed me a mug of tea.

‘You must sit down dear,’ she said, fussing over me in a way that felt warm and reassuring.

She drank from her own tea and watched me with quiet concern before she spoke again.

‘Would you like to talk about it? I’m a good listener, I promise you that.’

It felt as though a dam was about to burst inside of me. I wanted to tell her everything.

‘I think that Teddie was my dad,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure of it.’
She glanced down at the photo in my hand before she responded.

‘So many people loved Teddie. From the time he was a little boy you could see that he was like a magnet – everyone was drawn to him. He just had a lovely way of making the people around him feel happy and relaxed. It was a gift, I suppose. At his funeral there were so many flowers… And so many friends, with so many memories to share.’

She stopped for a moment and smiled sadly to herself.

‘He was a magnificent man. But if there was one certainty that I had to face with a son like Teddie it was this – I knew that he would never make a grandmother of me.’

I opened my mouth in silent protest, my hand pointing towards the photo of Mom and Teddie.

‘Dear, I know, I know. There were always so many girls around Teddie and he loved them, he really did, but only as friends. Nothing more. How should I say it?…. Let’s just say he was not the marrying kind.’

The tears were flowing again. This time they spilled onto the photo that I now held in my lap.

‘You’re sure?’ I asked, although I knew that the old lady wouldn’t have been able to lie to save her life.

She nodded her certainty.

‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re such a beautiful girl…so lovely, and I know you’ve travelled all this way. If my Teddie were alive today, I know that you’d be friends. And I only wish that I could be Grandma to a fine girl like you.’

And then she hugged me. I let the tears come freely and I held onto her. What was I grieving for? Was if for a father who never was or for a life that was so achingly normal and yet so far out of my reach?

I hadn’t expected any problems in getting home.

The plan was that I would meet up with Marnie outside the school gates at the end of the day. I figured that I would be able to blend into the crowd of ‘young ladies’ without being noticed. All that Marnie had to do was to return the security device to me before Andre spotted us.

It couldn’t have been any simpler.

I should have known that something was up once I saw just how pale and tense Marnie looked. She did not look pleased to see me. As I got closer to her I saw that she was silently mouthing some sort of message to me. Was it a warning? No, it was an apology. She said the words over and over again – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

And it didn’t take too much figuring out to see why. In the doorway behind Marnie’s tiny figure stood Mrs Butler-Masterson with Bob.

Bob gave me a long hug before he spoke.

‘You have no idea how much trouble you are in,’ he said.

Chapters 15 & 16

2007-12-24T12:29:00.001-08:00

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.

Chapters 13 & 14

2007-12-14T14:10:00.000-08:00

Chapter 13

Turning to Peter for help wasn’t exactly my first choice, but, you know, I really didn’t have a lot of options. I couldn’t plead my case to Mom without getting into even more trouble. And I couldn’t use anybody else’s computer without leaving a very incriminating trail.

So I had to ask Peter.

But for some reason the idea of having an actual conversation with Peter produced much the same physiological effects as a serious coronary episode; my heartbeat raced, my stomach clenched and the palms of my hands got all sweaty. And the confusing truth was that there was nothing unpleasant about the feeling… Hormones were obviously beginning to corrode my teenage brain.

Was Peter Worthing even aware of my existence?? Not that you would have noticed. Contact between us had become limited to occasional greetings when we passed on our way to and from school. And if Peter was distracted by thoughts filled with the wonder of me, then he hid it very well.

Why would he want to help me?

Thankfully, I was spared the awfulness of having to knock on Peter’s door. The cosmos must have been smiling on me or something, because, less than twenty four hours after the Martina episode I found Peter in the back yard, fixing his bicycle. Peter’s dedication to cycling was almost as excessive as his love of soccer. Every morning I watched as he weaved his way past the cars of the waiting reporters with all of the speed and focus of Lance Armstrong on his way to another yellow jersey.

‘What do you want this time?’ he said.

He spoke without turning around to see me. Just how long had I been standing there looking at him?

‘Can’t a girl just get some air in her own back yard?’ I replied, hoping that my flushed cheeks would not betray me.

‘Relax’ he said, and he turned around to face me, revealing a face smudged with oil. How was it even possible that he looked even more cute that way?

‘I was only pulling your leg,’ he said. ‘Besides, I could do with a bit of help.’

I looked at his oil-covered hands as he held the chain of his bike and realized that the cosmos may in fact have been having some twisted fun at my expense. It wasn’t that I was worried about getting my hands dirty, but the fact was that my mechanical gifts were strictly limited to replacing the occasional print cartridge.

‘Can you pass me that spanner?’ he asked, with a quick nod towards the toolbox.

‘Sure,’ I said, sounding way too enthusiastic. My gaze hovered over the toolbox. ‘But you’ll have to give me a clue or something.’

‘Girls,’ he sighed deeply. ‘It’s just there, on the right.’

I presented the spanner with a flourish. But Peter’s hands were too full of the oily chain to take the tool. He looked flummoxed.

‘Here, let me,’ I volunteered as I sat on the ground opposite Peter and took the chain in my hands.

Peter was clearly impressed. But he said nothing. Instead he quickly got to work on putting the bike back together.

‘You can let go now,’ he said, before spinning the front wheel of the upturned bike. Everything appeared to be working to his satisfaction. And only then did Peter Worthing turn his full attention to me.

‘Look at the state of you,’ he said as he grabbed my hands and started to rub them with a dirty cloth. His attempts at cleaning only made things a whole lot worse. But I did not object. For some reason I didn’t want to do anything to spoil the moment.

‘Sorry,’ he said when he finally gave up.

‘Don’t be,’ I shrugged, trying to look cool but secretly examining the oily fingerprints that now covered my hands.

Hormones were clearly at work.

‘Thanks for the help,’ said Peter.

‘Actually I was kind of hoping that you could help me out with something,’ I said.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

‘What are you up to?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said a little too quickly. ‘It’s just that I’ve had a little trouble at home and, you know, my computer’s been confiscated.’

‘Woah,’ said Peter, ‘I thought you Hollywood Princesses were never denied anything. You must have done something really bad.’

I decided to ignore that remark.

‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘I just can’t live without my computer.’

‘Completely understand,’ said Peter.

‘And I’m expecting some really important emails.’

‘So you want to use my computer?’ said Peter.

He was actually volunteering to help!

‘Maybe if you could just check my emails for me?’ I said, ‘I don’t want anyone to get suspicious. I’ve written down my password and everything that you’ll need.’

Peter took the piece of paper and read the details.

‘Funny,’ he said, smiling, ‘you don’t look like an Arnie to me. Is this some sort of alter-ego that you have going on? No, wait… don’t tell me. Something tells me that I really do not want to know.’

Peter stood up and then offered me his hand to help me up. He seemed to be examining my face for some sort of clue when he drew me up to his height and for a moment he said nothing. And then he quickly let go of my hand and turned on his heel.

‘I’ll pass any messages to you as discreetly as I can,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Just don’t get me into any trouble.’

Chapter 14

My return to school on a dark and wet Monday morning was a stark reminder that my run of bad luck had not been ended by a brief episode of flirting with Peter Worthing. I was beginning to notice that St Saviour’s Academy for Young Ladies had a way of depressing the spirit. News that the qualifying round of the debating championship was scheduled for later that week came as a blow. But I had to do a double-take on the notice board to make sure that I had correctly read the topic for debate. It was written large;
The Truth Shall Set Us Free.
I would be arguing in favour. Christine would be arguing against. Only six of the sixteen girls taking part would make it through to the finals.

Great, so all that I had to do was to get up in front of the whole school, with my false name and my false identity and argue the case for honesty. Was this some kind of sick lesson in karmic justice?

It didn’t help when Marnie pointed out that Christine’s Dad was, in fact, some big-shot lawyer who worked for the Prime Minister or something.

Maybe Doctor Banks had been right about the dangers of acting on impulse… How had I gotten myself into this mess? What hope did I have of teaching Christine a lesson that she would never forget?

I knew that I was at a humungous disadvantage. Plus, I was at a complete loss to know how I should prepare. My experience of speech-making had been limited to listening to the tearful acceptance routines of actors at glitzy award ceremonies. And I had never found any of those to be even remotely convincing. Campaigning politicians were similarly suspect.

So just who were the great orators of the 21st century? Nobody sprang to mind… Although the guys on the shopping channel could be pretty convincing – they certainly knew how to inspire Andre to reach for his credit card. I had seen them argue the merits of a gold-plated necklace for twenty minutes – and I only had to speak for five.

In a cynical world it seemed that people had to be sold their dreams.
And I had witnessed enough razzle-dazzle in my thirteen years to know exactly how that worked.

Plus, how hard could it be to sell the idea of truth?…

But as I soon discovered that the Young Ladies of St Saviours made a tough crowd. And as the last of the sixteen to speak, I had many stomach-churning opportunities to watch those before me crash and burn. As I waited to test my theory of the power of the Razzle Dazzle Factor it occurred to me that I should maybe have hit the library.

Not that copious notes and rigorous research did anything to help Beatrice Bonlatter. She’d gotten off to a pretty shaky start. It was obvious that she’d hit the books pretty hard, but there was precious little appreciation for her argument - coming as it did from the moral highground. By the time she got around to her eulogy for some medieval saint (which I figured was her climax), she had developed a pretty bad case of dry mouth. And her concluding argument was delivered at a whisper only after Miss Moore had attempted to rescue her with a glass of water.

Sure, Beatrice Bonlatter had sucked, but she didn’t need anyone to tell her that. A slow, apathetic hand clap from the girls and a dismissive nod from Mrs Butler-Masterson told her all that she needed to know.

The poor girl looked shrunken when she finally returned to the row of chairs at the back of the platform where all of the speakers were seated. With her pale face and slumped head, you just knew that she would avoid all possibilities of public speaking in her future life.

Christine Smythe, who sat beside me, threw her eyes to the ceiling and sighed deeply at the sight of Beatrice.

‘What an utter embarrassment,’ she said to herself, but loud enough for Beatrice to hear.

‘Let’s see if you can do any better the,’ I said. ‘You’re up next.’
If I had expected any flicker of anxiety on Christine’s face then I was certainly disappointed. Christine rose to her feet with the absolute confidence of someone who was the product of many generations that had thought themselves born to rule.

‘Watch and learn,’ she said.

Before walking slowly to the podium she smiled and pressed a note into my hand.

I had been expecting some sort of dirty trick – Christine had been unusually quiet around me in the days before the debate. It made sense that she would pull some stunt to freak me out just before it was my turn to speak.

And so I flipped open the note, expecting to see some sort of lame put-down.

But what I saw almost made me lose my lunch.

‘I know who you are,’ it read.

What? How?!

It took all of my powers of concentration just to stop me from bolting. I re-read the note, hoping that it was all some sort of bad dream. But the words didn’t change.

I know who you are.

I know who you are.

Crushing the note in my hands didn’t change things, but it was some release from my growing sense of panic.

It was impossible to concentrate on Christine’s argument when everything had changed. I wondered if the ground beneath my feet would open up and swallow me whole. Nothing seemed certain. And the sight of Marnie waving to me from the audience only added to my sense of terror.

The applause that signalled Christine’s obviously successful conclusion should have been my cue to prepare to speak. Only my problem now wasn’t so much dry mouth as empty head. I must have been on some sort of automatic pilot to have even made it as far as the podium. Everything was happening in the sort of sickly slow motion that seems to be reserved for only the most awful moments of your life. The expectant faces of teachers and girls suddenly looked like some vast ocean of vultures, just waiting to pick over my bones.

It was a bad time to remember that public performances were totally not my thing.

A cough from Christine broke the silence in the vast hall and drew added attention to my frozen hesitation. All eyes were on me.

But I guess there are times when it really does pay to be the kid of a big star, because in a flash of showbiz inspiration I remembered everything that my Mom had ever said about stage-fright. Welcome the nerves; I had heard her say that a thousand times while she had tried to calm herself before some public appearance or other. Welcome the anxiety, she had said, it will help to keep you on your toes. Just remember to smile and to relax your shoulders. If you look relaxed, then everyone will believe you are and pretty soon you might even feel it too.

So I drew a deep breath and contorted my face into an uncharacteristically wide smile. I probably looked like some kind of scary poster child for Colgate, or something. All I had to do now was to say something meaningful if I wanted to avoid looking like a complete moron. My notes were useless to me. I had no choice but to wing it.

‘Have you ever left the washroom with your skirt tucked into your panties or looked into the mirror only to discover that you have had spinach stuck to your braces since lunch?’ I said.

There was an explosion of laughter, although Mrs Butler-Masterson looked livid.

Good, I could work with this.

‘Wouldn’t it have been better if someone had spared your embarrassment by telling you the truth?’

‘Sure the truth can hurt sometimes, but sooner or later it has a way of catching up with us all…’

And so I delivered what turned out to be a winning speech (at least it was good enough to get me into the finals). The response that I eventually got from the audience left me feeling so good that by the time I took my seat next to Christine I knew that I wasn’t going down without a fight.

Bring it on, I thought.

Chapters 11 & 12

2007-12-09T03:19:00.000-08:00

Chapter 11

The email that contained Douglas Prattling’s phone number and address looked like any other in my inbox. It was delivered with no warning. There was no offer of counselling on the emotional dangers of my search. And as I stared at the details of the stranger who had a one in three chance of being my Dad, I felt frozen and totally sick with excitement all at the same time.

I tried his name on for size;

Bliss Drew Prattling – sounded like an insult
Bliss Prattling – too weird
Jayne Prattling – now that was an English name all right

A picture was forming in my head of a whole new me and of a whole new life. Like all bad-idea fantasies the picture that I was cooking up was sugar-coated and way off-base. I didn’t even know this man. He could have been some sort of psycho or slob. I could not allow one email to snowball my imagination into some picture-perfect vision of family life in the English suburbs.

There was only one way that I was going to stop all of this craziness….I reached for the phone.

It was a local London number. There was no time to think. The number was ringing.

‘Good morning, Prattling residence. This is Douglas Prattling speaking.’

My mind was blank. What had I done? If I just put down the phone would he try callback? Martina would know I was up to something…

‘Hello,’ he said again, sounding impatient, ‘how can I help you?’

I couldn’t put down the phone.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Yes hello,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’

I hesitated. What was I supposed to do next?

‘My name is Jayne Drew…’

‘Aah,’ he said, ‘you must be one of Victoria’s little friends. Coming to the party then are you?’

‘The party,’ I said, trying to sound as near-normal as I could under the circumstances.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you’ll be coming on Saturday then will you?’

‘The thing is,’ I said, trying to think on my feet, ‘I’ve lost my invite..’

‘Shouldn’t worry about it,’ he said, obviously trying to hurry me along. ‘Just turn up at the house about one-ish. You can join the melee.’

‘Is there anything that Victoria would like?’
‘Quite honestly lovey you’d have a better clue of the tastes of a twelve year old girl than me. Generally I find that if it’s pink and glittery then there are no complaints. Bye now.’

And with that he was gone.

I was left to deal with the news that there was a one-in-three chance that I had a sister. Siblings were not something that I had ever really considered. For a second I thought that my head might just explode.

Marnie was my only hope for an alibi at such short notice. She agreed to go along with my scheme only when she heard that I was planning to travel alone on the subway for the first time in my life. My safety obviously mattered more to her than her very real reluctance to lie to anybody. I tried to reassure her that I would keep the necessity of lying to an absolute minimum. Mom wouldn’t stop us from going to the movies so long as Andre dropped us off and collected us. We would pay a quick visit to the Prattling party while the movie played and would get back before Andre knew that we had even left the building. There would be no lying involved.

Movie-going is a serious business in my family. Trips to the movie-theatre were rarely made on a whim. Mostly we went so that Mom could show her support to one of her many Hollywood ‘friends’ by attending their over-hyped opening nights. But the nights that we spent in our screening room back home were the sort of fun that you could never get at one of those glitzy events. We usually got copies of the best movies before they ever even hit the big screen. And when we watched at home like that, Mom got to chill out in her sweats, while Portia gave a running commentary on the bad wardrobes and Andre gave us all of the gossip from the set.

So when Andre studied the movie listings at the huge multiplex cinema in London’s Leicester Square, he did so with an experienced and critical eye.

‘Please tell me that you are not going to give one dollar to line the pockets of that Barney McMagnate – you know he worked that whole crew for practically minimum wage. That man needs a flop to teach him some manners.’

‘And I hear that Bella Longchild had so much cosmetic surgery before she made this latest disaster that her acting range was reduced below its usual pathetic low.’

At this point I kicked Andre as hard as I could without Marnie noticing.

‘Really Andre,’ I said, ‘I think you’ve been reading too many Hollywood gossip columns. You can’t believe everything that you read in the papers. Marnie, is there anything that you’d like to see?’

‘This looks good,’ she said, pointing at a poster for one of my Mom’s more recent movies.

It had never occurred to me that Marnie might be a fan of my Mom’s.

Even Andre was struck dumb by her suggestion.

‘Sure, ’ I said quickly. I mean, it was not as though we were going to have to watch the movie or anything.

So Andre bought our tickets and before we could do anything to stop him, he had also bought us each a bucket of sweet popcorn and a jumbo Cola. We watched him leave, wondering how we were supposed to make our way to Kensington and back in just two hours with this kind of cargo.

Marnie wouldn’t hear of me just trashing our gigantic snacks, so in the end we had to find a couple of kids who looked like they would not say no to freebie munchies. This was surprisingly difficult to do.

By the time we got out of the cinema I felt as though my whole life depended on making this trip. I didn’t want to think too hard about what I was doing and I certainly didn’t have the time, so I grabbed Marnie by the hand and I started to run through the tourists and the Christmas shoppers that clogged London’s West End.

‘Where are you going?’ Marnie screamed.

‘To the subway,’ I said, running blindly.

‘Well you’re going in the wrong direction for the Tube,’ she said, yanking me towards the opposite side of the road.

It was only after we had raced down the enormous escalators and jumped into the shabby confines of an old subway carriage that I started to feel a growing anxiety about the task that lay ahead of me. Maybe I really had bitten off more than I could chew. I mean what was I actually planning to do, just walk up to this guy and say, hey, are you my Dad?

Thankfully Marnie interrupted my thoughts.

‘Have you brought the present?’ she asked.

It was good to remind myself that things were in fact going to plan. I reached into my bag and pulled out the very brightly wrapped gift. I had taken Douglas Prattling’s at his word, and gone for pink in a big way. Deciding on the gift itself had been tough. I mean, if this Victoria did turn out to be my sister, then I didn’t want her to remember her first gift from me as being lame or tacky. But I also didn’t want to give her anything that would be too conspicuous. Besides, I could only really choose from my own stuff, so it had to be cool. In the end I whittled it down to either a never-used denim purse (much too girlie for me) or a set of groovy nail colours that Portia had given to me the week before. The nail colours had been easier to pack. I had simply signed the gift card with the initial B.

Number 56 St Martin’s Terrace was only a five minute walk from the station. The house was a tired, three-storey terraced style that lined all of the streets in this part of West London. Balloons and the booming of the sort of lame girl-band music that would normally have had me moving in the opposite direction distinguished number 56 from all of the other identikit homes.

There was no opportunity to stall outside – the door was wide open and a tired looking woman hustled us indoors as soon as she caught sight of the gift.

‘Names?’ she shouted, so that she could be heard above the deafening noise of partying girls and bad pop tunes.

‘Jayne and Marnie,’ I said nervously. I hadn’t counted on getting past this sort of up-front security.

She scanned through several sheets of badges while she rubbed at her forehead.

‘Really, Vicky didn’t tell me the half of it,’ she said to herself. She scrawled our names on two pink badges and handed them to us absent-mindedly.

‘Dancing’s down there, food’s in there and loo is back there,’ she said pointing lazily. ‘You can just throw your present there,’ she said, indicating an overflowing sack at the bottom of the stairs.

Just then a familiar voice shouted down from upstairs.

‘Lovey, got anything for a headache?’

My heart skipped a beat – it was definitely Douglas Prattling.

‘Men…totally useless,’ the woman muttered bitterly to herself before she replied. ‘Try the medicine cabinet.’

A door at the rear of the hall exploded open to the sound of screaming, and a girl who had clearly used too much glitter in her hair came running towards us.

‘Mrs P, Mrs P,’ she said, ‘Lucy’s been sick.’

Mrs Prattling made a quick exit, leaving Marnie and I alone.

‘You’ve got to go up there,’ Marnie said, ‘we don’t have much time.’

I nodded, aware that fear had stripped my already pale face of any colour.

‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘Don’t worry about me. Just get up those stairs before she comes back.’

It was hard not to feel wrong about snooping around in somebody else’s house. But I was driven by something greater than the fear of being busted. One way or another I knew that I would leave with the truth.

I had to sneak past a maze of bedrooms and bathrooms before I finally reached the study at the very top of the house. The hum of a laptop computer on the desk told me that the room had only recently been vacated. I would have to be quick if I was to have any hope of finding some clues.

My eyes quickly scanned the many photos that covered the walls. Signed photos of too many second-rate actors littered one entire wall. Most of them had funny messages made out to ‘Duggie’. There was nothing from my Mom.

The desk itself was a mess of paperwork. A shelf above it was the only truly tidy area in the room – it was home to an array of awards. He was obviously proud of those babies.

I was just about to make a closer inspection of the trophies when a huge gangling man came thumping into the room. He didn’t look at all surprised to find me there.

‘I think you’ll find that the loo’s downstairs, lovey,’ he said as he swallowed some painkillers.

‘Don’t wish to be rude or anything,’ he said, taking a gulp from a mug of tea, ‘but I do believe that I may be allergic to twelve year old girls – at least when they are travelling in packs.’

I was frozen to the spot. I knew that I couldn’t leave now.

‘You haven’t got an Oscar then?’ I asked, stupidly.

‘Huh!’ he snorted, ‘you really think I’d be working thirteen hour days on bleeding-heart documentaries if I had one of those babies?’

He collapsed into his old leather chair and massaged his forehead with venom. It was hard to imagine what colour hair he once had – but what little he now had was silver grey.

‘Have you ever met any really big stars?’ I asked, ‘have you ever met Angel?’

‘Please don’t get me started,’ he said, swinging suddenly back on his chair with his hands behind his head. I was hit by an immediate wave of very bad body odour.

‘I worked with Angel all right,’ he said. ‘Knew her before she made it really big; even back then she behaved like a complete madam. Issuing orders to me like she was the director, you know. I was glad to see the back of her, believe me.’

‘Of course, they’re all the same, you know, these people and their demands. Take my advice,’ he said, looking at me with his sulky eyes, ‘and stay well clear of the lot of them. They may get paid millions – but they’re not worth a tuppence.’

‘Anyway,’ he said, moving his chair in towards his desk, ‘it’s been a pleasure, but if you’d shut the door on your way out I’d be most grateful. Hop along now, there’s a love.’

I didn’t waste any time in making my exit. As instructed, I pulled the door behind me and took a large breath of fresh air; glad that I would not have to worry about inheriting any significant problems with my sweat glands, and certain that neither of my two remaining potential fathers could possibly be as obnoxious or patronising as Douglas Prattling.

So I was one down, two to go.

Chapter 12

Martina was the last person that I wanted to see that afternoon – particularly as she was smiling. She only ever smiled in my direction when there was trouble heading my way. And this time was no exception.

‘Your Mom has decided that you have gone too far with your latest little spin on the web.’

I tried my usual tactic, which was to ignore her.

‘Listen, I have no idea what it is that you are talking about,’ I said.

But she wouldn’t let me pass her in the hall. She stood with her hands behind her back.

‘Well, let me refresh your memory,’ she said. ‘Does the Cybernetic Dating Agency mean anything to you?’

‘Martina, what you choose to do in your free time is none of my business,’ I said, trying to look surprised. ‘If you want to trawl the Internet looking for love from some fairly suspect nerdy types, then I say good for you.’

Now she looked mad. Her expression made it all worthwhile. Maybe now the control-freak would finally realise that I did not need to diary time with my own Mom!

‘I have had ten calls on my cellphone this afternoon. Most of them seemed to be under the impression that I am some kind of lingerie model.’

This was so much better than the nose job scam. I didn’t even try to hide my joy.

‘Well you wouldn’t be the first person to stretch the truth,’ I said. ‘I hear that these virtual lonely-hearts groups get a lot of that.

She was ignoring my comeback.

‘This cellphone number is private, or at least it was until you published it. Do you realise how serious this is? What if Stephen Spielberg had been calling?’

‘I’m sure he would have called again if it had been important,’ I said, trying to sound confident (but secretly remembering that it was behaviour like this that had landed me in those awful impulse control sessions with Dr Banks).

‘And what about security?’ she said, smiling again. ‘Did you even think about our stalking problem before those busy little fingers of yours started typing up trouble?’

Game over. She totally had me on a technicality.

With a flourish, she produced my Apple iBook from behind her back.

‘Your computer privileges have been terminated,’ she said, finally moving so that I could pass her.

‘And I hope that you enjoyed your day out because you are grounded until Christmas.’

I refused to give her the satisfaction of a response. There was only one way to play this scene; I had to be cool. Martina might have managed to strip me of my computer and my last shred of freedom, but I would deny her the pleasure of any visible display of my misery and frustration. I walked casually towards my room, still smiling.

But she hadn’t quite finished with me.

‘You know I got a very interesting brochure this morning,’ she said, waving a glossy in my direction. ‘It looks like The Sterling Oasis Institute could be the perfect school for you after all. They’ve got great facilities and just the sort of security that you need. Who would have thought that a school in the middle of the Arizona Desert could be so much fun?’

It was a bad end to a bad day.

I carefully closed my bedroom door, took a deep breath and slowly knocked my head against the wall.

Chapters 9 & 10

2007-12-02T05:05:00.001-08:00

Chapter 9

You know, lying is a complicated business.

Actors make their living out of lying. Sure, you can dress it up and call acting an art, if you like, but the fact remains that they get out there and pretend to be something that they are not. And what do they get? They get the applause and the fat paychecks.

But like so much else in life there is one rule for actors and another for us lesser mortals.

The fact was that I was lying to Marnie. And that wasn’t something that I was proud of. But, you know, lying has a sort of a snowball effect. That’s how it goes. You know, you start off using your middle name and wanting a little privacy and before you know it you’re in way over your head. One lie always leads to another.

So why didn’t I just tell Marnie the truth? Well, for one thing I was too selfish. The time that I spent with her was the most fun and the closest to normal that I had ever experienced in my life.

I couldn’t risk losing all of that.

Plus, you know, I had painted Marnie a pretty detailed picture of my life in London. What was I supposed to do? Tell her that none of it was true? Tell her that my cover story of a wealthy step-dad (who was paranoid and would allow no visitors), my lawyer Mom, and my manny Andre was a complete crock? Nobody would stick around when they had been fed some a complete pack of lies. Nobody. And the truth was that whenever I was with Marnie I felt more authentically like me than I had ever felt before. So I lied about the details. So what?

The fact was that Marnie Bradshaw was the only person on the planet who knew the truth about what was most important to me.

I had finally told her about my search for my Dad after a particularly ugly French lesson. The stress of the late nights did not exactly put me in a particularly positive frame of mind to face the terrors of a class with Madame Le Maistre. Our French teacher seemed to be intent on using my pathetic accent and grammar as some sort of cautionary tale to the other girls in the class.

Now I know that most Europeans think that Americans are just lazy when it comes to learning foreign languages. But the fact is that most Americans – at least most Californians – do speak a second language. I have been taking Spanish lessons since the age of five. The whole Hispanic thing is so cool.

But St Saviour’s had no Spanish stream. A language course was mandatory but the choice was strictly limited to Latin or French. (Tell me, please, why would any girl waste her time learning to speak a dead language???) So the choice of French was a no-brainer.

Big mistake. Huge mistake. For a start Madame le Maistre refused to speak anything but French. (Was I supposed to learn through some sort of osmosis or something??). And for another thing my accent sucked. It was a complete embarrassment. At best I sounded like I was afflicted with severe nasal congestion and a serious speech impediment. And Madame le Maistre’s insistence that I read in front of the class didn’t exactly help me to improve. In fact, my stuttering and blushing did nothing but entertain Christine Smythe and her bunch of lame-brains.

My confession to Marnie came in the post-traumatic afterglow that always followed one of those torture sessions. I guess I was pretty quiet as we made through the maze of corridors, on our way to the science laboratory for our next class.

‘You know you mustn’t let Christine get to you,’ said Marnie.

‘What?’ I said distractedly, ‘what do you mean about Christine?’

‘She was totally out of order,’ said Marnie. ‘Honestly, if her family wasn’t practically funding this school you can be sure that she would have had her arse kicked in the direction of Mrs Butler-Masterson’s office. Everybody heard her snorting and sniggering while you were trying to read that passage. It must have been very off-putting for you. But I really wouldn’t let her get you down, you know.’

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to Marnie.

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘Christine Smythe could paint herself in the French Flag and sing their national anthem for all I care. She’s just another pathetic little spoilt brat who needs to be taught a lesson, and one day, believe me I will teach her a lesson that she will never forget. Christine Smythe does not have the power to make me feel bad.’

‘So what’s up?’ asked Marnie.

I started walking again as I figured out my reply.

‘Remember when I told you that I wasn’t sure if I had a Dad or not?’ I said.

‘It’s not the sort of answer that you forget in a hurry,’ said Marnie.

‘Well, I’ve been digging around, you know. Nobody knows about this. It’s a complete and total secret. But I’ve come up with a list of three names and I know for a fact that one of them is my Dad.’

It was Marnie’s turn to come to a halt.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said, ‘bloody hell ! This is enormous.. in a fab way..! What are you going to do?’

‘Well I can’t do anything until I get my hands on some phone numbers or some addresses you know. But I might need some help.’

‘Anything,’ she said as she beamed a gap-toothed smile, ‘anything.’

My anxiety level lowered a significant notch or two. At least it did until I noticed the enormous exam schedule that had been posted on our notice board.

Exams had never rattled me back home. I mean, I knew that I was smart and I could always nail pretty much any paper. Plus, of course, in my old school it had practically been a federal offence to do anything that might injure the self-esteem of the already hugely-confident and rich students. So Little Johnny could never really fail a class, even if he tried. Just showing up pretty well guaranteed that he might ‘look forward to reaching a higher potential.’

But Mrs Butler-Masterson ran a much tighter ship. Exams were regular and public rites of cruelty. All exam results were published on school noticeboards and the shame of failure in any subject was made all the more public by the additional listing of all girls who would be required to sit repeat exams in the next term.

There was no way that I was going to be branded a failure. I knew that I needed to squeeze in some serious French revision before the holidays. Although something told me that only the intervention of a miracle would save me from a wipeout in my least favourite subject.

But Marnie wasn’t looking at the schedule of exams.

She was staring at another new addition to the notice board. It was the poster that invited applicants for the annual debating championship and it had only one signature; Christine Smythe. Marnie didn’t have to say anything. I knew what she was thinking. This was my perfect opportunity to teach Christine a lesson; it was definitely payback time.

I signed my name onto the poster with a dramatic flourish.

Honestly, you’d think that I would have learnt something from my experience with Bo Hoppermann and all of my subsequent sessions with Dr Banks, but when the opportunity arose to publicly humiliate Christine Smythe with the full blessing of the school, I could not let it pass. So what if debating had never been my thing? My talent for arguing was well-recognised at home.

I knew that Andre wasn’t exactly paying me a compliment on the days that he swore that I would make a great lawyer. But the fact remained that I knew how to argue my corner.

And Christine Smythe needed to be taught a very public lesson.

Three Other Notorious Mistakes That I Have Made When I Have Acted on Impulse
(besides signing up for the debate contest and the infamous Bo Hoppermann incident)

1 Well there was that time that I locked my nanny in the poolhouse, although in my defence, the woman was a witch and anyway, what is a six year old girl supposed to do when their care-giver fails to understand that she has no interest in going to any stupid ballet lessons?
2 And who could forget the unfortunate incident of the photographer who got a little more than he bargained for when he turned his lens on me and my Mom on our last ever outing to a fast-food restaurant…Who knew that the cost of repairing that sort of high-tech snooping equipment when it’s had just a little milk shake damage?
3 This one is strictly between you and me…but Martina may have another little surprise coming her way courtesy of the Web.

Chapter 10

The fact that I was actually looking forward to a little retail therapy should have been a huge signal to me that I was not myself. If people hadn’t been so excited about our exclusive visit to London’s biggest department store then they might have even checked to see if I was running a fever. It was totally out of character for me to tag alone to one of these celebrity expeditions without putting up some sort of fight.

But somehow I hadn’t got the energy to fight anymore. It occurred to me that I had bitten off more than I could chew. Things were not going well. I wasn’t getting any further in my search for the contact details of my possible dads. Marnie didn’t even know who I really was. There was every chance that I was going to fail the French test and I had been dumb enough to volunteer to make a fool of myself in front of the whole school. Everything that I touched seemed to get all messed up. And the worst thing was that I couldn’t even tell anyone the whole story.

Lying could be a lonely business.

So even though Mom didn’t know what I was thinking, I was grateful for the chance to be with her for a mindless evening of shopping. I listened to her tales of the terrors involved in making an English period drama without complaint, as we travelled though the streets of London in a limo that was roughly the size of a bus. I didn’t even tell her to drop the phoney English accent that she had adopted since we had arrived in London.

Normally I couldn’t stand the fawning shop assistants that were an inevitable part of these private evenings. But the store was the size of an impressive shopping mall, and the only staff present seemed to consist of two matronly personal shoppers who did not look as though they would be reaching for their autograph books anytime soon.

Mom made her usual ‘surprise’ gesture of announcing that every member of the team had exactly one hour to choose three Christmas gifts each – no expense spared. Once Andre and the others had disappeared, I was glad to have a little time alone with my Mom. I didn’t even try to escape when she gave me one of her embarrassing hugs.

‘Are you happy honey?’ she asked.

I nodded yes immediately, because in that precise moment I knew that I was; I finally had Mom all to myself.

‘Tell me,’ she said as she held me just far enough away from her so that she could look into my eyes. ‘Tell me what you want.’

Suddenly I could feel the truth welling up in me like a huge eruption that was just below the surface. Maybe I could be honest with my Mom? Maybe I could tell her that I really had to know where I came from and that I really had to know my whole family?

But before I could speak excitement had gotten the better of Mom.

‘I’ll bet you want a neat little MP3 player!’ she said.

Probably that was the point where I really should have thrown some sort of a hissy fit. Biting my tongue then probably left me with no option but to go skulking around behind my Mom’s back, lying to everyone.

Who knows what she would have done if I had spoken the words that I had really wanted to say?

I want to know my Dad.
I want a family.
I want to be normal.

But as usual the truth didn’t even come a close second to the promise of a little retail therapy.

Chapter 8

2007-11-28T13:13:00.000-08:00

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

Chapters 6 and 7

2007-11-25T05:28:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6

Two words sprang to mind the first time that I saw Marnie Bradshaw – bad haircut. Her curly brown locks looked as though they had been styled with the assistance of a bowl. The effect was anything but flattering. But her wild hair was only my first clue that Marnie was also an outsider in a classroom of sleekly-straightened identikit ‘young ladies’. Then there were the shoes… Rich kids will always find a way to display clues to their inappropriately large allowances and overindulgent parents. And when faced with the restrictions of St Saviours’ uniform policy, the girls in my new class had obviously opted to invest in accessories. There were some seriously expensive bags and some shockingly expensive shoes (even though they were restricted to the colour black). It was all too depressingly familiar.

So it was a relief to be sat next to Marnie. With her bad hair and cheap shoes she was obviously the most interesting girl in the class. Not that I had any plans to make friends, you understand.

But if there is one thing that I hate more than anything in the world (even more than I hate gossip sheets and photographers), it is a bully. So what was I supposed to do when I saw Christine Smythe deliberately drop her maths textbook for the second time when it was Marnie’s job to gather them after class had finished?

‘I’ve seen preschoolers with better co-ordination than that,’ I said from my seat at the front of the class.

Marnie smiled as she picked up Christine’s book for the second time.

‘It’s no problem,’ Marnie said, obviously keen to avoid an argument.

‘Well if it isn’t our new American friend – Plain Jayne isn’t it? Daddy send you over here for a proper education did he?’ said Christine.

Like popular girls everywhere Christine Smythe sat surrounded by a posse of mindless followers, that were now all staring in my direction. Was I actually supposed to be intimidated or something? I mean, please….. I had seen girls like Christine before, and I was not about to cave into her scare tactics.

‘Well I guess it’s just lucky that he didn’t send me here for an education in manners,’ I said.

Christine smiled and stared at me in mock horror as she proceeded to toss at least five more textbooks from Marnie’s arms with a swift flick of her hand.

‘In my experience it’s usually only dogs who have trouble in clearing up their own mess,’ I said, ‘and bitches, of course.’

A loud and anonymous sniggering from the back of the classroom wiped the smile from Christine Smythe’s face. The popular posse froze and Marnie left the textbooks where they had fallen. It was a high noon sort of moment. Somebody was bound to lose and I had no plans to back down.

But we were interrupted by the loud and late arrival of Miss Moore. It was time for the English lesson. The flurry of activity from the class was only a temporary relief from the war that was bound to follow.

Marnie came and sat next to me during lunch break. And even though I had hidden myself in the darkest corner of the huge old dining hall to avoid interruption, I was grateful for the company.

‘I see you’ve decided to skip the school dinner,’ she said pointing to my tray of uneaten food.

I nodded.

‘I make it a rule never to eat anything that I cannot identify,’ I said. ‘But you’re obviously prepared to live life on the edge.’

Marnie was hoovering up a plateful of an unidentifiable yellow goo.

‘When you’re a scholarship girl you learn to eat whatever you are given,’ she said smiling, ‘anyway the trick is to recognise the difference between the custard and the macaroni cheese. You really do not want to try the custard.’

‘By the way, my name is Marnie, Marnie Bradshaw.’

‘I’m Jayne Drew,’ I said, noticing how easily that that first lie just rolled off my tongue.

‘Thanks for standing up for me in class,’ she said, ‘but I should warn you that Christine’s family packs a pretty powerful punch in this school – in fact you’re now sitting in the Smythe dining hall.’

I looked around the huge, dark expanse of panelled wood and shrugged my shoulders.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’ve met her type before.’

‘What type’s that then?’ asked Marnie, sitting next to me.

‘Oh, you know,’ I said shrugging, ‘the Popular Girl – the sort who’s only happy when she’s worshipped by an army of sad Wannabes. Rich Daddies generally go with the turf.’

‘I think you’ll find that just about everyone in this school has a rich Daddy lurking about somewhere,’ said Marnie. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ I said as I thought about the video that was stashed in my bag. ‘How about you?’

‘No Daddy at all, I’m afraid. He died before I was born,’ she said, ‘not that he was ever rich.’

There was no witty comeback to an answer like that. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but I didn’t want to sound like I was commiserating with her for being poor or something.

But Marnie was quick to rescue me once she saw me squirm.

‘Was that too much information?’ she asked brightly.

‘Please,’ I said, ‘I’m from California – personal boundaries there are as rare as the rain. And I’m sorry about your Dad. I just thought that the English were more reserved, you know, the whole stiff-upper-lip thing?’

‘Well I prefer to tell it like it is,’ said Marnie. ‘There’s no point in dancing around the truth is there? It only ever comes back to bite you in the bum.’

And then she smiled a huge gap-toothed smile that clearly demonstrated the fact that the Universe had never intended for Marnie Bradshaw to blend into any background.

For the second time in a single day I couldn’t help but smile.

The Power of the Popular Girl
(or 5 reasons why evil little power-mongers like Christine Smythe tend to rule in school)

1 Genetic Inheritence – a depressingly high number of students will always think that beautiful people are somehow better people
2 Intimidation – most students would rather be dishing the dirt than eating it
3 Gathering of Wannabes – PGs cannot exist without followers; PG posses are always formed by second-rate clones with an unhealthy need to be liked
4 General spinelessness – most students are just too scared to tell the popular girl (and her posse) to get lost
5 Inevitability – somebody’s got to wear the crown (or at least think that they do)

Chapter 7

I wasn’t exactly surprised to find that our huge mansion lacked a VCR. Mom’s style was modern. She loved all of the latest gizmos and gadgets. And being a 21st century kind of Mom, she had replaced her huge video collection with an even more enormous collection of dvds.

Where would I find a VCR without arousing any suspicion?

Only one answer sprang to mind. I would have to ask Peter…

I ditched the uniform and changed into some comfortable old jeans before I crossed the back yard and headed for Peter’s small apartment. The video was hidden inside my school bag.

This time I knocked on the door, and as I stood waiting for a response I tried to think of a convincing cover story for my bizarre request. Nothing sprang to mind.

Peter opened the door with a piece of toast in his hand. He did not look surprised to see me. Without saying a word, he ushered me inside. It was kind of distracting to notice that despite the fact that he was still wearing his uniform, he somehow managed to make it look good…

Oh no, was I staring?

‘Can I help you with something?’ he asked.

‘What makes you think that I want anything?’ I replied.

‘This is a social visit then,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You couldn’t resist the smell of my cooking.’

He pointed towards the pot of baked beans that was bubbling away on the small stove. Was I blushing? How was it that Peter Worthing seemed to have a knack for making me feel uncomfortable?

I forced myself to look him in the eye and to hold his gaze.

‘I was wondering if you had a VCR that I could use?’ I asked.

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I can drop it up to you after football practice.’

‘No, no,’ I said, too quickly. ‘I just need to get some information off this old video. It will only take a couple of minutes.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Peter, pointing towards the video player in the corner of the room.

I set the player onto fast-forward as Peter examined the empty ‘Starship Survivors’ box. As soon as the credits began to roll I freeze-framed the pages that I needed and quickly copied the names into my notebook.

‘What’s this for?’ asked Peter suspiciously.

‘School project,’ I lied, as I packed the precious names into my purse.

‘Wow,’ said Peter, ‘I didn’t know that St Saviour’s Academy for Young Ladies ran classes in obscure sci-fi flicks.’

‘It’s more of a surprise for my Mom,’ I said, aware that I was a very bad liar.

Peter returned the box to me.

‘I don’t know what you’re up to,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to be involved.’

My first impression of Peter Worthing had been correct. He was a very rude boy.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I won’t be bothering you again.’

Six Reasons Why I Should Quit Thinking About Peter Worthing

1 I have never approved of any form of boy-craziness
2 He’s rude
3 Teenage hormones cloud good judgement
4 He thinks I am nothing but a spoilt brat
5 Like most cute boys – he probably knows he’s cute
6 He is too attached to his soccer ball - clearly sports obsessed

Chapter 5

2007-11-22T03:14:00.000-08:00

I didn’t expect to sleep.

But then again, nothing about my first full day in London had exactly been as I’d expected. Maybe my brain just needed to shutdown for a few hours to process everything, because I just couldn’t fight the urge to sleep, no matter how hard I clutched onto the video..

And then I heard Andre.

‘Time to go Bliss,’ he chirped. ‘We’re leaving in twenty.’

Mornings were not my thing. I staggered around, searching for a light switch before I finally replied.

‘What happened to the Sun?’ I asked, groaning loudly.

‘You can be our little beam of California sunshine,’ said Andre. ‘See you in the kitchen.’

I grunted as I made my way into the shower. There was no point in even trying to think before I had been blasted back into life.

I slumped against the shower cubicle, remembering snatches of my dreams. As I shampooed my hair I slowly began to regain my focus.

It wasn’t as though I had never wondered about my Dad. I mean, somebody had to be responsible for the red hair. And even though most of the kids at school seemed to treat their Dads like walking ATMs, a part of me knew that I was missing out on the total family experience. But by the age of five I had learned to stop asking questions. Mom always cried and her answer was always the same – she always said that he was dead. Talk about stonewalling!

And even though I never really gave the subject much thought, I guess a part of me always knew she was lying. I mean, where were the photos, where was the grave?

It was definitely no accident that Mom had never told me anything about shooting a movie in England the year before I was born. She had obviously met my Dad on that set …

But there was no time for daydreaming, I had to get to school.

By the time I arrived downstairs into the kitchen I was actually smiling. This was pretty extreme and unexpected behaviour from me on a regular morning and given the mitigating circumstances of the uniform and the miserable darkness, the fact of my smiling was, frankly, utterly freakish. And if anyone had taken the time to look they would have guessed that I was up to something serious. But everyone was either too busy or too nervous about causing another uniform-related incident to even look in my direction.

I sucked down a smoothie and stuffed a pack of Oreo cookies into the pocket of my jacket.

Of course it was a mistake to let Andre take me to school that first morning. London roads were nothing like the open freeways of LA. And then there was the added complication of the weather. But the opportunity to ride in the flashy little VW Beetle that Andre had arranged for his own use in London was not to be missed when the only alternative was the limo that taxied Mom around everywhere. The new Jayne Drew would be an inconspicuous new arrival. If I ever got there…. I swear it took Andre at least fifteen minutes to clear the windscreen of a thick layer of ice. And by the time that the doors to our private courtyard were finally opened, I was so knocked out by the heaters that were working full blast that I almost forgot to dive in order to avoid the paparazzi that were already camped out on our doorstep.

By the time I looked up for air and remembered that we were driving on the wrong side of the road for a reason, we were already lost. Andre’s poor sense of direction was matched only by his total lack of concentration. In the end it was more luck than talent that finally delivered us to the gates of ‘St Saviour’s School for Young Ladies’ in one piece and just about on time.

I knew that I had to act fast to shake myself free of Andre’s concerned clutches.

He looked up at the big old Victorian entrance to the school with an expression that was clearly worried. On a dark rainy morning it was not exactly what you could call inviting. But I knew that if I showed any sign of crumbling then Andre would have insisted on accompanying me to the Principal’s office and I was sure that nothing as loud as his shirt had been seen behind those walls since the last royal visit.

‘Sweetie, have you thought about home-schooling?’ he asked.

‘Haven’t you heard?’ I replied darkly, ‘it’s either this or some Celebrity-Spawn boarding school.’

I shot him the sort of withering look that I always used in sticky situations. But that wasn’t enough to stop him from grabbing my hand before I could make a quick exit.

‘Hold your head up high in there,’ he said in the sort of high-pitched voice that usually came before tears. But he managed to get it together just enough to make a typical Andre joke. ‘I mean if they are going to make you wear those clothes, the least you can do is to work them with a little attitude.’

And so I made my way to the huge wooden entrance doors in the knowledge that Andre would have to navigate his way back home with some very puffy eyes.

But before I could think too much about it, I was swept inside the building on a sea of particularly ugly green jackets. It was only on the ear-splitting ringing of what sounded like a fire alarm, but was in fact the school bell, that my tummy started to do backflips. Suddenly the dark wooden corridors emptied and I became painfully aware of the alien environment that was my new school. What was I doing there? Just for a second my fingers brushed against the cell phone in my pocket. It wasn’t too late to call in the cavalry. Andre was probably still trying to navigate his way around the many roundabouts that had littered our route to school.

But before I could bolt I had my first encounter with a member of staff. At least I figured that a middle-aged woman wearing the sort of black cape that would have been strictly limited to Halloween back home, must have been a teacher. Frankly the woman was dizzy. With clothes and hair that looked as though she had only just rolled out of bed, she broke the cardinal rule of school corridors around the world – she was running.

‘Come, come,’ she gasped, ‘we mustn’t be late for assembly.’

I got the distinct impression that she was talking to herself as much as to me. She took a deep breath before she opened one of the many doors that lined the corridor.

‘Oh dear, Mrs Butler-Masterson has already started,’ she said as she ushered me inside.

And so I found myself standing at the back of a huge hall that was packed full of girls, each one looking like some badly-dressed clone. All eyes were focused straight ahead towards the source of a voice that managed to deliver the refined tones of the Queen’s English with the full force of a Marine Corps Sergeant. Mrs Butler-Masterson looked like a demented Brownie leader with some very serious control issues. She was obviously mid-flow.

‘…I should not have to remind anyone here that a St Saviour’s girl must always conduct herself like a lady. Cavorting with the young men of Saint Ignatius Loyola does not approach my clear code of acceptable ladylike behaviour. So long as you appear in public wearing the respected uniform of St Saviours’, you must consider yourself to be a representative of this establishment. Anyone found outside these premises during school hours, without my prior approval will be suspended.’

The total silence that followed this threat was only broken by the amateurish attempts of my dizzy teacher friend to mount the stage where all of the other teachers were assembled without attracting the attention of the world’s scariest principal. Her noisy entrance was met with an icy glare.

‘Good morning Miss Moore,’ said Mrs Butler-Masterson, ‘perhaps you would care to lead us in our school anthem.’

The giggling of some girls next to me gave some clue that Miss Moore’s gifts were not exactly in the musical department. She looked as though she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole as she approached the podium.

My Mom has always told me that you need to be at least a little nervous before you perform – it keeps you on your toes. Frankly, if all you needed was anxiety then Miss Moore would have been a sensation. But what she delivered in stage-fright she clearly lacked in talent.

It was embarrassing; although, to be fair, she wasn’t exactly working with quality material. If the St Saviours song was any indication of things to come then things were looking pretty grim. Thankfully, Miss Moore’s painful solo was rescued (after only one verse) by the intervention of a piano and the voices of all of the other girls in the huge hall. And although the effect was almost angelic it was a painful reminder to me that I was an outsider and a very long way from home.

It was only when the singing ended and the hall began to empty that I remembered that I still had no clue where I was supposed to be. Seizing the opportunity, I pushed myself against the tide of exiting girls and towards the formidable figure of Mrs Butler-Masterson.

Worried that she would exit stage left before I could reach her, I called out to her. ‘Excuse me, Principal.’

The effect was immediate; everyone in the vicinity just froze. Something told me that I had gotten off to a pretty bad start as Mrs Butler-Masterson came sweeping towards me.

But I had no intention of being a victim to anyone. I stood my ground. Andre always said that confidence is something that you have got to fake until you feel. So I drew myself up to my full height and took a deep breath. Let me tell you though, it’s hard to make a good impression when you are practically talking to somebody’s knees. Mrs Butler-Masterson was made of the same huge proportions as Bob, and standing on that stage gave her at least another two feet advantage.

‘I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’ she said.

I decided to ignore the sarcastic tone.

‘The name is Jayne Drew, Principal. I’m just starting here today.’

‘Ah yes,’ she said, ‘the American girl.’

Trust me, she was definitely not thrilled to meet me. And as she examined me with a mixture of suspicion and disgust, I became aware that our little production had gathered quite an audience. This was so not the low-key introduction that I had planned.

‘There are three things that you need to understand Miss Drew, if you are to be a student of St Saviours,’ she hissed. ‘Firstly, there has never been a Principal of this establishment in the four hundred years since it was founded. I am the headmistress. Secondly, no student of this school – even an American student – is permitted to raise her voice, particularly when they are addressing me. And thirdly, you will familiarise yourself with our rules and our code of conduct as you will find that I make no exceptions – even for you.’

I swear she was this close to blowing my cover. I had to speak up fast.

‘It won’t happen again headmistress.’

I tried to sound cool without being disrespectful. Somehow, I must have struck the right note because she suddenly turned her attention to one of her underlings.

‘Have this girl inducted,’ she said in a voice that seemed to suggest that I had been lucky to avoid a firing squad.

So this was the last thing standing between me and some boarding school for rich brats? I took a deep breath and tried to remember if I had learned any useful coping tips from Dr Black; none sprang to mind.

Something told me that I would have trouble in keeping out of trouble in St Saviours.

Three Alternative Careers for Mrs Butler-Masterson

1 Prison Warden
2 Marine Corps Sergeant
3 Personal Assistant to my Mom

Chapters 3 & 4!

2007-11-18T06:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3

I know that most people could never get lost in a house, but when you consider that the house that Mom had rented in London was of the same massive proportions as a very old museum then you might come to understand how I got lost on that first day. Just as I was starting to feel like a rat trapped in a maze, I spotted a door that led to the back yard. And even though I was still dressed in the horrible uniform, I decided that a little air might help me to recover my sense of direction.

It was only when I stepped outside and heard the lock click shut behind me that I realized my mistake.

Even as I yanked at the handle, I knew the situation was hopeless. Security was always a serious business in our homes. I had to find another entrance or someone who could help me. The gloomy sky and the freezing temperature meant that there was no time to waste.

Tapping at the huge, old windows got me nowhere – all of the rooms that I could access were empty. After about twenty minutes and just as the rain began to fall, I considered throwing a rock though one of the windows; that would certainly get someone’s attention, but I didn’t want to start life in London with the fallout that an act like that would produce.

I looked around for inspiration as the thunder clapped and a heavy downpour began. And it was then that I spotted the steps that led down to a basement door. I ran with my jacket held over my head for some sort of protection from the deluge (a totally pointless exercise – I was already soaked through). Without thinking, I threw my weight against the door, expecting that it too would be locked. But before I knew what was happening I found myself skidding through a room that looked nothing like anything you would expect to find in our expensive property. The linoleum-covered floor was slippery and I struggled to remain standing before I finally came to an abrupt stop next to an old dining table.

I knew immediately that I was not alone and I tried to regain some sort of composure before I looked up. I pulled my dripping hair from my face and saw a boy of about my own age. He was balancing a soccer ball on top of his right foot and he was staring at me. At that moment, I couldn’t remember a time when I had been more embarrassed.

‘It’s rude to stare,’ I snapped. (So, okay, I can be a little rude when I’m nervous).

The boy did not respond, but instead he began to bounce the soccer ball from foot to foot and then to his knee. He was obviously some sort of show-off. His silence unnerved me.

‘Look, who are you?’ I asked.

Suddenly he stopped bouncing the ball. He held the ball under one arm as he regarded me with an expression that did not even try to hide his contempt.

‘Well there is no need to ask who you are,’ he answered. His accent was English, but not the fake kind of snooty drawl that Sebastian had been teaching Mom, I guessed that it was an authentic London accent.

‘You must be the daughter of the big Hollywood star,’ he said, sounding less than impressed. ‘My name is Peter Worthing,’ he said crossing the room to shut the open door that was now letting all of the rain in. ‘I know you’ve only just arrived, but you’ll find that over here we have a quaint little habit of knocking on somebody’s door before we just come barging in.’

He looked mad. But I was not about to give him the satisfaction of an apology. And so what if he was what CoCo would have described as boycandy? That floppy dark hair and those green eyes might have worked on some girls, but not on me. Peter Worthing (whoever he was) was obviously very rude, but he was not going to push me around. I started to explain myself.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know anyone else was living here. We just arrived this morning.’

Peter sighed; he was clearly unimpressed.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘that we have had photographers parked outside the front door ever since the press got word that your Mother would be renting this place?’

‘Welcome to my world,’ I said.

‘You’ll find,’ he said, ‘that even though I live downstairs, I am a whole universe removed from your world.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.

‘My Dad’s the caretaker here,’ he said sharply. ‘We actually work for a living.’

I opened my mouth, intending to put up some sort of defence for Mom and her assortment of assistants, but I decided not to.

‘Look,’ I said, trying to sound casual, ‘ can you show me a way back into the house? I’ve locked myself out.’

He sniggered.

‘Just for future reference,’ he said, ‘we would prefer it if you did not access your house through our humble flat. Just consider this the servant’s entrance.’

Things had gotten off to a miserable start. But since we were going to have to share the same space for the immediate future, I decided to demonstrate to him that I was not some spoilt Hollywood brat. As he led me through the cramped apartment I spotted a familiar toy.

‘Hey,’ I said, ‘you’ve got the same model of computer as my friend J.K. – and he’s a complete techno-maniac.’

For the first time since our meeting, Peter smiled.

‘Your friend has excellent taste,’ said Peter as he stopped to admire his own computer. He pointed to a brochure that was pinned to the wall next to the desk, ‘Next Spring I’m going to buy that laptop.’

‘Yeah, cool,’ I said nodding, ‘J.K. has one of those too.’

Peter’s smile dissolved.

‘I expect J.K. also has a rich daddy,’ he said. ‘I’m saving every penny that I earn.’

‘You work?’ I said (in the kind of astonished tone that he probably expected from a spoilt Celebrity Spawn).

‘Nothing to get excited about,’ he said as he opened the door that led into the main house. ‘I spend my weekends helping out in a store that sells computers like that.’

I looked down at the floor, knowing that there really was no comeback to that, when I noticed just how foreign the linoleum of Peter’s apartment looked next to the marble of our house. Maybe we really were from different worlds after all..

Chapter 4

I was relieved that Mom would be filming the night before my first day at my new London school. The last thing I needed was some sugar-coated lecture on the exciting possibilities of a new life experience (barf!). My introduction to life in England hadn’t exactly gotten off to a great start. And as I lay on my bed and regarded the plaid uniform that was hanging outside of my closet, the signs for any immediate improvement in my life were looking pretty ominous.

So when I heard a knock on my bedroom door I knew I didn’t want company.

‘I’m not here,’ I yelled.

‘Well, strictly speaking, neither am I,’ said a familiar voice as my bedroom door was flung open.

It was Grandma Ellen!

‘Tell me you’re here to rescue me,’ I said as we hugged.

‘Wish I could Sweetie,’ said Grandma as she tilted my face up towards the light, ‘but I’m in enough trouble as it is.’

She released my face with a dramatic flourish. ‘You know, you have perfect pores. Great genes and youth; if they could only bottle it and sell it then a lot of plastic surgeons would be kissing their Ferarris goodbye.’

Ellen threw herself onto my couch and perched her feet on a huge mound of cushions. She surveyed her feet with irritation.

‘You know all that flying will give me the ankles of an old lady if I am not careful.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ellen,’ I said (I always knew just what to say whenever she was fishing for a compliment). ‘But you really should wear comfortable shoes when you fly.’

‘Now Bliss,’ said Ellen, ‘you know that I am a simple creature. But I do have my standards and unlike your Mom I refuse to be seen in public wearing any item of clothing with the word sweat in its name. You can tell what kind of a person someone is by looking at their shoes, and these Jimmy Choos are my simple way of announcing to the world that I have a commitment to all that is fabulous. Besides, isn’t it a sin to hide your light under a bushel?’

I looked at the diamond-studded shoes with the killer heels and smiled my reply. Nobody could accuse Ellen of being a shrinking violet.

‘Didn’t Mom just send you on a cruise?’ I asked.

‘Now I really do not want to badmouth your Mom,’ said Ellen, ‘but the woman went and put me on a slow boat to China. And I mean literally. She said it would be a lovely surprise. And the next thing I know I’m cruising down the Yangtze River with a bunch of people who looked like they had just escaped from a retirement home! Can you believe it? I mean I enjoy a little culture as much as the next person, but if I never see another temple again it will be too soon… In the end I had to fake appendicitis just so they’d evacuate me to Hong Kong. Frankly, why anyone would choose to sail through some old ruins when there are some SERIOUSLY marvellous shoe shops and spas just a short hop away is quite simply beyond me. I don’t know what your Mom was thinking.’

I was pretty confident I knew exactly what Mom was thinking, but I kept my mouth shut. I doubted that Ellen wanted to be reminded of Enrique – a young souvenir from her last cruise who turned out to be a complete love rat. His name had not been mentioned since he jilted her just days before they had planned their wedding. Mom probably figured that dancers like Enrique did not feature heavily on the itinerary of a cultural cruise of the Yangtze.

‘Of course, she wanted me out of the way, you know,’ said Ellen. ‘She made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want me tagging along on this trip to London. Why she imagined that I could not be trusted to keep a secret I’ll never know.’

Jet-lag had clearly chewed up Ellen’s brain. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I knew exactly why Mom wouldn’t want Ellen in London. My Grandma was not what you might call publicity shy. The last thing Mom needed was the worry of a surprise appearance by Ellen in the British media. It made perfect sense.

‘So you’re not staying?’ I asked, disappointed.

‘Sorry kiddo, but this is what you might call a flying visit. There’s a car waiting outside to transfer me to the private jet that an old pal of mine has sent to collect me. I can’t be expected to celebrate the New Year in Aspen until I’ve ironed out some of these creases,’ she said, pointing to her face. ‘And there’s an amazing clinic in Switzerland that can squeeze me in if I hurry.’

‘Can I come?’ I asked, being deliberately pathetic.

‘Just thank your lucky stars that you have at least another decade before you need to start thinking about finding a great surgeon,’ said Ellen. ‘What’s up? Is Angel giving you a hard time?’

I pointed to the uniform and watched Ellen shudder.

‘I either make it work in some all-girls school tomorrow or I’ll be sent to a boarding school in Arizona.’

‘What,’ said Ellen, ‘absolutely no boys?’

‘I’m not worried about there being no boys.’

‘Give it time,’ said Ellen.

‘I just want to go home,’ I said.

‘Listen Bliss,’ said Ellen, suddenly sitting up, ‘I’m gonna tell you something I told your Mom a long time ago; home is not a place – being home means being together. And right now you need to be with your Mom. Sure, I know she can be a little intense. But everything happens for a reason. And you have got to believe that you are here for a very good reason.’

There was a tap on my door as Bob, Mom’s head of security, announced his arrival.

‘Excuse me Ellen, ‘ he said, ‘but your driver says you need to leave now.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Ellen, ‘just give us a minute please.’

Ellen waited to see Bob disappear from view before reaching into her huge Chanel purse. She rummaged around before she produced a gift and she carefully placed it into my hands.

‘I believe you have a right to this,’ she said with uncharacteristic seriousness. ‘Your Mom will not be happy with me; I know that. But even so, I want you to talk with her once you’ve had a chance to think. Don’t worry about getting me into trouble. It’s not as though your Mom can send me away to boarding school. If I can handle a cultural cruise up the Yangtze, I can handle anything.’

Ellen hugged me tight and left as quickly and as unexpectedly as she had arrived. The only proof I had of her visit was the gift in my hand. It was impossible to imagine just what it was about this particular tastefully-wrapped offering that could upset my Mom. Ellen’s gifts were usually expensive, designer-label accessories. Unless the box contained my passport and a ticket to Los Angeles it was unlikely to rock my world. As I ripped at the box is soon became clear that it contained nothing more exciting than a video…

Why had Ellen given me some old video that had been too lame to even make it to dvd?

I examined the cover for evidence. The movie had clearly been produced by a London studio – their Union Jack logo was sprawled next to the movie title. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that ‘Starship Survivors’ was some sort of a sci-fi creation. How old was it? There was the date, it was a year older than me..

Wait a minute, was that my Mom’s face??

Suddenly I had a bing-bing-bing moment all of my own.

Mom had been talking about London for months before this trip, but she had never mentioned the fact that she had already shot a movie in England. And it was not in her nature to miss even the tiniest triumph from her hugely successful career. I could have sworn that I knew every last boring detail of Angel’s career, from her first job as the ‘Betsy Bubbles Baby’ right up to her last Golden Globe. But this English film was news to me. Something was definitely up.

I stared at the video with renewed interest.

There was only one possible explanation, because there was only one huge skeleton in our family cupboard. There was one question that was never answered. There was one discussion-free zone.

My heart suddenly felt as though it would jump right out of my chest. Because I knew, I just knew, that my Dad’s name was listed somewhere on those credits.

All I had to do now was to find him.

Ten Avoidance Techniques Used by Mom to Avoid Questions about my Dad

1 Tears
2 Hugs
3 Change of subject
4 Treats
5 Grandma
6 Talk of a ‘Universal Family’
7 Phone call
8 Suddenly-remembered appointment
9 Listing of all of the people who really love me
10 Did I mention tears?

Chapter 2

2007-11-14T14:44:00.001-08:00

Nobody had warned me about the plaid.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I actually liked the whole concept of a school uniform. A part of me had expected that a uniform would be a liberation from the fashion mafia that seemed to rule my LA school. But as a skinny, pale-skinned and most importantly red-headed girl, the last thing that I would ever choose to wear was a knee-length pleated skirt in bright red plaid. The additional combination of a bottle green jacket and knee-high socks only added to my trauma.

Portia tried to put her own unique spin on the situation.

‘The whole Burberry and plaid thing is such a hot look right now,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s time you wore a little colour. You wear too much black.’

It would have been pointless to have gotten mad at her. This was totally the fault of my Mom. Why would she want to send me to a school that required me to look quite so awful? I mean, what was she thinking? There was no way that I was ever going to set foot inside St Saviours Academy For Young Ladies. She could just forget about that.

I stormed past Portia and headed straight for my Mom’s suite.

Andre stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of me in my Mom’s mirror. The noise of his platinum hairdryer was the only sound to break the awful silence as he and my Mom tried to think of something good to say to that first frightening vision of me in my school uniform.

It was Mom who made the first move. She spun around from the industrial-strength light that she always used for her make-up and she gave me her biggest smile.

‘Honey you look so English!’ she said.

My heart was suddenly filled with compassion for English girls everywhere.

‘You can’t make me go,’ I said, standing my ground.

Mom nodded towards Andre and Portia.

‘Could you give us some time alone?’ she said.

The doors to the suite were closed and Mom patted the seat next to hers, as though she expected me to sit beside her, the way I used to when I was little. I preferred to stand. It was time that she understood that I was not a kid anymore.

‘Honey I know you’re afraid,’ she said.

What made her think that she knew anything about the way that I was feeling? I couldn’t remember the last time that anyone had actually asked for my opinion on anything.

‘I’m scared too,’ she said.

So suddenly we were back to her feelings. It was always about her, wasn’t it?

‘I have to go to the studio today and play a role that isn’t like anything that I have ever done before. It’s very demanding. Honey you’ve seen the volume of work that I have had to put into just working on my English accent. I have to get this right. A lot of people would love to see me fall flat on my face.’

She paused then and I guessed that I was supposed to jump in with some lame expression of sympathy or support, but I wanted to get the conversation back on track. We were supposed to be talking about me.

‘I’m not going to the stupid English school,’ I said.

Martina stuck her head around the door, took a long, lingering look at my embarrassment and announced that the studio car was waiting outside for Mom.

‘Just give me five minutes,’ said Mom, looking tense.

‘Bliss honey, you know I wouldn’t have dragged you half way around the world if I didn’t honestly think that this is for the best, right?’ she said.

‘Best for who?’ I snapped, staring at the reflection of my sickly plaid skirt.

‘Best for all of us,’ said Mom gently holding my hand, ‘and best for our safety.’

I quickly withdrew my hand. Honestly, my Mom really did have an overactive imagination. Just because one of her crazier stalkers had gone missing, I was supposed to go running scared, thousands of miles away from my home and my friends.

‘Nobody wants to hurt me,’ I protested. ‘And besides, no freak is ever going to get past Bob and the rest of your bodyguards, no matter how obsessed he is with you.’

Mom exhaled, still clearly worried, but she attempted a smile.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she said as she stood up. ‘Just try to work with me on this and think of it as a kind of extended vacation. A real slice of British life. And you know what the best part is Bliss? You get to go incognito. For security reasons, Bob has asked the school to register you under your middle name. And I don’t think any of the girls will be bothering Jayne Drew with dumb questions about her famous Mom.’

I tried not to register my pleasure at that little nugget of good news. It was too early to let Mom off the hook. But the fact was that my name had always come between me and my many efforts to live an inconspicuous life. It’s impossible to blend with a name like Bliss, even in Southern California. Honestly, Mom might as well have hung a neon sign around my neck at birth to tell the world that I am some sort of celebrity-bred freak. Going to a new school as plain Jayne Drew actually opened things up to all sorts of exciting possibilities.

Mom clearly saw the need to set some boundaries.

‘But Bliss you have got to remember that this is your last shot. There can be no more problems in this new school. If you cannot make it work here then I will have no option but to put you in a more stable and secure environment.’

‘You mean a boarding school!’ I said.

‘Yes, I do, but only for your own good and only if there are any more problems. Bliss I have tried everything that I can think of. But you have worked your way through six nannies in the last two years. And after that incident with Bo Hoppermann your school back home is not exactly waiting for your with open arms.’

There was no point in explaining that Bo Hoppermann had deserved everything that she had got. I knew that she was the one who had covered my locker with those gossip magazine headlines about my Mom and some guy that I had never heard of. Besides I thought that green was a refreshingly new look for Bo’s normally Barbie blond locks. Honestly, if Bo’s Dad hadn’t been some sort of Governor of the school then the whole thing would have been forgotten about by now.

I threw my eyes up towards the ceiling as Mom made her dramatic exit.

At least now I was free to go to the new school on my own terms.

Chapter 1

2007-11-09T01:39:00.001-08:00

Chapter 1

‘Nobody wants to travel in coach,’ said Sebastian.

Even at 30,000 feet the man had an annoyingly loud voice.

I decided to ignore him. But he fidgeted like a girl in urgent need of the bathroom as he continued to whine.

‘One can see why deep vein thrombosis is the curse of the economy traveller. The whole business is unspeakably barbaric.’

This was going to be a very long journey. It was time to shut him up.

‘Have you ever lost your job at high altitude? Because, trust me, it could be arranged,’ I said.

That seemed to do the trick. He snapped open his copy of ‘The Thespian Times’ and gave the sort of sniff that was usually followed by some bizarre muttered Latin phrase. A part of me almost felt sorry for the old guy. I mean it’s not as if he had wanted to be stuck with me all the way from Los Angeles to London. And believe me, I hadn’t wanted any of this fuss; I had simply wanted to blend. But even with my baseball cap pulled tight over my hair I knew that I could kiss goodbye to any hopes that I might have had for a normal flight.

I had forgotten what it was like to travel with my Mom.

It was just so totally embarrassing.

Personally, if I were trying to travel incognito and actually wanted to avoid the kind of press attention that my Mom is forever complaining about then there are three things that I would never do;
1 Arrive in a parade of limousines
2 Travel with an entourage of conspicuous weirdos
3 Wear shades inside the airport building

My Mom has got to be the most photographed woman on the entire planet, she really does not need any more publicity, but for some insane reason she seems either unable or unwilling to act like a normal person. I mean, regular people seem able to take a flight without the help of a personal assistant, a hairstylist, a personal stylist, a voice coach, a personal trainer and a bodyguard.

The fact is, I cannot remember a time in my life when my Mom and I have travelled anywhere alone. Even when I was little and we still attempted to do normal things like take a trip to the mall, we always had to have at least one bodyguard with us.

You see people tend to go a little crazy when they see my Mom.

All my life I have noticed people as they have noticed my Mom. At first, maybe for a millisecond, they recognise her face but they can’t quite place her. You can almost hear their minds whirring with the possibilities. Is she a neighbour, an old friend or a teacher? And then – bing bing bing! Once they realise that they are, in fact, in the presence of a megastar you can actually see these regular people morph into slack-jawed fans. And let me tell you from experience, fans are capable of anything. Once people have seen my Mom on movie screens and billboards; they think they know her. At the very least they think they deserve a photograph or an autograph. Get too many fans at once and you’d swear that they actually wanted a piece of her.

Travelling with a megastar can be a scary experience. But mostly it is just plain annoying. And weird. It’s pretty well always annoying and weird.

Take this morning as an example.

Andre is supposed to be Mom’s hair stylist so you would think that he would pretty well limit his activities to things hair-related, but for some bizarre reason he had decided to supervise the last-minute packing. A simple task suddenly took on the magnitude of an Arctic expedition.

‘Have you packed enough sweaters?’ he asked Portia. ‘I hear that London is practically ice-bound all Winter. You know I’m sensitive to even small shifts in temperature.’

Portia, Mom’s personal stylist, rolled her eyes and continued to pack the remaining items into one of more than a dozen portable wardrobes that we were taking with us on our trip to England.

‘You’ve got to think season not weather Andre,’ she said. ‘Besides, I hear that the buildings are actually heated over there’.

She turned to face Andre who was busy snooping through her neatly-arranged packing. One look at him and she stood back in mock-horror.

‘What have you done to your face?’ she said.

Andre looked unperturbed. He turned his newly-frozen face up towards the light so that it could be more fully appreciated.

‘You like it?’ he asked. ‘I thought I’d zap those little laughter lines before the British weather turned them into something more permanent.’

‘I’ve told you before,’ said Portia, ‘you’ve got to cool it with those Botox injections. Pretty soon your face will wind up stuck that way; you’ll start to frighten little children’.

Andre gave a cool half-laugh.

‘Portia dear,’ he said, ‘you of all people should know that those lines of yours are never coming back into fashion.’

Portia had no choice but to arm herself with a copy of Vogue. And as I walked down the hall looking for some sane company I heard the distinctive thump of magazine on flesh. Andre really should have known better.

I found Tony exactly where I expected he would be. He was in the gym, working the elliptical trainer as though his life depended on it. And in a way, he probably felt as though it really did. You see looks can be deceptive. And even though he’s my Mom’s personal trainer and is built like a marine, I had long ago figured out that Tony has a major-league fear of flying. Most people put his habit of doing push-ups and squats while flying down to his absolute disapproval of relaxation. But I knew better. Even on short flights he looked like some sort of demented, caged lion. Had he ever even flown long-haul?

He grimaced a smile in my direction when he caught sight of me at the door and I waved to him.

I had to find my Mom. Apart from everything else, I knew that there was just no way that I could spend a whole eleven hours in close proximity to these people, with no workable exits. There was so totally no way that I was going to London. The sooner that Mom understood that the better.

Finding Martina, I knew that Mom could not be far away. But I also knew that it would take more than charm and persistence to get past my Mom’s personal assistant.

‘I thought there was a bad smell,’ I said as Martina blocked my way in the hallway that led to my Mom’s study.

Let’s not beat around the bush here. Martina is evil personified. She’s a power –monger supreme.

A Hollywood PA is powerful for lots of reasons. For one thing, they have access to all of the most important directors, producers and actors in the business. And for another, they get to control the diaries of some of the most popular people on the planet. That’s probably why it’s a position that tends to attract control freaks that like to bask in the reflected glory of somebody else’s talent. Or to put it another way, Martina is a failed actress who likes to over-organise and to generally push people around. She has managed to survive longer than the six months that it normally takes me to encourage these people to move on only because she is ruthlessly efficient. Plus, she is actress enough to disguise her absolute contempt for me whenever my Mom is around.

To be fair, she had her reasons for hating me. I did have a tendency to upset my Mom’s diary. And let’s not forget those pictures of Martina before the nose job that I published on Mom’s web site last month…..

‘She’s busy,’ said Martina, pressing her precious electronic organizer into my chest.

‘What, are you planning to zap me with that thing?’ I asked.

She removed her weapon and smiled a smile that was devoid of any trace of warmth or feeling.

‘We leave in four hours,’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t you be packing?’

I tried to brush past her as I casually made my excuses.

‘I’m not going,’ I said.

She stretched her arm against the wall to block my exit. In the silence of the hallway I could hear my Mom running through her dumb vocal exercises with Sebastian. I had to get to her.

‘Think again,’ said Martina, ‘Mommy seems to think that you could do with a lesson in manners. Personally I think that you’re more suited to military school than you are to a private academy for young ladies in London. Let’s face it, you cause nothing but trouble. And the last thing that your Mom needs while she’s filming in England is the kind of distraction that you are bound to provide. You are the only thing currently standing between your Mom and an Oscar. Honestly Bliss, is nothing sacred to you?’

I knew from experience and from my sessions with Dr Banks, the school shrink, that I was just about to have a ‘hot moment’. At times like these, when my temper threatened to express itself in some sort of ‘inappropriate behaviour’, I knew that I was supposed to breathe deeply, count to ten and wait for the anger to pass. But you know what? I had had enough of Martina. Who was she to tell me what to do and to stop me from seeing my Mom? It seemed to be exactly the appropriate moment for some thoroughly inappropriate behaviour.

So I grabbed her precious electronic organizer and threw it into a nearby vase. It landed with a very satisfying splash.

Martina screamed the scream of some second-rate B movie actress. It was a total over-reaction, but it was enough to bring my Mom and Sebastian running. For a moment it looked like a double-whammy. Martina was freaked and I finally got to see my Mom.

But Mom made up her mind the second she saw Martina fish her dumb gizmo out of the water. She gave me one of those disappointed looks that she seemed to be shooting in my direction a little too regularly and I knew that there was no point in fighting.

I was going to London.

But you know, the fact that I could not escape the punishment did not mean that I could not dictate my own terms. There was no way that I was travelling with them for a second longer than I had to. The whole craziness with the photographers at the airport had been bad enough. I didn’t have to sit surrounded by Mom’s posse in First Class when there was a plane full of perfectly normal people in the rear.

Was it my fault that I was the daughter of the hottest property in Hollywood? Did anyone ever really consider the many downsides that were involved in having a Mom like Angel?

Just for once I wanted to be normal. I wanted to blend and to be free of all of the weirdness for a while.

I wanted to sit in economy like any normal person.

It was just my luck to get stuck with Sebastian. Like I needed some sort of babysitter! Still, once I had finally managed to put an end to his endless whining, I was free to appreciate a little normal company. Not that I actually spoke to anyone. But all around me I got to hear regular people having regular conversations about regular things. Sitting there, where nobody knew that I was Angel’s daughter, I was free, for a few hours, to just be me. Nobody was pointing at me and whispering like I was some sort of freak and nobody was sucking up to me just because I happened to have a famous Mom.

I relaxed for the first time in months.

Maybe the trip to London would not be so bad after all. A new school, a new home, a new life - London might be the fresh slate that I needed. Besides it wasn’t as though my school wanted to see me again until I had ‘addressed some of my issues’. And it wasn’t as though any of my friends would actually miss me… My best friend CoCo seemed to have developed a bad case of lovesickness ever since she had hooked up with her first official boyfriend. (Who knew that boy-crazy hormones could wipe out so many years of loyalty? Lately CoCo had passed up the chance to spend time together if there was even a possibility that dorky David Lindley would call her with a better offer. It was totally pathetic.) And J.K.’s parents had decided to get some use out of the multi-million dollar ship that they laughingly called a yacht for a world cruise to celebrate his recovery from leukaemia – they would be gone for months..

It was definitely time for a change.

Plus, everyone would probably be too busy with Mom’s new movie to bug me too much.

A smile very nearly made a rare appearance on my face.

An overly-polite British air stewardess interrupted my thoughts as she cleared away the food trays. She stalled as she reached over for Sebastian’s tray.

‘Has your Dad finished his drink?’ she asked.

I almost choked on my gum. It was too awful to think that anyone could imagine that I was in any way related to a grumpy old actor like Sebastian.

Besides, I didn’t have anything as normal as a Dad…..

Ten Things I Know About London

1 It rains – a lot

2 People drive on the wrong side of the road

3 There are palaces
(some are even bigger than my Mom’s place)

4 Everyone drinks tea

5 They speak proper English with a strange accent
(from what I hear of Mom’s vocal training with Sebastian, there’s
lots of tight mouths and a serious nasal congestion problem..)

6 The buses are red and people actually use them

7 Some of the buildings are even older than my Grandma

8 The tabloids there are really mean

9 Everyone else is polite

10 Did I mention the crummy weather?

Chapter One of my Latest Book will be posted tomorrow!

2007-11-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

Serialization of my latest teen book starts on my blog tomorrow! So tell your friends and subscribe if you want to get the two new chapters that I'll be posting each week. It'll be fun. If you don't believe me, here's a taste of what you can expect from 'A Very British Sort of Bliss'...

Growing up beneath the watchful gaze of the ever-present paparazzi and seeing your Mom’s tonsils sell for big bucks on eBay can leave a girl with some serious trust issues. So how is Bliss Drew, one very reluctant Celebrity Spawn, supposed to feel when her Mom drags her halfway around the planet to shoot a movie in London? Sure, Bliss’ L.A. school has had enough of her bad behaviour, and there is a whack-job stalking her Mom – but just how is a stint in an English all-girls academy supposed to help?!!

‘A Very British Sort of Bliss’ is the second in a series of teen books centred around Bliss Drew and her attempts to lead a sane and normal life despite her Mom’s huge fame, crazy entourage and annoying fans. This latest book is exclusively available via the author’s blog (from November 9th). New chapters will be added twice every week until the story is complete. Don't forget to subscribe to my blog!

2007-11-06T12:20:00.000-08:00

There is no better feeling in the world than the rush you get when you pass along a book that you have loved to a friend. Like most writers, I am a prolific reader; so I regularly enjoy the pleasure of sharing books with friends. Now I’m planning to take things a little further… I plan to share an entire book here with all of you, chapter by chapter, every Friday and Wednesday (starting November 9th). The good news is you'll never have to worry about other bloggers posting spoilers (hey, I'm the author) and you won't have to pay a cent.

It’s a risky (and some would say crazy) move. But I have a fun story to tell and you look like exactly the kind of person who appreciates a good book. So why not come along for the ride? Maybe, together, we can shake up the way books are published in the 21st century.