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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.