The Other Ida (10 page)

“I've been told to look out for you. Are you Ms Adair?” he asked.

“I am indeed, and this gangly thing is my daughter, believe it or not.”

The man smiled nervously while Bridie guffawed.

The car had tinted windows and Ida couldn't believe it. She was being driven by an actual driver, in a car with blacked-out windows, like she was a film star. She tried to look straight ahead and ignore her mother, to pretend she was Anna DeCosta and that she travelled like this every day. As they drove over Waterloo Bridge she noticed some people stop and stare and it took all the strength she could muster not to wind down the window and wave.
New starlet, Ida Irons, arrives for the premiere of her latest film.

Bridie sighed and turned away from the window. “The thing is, it's the English I hate, any other race I absolutely adore. Where are you from originally?” Bridie asked the driver.

Ida closed her eyes.

“Ummm, well, Ealing,” the man laughed, even more nervously than before and Bridie appeared not to hear his answer.

“Oh God yes, the English with their tracksuits and their fat arses and their bloody vol-au-vents.”

Surely they're French, Ida thought, but she knew better than to speak.

“Where are you from? Originally?” the man asked.

“Ireland,” she said, as if he was stupid for asking. “Well, I'd Irish parents. People know how to live there. It's not all pot-pourri, en-suites, Bruce Forsyth… and bloody dogs in prams.”

The man didn't make a sound and kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. Ida didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

They pulled up at the Hilton and the driver walked round to Bridie's door.

“When we were younger we'd avoid the Hilton like the plague,” she said. “I suppose beggars can't be choosers, eh.”

Bridie let him help her out, extending one leg slowly and straightening her back. She was getting into character, Ida knew the signs, and despite her protestations Ida could see that her mother was at least pleased to be away from Bournemouth, to be the old Bridie once again. She prayed that it would all be okay, that her mother would be normal and that people wouldn't laugh.

The staff had emptied the minibar and Bridie was irate.

“I'm not a fucking baby, am I? Do I sound like a baby? A child?” she was shouting down the phone to reception.

Ida lay on her bed. It was so soft she felt like a bird in a nest.

Outside she could hear the hum of traffic and, if she sat up slightly, could see over the road to Hyde Park, where people were walking dogs and jogging and playing with balls. If Terri were there she'd make Ida walk round the park now. First she'd lay her things out, all neat and in rows, then she'd feel the towels, inspect the bathroom for dust and then, when she was happy with that, she'd make Ida go for a long walk, followed by hot chocolate. Always hot chocolate.

There was a knock at the door and Bridie opened it.

“Two bloody marys madam,” said a man with a wide, false smile under his silly blue hat.

“Charge it, please,” said Bridie briskly, tipping him their last full five pounds. He bowed and left the room.

“Don't let anyone treat you like a child, you hear me?” she said, placing one of the drinks next to Ida. “I've never treated you like one, have I? Women should be able to do whatever the hell they want, and you have to fight for that. These bloody film execs will have your guts for garters.” She took a large sip.

Ida sat up, took the drink from next to her and sniffed it. She hated walking, anyway.

The driver was coming back at six thirty and it was ten to six. Ida felt sick. She wasn't sure if it was the booze or the nerves or a combination but she felt so nauseous she could hardly speak. She had taken a long bath which had been lovely – the water at home was tepid at best. Then she had laid out her clothes and jewellery and carefully got dressed.

“Don't forget deodorant, we don't want you smelling like a horse,” Bridie said. “And brush your hair.”

The thing was, the more she brushed the frizzier it got, until her long, mousey hair resembled something close to the roof of derelict barn. Her skin was so bad that the more cover-up she layered on, the worse it looked.

As she did her make-up in the mirror she watched her mother getting dressed behind her, pulling velvet trousers over her spindly legs and slipping a man's white shirt over her ribs. Bridie had always been thin as anything but now a fine layer of downy hair covered her arms and she rarely let Ida see her get dressed.

“You need to eat more, Mummy, you look so ill,” she mouthed the words to herself in the mirror before realising, to her horror, that she'd said them out loud. There was a long pause while Bridie carried on buttoning her shirt. After a minute or so she spoke.

“Why don't you mind your own business, eh? I don't go poking my nose into everything you do, do I? Like you having it off with that oik from St Luke's?”

Ida went bright red.

“We didn't…”

“I don't want to know the details, dear – snogging, or fumbling, or actual in-and-out. Now are you going to help me with my hair? Your spots won't show anyway, well, probably not. The lights won't be bright, thank God, we're not in the suburbs now.”

Bridie sat on the bed and Ida turned and sat behind her, pulling the chopsticks out of her mother's hair and beginning to brush.

They were expecting more drinks but the man was empty-handed. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but instead a black suit, and behind him a young blonde waitress carried two coffees on a tray.

“Ms Adair. We have brought you some coffee.”

“Where are my drinks?”

“Ah well, there was a little problem with that. The studio would prefer you had some coffee.”

The man was smiling like this was a gift. He was good, Ida could see that, but he could never be good enough to defeat her mother. She sat on the bed and looked outside. That was that then, they'd be here all God damn night.

“I need the drinks I ordered, now. If that bloody studio think I am going stone cold sober to some terrible thing where people will insult me, and my work will be ripped to shreds by morons, then they've got another think coming.”

“It's also come to our attention that your daughter is underage.”

“Both the drinks are for me.”

“I'm sorry we can't help more, Ms Adair, maybe you could take it up with the studio?”

“You know I know every reviewer in this town? Just you wait, you stupid, foolish man.”

He bowed and started to leave.

“My apologies, Ms Adair, if there was anything I could do –”

“You could do plenty, couldn't you? It's that you won't.”

He closed the door but Bridie didn't move. “I bet this has to do with your father, you know. Bad mouthing me to all and sundry, spreading lies in that bloody trashy mag he writes for…”

The Radio Times
, thought Ida, he writes for
The Radio Times
.

“Get your shoes on then, count up the money from the bottom of my bag. There must be a shop near here you can get to.”

“But the time, Ma.”

“I'm not going anywhere ‘til I'm at least three-quarters pissed. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights.”

By the time Ida got back the driver had been sent away twice and it was nearly seven o'clock. She had a dusty bottle of brandy she'd bought in a tobacconist; the old lady behind the counter was long-sighted enough to have taken Ida's height as proof she was over eighteen. Bridie's hands were shaking as she took it, and she downed almost a quarter of it in four gulps. She exhaled.

“He'll be back in ten minutes, that's what he said. Wash your face, darling, you're sweating.”

Ida couldn't stop shaking in the car, and for the first time she wished Alice was there. She realised that it was, perhaps, the first time she'd been away from her sister overnight. If Alice was there she would have been kept busy answering her maddening questions and making sure she ate. Without her there Ida wasn't sure what to do. But it was a grown-up film, not one for irritating girls like Alice who wet the bed and cried at
Lassie
.

It was dark outside but there were people everywhere and more lights and sounds than she could possibly take in. She wound down the window and took a deep breath, tasting petrol and fast food and things she couldn't name. On a street corner two men were dancing while other people watched, and as they turned she saw a group of girls with red Mohicans and leather jackets. She was filled with a joy she'd not known before, the kind she'd been told she would feel when she'd been confirmed. She wasn't sure whether God would possibly choose to reach her through some scary looking girls, and some smells, and some dancing young men, but it certainly felt like it.

Bridie was jiggling her leg and looking out of the other window and Ida could tell she was nervous, drumming one finger on her collarbone. Her hair was up in a twist, Ida had pinned it, and she had dark red lipstick on her full lips. Over her white shirt she wore a black tuxedo jacket, which Ida was surprised to recognise as an old one of her da's.

Ida looked down at her own legs. She was wearing thin black tights under her dress, the kind that always ripped, and had a spare pair in the red clutch bag Terri had given her to bring. Over her dress she wore her mother's pale mink coat, and although it made her feel bad for all the little minks, she did feel lovely and warm. Her hair was loosely up now, pinned with bits round her face, and in the end Bridie had helped her powder her chin so it didn't look too bad. She had only been back to London a few times since they'd moved to Bournemouth, and had always felt scared and out of place, standing on the wrong side of the escalators and being tutted at in the street. But now she felt she was in a different city entirely, a city that she owned, where she was driven in fancy cars and wore fur coats and heels. She took more deep breaths. It was all going to be okay – she knew it would be okay. She could feel it in her bones.

Ida had thought they'd pull up at the theatre but instead they stopped nearby. They were too late to drive up outside apparently, the stars were arriving now.

“Fine, fine,” said Bridie, like it wasn't fine at all, “thank you for all your help today, you've been marvellous. Come on sweetheart, let's leave this man in peace.”

They climbed out of the car and onto the busy pavement.

“Come on, this way, I know London like the back of my hand,” Bridie said, grabbing Ida's arm painfully and pulling her along while she tottered on her new high heels, apologising as she bumped into people. As they turned the corner into Leicester Square Ida felt an embarrassing grin creep across her face. To the left of them was a cinema and a sign with tall black letters read ‘Ida, starring Anna DeCosta, premiere tonight'.

From the door lay an actual red carpet, and on each side were barriers with gold posts and black ropes. Behind them were fans, two or three deep, waving autograph books and squealing as car doors opened and people got out. Ida watched as they emerged from their cars – shiny shoes followed by thin legs, then sparkling dresses, white smiles and smooth, immobile hair. She touched her own frizzy scalp.

“Darling, you're shaking, pull yourself together. No one's here for us, are they? Just keep quiet and try not to fall.”

They walked towards the corner of the barrier where a woman stood with a clipboard.

“Bridie Adair, I wrote the damn thing.”

The woman grinned broadly, and slightly meanly, Ida thought, as she skimmed the clipboard with her eyes.

“Of course. Fantastic, please go through in a second. You're a little late. Miss DeCosta is arriving now.” She held her arm out in front of Bridie and Ida as if they were liable to jump over the rope. People began to scream and from behind someone pushed Ida hard in the small of the back. She fell forwards slightly, her ankle twisting to the side.

Less than three feet away from them stood Anna DeCosta, far thinner and more beautiful than Ida could have imagined. Her dark blonde hair waved softly at the ends, and she smiled at the crowd as if, Ida thought, she'd just heard a wonderful private joke. Her dress was pale pink and she wore brown cowboy boots beneath it. She wasn't that much older than Ida, nineteen or twenty, but she looked like she knew things Ida couldn't even dream of. Ida immediately wished that she'd worn flats instead of her painful high heels.

“I don't know what all of the fuss is about. She looks like a girl who'd work in Safeway,” Bridie said loudly, and the woman with the clipboard frowned.

“She'll be a minute with the press and then you can go through Ms Adair, and…?”

“Ida,” Ida said, trying to ignore her throbbing ankle.

The woman looked confused but smiled blankly, then un-hooked the rope and ushered them through.

Ida's legs were shaking so much she was grateful for Bridie's iron grip on her arm, and even for the stage-whispered instructions she was being given as cameras flashed and people shouted things she couldn't understand.

“Side on, remember your hips are wide, that's it, smile, pose, smile, turn, pose. That's enough.” Bridie put one hand on Ida's back and pushed her along the rest of the carpet and through the door.

“I'll probably get Bryan Irons' wife in the captions, I wouldn't be surprised. This whole thing's a farce.”

Two women took their coats and they were handed flutes of Champagne by waiters who stood either side of the entrance in short rows. The lights were bright in the foyer, not dim like Bridie had said they'd be. A woman in a dark suit walked towards them. “Hi! You're a bit late, if you wouldn't mind coming straight through, Ms Adair, I'll take you to your seat. The one next to you has been taken I'm afraid, we had to shift things around, but don't worry, we'll fit you in,” she said, looking at Ida.