Bebo

Frances O'Brien <CelebritySpawn>

	Chapter 24	690 Tage her
	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.
	geschrieben von Frances O'Brien