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Heroically, I ignored them.
Well actually, I tried to, but whoever said ‘sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me’ was obviously a popular kid from the right side of town with nice hair and lots of friends.
Seriously though, Why me?
More importantly, why in these shorts?
“You looking for this, Lardy Lo?” Eva was swinging my school bag, avec PE kit, from her manicured finger.
She was positively heaving with pride at her badness.
I was so surprised (this was super mean, even for her) that I wobbled off course and tried to grab it from her, but my legs didn’t get the memo about the change of direction and collapsed with a thump so hard I just knew it was going to cause not-at-all-fashionable purple bruising.
The Negative Ninas laughed. Of course they did. It was in their job description.
Eva knelt down beside me and put her face so close to mine that I could smell her weird uber minty gum-breath.
“Poor weirdo Lola,” she sighed. “Running is really not your thing is it? Come to think of it Lola, what is your thing? Oh, I know, you don’t have a thing do you? Apart from just being just a sad little loner who fancies Jake Farrell and makes up imaginary friends…”
I didn’t entirely know what she was on about, and all I was worried about was whether or not Jake could see my bum peeking out of my too tight shorts–until Eva waved a collage-covered, bulging notebook in front of my face.
My journal.
She’d read my journal. The super scrapbook Aunt Lullah had given me. Page after page of intricate detail about how my life really should be. The elaborate sketches, the pages from vintage magazines of outfits I’d love to wear, quotes from my favourite films and swatches of fabric.
I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to tell her those movie stars were my thing. I wanted to tell her that I did have a friend, a best friend called Angel and an amazing Aunt Lullah. I wanted to tell her I did have a thing, I had dozens of things but I didn’t. And more than anything, I just wanted my journal back.
But I didn’t do anything. Nada. Nothing.
My sitting there in silence seemed to annoy Eva more than anything in the world. Bored at my lack of reaction, she paced around me a couple of times, flicked her gold-spun hair over one shoulder and threw my journal to the floor while she thought of something else mean to say.
Which of course was quite easy for her.
“Oh, you didn’t mind me showing Jake your little fantasy book did you?” Eva pointed towards Jake, who just looked completely confused. “It’s just that when he heard the circus had come to town, he wanted to see the star attraction! Typical boy.”
The Ninas laughed in high-pitched unison at their leader’s cutting remarks which just encouraged her to carry on.
“You really should ask Jake out y’know Lola, he loves a good cause. Only the other day he gave money to ‘save the whale’. Just think, if he went out with you, he’d actually get to do it in person!”
My eyes filled with water but there was no way I’d ever let her see me cry. I was so freaked out, I didn’t even cry. I just really, really wanted that book back.
“What?” she exclaimed in mock shock. “I’m just trying to be nice.”
She smiled a smile that you would only usually see in Miss World Pageants or on the devil, turned on her vixen-spiked heel, and clicked her fingers for The Negative Ninas to follow, with Jake trailing behind.
They did. As you would absolutely assume that they would.
So, to briefly recap, my boy crush had finally noticed me but for all the wrong reasons.
I wanted more than anything to belt out a power ballad about how terrible I felt. Eva, as always, had come out smelling of just of her far-too-expensive perfume: Roses.
And I was just an out of breath little loser girl, sat in the mud in someone else’s shorts.
My life? A movie?
Pah.
Chapter Five
To: lola@lolasland.com
From: princess.lullah@email.com
Subject: Drama Queen
Lola Love, Greta Garbo had absolutely nothing on you! You are a total tiara-wearin’ drama queen supreme, do you know that?
Firstly, I’d like to point out that all the time there are movies Lola, we are never alone.
Secondly, consider your pity party well and truly gatecrashed, girlfriend–because I will simply not allow this attack of the deep reds to continue one moment longer!
Do you not remember anything I’ve taught you? In times of total major-league suckiness we must always, always, always call upon our favourite goddess girl of the silver screen and ask those four magic words, ‘What Would Audrey Do?’
Which is why my mission, should you choose to accept it Lola Love, is simple. Go watch Funny Face.
Now, I’m sorry to disappoint you but as I don’t start work officially ’til next week, tales of over-inflated ego celeb-types will have to wait. Right now, while my apartment buds are running amok in Williamsburg, Brooklyn catching new bands like the cool cats they are, I’m at home in my Kimono with my hair wrapped in a silk turban on ye ol’ isle of Manhatta watching Bette Davis movies–who is the coolest, btw.
You’ll be pleased to know I’ve been exploring New York as Madison, Daryl Hannah’s character in the 80s movie Splash. I’m still a complete fish out of water,. I keep pointing out every New York-y detail, naming the film or TV show I’ve seen it in and totally freaking out! Next time you see me, I’ll have bum-length, mermaid-crimped hair and will be wearing a far-too-big man suit. (From Bloomingdales, natch.)
Look after Cat and your mumma ’k?
Oh and Lola, Think Pink!
Lullah x
Despite the distinct lack of sympathy for my so-called-life, no offer of NYC accommodation and absolutely nothing that resembled a step-by-step life guide to help me find my thing–I’m beyond excited to hear from Lullah.
And of course, as always, she was right.
There really is nothing in the whole wide world that can’t be solved by watching a movie. Especially an Audrey movie.
I heart Audrey Hepburn.
It was like she was put together by angels and thrown down to earth as a challenge to anyone who thought they could better her. She was all swan-like and gamine, and renown for her killer stylin’. I don’t think there’s a woman alive who hasn’t dreamed of replicating Audrey’s style with a sleeveless black dress and a pair of oversized sunglasses ala Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I know I have.
Every time I watch that movie.
Y’see, when Angel, my BFF, got sent to a super swank boarding school a gazillion miles away, Audrey, along with Marilyn Monroe and Jane Mansfield, became the Queens of my silver screen. They had to! Because there really isn’t a single person on this planet as cool as Miss Angel-Cakes.
You’ll love Angel everyone does. She’s a fashion-lovin’, glossy magazine readin’, afro-wearing girl of total fabulousness.
Angel’s parentals split up two years ago and her super-swank business dad sent her to a super-swank boarding school saying it was ‘for the best’ as they had ‘issues to sort out.’
Neither Angel or I really understood what that meant exactly, parentals talk a whole language of crazy as far as we’re concerned. All we knew was that we were no longer going to be everyday hang-out buds and that was sucky x 100.
So ever since Angel left, I’ve been in a total friend funk.
I’m not cool enough for the cool crowd and I’m too kooky for the kooky kids, which makes hanging with the coolest ladies of all time Audrey, Marilyn and Jane, a much more do-able option than trying to make actual real friends.
Y’see, Marilyn was all about the glamour. She was glitz and fun rolled into a size 14 package. As for Jane, well she rocked. She was deliciously fabulous. She owned a pink Jaguar, she got married in a skin-tight pink gown and called her home the Pink Palace in homage to it’s décor. It even had a pink heart-shaped pool. What’s not to love about that?
“Lola Love. Hello? Are you in there?” mum is impatiently clicking the fingers of one hand in front of my face, while her other hand is fixed firmly on her hip.
I study her face. She’s pretty. Not glam-girl pretty like Lullah, but pretty none the less. She has a sharp, brown bob and an English Rose complexion. All that’s missing is a smile, but if I’m honest, I think she might have forgotten how.
“I just got an email from Aunt Lullah” I tell her.
“Oh great. What stupid ideas is she filling your head with now?”
I think mum is mad at Lullah for leaving. Not because she’s gone off to NYC to do a fancy shmancy job with celeb types, but because she’s now left home alone with a daughter she doesn’t even know.
But mum doesn’t hang around to hear about what ‘stupid ideas’ Lullah may be filling my head with, she picks up her bag, throws it over her shoulder and tells me my tea is in the fridge.
Which is good, because I don’t want to argue with the parental.
Right now, she’ll either shout really loud or cry.
I don’t like either version of my parental a whole lot, and ideally would like to trade her in for a carin’, sharin’ version, but apparently, that’s not an option.
Before leaving the room, mum pauses at the door.
“Lola Love, you’re such a dreamer.”
She always says my whole name. It’s like she has to remind herself of who she’s actually talking to.
I say, “What’s wrong with that?”
She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible as she shuts the door behind her.
It’s true, I am a dreamer girl. Wouldn’t you be if you had a life like mine?
I dream huge dreams and I store them in my journals.
Not a blog diaries or a live journals or anything like that, I mean the good ol’ fashioned kind where all the really good stuff gets written. I’ve collaged it with 60s icons and gorgeous glam-girls from the silver screen. Then inside, I turn the blandness of my everyday life into multi-coloured movie scenes. In my journal, my life is a cinematic blockbuster full of magic and spontaneity and there’s never, ever a dull moment.
If you took a sneaky peek in my journal, you’d see that I’m an Oscar-winning starlet.
And…
I’m an editrix-in-chief of my very own magazine that doesn’t, and never, ever would, draw rings around celeb-girls’ bad bits.
And…
I am proud that I have the body of a 1950s pin-up girl with shocking pink hair borrowed from a punk-princess.
And…
I rock out in a kick-ass girl band making holes in the knees of my faded, low slung jeans when I skid across the pink, sparkly stage during a screechy guitar solo.
And…
I eat vinegary chips on a seaside pier before riding on the back of a scooter, with my arms tightly wrapped around the waist of my very own ruby-lipped, angel boy.
Sigh.
Y’see, dreaming, wishing and hoping are my most favourite of all past times.
In fact, every night without fail, I wish upon the sparkliest star in the inky, midnight sky. I wish that when I wake up, my life would become the sugary sweet, candy-covered movie that it really ought to be.
It will happen. It has to happen. Lullah said so.
Chapter Six
Seriously, who needs a summer of re-invention when you’ve got a whole Audrey back catalogue to catch up on?
Surprisingly, as much as I heart Audrey, I’ve never watched Funny Face. In fact, my entire love for Audrey is based purely on Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and while personally, I think that’s more than justifiable, I’m all about expanding my Audrey knowledge, which is why I’m kinda glad that Lullah had no room for the box set in her filled-to-the-brim luggage.
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