I know I should call her and let her know I’m about to go on tour with Dad, but she already knows. She still follows Dad’s career, like she did back when she was an eighteen-year-old groupie—only now, she Googles him.
Mum was one of Dad’s first groupies when his band was just starting to get big. She followed him everywhere, and I’m proof that he screwed her—just once though. In my head, it is only ever once. About nine months after their romantic evening in a grimy bathroom in Texas, I was born. Yes, of course, my dad—being left alone with a baby and having no clue that baby name books existed—named me after the state I had been conceived in. Lovely. It could have been worse, I suppose.
I scroll down the list on the home phone until I come to Jennifer Star—not her real surname but she needed to match the ego.
In my mobile, she’s down as The Oven.
“Texas, darling,” she says, drawing out darling, like she’s an extra in Absolutely Fabulous.
Lord, help me.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Oh, don’t call me Mother. You make me sound old.”
You are thirty-eight. I want to say it, but it’s not worth the hassle. Plus, thirty-eight isn’t old.
“Sorry, mum.”
I honestly would rather call her Jennifer to her face, but after the long, drawn-out lecture Dad gave, I caved. Jennifer hadn’t been ready to be a parent, and apparently, I shouldn’t be too hard on her. Sorry, not my fault. She’d opened her legs, so she should have dealt with what came out between them.
Dad seems to think I’d have a better relationship with her if I told her how her abandonment made me feel. I don’t want to have that conversation with her. We don’t discuss feelings with each other. She’s never even told me she loves me, so why should I try?
“How are you, sweetheart? Daddy told me you’re learning to drive.” She sounds surprised, like she didn’t realise I’m older than eleven now.
“Yep,” I reply.
At nineteen, I’m two years behind passing my test, but you know, touring with rock stars totally takes precedence. And besides, we have drivers, so I can sit back and chill while being driven around.
I’m not as princessy as that sounds. Honestly.
“Has he bought you a car yet?”
I turn my nose up. “No, he won’t even talk about it until I’ve passed my test.”
“Oh, you leave that to me. I’ve just bought a nice little Mercedes CLK, and you’ll absolutely love it. How cute would it be to have matching cars?”
Nope. Not cute at all.
I want to tell her not to worry and that I’ll be happy with whatever Dad gets me—which, no doubt, will be a sensible, safe car—but I really like the sound of a CLK. Plus, Jennifer lives in Notting Hill, and we’re an hour away from her, so no one would see our matching cars.
Jennifer likes the idea of having a daughter—now that I’m an adult—more than the reality of it. She wants the fun stuff, like getting made up together, going out, having our nails done, and buying me expensive things. Tough luck for her that I’m not girlie.
Growing up, I just wanted a mum.
“I don’t know if Dad would like that.”
She has as much right to buy me whatever she wants as Dad does, but I would never encourage anything I knew he wouldn’t be cool with. He is the most important person in my life, and nothing will get in the way of that.
“Leave it to me, Texas. Have I ever let you down before?” She makes it sound like a joke.
I blink in shock, my heart sinking. You heard that right, right? There is nothing I can reply that’s not all the time, so I glue my lips together. Dad taught me to shut up if you’re not going to say anything nice.
“We’re going on tour soon.”
“Yes. How exciting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I believe it’s for Filthy Sound and your dad’s supporting, yes?”
She knows that already. There’s no doubt in my mind that she Googled Enigma’s tours long before now. Crap band name, I know, but they were young and drunk at the time. At least, I hope they were.
And I am one hundred percent sure, deep down, that she knows about my massive thing for Kitt—lead singer of Filthy Sound and my future husband.
I haven’t seen him properly since that night, the one where we kissed. One earth-moving, life-affirming kiss that he hasn’t bloody mentioned since. I wanted him to propose the second we broke apart. He didn’t.
Is that really too much to ask?
Selfish bastard.
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“That Milo is into you,” she says.
So, I was wrong. And so is she.
Milo is into blondes, lots of them. Plus, as Enigma’s lead singer’s nephew, Milo is practically family.
And I want Kitt.
“No, he’s not, Mum.” I sense she’s about to say something, so I quickly add, “Anyway, Dad’s calling me. Gotta load the bus up. Bye.”
I hear her say, “Bye,” right before I hang up.
Speaking to her is exhausting.
Dad passes by my door and looks back in. “How did it go?”
“Fine. She’s the same.” Not changed in the nineteen years I’ve been alive. “You packed?”
Frowning, he lazily shrugs one shoulder. “I think so.”
“Plenty of condoms? We don’t want you knocking up another groupie now, do we?”