Little Darlings (3 page)

‘Little munchkin in the red boots –
smile
!'

That's me. I'm the only one
not
smiling. Dad is giving the press his famous lopsided grin, flicking his long tousled hair, striking a cool pose in his black gothic clothes and his silver-sequin baseball boots. He's not Dad any more, he's Big Danny, every inch of him, right down to the huge skull ring studded with diamonds distorting his little finger.

Mum's smiling too, showing off her new pink hairdo, exactly the same colour as her flowery ruffled dress, cinched in with a wide black studded belt, her long legs in black fishnets and then crazily high red-soled Louboutins. She doesn't model any more, but she still knows how to show herself off.

My sister Sweetie's like a mini model already. Her fair hair has been specially straightened for today. It swishes past her shoulders in a shiny waterfall. Mum's let her have a dab of purple shadow on her eyelids to match her purple ballet frock. She's wearing a little black velvet jacket over the top, studded with all her badges and brooches, black and purple striped tights and little black pointy boots. She coordinated her outfit herself, even though she's only five. Sweetie has known how to be a celebrity child ever since she could toddle.

Ace is still at the toddling stage and doesn't give
a fig about celebrity. He was supposed to wear a miniature version of Dad's outfit, but he screamed and kicked and said he didn't want to wear those silly clothes. He would only wear his Tigerman outfit or he would bite. So he's in his Tigerman costume – black and gold stripes with a long tail, and Mum has painted tiger stripes and whiskers on his face.

Everyone goes ‘
Ahhh
', and coos at him. Ace roars and they pretend to be scared. It's the simplest of routines, but Ace is happy to play Tigerman all day long and well into the night.

He's not so sure about all the flashing lights of the photographers. He blinks and ducks his head and grabs Mum's hand. She lifts him up and gives him a cuddle as he nuzzles into her neck, and he manages a little grin.

But not me. I can't smile. I'm not allowed to.

‘Remember, you mustn't show your teeth – you'll spoil the photo,' Mum hissed as the Mercedes drew up at the start of the red carpet.

I have a gap in the front and snaggle teeth at the sides. Mum says I have to have extractions and braces but I am
scared of the pain
– and anyway, the orthodontist says we should wait several years. I'd like to wait a century or two. And anyway, I know I'll spoil every family photo even
when my teeth are fixed. I'm not little and blonde and cute like Sweetie and Ace. They take after Mum. I take after Dad. I am dark and I have a wild mane of hair and big nose. They look fine on him but they look awful on me.

My clothes don't look right either. Mum picked everything out for me as she doesn't trust me to choose my outfit myself. I can't tell which top goes with which bottom (and I don't
care
anyway), and the only kind of shoes I like are comfy ones. I wouldn't mind a pair of sparkly baseball boots just like Dad's, but Mum says I'd look too much of a tomboy. I've got these dinky scarlet boots with really high heels. Sweetie adores them and can't wait to be big enough to wear them herself – but even Mum says five is too young to wear high heels.

I am wearing weird itchy black leatherette leggings that stick to me all over, and a blue velvet smock top. I hate the
feel
of velvet, especially because I bite my nails. Every time the little raw edges of my fingers touch the velvet it makes me shiver.

So no, I can't smile, please. Mum won't let me – and to be honest I don't
feel
like smiling. I hate red carpet stuff. This is the film premiere of
Milky Star
, a funny film about a young boy band, and my dad has a cameo role as a wild rock star. Well, he is
a wild rock star, though he hasn't had a hit for a long time, and he hasn't done a proper show for years. I mustn't ever ever ever mention this, though.

However, Dad's still mega-popular – the crowd on either side of the red carpet are yelling his name.

‘Danny! Hey, Big Danny!'

‘I love you, Danny.'

‘Sign my autograph book, Danny,
please
!'

‘I'm your number-one fan, always and for ever.'

Always and For Ever
is the title of Dad's number-one hit. It's the song that everyone knows. It was in the charts for weeks, and it's a Golden Oldie request on all the radio shows, and last year it was the theme tune of a romantic comedy series on television. It's the song that people always scream for at concerts. Some of the crowd are singing it now, arms in the air and swaying. They're nearly all women, mostly older than Mum. Some of them could even be grannies, but they're singing and screaming like teenagers.

Dad starts singing too, clowning around, going up to the iron barriers, signing autographs, smiling because the cameras are still flashing. Mum carries Ace and holds hands with Sweetie, close by Dad's side. I stumble awkwardly after them, my bad teeth clenched.

I see a girl in the crowd about my age, tall and
thin and dark, her hair scraped back in a ponytail. There's a woman with her, maybe her mother or a big sister, because she's thin and dark too, with the same ponytail, and they're both dressed in black with little black mesh gloves – Dad used to wear them long ago, they were his special trademark.

They are both staring intently at Dad.

‘Hey, Danny, look! Here she is – your destiny!' the woman shouts, and she points to her daughter, poking her in the chest. She doesn't seem to mind her mum's shouting and prodding. She sticks out her flat chest proudly, and yells herself.

‘Yeah, I'm Destiny!' she shouts, eyes shining, her whole face radiant.

Is that her
name
? How can she sound so proud of it?

Destiny
is another one of Dad's songs, though it's tucked away on an early album and only true fans have heard of it.

Destiny, you are my Destiny,
All the world to me.
Even though we're apart
You're always in my heart,
That's where you'll stay
For ever and a day.
When the wind blows,
When the grass grows,
Till the moon glows blue
I'll love you true.

It's not very good, is it? And Destiny isn't a proper name. I think there should be a law preventing parents giving their kids awful names. My own name gets ten out of ten in the terrible stakes. I'm Sunset. Yeah. I'm sure you're sniggering. Everyone does.

‘Sunset!' Mum hisses in my ear. ‘Come on, we're going in now.'

The photographers are all pointing their cameras down the carpet, where a blonde actress is squealing and clutching the front of her dress because one of her boobs has popped out.

‘She's doing it deliberately, any fool can see that,' says Mum. ‘Come on, Sunset, move.'

‘Danny, oh, Danny,
please
don't go! Over here! Come over here!' Destiny's mum cries, sounding desperate.

‘Can't you get Dad to say hello to them?' I ask Mum.

She sighs, eyebrows raised. The photographers are all flashing further down, recording the actress's wardrobe malfunction.

‘There's no point,' Mum says. ‘They've finished taking Dad's photo. Now, move it.'

I move, but slowly, looking over my shoulder. Destiny's mum is still shouting. Her eyes are popping, her mouth is wide open, she looks scarily demented. I look at Destiny – and she looks back at me. She's got such a strange, weird, yearning look on her face. She can't seriously be in love with my dad too. Surely he's way too old. She stares and I stare. It's almost as if we know each other.

I shiver and turn towards Dad. He waves to the crowd one more time, kissing his hand and pretending to waft the kiss through the air – and then he's inside the cinema, Sweetie hanging onto his hand. Mum's at his side, Ace on her hip. They're swallowed up inside too.

I'm all by myself on the red carpet, dithering. A huge security guy strides over to me.

‘Are you Danny Kilman's daughter?' he asks.

I nod.

‘In you go then, missy,' he says, steering me towards the entrance.

I look back at Destiny and her mum one last time. I think the mum's
crying
. I feel so bad, but there's nothing I can do. I walk uncertainly into the cinema, turning my ankle in my high heels, lost in a crowd of chattering people. I turn round
and round, not knowing where to go or who to ask – and then Mum's hand clamps on my shoulder.

‘For God's
sake
, Sunset, what are you playing at?' she whispers. ‘Oh
hell
, you've made me break a nail!'

One of her false nails is stuck in my smock top like a little pink pickaxe.

‘Come on, come in the ladies' room,' Mum says, tugging me. ‘You need to pull up your leggings – they're all saggy and wrinkly and look ridiculous.'

‘They
are
ridiculous,' I mumble, following Mum and Sweetie.

I can see Dad now, still clowning around, with Ace crowing on his shoulders.

The ladies' room is crowded out with beautiful young women in short black dresses. They clasp each other and kiss powdery cheeks and totter backwards and forwards in immensely high heels. They mostly take no notice of us, though a couple start cooing over Sweetie, admiring her ballet dress, peering at all her badges. She smiles at them happily, flicking her long glossy locks and telling them the significance of each and every one of her badges. She lisps a little, knowing it makes her sound cuter than ever.

‘Be with you in just a tick, Sweetie,' says Mum,
and then she shoves me into a lavatory cubicle and squashes in after me.

‘Come
here
,' she hisses, pulling at my horrible leggings. ‘Let's sort you out.'

I blush, terrified that the beautiful women outside will think she's having to help me go to the toilet. I go hot all over. My leggings stick to my damp skin and make embarrassing squeaking sounds as Mum yanks at them. Then, when she's got them hitched up and smoothed out, I find that standing beside the toilet has made me suddenly bursting to
use
it. I have to go through the whole performance once more, wriggling the leggings down to my knees and then back again.

‘Honestly!' Mum hisses, red in the face too from bending and tugging. ‘You're the
oldest
, Sunset, and yet you're more trouble than Sweetie and Ace put together.'

I feel myself burning. My eyes start watering.

‘Don't start blubbing!' says Mum, giving my shoulders a little shake. ‘What's the
matter
with you? This is meant to be a special treat.'

When we emerge from the toilet at last there's a crowd of women waiting – but no sign of Sweetie.

‘Oh my God,' says Mum, hand over her mouth – but then we hear Sweetie laughing.

She's in a room round the corner with more
mirrors, and she's borrowed a pair of high heels from someone and is flouncing across the carpet, flicking her hair and fluffing out her net skirt, and everyone is laughing, Sweetie most of all.

‘Hey, Mum, look at me!' she cries, twirling round, her tiny ankles wobbling. ‘My heels are much higher than Sunset's! They're much higher than
yours
! Don't I look grown up?'

‘Oh yes, very grown up, at least twenty-two,' Mum says dryly, but her whole face is softened with love. ‘Come on, sweetheart, give the kind lady back her beautiful shoes and stuff your tootsies back into your boots. We don't want to keep Daddy waiting.' There's an ominous edge to this last sentence. Sweetie picks up on it and kicks off her high heels quickly.

‘Who's your daddy then?' asks the girl who lent Sweetie her shoes.

‘My daddy's Danny Kilman,' Sweetie says.

‘Oh wow!' says the girl, and everyone in the room gathers round, looking impressed.

‘Imagine having Danny Kilman for your dad!' someone says.

‘I'd sooner have him as my partner!' someone else says, and now they're all looking at Mum.

‘You're so lucky,' one girl says, giggling foolishly.

Mum looks at them all, smoothing her skirt. ‘Yes
I am,' she says. She holds out her hands. ‘Come on, girls.'

Sweetie takes one hand and I'm forced to take the other, though it seems idiotic, a great girl of ten hanging onto Mummy's hand. We walk out and hear them muttering behind us enviously.

There are even more people jam-packed in the foyer now and a great buzz down one end, where the boy band Milky Star have just arrived.

‘I want to see them! I really like Milky Star!' Sweetie clamours.

She must have seen them in one of her little girly comics.

‘No, no, they're just silly boys. We must go and find Dad,' Mum says quickly. ‘And don't go on about Milky Star to Dad, Sweetie, OK?'

Mum might dismiss the silly boys but we find Dad surrounded by silly girls, younger than the ones in the ladies' room, with even shorter skirts and higher heels. One of them is holding Ace, joggling him in her arms while he wriggles and squirms to be put down.

‘
I'll
take my little boy, thank you very much,' says Mum, and she practically snatches him from the girl's arms. Ace is startled and starts whimpering.

‘There, you're making him cry,' says Mum.

‘Oh dear,' says the girl. She's not especially
pretty, her hair a little straggly, her mouth too big for her face, but there's something about her that makes you look at her.

‘There now, Ace. He doesn't like to be held by strangers,' says Mum.

‘Really?' says the girl. She raises her eyebrows at Dad. ‘Most guys do.'

There's a ripple of laughter amongst all the girls. Dad laughs too. Mum looks furious, clutching Ace so tightly that he cries harder.