If Only - Brossura

Halliwell, Geri

Brossura

ISBN 10: 0440235847 ISBN 13: 9780440235842

Casa editrice: Dell Pub Co, 2000

Riassunto

The former "Ginger Spice" tells all in a new biography, detailing her troubled childhood, her father's sudden death, her marketing and self-promotion efforts on behalf of the Spice Girls, and her complicated relationships with the other girls in the group. Reprint.

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"Halliwell bares all in this thoughtful, honest, well-written biography."
-- Chicago Sun-Times

"Powerful. . . poignant. . .with frank, funny reflections on fame."
-- People

Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:

Love, Kiss and Broken Promises

Lee and Christopher were in the kitchen debating about which of them was going to snog me. We were at my friend Shona's twelfth birthday party, sitting in the lounge listening to "Move Closer" by Phyllis Nelson and "Cherish" by Kool and the Gang—good snogging songs.

Lee said that because he'd been my boyfriend twice before it was only fair that he kiss me. We were in the same class at junior school and used to play True Dare, Double Dare—Love, Kiss or Promise in the stock cupboard. I would run my hand across his skinhead haircut and tell him it tickled.

Even at that age I was aware of sexual attraction but in a very naive and childish way. I wore a green drop-waisted miniskirt with my hair in braided pigtails and when I looked in the mirror, I thought, "Yeah, you're looking kinda sexy today."

I had dropped Lee and started going out with Darren from Unit Six, who was one of those really bad kids that everyone said was a bit mental. Then my friend Tina started going out with Lee and I got jealous and wanted him back. It caused some tension.

From the kitchen I heard Christopher say, "I'm gonna get off with Geri." In our language "get off" meant kissing with tongues.

"No you're not. I'm gonna," said Lee.

"I said I was gonna first."

"She used to be my girlfriend."

"But she's not your girlfriend now."

"She is . . . ah . . . sort of."

"You broke up."

"Well, she's more mine than yours."

The whole conversation seemed totally absurd. I didn't expect kissing to be so premeditated; it took away all the excitement. I thought it just happened naturally, and besides, I didn't belong to anybody.

I made my choice. Lee was being a prat to assume a prior claim over me so I chose Christopher. Shona had also said that he'd cry if I didn't pick him.

We snogged on the sofa and I remember seeing Lee out of the corner of my eye motioning to Christopher to put his hand up my top. I figured he was going to be rather disappointed because I had no bra to unhitch and nothing to grab.

He went to do it. "I don't wear a bra," I said apologetically.

He mumbled something incomprehensible and kept kissing me.

Lee stuck his tongue out, signaling Christopher to do the same. I was so shocked my mouth locked shut and his tongue went round my lips like a washing machine. I had to wipe the spit off afterward. I found out later that Christopher told everyone I had a really small mouth. I was so embarrassed.

The next day I saw him hanging around on the corner after school, waiting for me. Shona and I were sitting on the brick wall, biting our nails. I just wanted him to go away.
I lived in the same house in Jubilee Road, Watford, for my whole childhood. It was around the corner from the Pakistani supermarket which had gum ball machines out front and boxes of overripened fruit and veg. Eileen, who ran the greengrocer opposite, used to target her discounts to make sure nobody bought veg from the Pakistanis.

There was no major landmark to help you get your geographical bearings of my neighborhood. Every street looked almost identical—like the set of Coronation Street. Our two-story semi had a flat front, set a few feet back from the road, and was plastered in a hideous pebble-dash that my mother seemed to like. Every other house was the same, with a coal bunker, outside toilet and postage stamp-sized back garden. The only unusual feature of our house was a single-car garage and above the door my father had painted GARAGE ENTRANCE in large black letters. Heaven help anyone who parked across his driveway.

There were three bedrooms upstairs. Mum and Dad had the main one, overlooking the street, and I shared the next with Natalie, who is three years older than me. We had a bunk bed (I slept on top), a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Our brother, Max, who is two years older again, had a room the size of a broom cupboard at the very back of the house, overlooking the garden.

The three of us had some terrible fights in those years—real scraps, with no prisoners taken. Max gave Natalie a black eye with something he threw and another time I bloodied her nose. Although I was the youngest, I could hold my own, even if it meant biting and scratching.

When the air cleared we nursed our bruises and began worrying about Mum finding out. Handwritten notes were slipped beneath bedroom doors, asking, "Are you going to tell Mum?" There were boxes to tick for "yes" or "no."

I don't remember my mother being home very often. She was always at work, cleaning offices and libraries. She left at 6:00 a.m., well before I woke up. I'd make my own breakfast and then kneel on a stool at the kitchen sink, looking at a mirror and trying to get the bunches straight in my hair.

"Do they look straight?" I'd ask Dad.

He'd grunt something unintelligible, without even looking up. Why did I bother? Normally he didn't get up that early, or would still be in the bathroom clearing his throat and spitting into the sink. Even when Mum was at home, I preferred to do my own hair. She used to pull the bunches back hard and say, "You have to suffer to be beautiful, Geri," whenever I complained.

Still balancing on the stool, I made my own school lunch which was always crap compared to everyone else's. I used to be embarrassed when I opened my lunch box and jealous of those kids who got proper school dinners, or had mothers who slipped special treats into their schoolbags like salt and vinegar crisps and Marathon bars.

"Hello, welcome to Home & Away, the daily lifestyle program for working mothers and homemakers," I'd say, talking to the kitchen wall as if presenting Blue Peter. "Today, I'm going to show you how to make the perfect peanut butter sandwich. It's quick, easy and will have your children coming back for more. . . .

"First you need two slices of bread. You can use any type of bread, brown, white, whole-meal, although I prefer white and I've found that your typical square slices fit much better into the lunch box.

"First spread a layer of butter on each slice—make sure you go right to the edges, otherwise you may find your child won't eat the crusts. Then you spread the peanut butter—again going right to the edges. Press the two slices of bread together and cut diagonally into large triangles. There, wasn't that easy?"

Also featured on my "show" at various times were segments on "How to make the perfect toffee apple" and "Make your own perfume with flower petals."

We all had chores to do before and after school and Mum would check our efforts when she got home from work each evening. Normally, I had to do the washing up and clean the bathroom; Natalie tidied the sitting room and bedrooms, while Max did the vacuuming. To do the washing up, I had to again kneel on a stool, trying to keep my balance. When I tried to empty the bowl, the water would splash back and drench me.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood kids were playing in the street outside. Although we weren't supposed to talk to them or join in, we often sneaked outside to play British Bulldog—racing back and forth between the footpaths trying not to get caught by those in the middle. Another favorite game was Knock Up Ginger—ringing doorbells and then running away. We kept watch for Mum's car at about 7:30 p.m. so we could dash inside before she spotted us.

She was always quite house-proud—which is often the case with people who haven't much money. She used to say to me, "Geri, no matter how little we have, you're always clean and well fed." And then she'd go on about how much she'd sacrificed. "Look at me, I haven't been to the hairdresser in seven years. When was the last time I went out? I buy nothing for myself. No dresses, no shoes."

I didn't hear the message—only the weary tone. Every chore she asked me to do, I regarded as a denial of my freedom. Hadn't child slavery been abolished?

Su questa edizione

• Editore: Dell Pub Co
• Data di pubblicazione: 2000
• ISBN 10: 0440235847
• ISBN 13: 9780440235842
• Rilegatura: Copertina flessibile
• Numero di pagine: 467