Diamonds Are a Teen's Best Friend (3 page)

I have no idea. ‘Maybe you need to let it all out?’

Holly snorts. ‘Maybe. Anyway, it’s not okay, is it? About the pool cleaner, I mean. But good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. My grandmother never liked him anyway. I should have listened to her. She always said that any man who changed his name from Kenneth Mananopolous to Kent Sweetman couldn’t possibly be any good, and it turns out she was right. Plus, it’s not like he was much …’ She trails off as she turns her head to look at me. And I think she must suddenly remember my age again, because she changes tack fast. ‘I mean he wasn’t much … of a mocktail maker.’

Hmmm. Sure. I eyeball her. ‘I do know people have sex. I’m, um, sixteen, you know.’ Sixteen? Where did that come from?

Holly laughs. ‘Oh, yes. I forgot about your dad.’

‘
I
didn’t.’ I roll my eyes like the true sixteen-year-old that I now (sort of think I) am. There’s another pause.
I use it to develop a more worldly voice. ‘It’s a bit sad, though. That you broke up.’

Holly looks away quickly. ‘Well, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.’

Ouch. I think back and remember the Kent thing had always been a bit off and on. And from my tabloid study I know Holly’s been engaged at least twice before. Hey … my head whips around as I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a guy. A tall skinny guy about halfway down the deck. A guy with a camera. And he’s taking photos of us. I open my mouth to say something to Holly, but then he turns and starts taking photos of other people. Oh. I shake my head. Duh – he’s the ship’s photographer. For a moment there I thought he was spying on Holly or something. I’ll have to remember to go and look at the display of photos later. And I’ll have to buy a million copies to send to everyone I’ve ever known!

Beside me, Holly sighs, still looking out to sea. ‘Yes. On the man front, I seem to be setting a trend.’

Huh? Oh. Oops. How bad do I feel now? Holly’s telling me all about her two-timing fiancé, the guy she was ready to spend the rest of her life with, and I’m sitting here
wondering how many photos I’ll be able to badger my dad into paying for. ‘Maybe you’re just a hobo collector?’ I say the first thing that comes into my head (always a mistake). This was something Lorelei had said about Dorothy. She always picked the wrong guy too.

‘A what?’

‘A hobo collector. You know, always picking the wrong guy. It’s like my Aunt Greta. My dad’s sister. She collects meantiques.’

‘Meantiques?’ Now Holly really looks at me.

‘Yeah. Too-old men who are mean to her.’

Holly practically falls out of her chair, she laughs so hard. ‘You’re a scream, you know that?’

I’m not sure what to say, so I polish off my mocktail. ‘Want a cherry while you’re waiting?’ I offer Holly my glass.

She smiles at me as she reaches over to pluck one out. ‘Only if you think you can spare one.’

My heart has stopped beating.

I think I am going to die of happiness.

Holly and I lounge for a good few hours, shooting the breeze and another mocktail (for me; Long Island iced tea for her) or two. Of course, we keep ordering extra maraschino cherries (eventually the drinks waiter just brings us a bowl of the things). And Holly must need someone to confide in desperately, because I hear it all. Her perfectly lined and filled red lips fill
me
in on her sad and sorry love life, right from guy A to guy Z. And now, she says, finishing off her life story with a flourish of one hand, here she is on what would have been her honeymoon cruise, with her nephew, of all people, to keep her company.

Speak of the devil. Just as the word ‘nephew’ exits Holly’s mouth, up he stalks.

‘I was wondering where you’d got to,’ he says, standing over Holly’s chair.

Holly grins up at him (I think the pina colada and Long Island iced tea might be working their magic on her now). ‘I love you too, Marc, sweetheart.’

I can’t help but giggle at this. Whoops. Marc turns and shoots daggers at me.

‘And you are?’

‘Oh, Marc. Lighten up. This is Nessa. My new best friend. We’ve been having a lovely girlie chat.’

‘So I see.’ Marc eyes the glasses lined up on the table beside us.

Pray, scat, I think to myself, as I throw him what I hope is a haughty look. That’s what Marilyn would have done (except she would’ve had the guts to say the ‘Pray, scat’ thing out loud). As for ‘new best friend’, I can’t even think about that now. My brain will explode.

Marc turns his shoulder then, effectively blocking me out of the conversation. ‘There’s a call for you,’ he says to Holly. ‘There have been
several
calls for you.’

Hmmm, interesting, I think as I look up at his broad back (also pretty yummy). He has the same kind of accent as me, sort of mid-Atlantic. (You’d have one too if your parents never stayed in the one country for more than five minutes.)

Holly sighs now and leans forward to look at me beyond Marc’s legs. ‘That’s my cue. Better be off before I get in trouble.’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the second mocktail, Holly. It was fun.’

‘No, thank
you
for letting me vent. And it’s not just everyone who’d give you one of their maraschino cherries, you know.’

‘No worries!’

‘I’ll see you around.’ She gives me a quick wave as Marc drags her away by one arm.

Party pooper.

As Holly leaves, I watch her curves and high heels and swing coat go with a shake of my head. I can’t believe I feel sorry for her. Holly Isles. I never would have imagined someone like her would be so desperate to talk to somebody that she’d talk to me. She obviously needs some help, stat, as they say on
ER
. And she needs to amputate that dour (but still, I have to admit it, awfully cute) nephew as well. Preferably before he turns gangrenous. (Green, black and purple, especially when seen on the extremities whilst cruising, is so out this season …)

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type my quickie email. I’ve got to go. It’s almost four and dinner starts at eight, which leaves me with half an hour to attend to my ‘important cruise ship business’, and three-and-a-half hours to get ready (and it might just take that long to get my eyebrows into some kind of shape). The thing is, when I got back to the cabin after my chat with Holly, my dad had surprised me with the news that we were going to be dining at the proper restaurant tonight. As in, not slumming it at the buffet. Tonight, we’d be at the adults’ table! Of course, the first thing I did was check the time. Quarter to four? Was he kidding? And now, five minutes later, he must see the look on my face.

‘What’s the matter, pumpkin?’

This, at least, makes me pause. I look at the floor. At
the beds. At the tiny writing table. ‘I don’t see any ground-dwelling vegetables here, Father.’

‘Yes, yes. I remember. I won’t call you “pumpkin”. But what’s up? You’ve got something to wear. We bought you something special. Remember?’

I forget all about being Holly Isles’s ‘new best friend’ and bite my lip, shifty-eyed, because I suddenly remember he hasn’t yet seen how I altered the ‘something special’ number that made me look five years old. Uh oh. ‘Of course I remember! It’s just that a girl needs time to get ready …’ (Remember the eyebrows? I wasn’t joking about that. And then there’s the little matter of the bushy eyebrows matching the bushy legs. I really should have prepared better for cruising.) Anyway, no time to think about this. I turn towards the door, blowing a kiss at Dad. ‘Must fly, dahling.’

‘Dahling? Fly?’ The poor guy looks totally confused. His natural state, I’ve come to realise.

I turn back for one second. Just long enough to roll my eyes at him. ‘Do you think I’m just naturally beautiful? No. It takes work. Work and
people
.’ Oh, how I wish I had
people
. I’m sure Marilyn had people. And plenty of them.

He’s still rating a 9.75 on the confusion scale.

‘It’s okay, Dad.’ I reach over and pat him on the arm (sadly, I can do this from my position in the doorway). ‘It’ll all be okay. Really it will.’

‘Hmmm. So much for “toning it down”. Nessa, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but “people” sounds expensive. Just don’t a) spend a lot of money or b) fall overboard, and I’ll be a happy man.’

My hand still on his arm, I pause, wondering whether he really meant to place his requests in that exact order. Still, I think I can manage to toe the party line on this one. ‘Well, I’ll try to cut back. I won’t have the caviar face mask and ass’s milk bath after all.’ I give his arm one last pat, wink and close the door behind me.

And, for the second time today, ‘Nessa Joanne Mulholland!’ follows me up the corridor.

I already feel right at home.

‘Here’s the thing …’ I look up at the maitre d’ and put on my best doe-eyes. Then, at length, I fill him in on ‘the
thing’. The thing being the fact that I want to try to weasel my way onto Holly Isles’s table for dinner. Well, me and my dad’s way. I work my magic on the French guy with the little twiddly moustache standing in front of me to the best of my abilities. But my so-called abilities must be quite poor, because after I’m done, there’s a pause … and then he laughs.

Laughs long and hard.

‘This is a joke, yes?’

I stare at him. Maybe I got the doe-eyed thing wrong? I give up, let it go and try fluttering my eyelashes instead.

‘Little girl, the head waiter is making you come here and say this? It is one of his, how do you say it, practical jokes?’

Little girl? Head waiter? Practical joke? What?

I flutter harder. I am sophisticated. I am classy. I am a
young woman
who knows what she wants (not even close to being a ‘little girl’).

‘Little girl, what is wrong with your eye? Is there something in it? Are you about to have a fit?’

I stop fluttering and start to panic slightly. Now what?

In front of me, the maitre d’ folds his arms. ‘Tell me.
How much does he give you? I will double it if you go back and tell him I have put you on the table.’

‘You’re going to put me on the table?!’ Yes! I can’t believe my luck. How easy was that? ‘Thanks!’

His eyes roll back in his head, his breath sucks in and, now, he guffaws. ‘Of course I am not going to put you on the table! Are you crazy?’ He pronounces this ‘crazee’. ‘Everyone wants to be on Mademoiselle Isles’s table. And some of them are even willing to pay.’

Oh. Right. Now I get it. I should have remembered. I’d seen Marilyn seek out the maitre d’ in one of her movies when she wanted someone seated at her table for dinner. Everyone wanted to sit on Marilyn’s table too (and had been willing to pay for the pleasure). She’d ended up threatening to take all her meals in her room if the maitre d’ didn’t do what she wanted. Which meant that he’d have to give all the money back that he’d taken from people.

Hmmm. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to work for me. I’m doubting the maitre d’ would care if I stayed in my cabin for the rest of the trip, sucking on a single dry cracker for sustenance. I dig around in my pocket, hoping there’s magically going to be a hundred dollars in there.
There’s not. But there is a ten. ‘How about if I give you this?’ I hand it over to him.

He laughs again, looking at my outstretched hand. ‘You are crazy, little girl.’

I stuff the ten dollars back in my pocket. Fast. ‘I am
not
crazee. And I am not a little girl!’ I scowl my best scowl (and it’s much better than my best doe-eyed look, or my eyelash fluttering).

He stops laughing when I say this. ‘Now I am really not going to seat you on Holly Isles’s table.’

No. I’m guessing he’s not. I turn around and start the long trudge towards the elevator, the thick carpet making my feet feel heavier with every step. When I finally get there, I reach out and press the button to go down. Down, down, down to the depths of the ship again. Well, at least my physical depth will match the depth of my misery. Why did I think this would be so easy? I’m no Marilyn Monroe. I’m no little girl, either, but when I look down and see my jeans and t-shirt I realise I’m not exactly sophisticated and classy, like I’d thought before.

Damn. I don’t even want to go to the dinner anymore. For a start, my dad’s going to flip when he sees what I’ve
done to my dress. He is
not
going to be a happy pappy. Looking at my reflection in the shiny elevator doors, my shoulders slump even further. Like I have a choice in the matter. I’m going to this dinner tonight and that’s that. Well, maybe I’ll at least get to talk to Holly tonight. And I’ll probably get to see that nephew of hers in a tux. That should be worth leaving the cabin for …

Where is this stupid elevator? I reach out and press the button again. And again, and again, and again. Then I cross my arms, feeling the maitre d’s eyes on my back. He’s probably still having a good laugh at me, I think, waves of embarrassment flowing over me. How dumb was I? Thinking that I could just waltz in and do a bit of table bargaining, Marilyn style. I mean, what did I have to bargain with? Ten bucks. Ten bucks I’d got off my dad. Well, whoopee. Ugh. No, double ugh. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up … I want to reach out and kick those buffed-up doors. I’m sure I can feel his eyes on me. Don’t look, Nessa. Don’t look.

So, of course, I look.

And I’m right. The maitre d’ waves at me. ‘Enjoy your treep!’ he says smugly.

Smart arse. I give him my best withering look (and it’s pretty good – I’m a teenager, after all). And just when I finally think I’ve gained some ground Snakes-and-Ladders style, I hit the king snake and scuttle back down to the bottom of the board once more. Because I turn back around and choke half to death. Marc is standing right in front of me, the elevator doors now wide open.

He looks almost as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

‘Er, hi,’ he says gruffly. ‘Nessa, isn’t it?’

I nod dumbly. He really is good-looking. No, scratch that, he’s
great
-looking, I think to myself as he runs one hand through his hair.

‘Er …’ He looks to one side of me.

Oh, no. He wants to get out. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say and step aside, then realise I’m waiting for the elevator myself and step back again so I can get in. Which means that Marc and I collide. Hard.

‘Oopphh’, I think, is the not very ladylike noise that escapes my lips as our shoulders collide. And I’m just about to lose my footing and end up on the floor when Marc grabs me by both arms, pressing me into him and
squeezing the air out of my lungs. He hugs me for a second or two until I’m standing upright again. Though it feels like two minutes. Maybe even three. When I’m finally balanced again, he pulls back.

‘Sorry. You okay?’ His expression has completely changed. When he looked at me before, it was as if I was smelly road-kill on the highway of life. Behind him, the elevator doors slowly close again.

‘Um …’ I start. Am I okay? I’m not sure. I’m actually feeling kind of dazed, though I’m not sure if that’s from our little accident, or being pressed into Marc’s chest. (I really should fall over more often.)

‘Oh my god. Nessa, you’re bleeding.’ He steps forward now and touches my lip, bringing his finger back to show me a spot of blood.

I’m bleeding? I
am
bleeding, I realise when I see his finger. I reach up and touch my lip as well. I must have bitten it when we collided.

‘Mr Harris. Mr Harris, you are all right?’

Huh? I turn around to see the maitre d’ closing in on me. Who’s Mr Harris?

‘Mr Harris?’ He’s looking straight at Marc. Oh. Duh.
Marc is ‘Mr Harris’. Still half dazed, I watch as Marc steps to one side, so he’s standing in front of the maitre d’. And there it is. That look again. The road-kill look. But, this time, it’s not directed towards me.

‘I’m fine,’ he says. ‘It’s Nessa who’s hurt.’

I shake my head now, waking up to myself. ‘It’s okay. I’m okay.’ I wave my hands.

‘No, it’s not okay,’ Marc continues, glancing over at me for a second before turning back to the maitre d’. ‘You saw what happened. You heard me say Nessa had hurt herself. So why are you asking me if
I’m
all right?’

‘I, er, I …’ The maitre d’ doesn’t quite know where to look.

I reach forward and press the elevator button again. Please, oh, please let it come faster this time. ‘Ha ha,’ I laugh nervously as I step back once more. ‘I’m fine. Really I am. Just fine.’ I touch my finger to my lip again and it comes away clean. ‘See?’ I hold it out. ‘No blood. Just fine.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Marc’s still staring down the maitre d’.

Suddenly, thankfully, the elevator appears. I squeeze into it as the doors are still opening and start pressing the
‘close doors’ button immediately. But the doors keep opening, and opening. And Marc and the maitre d’ are both looking, and looking. Oh, man. I press the button a few more times and, finally, the doors start to close. ‘Yep, just fine. Um, thanks.’ I don’t look at Marc, but his feet. Thanks? Thanks for what? The doors have almost closed now. ‘I’ll see you around.’ I finally bring my eyes up to meet his, which look like he doesn’t entirely understand what’s just gone on. And the last word or two I say to the back of the elevator doors.

See you around? Nice work, Nessa.

God. How embarrassing. I hope I
don’t
see him around. Maybe not being able to swap tables was for the best after all.