The Seven Month Itch (12 page)

Now there’s something to think about.

And I know Marc’s right. So what if Kent wants Holly back? It’s not going to happen. Not in a million years. I mean, the guy’s kissing her and she’s wiping her mouth in disgust (take the hint, Kent!). And what if Susannah really was after Dad? That wouldn’t happen either. It’s Alexa’s underwear-in-the-living-room thing again. Holly and Dad really do love each other and would keep on loving each other even if there was no wedding this Saturday. So what is my
problem
? Why can’t I stop with this? What am I freaking out about?

With another shake of my head, I look up at the blue sky again just as we pass a gigantic billboard. A billboard with Holly’s face on it, promoting one of her latest movies.

Oh.

Oh
.

I turn around in my seat as the taxi keeps on driving
and watch her image until it’s out of sight. The image of a fully made-up, airbrushed Holly. The other Holly I know. Not my morning Holly, casual yet still radiantly beautiful at 8 am, but Hollywood Holly. The red-carpet version that everyone else knows.

And, suddenly, in that moment, I know
exactly
what my problem is.

Before, in Kent’s trailer, I put my worries about how everything felt so wrong down to the Kent and Susannah stuff. I told myself I felt terrible because they were making things messy in the lead-up to the wedding. Messy and awful and unromantic.

But I’m not worried about that at all. I see that now.

What I’m freaking out about is the fact that I’m happy. And that Dad’s happy. And Holly’s happy.

I’ve been losing the plot because everything’s
too
PPP, because there’s something that’s just not
right
about life being that perfect. I thought the same thing back on that perfect day in the kitchen, that waffle-filled Monday morning, didn’t I?

That’s why I’m so worried this wedding won’t go ahead. That’s why I’ve always been so worried about Kent
hovering in the background. Because, with everything so perfect, it’s as if I can’t believe it can stay this way, this PPP, forever. And perhaps that’s what Alexa was getting at when we met up at Yaffa’s. Maybe she hit the jackpot – maybe this
is
about my mum in some ways. Because Mum dying was the kind of thing that happened to us, to Dad and me.

The thing is, up until a year ago, things mostly didn’t go right for my dad and me. We moved around all the time, to whichever college or university Dad would be working for next. We didn’t have a proper home; we lived mostly in not-very-nice apartments on the Upper West Side or its international equivalents, where people gave us sorry looks when they found out my dad earns next to nothing as an educator and I have a dead mother. We’re not from Holly’s world. She shouldn’t want to be around us. She’s not supposed to marry some guy who has frosting on his beard or want to stepmother his neurotic daughter. She’s not supposed to walk places and have her fiancé insist on paying for things at bakeries. She’s not supposed to catch the subway with us and have her wedding at a local family-style Italian restaurant. Dad and I are not ‘hot’, but Holly Isles, she’s on the ‘scorching’ list. We’re Holly’s Lyle Lovett phase.

And that’s what scares me. That’s what I realised, finally, the moment I saw her billboard just now: I’m afraid, super-afraid that, before Saturday, she’s going to realise all of this and change her mind.

Slowly, I shake my head. I can’t believe I haven’t worked this out until now. I’m not really worried about Kent, or Susannah, or anyone else outside our world. It’s
Holly
I’m worried about and have been all along. I’m worried that I’m going to lose her. That she’ll realise we’re not right for her, and she’ll go back to Kent or find someone else. Someone more … red carpet.

I think back again to that day in the apartment at Tribeca. Before Susannah arrived. When everything was still PPP. I’d been thinking about the kiddie psychiatrist, hadn’t I? How he told me that nothing in life is certain. That I’ll never be able to control a lot of things, however hard I try. That I just have to ride the wave, enjoy the good times and believe in myself enough to know that I can deal with the bad times that also come my way. Marc had said something similar back in the studio lot, hadn’t he?
Not everything can be ‘Nessa perfect’ a hundred per cent of the time …
Ouchy. And then, of course, there’s Dr Phil and his theory on control issues.

Hmmm. So now it’s three against one. I guess the odds are they’re right.

But let’s test that theory. I mean, what if, in five years’ time, Holly and my dad break up? Of course, I really don’t want it to happen – God, no – but if it does, I’ll be okay, won’t I? My heart might hurt for a long time, but I’d be all right in the end. I know I would. Because I know I can deal with the bad times now. I’ve had some. Some of the worst. And I’m still here and I’m okay. I think.

Oh. So it’s looking like the ‘three’ are right, after all … I’m still looking out of the window up at that big blue sky when the cab passes by another of Holly’s billboards. This time we’re slowed by the traffic build-up on the highway, and I press my hand up against the window, almost as if I’m touching the sign. Touching Holly. And, strangely, as I do this, a little voice speaks to me.

I don’t want to be rich. I just want to be loved.

It’s that Marilyn Monroe quote I’d been reminded of the day Holly told me all about her feelings for Dad. About why she loves him so much. But the voice I hear now – it doesn’t sound like Marilyn’s at all. It sounds
like Holly’s voice. Like it’s Holly who just wants to be loved.
I don’t want to be rich. I just want to be loved.

And maybe that’s true as well. Maybe that’s all that matters at the end of the day. Not my fear, not Holly’s money, not the red carpet. Maybe those things aren’t even real. They’re not real like the frosting on my dad’s beard, or his cute butt. (Ugh. I really think she may be mistaken on that point.)

My hand still on the window, I press one last time with my open palm, as if trying to get closer to Holly, before I drop it again. I exhale as I let my arm fall beside me, realising I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for over a week.

Well, no more.

‘
Que sera
,
sera
, whatever will be, will be’, as stupid old Doris Day would sing. That’s it for me. No more. No more fear. No more theories. No more Susannah. No more Kent. Come what may, Holly and Dad love each other. And because they love each other, they’re going to get married. On Saturday. Just like Alexa and Marc keep telling me they will.

Phew.

I just really, really, really hope they’re right.

I try to change my flight, but end up waiting forever for a plane, finally getting a seat on the red eye and arriving back in NYC in the early hours of Thursday morning. It’s another long drive from the airport to Manhattan. (But this time using Holly’s car service, instead of a dirty LA taxi with those fake bullet-hole stickers stuck on as a joke. At least, I hope they were fake. You never know in LA …) As we speed along Grand Central Parkway, head onto Interstate 278 and finally cross the Manhattan Bridge, I spend my time trying to fix myself up a bit – pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail, pinching my cheeks so I don’t look so ghastly white, and patting my eyes with my air-conditioned cold fingers to try to take the ‘I’ve been crying for much of the last twenty-four hours’ redness out.
Then, that done, we’re on Canal Street, so I text Alexa and let her know that I’m back. She’s now officially AWOL-best-friend worry-free.

It’s 6.30 am on the dot when I’m dropped outside our apartment building, and I cross my fingers on both hands as I trek my way up the stairs, to avoid any tell-tale elevator pings. Hoping that everyone’s still in bed, that Vera isn’t here yet and that I’ll be able to sneak in undetected. (Hey, I’d cross my toes if I could do it and still walk up those stairs.) Well, it seems I’m in luck.

I sneak inside unnoticed, and with a hop, skip and a jump am safely in my room, shoes kicked off and my weary body hiding under the covers. I’m exhausted. Maybe if I just have a little rest …

‘Va-nessa! Must get up! Must change sheets.’

I startle, but don’t take my doona off my head. ‘Please, Vera,’ I beg. ‘I’m tired. I’ll change the sheets myself … Tonight. I promise.’

There’s a pause, but not for long. ‘Hmpf. And no
breakfast? You too skinny. So skinny, Va-nessa! Will waste away. In dirty sheets. What will people think of the housekeeper?’

‘I’ll change the sheets,’ I say again. ‘Honestly, I will.’

‘Hmpf.’

My eyes crack open and I peel my doona down a fraction to check on the time: 2.35 pm. I don’t want to get up; I never want to get up again. (I’ll have to work out how to change bedsheets while I’m still in bed, though, or Vera will kill me.) I pull the doona right back up over my head. At least I can’t embarrass myself in here. Maybe I can stay in bed, just like this, till Saturday. That might be a good idea …

I stick my hand out and feel around until I find the phone cord that runs beside my bedside table. I yank it until I feel it pull out of the wall. Then I feel around again until I find my cell phone. I bring it under the doona with me and switch it off. I simply don’t want to know.

The next time my eyes crack open it’s because I hear voices. Susannah and Dad, to be exact. I pull the covers off my head and turn to face my clock radio. Wow –6.15 pm. That’s some sleep. Slowly, I sit up in bed. Then I notice that the voices are talking louder than usual. And there’s someone else there as well. Another man. I frown and swing my legs onto the floor. First stop, bathroom, then I’m going out to see what’s happening in the lounge room.

When I finally hit the parquetry floor of the lounge room, for a moment I think I must still be in bed dreaming. Because the other voice is coming from a guy I’ve never seen before. Except, perhaps, in my dreams, which is why I thought I must still be in bed dreaming. Because, mmm, he’s dreamy …(Oh, shut up, Nessa.)

‘Nessa?’

‘Huh?’ I jump.

‘I said, I didn’t know you were home, pumpkin.’ My dad’s giving me that ‘Earth to planet Nessa’ look I seem to get so often.

‘Oh, I … I came home earlier,’ I say quickly. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you and I was tired, so I had a bit of a kip.’

My eyes flick back to dream man, who’s standing beside Susannah.

‘Sorry, Nessa,’ Susannah speaks up. ‘This is Rocco. My fiancé.’

Swoon.

‘Er, um, hi,’ I stammer. Honestly, I want to go over and poke him with one finger to see if he’s real. He can’t be real. Not looking like that. And
Rocco
? How cool a name can you get? But wait … Did Susannah just say ‘fiancé’? I glance over at my dad.

‘Susannah and Rocco got engaged yesterday. Isn’t that nice?’

Suddenly, I’m not sure where to look. ‘Congratulations,’ I say to the floor. How embarrassing. So, I guess Susannah really, truly wasn’t after my dad at all. Not with Rocco around. (I mean, she’d be mad. The guy is a complete honey – all tanned with just the right length hair. Not too Fabio-long, not too clean-cut short. Like I said before, mmm … dreamy.)

‘You girls must have been up all night if you’ve slept so long.’ My dad’s looking at me again as he says this.

I pause, still in a Rocco-daze. What? Which girls?
Ooohhh, that’s right … My brain kicks in just before I’m about to open my mouth and start asking stupid questions. He’s talking about Alexa and me. I was supposed to be staying at Alexa’s last night, wasn’t I? Now, I nod. ‘Oh, yeah,’ I begin, then realise Rocco is watching. ‘We hit the town and …’ Hmm, I feel my dad’s eyes boring into me, waiting to hear just how I ‘hit the town’. Right. Better not go there. ‘We got ice-cream and watched DVD after DVD,’ I continue. Oh yeah. Big night out, Nessa. I’m sure Rocco’s right into sleepovers, Häagen Dazs and
The Princess Diaries
.

‘Well, it was lovely meeting you, Rocco.’ My dad steps forward to shake the prince’s hand. ‘Susannah …’ – he gives her a kiss on the cheek – ‘I can’t thank you enough for all your help. I couldn’t have finished this without you. Holly and I are very grateful.’

‘It was a pleasure, William,’ she replies. ‘We’ll see you Saturday. We can’t wait.’ And, with a wave, they’re gone. In fact, my mouth’s still on the floor (and I’m probably drooling after seeing Rocco from behind – now
there’s
a cute butt) as the elevator zings up and Susannah, Rocco and her little suitcase get in and disappear.

‘They’re coming to the wedding?’ I ask once I’ve finally
managed to tear my eyes away from the space that Rocco last occupied.

My dad frowns a little. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

I wave a small wave. ‘No. It’s fine, Dad. Easily done.’

He looks relieved. ‘Ah, that’s good. She’s been so helpful and that Rocco is a lovely lad.’

A lovely lad. I try not to snicker at that one.

‘Apparently he’s some kind of a model,’ he adds. ‘Kelvin Klein, is it? I didn’t really know what they were talking about to be honest.’

I almost die. ‘You mean
Calvin
Klein?’

My dad’s eyes light up. ‘Yes, that’s it! Do you know him?’

‘Not personally, no.’ I shake my head. But I’ve just realised something – I
do
know Rocco. Quite intimately, in fact. His cute smile, bare chest and really, really nicely curved undie butt are plastered all over Times Square. Double swoon.

‘Nessa?’

‘Huh?’ I jump again. I really need to stop spacing out. I look over at my dad, who’s looking … dadly dense, and I smile. Susannah is engaged and it’s completely obvious to me now that he never cared for her in anything other than
a professorly kind of way. There’s no seven-month itch going on here. So maybe this is the ultimate Marilynism in itself – telling me that maybe I need to stop with the Marilynisms for good.

‘Is Italian okay? Nico’s?’ Dad continues.

‘Nico’s?’

‘Have you been listening to anything I said?’

Oops. There I go again. ‘Um, sorry. I’m still waking up a bit.’

Dad laughs and shakes his head. ‘I think I’ll be doing a bit of that sleeping-all-day thing tomorrow now that this proposal’s all written up. What I was saying was, I want to take you out. To celebrate finishing. So, Nico’s?’

Oh phew. For a moment there I thought Dad had realised where the wedding was going to be held … ‘How about Ethiopian instead?’ I suggest.

That’s the great thing about living in Manhattan. You can actually walk out of your front door and go and eat Ethiopian. At 4 am if you want. You’ve got to admit, that’s pretty cool.

Dad and I head over to Ghenet in SoHo, where I quickly decide on the Kitfo Tiklil and Yebeg Tibs. (What, you’ve never had Kitfo Tiklil and Yebeg Tibs before? You haven’t lived, baby!) Dad has the Ghenet combo for one (a bit easier to pronounce, I’ll give him that). We scoop up the food with our injera bread and talk for ages – about Dad’s proposal and the wedding (of course I don’t give out any of the details; it’s still going to be a huge surprise) and my work at the library. I even fill him in on the whole Toby dumping debacle and then almost ditch my injera and hug him when he looks completely confused and says: ‘Doris Day? But no-one adores Doris Day, do they?’

So we are related after all.

Eventually the waiter clears our plates and hands us back a menu each.

‘Dessert?’ Dad asks me. ‘They might have some baklava. I know it’s not exactly Ethiopian, but I don’t think Ethiopian cuisine excels where desserts are concerned.’

‘No thanks,’ I reply.

He looks up from his menu sharply. ‘No dessert? Are you ailing, child?’

‘No, I just ate too much ice-cream last night,’ I fib. ‘I think I dessert-overindulged. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be off the wagon tomorrow. And definitely by the wedding.’ City Bakery cupcakes. Yummy.

My dad nods. ‘The day after tomorrow. Has everything gone as planned?’

I reflect for a moment. Has everything gone as planned? Well, no. Not exactly. But thank goodness for Marc. If it weren’t for him, who knows what mischief I might have got myself into? His stinging words come back to me now, and I flinch. But I manage to suck back any tears that are forming and smile. ‘Everything’s going to be great,’ I reply eventually. ‘It’s all set.’

‘Ah, good. Good.’ He glances back at his menu, trying to decide on whether to have dessert or not, I guess. ‘Marc called for you a couple of times today, by the way.’

‘Oh.’

‘You know what? It’s not on the menu, but I think I
will
ask them if they can rustle up some baklava after all. They did last time we were here.’

I smile my forced smile again, still thinking about Marc. ‘That’s great, Dad. Maybe I’ll steal a corner.’

Our fabulous waiter does manage to ‘rustle up’ some baklava and I actually end up stealing more than a corner, and probably more than my fair share, but Dad doesn’t seem to mind. As we exit the restaurant, we decide to walk our baklava bellies the long way home. Out on the street in front of Ghenet, we point them in the right direction and start off for Tribeca.