The Seven Month Itch (14 page)

Oh boy, too tired. I’ll just have to think about it later.

‘Dad!’

‘He’s not here,’ he groans, opening one eye.

‘You have to get up.’

The eye closes again. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s ten thirty. On your wedding day. That’s why.’ I pull his doona off him. At least he made it from the lounge-room sofa to his bed at some stage during the early hours.

He pulls it back. ‘And?’

‘You’re behaving like …’ I’m about to say ‘a surly teenager’, but that would be me, wouldn’t it? I try again: ‘You’re behaving like it’s not your wedding day.’

‘It doesn’t look like there’s going to be a wedding, does it?’ he says as he rolls over.

What? WHAT? I stand for a second, stunned. What
kind of crazy talk is this? Of course there’s going to be a wedding. Isn’t there? ISN’T THERE? I’m not sure what to do, but then I remember Heather’s words:
Just be there
.
As planned
. And now my inner Rottweiler kicks in. ‘Dad! Get out of this bed,’ I shout. ‘Right now!’

I don’t care if we’re not meant to be at Nico’s till 3 pm. It may take that long to get him out of bed, into the shower, shaved and dressed. And I still need to call Alexa and do a whole host of important last-minute tasks. Like record that message for the guests, so they know where to go. (Kind of important, yes?)

Not to mention that I really need to find that marriage licence soon. I still have no idea where it could have got to. ‘Dad?’ I ask hopefully. I know I asked him earlier this week, but maybe he found it the day I was swanning around LA. ‘You didn’t happen to find the marriage licence under the sofa this week, did you?’

He rolls over and the eye opens into a crack again. ‘But I told you about that.’

‘About what?’

‘About the marriage licence. The celebrant came by last Friday afternoon to pick it up.

‘WHAT?!’ I blurt out, flinging my hands in the air. ‘LAST FRIDAY?! That’s over a week ago. You never told me that. And I asked you about it specifically. On Saturday. You looked at me like you’d never heard of a marriage licence before.’

Dad frowns. ‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I’m sure I told you.’

I shake my head. ‘Believe me, Father, you never told me. Trust me on this one.’

‘Sorry,’ he says in a small voice. ‘I did mean to. I must have been –’

‘Working,’ I butt in.

‘Perhaps.’

There’s no ‘perhaps’ about it. Sociology strikes again. Well, at least that’s one problem solved. Onto the next one: extricating elder from bed. And I’m just about to start in on the nagging again when the intercom buzzes. ‘Wait right there,’ I point at Dad, then change my mind. ‘No, I mean, get up already!’ I fling up my arms one more time, not knowing what I’m doing, completely out of my depth, starting to get worried that this wedding
really won’t go ahead if I can’t get the groom out of bed. I race over to the intercom. It’s the doorman again and, this time, the delivery is Alexa and she’s on her way up.

Second problem solved. Well. This wedding may go ahead after all.

‘Wow!’ I say as Alexa emerges from the elevator in her bridesmaid’s finery. ‘You look amazing.’

‘Thanks!’ she says, sashaying over to me. ‘You look like …’

I reach up and run one hand through my troll-like morning hair. ‘I know. It’s Dad. I’m having a few problems with him.’

‘Like?’ Alexa frowns.

‘Like he’s become addicted to Kent TV, and dialling Holly’s and Marc’s disconnected cell numbers over and over and over again like a moron.’

‘Oh …’ Alexa makes a face.

‘Yes, oh. I’ve been trying to hold things together here, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.’

Alexa glances around the apartment. ‘Where is he now?’ she asks.

‘In bed. Still. I was trying to get him up when the doorman buzzed. But, wait. Aren’t you a bit early to be all dressed up?’ I look at the time. That’s what I’d thought – it’s not even 11 o’clock yet.

In front of me, Alexa shakes her head and thrusts something at me. A large plastic dry-cleaner’s bag containing, I see as I look closer, my own bridesmaid’s dress. ‘I’m not early at all. You guys are
late
. Now let’s go. The car’s downstairs and we’re leaving in …’ – she glances at her watch – ‘no more than fifteen minutes.’

Alexa Milton, I soon discover, would make an excellent Navy SEAL. There’s a lot of ‘go, go, go, go, go’-ing as she bosses my dad into getting out of bed, and hurls us both into separate showers. After that, she races from one bathroom to the other. ‘Blush, mascara, lip-gloss!’ she yells at me. ‘Shave, dry hair, deodorant!’ she yells at Dad. She runs back to me again to blow-dry my hair until it’s almost dry, then she puts some kind of weird putty stuff in it before using a particularly torturous-looking plastic device that pulls my ponytail into a fancy knot that matches her own hair.

‘There,’ she says, looking satisfied. ‘Now, shoes on.
You, too, groom,’ she yells down the hallway for my father’s benefit. ‘And clean socks, please, Professor, no holes!’

‘You’ll be a great mother one day,’ I laugh.

‘No laughing!’ she tells me, pointing a finger. ‘No time! In car!’

I watch her. ‘Are you going to talk like this all day?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. ‘No. Only till after wedding. Now, go. Go, go, go, go, go. Downstairs. Into car.’

I turn to see the fear in my dad’s eyes as he stands in my ensuite doorway, watching us. ‘I found some other socks …’ he says quietly, glancing from me to Alexa, and back again. ‘See, no holes this time.’ He holds his socks out so she can see.

‘Scary, isn’t she?’ I say to him. ‘She’s like a mutant bridesmaid from Mars or something.’

Silently, my dad nods.

But Alexa, she doesn’t apologise at all. ‘Car! Now! Late!’ she orders. And with that mutant-Martian-bridesmaid look in her eyes, neither Dad nor I is feeling stupid enough to argue with her.

‘I can’t believe we’re actually here,’ Alexa says, flopping back into the tan leather seat and finally relaxing her taut muscles. (And they really were taut – her left eye was twitching all the way here.) ‘And almost on time. Come on, quickly. Out, out, out …’

‘But …’ I look out the window of the car and stare at the front of Nico’s. Absentmindedly, I start scratching my left shoulder. Jacqui obviously didn’t make that note to fix my scratchy seam.

‘It’s too early, Alexa,’ my dad says, checking his watch.

He’s right. It’s just after 11.30. We’re not meant to be here for at least another three hours. ‘Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard on the dutiful bridesmaid thing?’ I ask her. Maybe I should never have given the poor girl that wedding folder. She seems to have taken her job a little too seriously.

‘Stop scratching!’ Alexa batts my hand away from my shoulder before stabbing a finger towards my face. ‘And don’t mess with me, Ness – and don’t tell me that rhymes, either. Just, please, both of you, get out of the car and get
inside. I can’t take much more of this. I don’t think I ever want to get married.’ And with that, she steps out onto the street outside.

‘Oh no. It’s lovely, being married.’ I turn to look at my dad, who’s suddenly all starry-eyed.

Alexa, who’s now moving from one foot to the other, impatiently, on the sidewalk, ducks her head into the car. ‘Then, please. Get inside the restaurant.
Please
.’

‘Out. Like the little lady said,’ another voice booms.

Yikes!

Both Dad’s and my head zip up to see Mikey looming above us, two of his goons hovering close behind him. ‘Coming,’ we squeak, in unison.

‘Thank you …’ Alexa exhales, her shoulders relaxing again.

‘No problem, little lady. Any time.’

I shuffle across the seat and step out onto the sidewalk in, I have to say, quite an ungraceful, non-princess-like manner. (I mean, how do people do that – that getting-out-of-cars-gracefully-without-whacking-their-heads-onthe-roof thing?) Dad shuffles across the long back seat as well and steps out beside me.

‘Come on …’ Alexa now gets behind us like she’s rounding up sheep and begins the task of herding us inside, following Mikey and his goons to the door. The herding thing works. Only because I think we’re both scared she may start nipping at any moment, like a sheepdog.

‘Now, wait just one second,’ she tells us when we’re beneath the ironwork that surrounds Nico’s front door, which has a ‘Closed for Private Function’ sign on it. She motions for my dad to bend down, fixes his collar when he complies, batts my hand away from my shoulder once more, smooths out my skirt, then her own skirt, and finally pulls out a strand of my fly-away hair. (Ow!) ‘Okay, now let’s go in,’ she says. She then motions to my dad again, this time to enter through the heavy wooden front door that Mikey’s holding open, at the same time pulling me back to stand behind him, in line with her. Almost as if Dad was the bride.

Which, as it turns out, he kind of is.

Because when the three of us step inside and Mikey closes the door behind us, the first thing we see are the tables inside Nico’s pushed to either side, to form an aisle. An aisle that the wedding guests line. An aisle that runs
right down the restaurant and out to the fountain courtyard.

Where Holly is standing.

Waiting.

Waiting, looking stunning and beaming.

Oh. Oh, wow. Red carpet or no carpet, she’s never looked more beautiful than she does right now. Not even when they’re paying her fifteen million to look like a million dollars on screen. You simply can’t buy how she looks standing at the end of this terracotta-tiled family-style Italian restaurant, and I know I’ll remember her exactly this way for the rest of my life. Marc’s standing beside her, looking pretty spiffy himself, ready to give her away.

I glance over at Alexa, who looks back at me, pretty much beaming as well. ‘How did you?’ I start to whisper, but she shakes her head at me.
Not now. Later. I’ll tell you all about it later
, the shake says.
Just enjoy. And no scratching.

And I do. Enjoy, that is (not scratch).

The ceremony is beautiful and everything runs according to plan. (Did I ever doubt that it would? Ha ha.) The cake, the tower of City Bakery cupcakes, looks
amazing
. Even better than I thought it would, and everyone comments on what a good idea it is. Especially Holly, who I catch stealing some frosting off the bottom tier, around the back where she thinks nobody will see. (I really know I’ve done the right thing then.)

When I’m sure the wedding cake is safe from Holly’s frosting-thieving fingers, I corner Alexa. ‘You’re the best!’ I give her a hug. ‘But, how …? When …?’

‘Heather called me yesterday morning. I guess she knew that no-one was watching
our
apartment or trying to tap into
our
phone line,’ she explains, ‘so talking to me was
completely safe, as long as she used a payphone. And I had the wedding folder, remember? So I had all the details. It couldn’t have been more perfect.’

I look around me. ‘But the guests?’

‘That was even easier. They were all staying at the same hotel and I had the guest list in the folder, so I just went door to door this morning and told them we’d be bussing them out to the venue at midday. They never even knew the ceremony was meant to start at three o’clock.’

‘You’re a genius!’

Alexa laughs. ‘Thanks. I’m a tired genius.’

‘Did you send all those weird things over to us as well – the T-shirt and the ice-cream and everything?’

Alexa nods. ‘Holly said you’d know what they meant.’

‘
I
did,’ I say, nodding back. ‘Dad just needed …’ – I look over at him now, happy as a pig in a whole pig-pen full of mud – ‘a little convincing.’

Alexa looks over too. ‘Well, it was worth it,’ she adds, as Marc walks over to stand beside us. ‘I’ll, um, leave you guys alone for a moment, shall I?’ she says, disappearing quickly, knowing we have some unfinished business.

‘Talk to you later, Alexa,’ Marc says as she leaves. ‘Hey,
Ness. I’ve got to tell you, this is all amazing. Holly couldn’t be happier. She couldn’t have planned it better herself.’

‘Thanks, Marc.’ And I turn now to look him straight in the eye.

He touches me on the arm. ‘And I am sorry. About the other day.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s okay. You were right. Mostly. I’ve got one question for you, though.’

‘What’s that?’ Marc asks, a mild frown appearing on his face.

‘Why are dumb-blonde jokes so short?’

He laughs now, knowing what I’m up to. ‘Why?’

‘So stupid brunettes like you can remember them.’ I give him a punch on one arm.

He laughs again and bends down to give me a kiss on the cheek. ‘Love your work, sort-of-step-sis. I’m going to go and see if Holly needs a refill. How’s yours doing?’

I look down at my punch glass. ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. ‘You go check on Holly.’

Marc nods and is gone, weaving his way through the crowd of guests, but my words stay with me. It’s true. I
am
fine. Everything’s fine. Slowly, I start to turn a full three
hundred and sixty degrees, looking around me as I go. Alexa’s right. Everything we’ve been through
is
worth it. Everything is, as The Girl in
The Seven Year Itch
would say, ‘just elegant’. Or, for want of a better word, it’s perfect, perfect, perfect.

The guests, including Vera (who’s already checked to see if I changed my sheets; yes, Vera, I did) and Susannah and Rocco (I wave at them now, my eyes, of course, resting just that bit too long on Rocco) seem to be chowing down very happily on their bruschetta. Tiny sardines are having their heads bitten off with gusto all over the room, in fact (I’m sure the sardines realise it’s for a good cause). The cake is still towering away in the corner of the room, the white tablecloths remain just-starched crisp, and the waiters are making sure the drink flows.

I complete my turn to see Holly and Dad laughing. They look really happy. And, in that moment, I remember my mum and realise that she stood beside Dad in Holly’s position once, years ago, probably looking equally as happy as Holly is now. I feel happy and sad at the same time as I think this, especially because something tells me she’d like to know that Dad looks like he does right now –
happy again. And I think she’d feel relieved that I have someone like Holly in my life. Not my mother, but the next best thing: a stepmother who couldn’t love me much more than my real mother could.

Standing here, looking on, I smile a smile I can’t stop from spreading across my face. Who would have thought everything could turn out so PPP? Scratch, scratch, scratch … I reach up for my left shoulder again absentmindedly as I take one more glance around. Alexa. Holly. Dad. Marc. Susannah. Vera. Heather. Mikey. Everyone seems to be having a fabulous time. And I guess there’s the answer to my question: everyone except me thought everything would turn out so PPP. Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Stupid itch. Seven weeks, months, years, dress-related, or otherwise.

Right. That’s it. One last, final, good scratch. I give my shoulder a real ladylike going over and … that’s it. Really. I mean it. No more. No more scratching now or ever again. Life’s too precious to spend it hiding away, scratching at my fears. I have more important things to do. Bigger things to conquer. Like …

I turn my head and the tower in the corner instantly
catches my eye. Like cupcakes. Yes, maybe cupcakes can be the issue
du jour
. And that tower is certainly one worth trying to conquer. I start to make my way over to them now, that smile of mine getting ever wider. Yes, cupcakes are a good start. Something I can handle. And after the fortnight I’ve had, I think at least three of those little white delicacies have my name on them. Good thing I ordered extra – well, a girl just never knows how much frosting her dad’s beard can consume, you know?