The Seven Month Itch (3 page)

‘Who’s Vera?’ Toby asks.

I turn to look at him. ‘Holly’s housekeeper. I told you all about her. Remember?’

‘Oh yeah. Sorry,’ Toby replies quickly. And maybe a strange look passes between us or something, because Alexa looks away quickly, across the lawn to the admin building, where, I know for a fact, nothing exciting ever goes on. Alexa hasn’t ever said anything, but I don’t think she likes Toby very much. I reckon she thinks he’s a bit arrogant. (Which he is, but we all have our quirks, right?)

Toby puts his burger down now. ‘So he’s moving another woman in, huh? How long have Holly and your dad been engaged again?’

I think about it for a second. ‘Um, about seven months.’

‘I see …’ Toby picks up his burger again, takes a bite and chews slowly while Alexa and I watch him, wondering where he’s going with this. He’s obviously ingesting that information, rolling it around in his mind, just as he’s ingesting that burger, rolling it around in his mouth. Finally, he swallows. ‘Seven months. Well, there’s your answer.’

I frown. ‘What’s seven months got to do with anything?’

Toby shoots me a look. ‘You, of all people, can’t tell me you haven’t heard about this.’

‘Heard about what?’ I ask. I’m getting more than slightly frustrated now. Toby can be so annoying when he wants to be. What’s he getting at here?

‘Come on, Nessa. Seven days, seven months, seven years? Scratch, scratch?’ Toby puts his burger down again to give himself a good, all-over, scratch.

‘You’re saying Nessa’s dad is a seven-year-old chimp?’ Alexa snorts.

Guess I was right on the not-liking-Toby thing.

She’s delivered a withering look in return. ‘Yeah. Sure.’ He turns back to me once more. ‘You don’t recall a little movie called
The Seven Year Itch
? You were the one who made me watch it, after all.’

Gasp.

The Seven Year Itch
. Seven days. Seven months. Seven years.
Seven
.

Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven.

I forget about my lunch and clutch the table in front of me.

It’s a sign.

It’s a Marilynism.

But, no. Hang on. Before you go anywhere with this, Nessa, there’s no such things as Marilynisms, remember? I take a deep breath and the quad’s freshly cut grass summer smell fills my nostrils. I exhale and will the Marilynisms away. But, no. The sevens in my head are here to stay. There’s no denying it. Susannah moving in. Dad and his work. Holly and Marc being away over the summer. The slowly rising heat. Seven months. It is a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?

‘Nessa! Hello? Nessa are you there?’ Alexa waves a hand in front of my face.

‘Huh?’ I wake up from my seven-month-itch nightmare.

My best friend points a finger at me. ‘Don’t. Even. Go. There.’

I laugh slightly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know exactly what I mean.’

‘But I –’

‘But you
nothing
,’ Alexa continues. ‘It’s nothing.
Nothing
. In less than two weeks’ time, Susannah will be
gone, and your dad and Holly will be married and on their way to their honeymoon. There’s no seven-month itch. So don’t start scratching.’

‘Don’t start scratching?’ Toby pipes up, his gaze moving from one of us to the other, then coming to rest on Alexa’s finger, still pointing at my face. ‘You guys are weird.’ With another shrug, he picks up his tray. ‘I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a call to make before I head back to the library.’

I cough slightly and lean back from Alexa’s finger. ‘Sure. Okay. I’ll see you there.’

But Toby is already halfway across the lawn and doesn’t respond.

‘Nice manners.’ Alexa leans back as well to give me a ‘What are you doing with him?’ look.

I don’t say anything. I just watch Toby’s retreating figure and bite the side of my lip, all the ‘sevens’ forgotten for a second.

‘Is everything … okay between you guys?’ Alexa says after a while.

I keep watching his retreating figure. I want to say yes, but, really, I’m not so sure. Just a couple of weeks ago, Toby and I were spending a lot more time together. Going
to the movies, meeting up at the weekend just to hang out, calling each other every night. But lately … I don’t know. Lately he’s become a bit distant. He’s always ‘busy’ or, like right now, making and taking ‘calls’.

‘Nessa?’

I turn back to Alexa now and shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Are you still, um, going out?’ She lowers her voice, as if she doesn’t really want to ask the question at all, her eyebrows pushing together in a concerned-best-friend kind of way.

‘I think so,’ I answer just as quietly, then make a face. ‘You can’t exactly ask, can you?’

Alexa pauses for just a second. ‘Yes. I would,’ she speaks up again.

My eyes rest on her for a moment, before I shake my head. That’s the thing about Alexa: she really
would
ask. You’ve got to love the girl. I sigh, and now it’s me who points a finger. ‘Don’t you dare ask him for me.’ And it’s nice to know I can point a finger at her when she needs a good ‘telling’, as well as her doing it to me. Finger pointing should be mutual between best friends, I always think.

I try not to scratch any itches, seven months, seven years or otherwise, for the rest of my day at the library. As it turns out, it’s quite easy to keep from worrying about the fact that my father could be getting blonde-bombshelled as I re-shelve books, because I spend my time worrying about Toby and me instead.

Now that Alexa has noticed he’s acting weird too, it’s hard to keep denying the fact that things aren’t like they used to be between us. He just seems so preoccupied lately. We used to do heaps of things together, but these days he’s always running off somewhere. He’s always busy on weekends. And what’s with all the text messages and the phone calls? Hmmm.

I look across to the aisle beside me, over the top of the
beat-up metal trolley holding yet another stack of books for us to push back on the shelves. (Undergraduate students are so annoying. Why do they need to take out so many books? And if they don’t want them, why can’t they put them back where they found them rather than leave them lying around on the numerous study tables? Wow. I think this job is ageing me. I’m becoming a ‘have you tidied your pigsty of a room yet?’ nagging parent …) Beyond the trolley is Toby. I stand and stare at him for ages, but, as per usual these days, he doesn’t notice me. I think about Alexa’s words – maybe I should confront him. Maybe I should just push that trolley of mine aside right now, go on over and ask him what’s going on with us. I could. I really could … I could just put the book I’m holding in its rightful place on the shelf in front of me, then go on over and ask him.

Yeah, sure. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Because it’s just not Nessa Mulholland style, is it? That’s Alexa Milton style. No, what I’ll do instead is obsess and worry, and work it all up into something it never was in the first place. Much more fun and –

A familiar noise interrupts me from my personality
bashing, and my head zips over to look at Toby again. Another text! I can’t believe it! That’s the fifth one this afternoon. He whips his cell phone out of his pocket and brings it up close to his face so he can read the message then, that done, he chuckles to himself and begins replying. I watch him the entire time and, again, he doesn’t notice me. Finally, he slips his cell back in his pocket and begins re-shelving books once more.

And me? Well, I can’t help myself. ‘Who was that?’ I try to ask super-casually, book balanced in one hand, like I’m not really interested at all. Like I don’t care.

‘Oh, er … a friend. Just a friend.’

I push the book back into place with a thud. ‘Oh. That’s nice.’ I pause, wondering if Toby is going to fill in the blanks, but it seems not. ‘Hey, do you want to go get some gelati this afternoon or something? I found this great place in the West Village that –’

‘Oh, er … I can’t. I’ve made plans. Sorry.’

I push another book, then another, onto the shelves in front of me. ‘Right. Okay.’

‘Nessa?’

I glance over, but turn back again before I really meet
Toby’s eyes, and keep right on re-shelving. ‘Mmm?’

‘I am sorry. Maybe tomorrow, after work?’

‘Mmm,’ I say again, then add a breezy ‘No worries’ that I’m sure I’ll beat myself up for later.

Right. That’s it. Tonight I’m going to try to work out just how to phrase that question of Alexa’s. That ‘Don’t pull your “I’ve already made plans” line on me, buddy’ question that I so want to ask my so-called boyfriend, but don’t have the guts to attempt to ask.

By 4 pm, the end of the library working day, all I want to do is go home, turn the AC up and snuggle under my doona (nothing can get you under your doona). I race back home, texting Alexa as I go and telling her I’ll catch up with her tomorrow. Finally, as the elevator doors finally open, vomiting me into the hallway of our apartment, I breathe a sigh of relief.

A sigh that instantly catches in my throat and ends up half-choking me to death.

‘Nessa, are you all right?’ my dad asks, starting over
towards me. ‘Are you catching a cold? You’ve been doing an awful lot of coughing today.’

I don’t even look at him. ‘No, I’m …’ – choke, gasp, hack – ‘fine. Just fine.’ I can’t take my eyes off the vision sitting at the kitchen bench. The vision sitting on Holly’s seat, wearing (it must be) Holly’s Sass & Bide jacket. Her favourite one. Her
customised
one.

‘Good, good.’ My dad returns to the kitchen. ‘I’m just making some coffee. Did you want something? Susannah’s having a mineral water.’

I gasp, my eyes moving to the counter. And there it is. One of Holly’s bottles of San Pellegrino. She’s addicted to the stuff. Lives on it.

‘Maybe you are catching something,’ my dad says, his eyes following mine and landing on the bottle I’m still staring at. ‘Or perhaps you’re a little dehydrated. Have you been drinking enough water in the heat?’

‘I’m
fine
.’

Susannah stands up now. ‘I’m just going to duck back off home then,’ she says, and duly heads towards the elevator doors behind me. ‘So silly …’ She waves a hand casually around her, seemingly for my benefit. ‘It was so
hot this morning, I completely forgot to pack anything even slightly warm. I had to borrow this jacket of Holly’s. I have to say, she’s got great taste, and even better air-conditioning.’ She laughs slightly at this.

My eyes narrow. Yes, great taste and great air-conditioning that you’re
stealing
, I think to myself, watching Susannah warily as she approaches me. First Holly’s jacket, then her mineral water and electricity. And tomorrow … what? Her fiancé? Her life? Her talented, witty and charming stepdaughter-to-be? (That’s me, btw.)

‘So embarrassing!’ Susannah prattles on. ‘I’ll have it dry-cleaned right away, William.’

This time, I manage to stifle my choke. William? Whatever happened to ‘Professor Mulholland’?
William
?! And what was that – that look, that coquettish glance she just threw him? What was that about?

Thankfully, my dad doesn’t look up from his new toy – his coffee machine. (Holly wouldn’t let me tell him how much she paid for it, but for that price I think it should’ve come with a full-time barista chained to it as one of its attachments.)

‘I hope that’s okay,’ Susannah tries again. She’s obviously
used to her coquettish glances being noticed and isn’t embarrassed to draw attention to them.

‘Hmmm. Sorry?’ Dad looks up at last. ‘Oh yes, of course. Don’t worry about it. Holly won’t be needing it for some time. I’m sure she wouldn’t even notice it was missing anyway. She has so many lovely clothes.’

My eyebrows raise at this. I tell you what, if I came home and some fancy-pants wannabe-actress-slash-sociologist (and, believe me, they’re the worst kinds of slash people, forget about those actress-slash-models and the waiter-slash-artists) was sitting in
my
apartment, in
my
customised Sass & Bide jacket, drinking
my
mineral water and throwing coquettish glances at
my
fiancé, I might just notice something was amiss. A Miss who’s now, thankfully, leaving.

‘Well, I’ll have to thank Holly for keeping me from freezing!’ Susannah jokes again. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Bye, Nessa!’ She moves past me, grabs her bag and then heads for the elevator. ‘See you soon.’

I don’t answer, but I do watch her as she leaves, my eyes following the elevator doors as they slowly shut. ‘Take your time,’ I say under my breath. ‘And watch out for buses as you cross the street.’

‘Sorry, pumpkin? Did you say something?’ my dad calls out over the hum of the coffee machine, which chooses this moment to hurl itself into high gear. (All this for a cup of coffee. Hasn’t he heard of Starbucks? There’s one on both corners of our block.)

I walk on over towards the kitchen. ‘I only said that you should be sure not to make a sad old philandering fool of yourself while your fiancée’s out of town,’ I say as I sit down in my usual spot at the bench.

My dad switches the coffee machine off. ‘Sorry, pumpkin. What was that? I couldn’t hear you over the coffee machine.’

Ha ha. Funny that.

‘Oh nothing,’ I reply airily. ‘I just said work was okay.’ Now there’s an even bigger lie. I think of Toby and his ‘call’ and his text message and the way he’s generally been ignoring me, and try not to sigh.

My dad tilts his head to one side and rests a hand on the bench in front of me. ‘Are you okay with Susannah staying with us? I did mean to tell you about it, but it must have slipped my mind.’

I nod. Things have a tendency to slip my dad’s mind.
Like just about everything except work. And whether we have enough coffee. And if I’m grounded or not. He always remembers those things.

‘I know it’s a bit strange, having a … well, a stranger around,’ he continues, ‘but she’s a very nice lady and we really do need to get things finished off before this blessed wedding. We worked flat out today.’

I nod again but, inside my head, several words scream out at me. Nice lady? Hello?! Irini, our cleaning lady, is a ‘nice lady’. She has twelve grandchildren, always wants to show you their photos and brings Marc little boxes of her home-cooked Greek shortbread. (With all these old ladies cooking for him, I’m surprised he isn’t the size of a house by now.) My English teacher is a ‘nice lady’. She donates a lot of time at a homeless shelter. Dad and I know quite a few ‘nice ladies’, in fact, and Susannah is not one of them. No. What Susannah is, is a man magnet. She’s a foiler (one of those women you see spending each and every Saturday at the hairdresser with industrial-size rolls of tin foil all over their heads in the vain attempt to stay blonde). She’s a fake – fake nails, fake tan, fake teeth … though no fake chest, I did check on that. (Maybe that’s why she’s gone into sociology?)

And there’s another important word that’s just exited my father’s mouth and made my ears prick up. And that would be the word ‘blessed’. Blessed wedding. As in vows, Dad.
Sacred
vows. So don’t go working ‘flat out’ with anyone but Holly,
capische
?

‘Nessa? Did you just say “
Capische
”?’ My dad is staring at me, worriedly.

I sit up in my seat. Oops. Some of that must have accidentally slipped out. ‘I was, um … just thinking about Irini’s shortbread.’ Where did
that
come from? How does that make any sense?

‘Oh, no,’ my dad says, shaking his head. ‘Irini’s Greek, dumpling. “
Capische
” is Italian.’

Well, phew. Saved once again by my ever-educating dad.

At least it looks like there’s going to be one benefit to the Susannah ‘flat out’ Tribeca tour: I think we’re going to be ordering in every evening. Tonight, after she returned, we had Mexican, which I’m vetoing from now on because of
Susannah’s mole-sauce finger licking. Could she be any more of a blatant hussy? I think not.

Plus, she was
still
wearing Holly’s jacket when she came back from her trip to her own apartment, even though I turned the AC off and opened up all the windows. Hello? It’s hot outside.
Hot
. Doesn’t she get that? No, I guess not. I guess she’s going to sit around and do the skinny-woman-mole-sauce-finger-licking ‘I’m sooo cold’ shiver the whole time she’s here.

Well, yay. Or ‘hmpf’, as Vera would say.

Anyway, after dinner I retire to my room (read: slunk off so I didn’t have to watch the skinny-woman-mole-sauce-finger-licking ‘I’m sooo cold’ shiver for one minute longer). With nothing on TV, and because I’m not allowed to have TiVo in my room – Dad thinks it will deaden my brain, which it probably will, but he manages to turn a blind eye to the TiVo hook-up in Holly’s bathroom, the main bedroom and the kitchen, all of which are, apparently, for her ‘work’ – I boot up Sugar Kane, my trusted iBook. I spend some time IM-ing Marc for a bit (
What do you call a blonde in a tree with a brief case?
Answer: branch manager.
What are the worst six years in a blonde’s life?
Answer: Third Grade) until he gets to be too much of a dumb-blonde-joke pain, and then I try reading instead. But I can’t concentrate, my mind moving from one nasty train of thought to another. I can’t stop thinking about a) the seven-month-itch thing, and b) the Toby thing.