Diamonds Are a Teen's Best Friend (2 page)

‘Nessa Joanne Mulholland.’

Oh, how I wish my parents had never given me a middle name. Or a first name. Or even a last name for that matter.

‘I thought we agreed we were going to tone it down a bit on this trip?’

Did we? I can’t remember. We’re always agreeing to tone it down a bit. On this trip. For that party. During this, that and the other important dinner. Though I’ve yet to work out just what the old guy means by ‘tone it down a bit’. Could he just mean be me but a bit more quietly? And, again, honestly, I did try to hold back. It was only that I’d got a bit excited after seeing Holly and having her realise what I was on about with the ‘Europe, France’ line.

And so, when the boat pulled out, I couldn’t help myself with the throwing of the streamers and the waving like a loon and the ‘Bye, lover!’ line. (I think I may have scared half to death the little wizened-up old wheelchair-bound grandpa who was directly below me on the dock. One of my streamers didn’t unroll but plonked on his head, and he then looked straight up at me as the lover thing left my mouth. I waved my hands a bit harder then and yelled out that I didn’t mean him, but the boat honked over the top of me and I think I ended up scaring him even further. Oops.) Now, I give Dad my best fluttering of eyelashes and he shakes his head sadly.

‘You know, one day that’s going to work on some man and you won’t know what to do.’

I go to open my mouth and tell him maybe before that happens I’ll read his paper on the subject, when I think better of it and shut it again. Two Marilynisms is pushing my luck already for one Dad day and, looking inside the cabin door that he’s just opened in front of us, I really don’t want to be spending a lot of time in the sin bin of the high seas. We both go to move into the cabin at the same time and get stuck.

‘Umph. Sorry,’ we say in unison, then laugh.

Dad lets me through first and moves in one step behind me. (That’s as far as we both go before hitting the first single bed.)

‘Um, there’s no window,’ I say, looking around the room (and, believe me, it doesn’t take long). ‘And what’s that noise?’ I end up yelling as ‘that noise’ gets louder and louder.

‘That would be the engine.’

‘Oh.’

‘Sorry?’ Dad says.

‘OH!’

‘Oh,’ he says, working out what I said in the first place.

Yes. Oh. Something tells me I won’t be running into Holly Isles, Kent Sweetman or the cute nephew down this end of the ship. And by down I mean
down
. Because I’ve just figured out why there’s no window. There’s no window because sea level is somewhere a few storeys above our heads. This is cruising the college-grant-funded way. And something
else
is telling me the grant won’t be running to an expense account for all the garish cocktail umbrella and plastic monkey-festooned mocktails I’d been planning on having.

Damn.

I turn around to see Dad contemplating the ceiling. When, after a while, he doesn’t look down, I decide to have a look too.

‘What is it?’ I eventually ask when I’m more than sure there’s nothing up there worth looking at.

‘Ever seen
The Poseidon Adventure
?’ He finally returns his head to the upright position.

‘No,’ I say. And for the next ten minutes he fills me in on the glory of the movie
The Poseidon Adventure
. Something about a cruise ship that gets hit by a tidal wave (gee,
thanks
Dad …) and overturns. And the smart people on board decide to try to work their way to the top (really the bottom) of the boat in order to get out through a hole. And just when I’m starting to wonder if there’s a moral to this story, Dad contemplates the floor for a change and finishes with:

‘Think of it this way – if we overturn in the middle of the night, we won’t have far to walk to find the hole.’

He’s not wrong. There are probably only a few feet between us and that mega-sapphire what’s-her-face stupidly chucked over the side of the boat in
Titanic
. ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I tell him. ‘Boat overturns, go up, not
down.’ My dad. Always passing on important and useful life lessons.

‘Good girl.’

I spend forty-five seconds putting all my stuff away and stowing my bag (when you move as much as we do, you learn to pack light), and another five seconds checking out the bathroom (which gives me time to look it over twice). Then I grab my laptop and stand in position near the door, ready to make a break for it. ‘Dad …’ I whine.

He looks up from his spot on the bed where he’s already working through some notes. ‘Hmmm? Oh, you want to go. Well, that’s okay. Just check back in every so often, won’t you?’

I nod. And then wait. ‘Dad …’ I start up again.

‘Hmmm?’ He doesn’t look up.

‘Daaaaad …’

Now he does. ‘Oh. Money. I should’ve known. It’s been five minutes at least.’ He hands me a twenty-dollar note before giving me the eye. ‘Make it last, sunshine.’

‘Thanks Dad!’ I’m off before he can change his mind. Or remember that he never asked for the change from last night’s takeaway (oh, how I love it when he’s in the
middle of a study). ‘Bye, lover!’ I yell as I make a break for it.

The lyrical sounds of ‘Nessa Joanne Mulholland, tone it down a bit’ sound up the corridor behind me as I go.

I make my way up to one of the upper decks, where I walk around and generally have a bit of an explore. Talk about gigantic! Not one, but four swimming pools, an aerobics room, a gym, three restaurants … there’s even a day spa (not that I’ll be seeing the inside of that, but maybe I can convince Dad a bit of a back waxing can sometimes be a good thing for a guy’s love life?). It’s quiet up here – only a few people are strolling around. I’m guessing the others are still unpacking in their cabins. (I can see how if you were in a suite above sea level, staying in your cabin with your complimentary fruit platter and bottle of champagne wouldn’t be a half-bad idea.) When I’m done looking around, I settle down on a wooden sun lounge, facing out to sea, and spring open Sugar Kane (my precious, goes everywhere with me, iBook – named after Marilyn’s character in
Some Like It Hot
). I’ve got to email Alexa.

I’m only a few short sentences in when the drinks waiter (I could live like this all the time!) rolls up. I ask him for
some Dom Perignon 1953 (you guessed it – Marilyn’s favourite drink), and he gives me a ‘Why don’t you crawl away and die, young whippersnapper’ look that makes me wonder how he’s going to make it through this trip. I mean, it’s only day one. I settle for a mocktail of his choice with not one, but two maraschino cherries (though he’ll probably include a chewed-off toenail or three in it now I’ve been a smart arse). And there goes half of my twenty bucks. Eeekkk. I’d better sharpen my whining skills this trip or I could easily die of thirst.

Mocktail ordering done, I try to get back into my email, but find I’ve left my typing fingers on land. I’m completely and utterly distractible – every person who walks past makes me look up, or I find myself simply staring out to sea. I’m way too excited to type. The fact is, I just don’t do cool very well. It’s fun being somewhere new that isn’t another college campus. And with all the Marilynisms that have been going on this morning, I’m finding several movie scenes playing through my head in vivid Technicolor. There’s the one from
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
, for a start. After Lorelei and Dorothy board their ship, Lorelei hangs out on a wooden sun lounge (just like
I’m on!) and checks out the eligible guys on the passenger list.

Maybe I should ask that drinks waiter for a passenger list when he comes back? I remember his expression when I asked for the Dom Perignon. Hmmm. Maybe not. And speaking of eligible guys, it’s not looking like there are very many at all. The ones that have hoofed it past me so far have either been way grey, too young, using a walking frame, or attached to a female. And I’m guessing the Olympic team isn’t on board like they were in the film. Damn. I could have done with a whole relay team just for me. It’s always been a dream of mine to fall in love with a guy named Skeeter (he was one of the relay team guys) … Stop it, Nessa. I shake my head. Back to the emailing. Think of poor Alexa, stuck out there in the middle of the technology-Skeeter-and-mocktail-free desert.

‘Well, hello there.’ A figure stops in front of me, casting a shadow over Sugar Kane. I look up.

Oh.

‘Mind if I sit down?’

Do I mind if Holly Isles sits down beside me? I think not. ‘Um, er, sure,’ I finally manage to stammer, but by
then she’s already well seated. And I think I smelt her coming before she even arrived. In a good way, I mean. She smells all flowery and citrusy and vanillary all wrapped up in one. She smells fantastic. How come perfume never smells like that on me? Is there some kind of pheromone they hand out when you turn eighteen? One that makes you a Woman with a capital W? For something to do (I think my hands may be shaking), I snap Sugar Kane closed and then take a great interest in the drinks waiter, who’s making his way over with my mocktail.

‘Wow. That looks pretty good. Living the high life already?’ Holly laughs as he puts it down beside me. (He even calls me ‘madam’! And I notice he’s given me
three
maraschino cherries. What a guy …)

‘I think I’ll have one too,’ Holly says then. ‘Maybe a pina colada?’

The drinks waiter nods. ‘Of course, Miss Isles. Shall I put it on your room?’

‘That would be perfect.’

Oh, if only he’d known
my
name. Oh, if only I had a
tab
. (Unfortunately my dad isn’t that stupid. He didn’t get all those degrees for nothing.)

‘Do they all come with three cherries?’ Holly asks quickly, just as the drinks waiter is about to head off.

‘Of course they do, Miss Isles.’

She winks at me and
I
laugh. ‘Yes, I thought they might.’ She nods and we both watch the drinks waiter make his way back to the bar. ‘I love a good maraschino cherry,’ she says with a sigh and leans back into her chair, closing her eyes.

There’s a pause and, as Holly’s eyes are closed, I take the opportunity to have a really good look at her. She looks just like she does in all her films. And I can’t believe her skin – it’s flawless. I can only dream about having skin like that and not having to creep up to the bathroom mirror each morning praying there won’t be an eruption somewhere on my face. Plus, what she’s wearing – it’s amazing. Some kind of a swing coat with a black singlet and black capri pants underneath. You can tell it cost a fortune just by glancing at it. Frankly, looking at Holly Isles (though I think I may be staring now) is like looking at a car crash: you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but gawk. Of course, five minutes has gone by where I haven’t made a complete idiot of myself, so I have to go and wreck this by
not being able to help myself again. ‘Tell me you’re from Little Rock,’ I say a little too fast.

Holly turns her head and opens one eye. ‘Sorry. Dayton, Ohio. It was worth a try, though.’

‘I guess.’

‘You’re a bit of a Marilyn fan, are you?’

She knew! She knew what I meant about ‘Little Rock’! I try not to look too excited. ‘You could say that.’ I take a sip of my mocktail. ‘Want to try?’ I offer Holly the glass.

‘No, it’s okay. I’ll wait for the stronger stuff. After the week I’ve had, I need it.’

‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. Should I ask where Kent is, or not? I’m not sure on the star etiquette thing. ‘Um, do you want to talk about it?’ I try.

Holly sighs. ‘I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.’

Get real! Of course I want to hear it! Still, I try not to look like a gossip hound. ‘I don’t mind. I’m a good listener. I have to listen to my dad all the time.’

Holly laughs at this.

‘No, I mean, he’s always telling me about his studies and stuff.’

‘Studies?’

‘Mmmm.’ I take another sip of mocktail. ‘He sort of studies, um … people.’

Holly’s eyebrows raise a bit. ‘People? What do you mean? Is he a journalist?’ she asks quickly.

I shake my head just as quickly back. ‘I wish! It’s nothing as glamorous as that.’ But, damn. How did I get myself into this situation … again? ‘He sort of studies people and how they, um … mate.’ I mumble the last bit.

‘What? You’re joking.’ Holly sits up in her chair. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really. He’s a sociologist.’ I can’t believe I just told Holly Isles my dad’s a sex fiend.

‘Wow. He’d have a field day with Kent then.’ She sits back again.

That’s probably true, I think to myself, if even half of what I’ve read about him in the tabloids is correct. Suddenly I find myself looking at my mocktail intently. I poke around in the glass a bit with my straw (especially when I find a lump that I really, really hope isn’t a piece of toenail). The pause is longer this time. Much longer. Finally, I look up. ‘So, did you want to?’

‘Want to what?’ Holly looks over at me, confused.

‘Talk about it.’

‘Oh. Right. Um …’ She gives me a look. One that I don’t really like because I can tell, in that assessing moment as her eyes skim over me, that she suddenly realises I’m a kid. Thus, I’m safe. She can tell me anything.

‘Hey, if you don’t want to …’ I start, and Holly waves a hand.

‘No, it’s not that.’ She gives me one last, thoughtful look. ‘It’s just that there’s not much to talk about, I’m afraid. It’s all said and done. The wedding’s off.’

Holy … I try not to jump out of my sun lounge. Not much to talk about? I can think of a few gossip columnists who would disagree. ‘Oh, really?’

Silence.

I’m not quite sure what to say now, but eventually it comes down to two choices: to ask or not to ask. Being me, I opt for ask. ‘Was there, um, someone else?’

Holly snorts. ‘Several someone elses, it seems. Including our pool cleaner. That was the someone I caught him with.’

Ah. Er. What do I say to this one? And why is she telling me all of this? Isn’t it a bit of a secret? ‘I’m …’ I shrug.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ And Holly must see the look in my eyes because she snorts again.

‘It’s okay. The pool cleaner was a woman. And why am I telling you all of this?’