Diamonds Are a Teen's Best Friend (4 page)

I take a deep breath and open up the bathroom door. ‘Ta da!’ I say, hoping the flourish of my arms will distract my dad’s attention away from my dress. I’ve done a few small alterations on it when he wasn’t looking. Like taking the original high-neck, long-sleeve top off the full pleated skirt, and replacing it with this cool vintage Marilyn-style white halter-neck number found in a recycled clothes shop in Chelsea. (There have been definite shopping advantages to our recent six-month stay in NYC. Ones that, frankly, never presented themselves during a short-lived, three-month study stint in Laos.) I’ve given myself loose curls as well. It’s really easy – you do them around empty single-serve Coke cans. Though drinking all that Coke can make you rather gassy, and drinking all those tiny single-serve
Cokes from the mini bar can lead to instant death (not from the Coke, from your parental figure when they see the bill).

Anyway, the outfit’s all very
Seven Year Itch
. You know, the scene where Marilyn’s skirt blows up? That one.

I’m also hoping to distract my dad’s beady eyes away from the eyeliner and beauty spot I’ve got on. (I get away with mascara, a bit of blush and lip gloss, but Dad tends to freak when I take things any further. In his mind, I’m eternally piggy-tailed and five years old. Daddy’s little girl …)

Except that it’s not the dress or the eyeliner, as it turns out, but something else entirely that distracts him. Sitting on one of the single beds, his eyes suddenly look watery. ‘You look more like your mother every day.’

Oh.

He sucks in his breath then. ‘Sorry, sweetheart. You look lovely. Just lovely.’ He smiles a fake smile.

I turn around and take another look at myself in the mirror. A good hard look. But I can’t see my mother at all. I try hard to match my features up with hers. All the ones I’ve seen in the photo albums. Because that’s all I have, really: photos. A few vague memories of her voice, and
photos. Sometimes I’ll think I remember something we did together – a trip to the park, to the zoo, baking a cake – but then I’ll see a photo of us doing the same thing and realise I’ve somehow worked the photo into a recollection. Sometimes I wonder if I truly remember her at all.

Dad once said that the best way I could remember her would be to convince everyone I meet to become an organ donor. Because that’s why she died, you see. She had cardiomyopathy. A virus you get in your heart. And she might still be alive today if she’d had a heart transplant. But there weren’t enough hearts to go around. There never are, apparently. So, as soon as I get my driver’s licence, I’m ticking that ‘Do you want to be an organ donor?’ box. Both my dad and I are on a list too, somewhere. Some kind of organ donor registry. When I turned thirteen we had a big talk about it – about whether I wanted to be a donor or not. There wasn’t much to talk about, though. I figure I won’t be needing my heart after I die. And if someone else can use it, well, they’re more than welcome to it. As I keep looking at my white-outfitted reflection in the mirror, searching for my mother, I remember something else – something I’d heard my dad and the kiddie psychiatrist talk about outside
his office. (Of course I listened at the door, wouldn’t you?) The psychiatrist had said something about my making up a fantasy world based around Marilyn Monroe because my real world was so transient. My mother had gone and we moved so often – the world in my head couldn’t be taken away from me as easily as the real world seemingly could. I’ve never really known what to think about that …

Dad gets up off the bed and comes over to turn me around and give me a kiss on one cheek. ‘You do look lovely,’ he says, smiling down at me. But then the smile fades. Oh, no, I think. He’s really upset. He’s going to cry.

Wrong.

Instead, the smile fades to a sharp narrowing of the eyes. ‘Nessa Joanne Mulholland. That’s not the dress I bought you, is it?’

Damn. Just when I thought I’d got away with it.

There’s another look. And a licking of a thumb that quickly makes its way towards my face. ‘Now, come here. You’ve got a smudge on your cheek.’

Aaaggghhh! Incoming Dad spit!

I try really, really hard to look sophisticated and used to walking in heels as we exit the elevator (another Chelsea bargain that Dad didn’t know about until five minutes ago). I’ve even resorted to using a bit of double-sided tape, nicked from a passing steward, between the bottom of each shoe and the soles of my feet. (Not very Marilyn, I know, but needs must …) And heads do turn on our arrival, but they also turn back again very quickly when they see we’re not Someones. Oh, well. Someone who doesn’t turn away, though, is the maitre d’. I can tell something’s up the moment I see him and he fixes me with a ‘Not very happy, young lady’ look as Dad and I cross the floor (me hanging on to his arm for dear life to keep from tripping and falling inelegantly on my face).

‘
Bon soir
, Mademoiselle Mulholland,’ the maitre d’ says through his teeth when we reach his small desk. ‘A pleasure. Yet again.’

‘You’ve met?’ Dad looks at me and I shrug slightly, my face frozen. I’ll get the lecture of the century if he finds out what I’ve been up to (trying to get us seated on Holly’s table, that is). Let’s just say that my dad … he isn’t keen on celebrity. He thinks anyone who lives on the West
Coast (especially within a million-mile radius of Hollywood) has to be dull. Beauties can’t have brains in my dad’s little universe. Anyway, he may not be keen on celebrity, but I hope he
is
keen on sitting next to either the kitchen or the bathrooms. Because that’s where I’m thinking we’ll be sitting tonight.

The maitre d’ glances at the list in front of him, before lifting his head once more to really give me a look. Something
is
up, I think to myself. Either that or the guy’s going to pass a kidney stone in about thirty seconds. ‘Well, it looks like you will be on table three tonight.’ The eyes narrow. ‘Enjoy.’ He practically spits the word. ‘James …’ He clicks his fingers and a guy materialises from behind one of the potted palms. ‘Show Professor and Mademoiselle Mulholland to their table, please. Table three.’

James looks at us, then pauses, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. ‘Table three?’

The maitre d’ whips around then. ‘Yes, table
three
. That is what I said, is it not?’

James gives us the once-over again. ‘Table three. This way, please.’

Table three. I’m half scared to follow him. Because I’m starting to think that table three is the one in the middle of the fancy fish tank. The one with the miniature sharks in it.

But, as it turns out, that’s not where table three is at all. And it’s nowhere near the kitchen or the bathrooms, either.

Table three is Holly’s table. The best table in the room. And I can hardly believe my eyes as James guides us over to it. How did this happen? Had the maitre d’ felt bad and seated us here after the lip incident? When we get close, Holly sees me and waves and Marc half-turns in his seat. I wave at Holly and smile at Marc, who doesn’t smile back. Hmmm. Busted lip or not, it looks like I’m back in the bad books again.

‘Who’s that?’ My dad squints, seeing me wave at Holly.

I sigh as I look up at him. ‘You shouldn’t have to ask.’

‘Oh. Do I know her? Is she from the college?’

Now I really sigh. Is she from the college? It’s like he really
is
from a different universe (more specifically, planet college, in the clueless system). ‘No, Dad. That’s Holly Isles. The actress.’

There’s a blank look.

‘Come on, Dad. Even you must know who Holly Isles is.’ I pause for a second, turn him to face me and count down her three biggest and latest films on three of my fingers.

‘Ah. I think I have it,’ he nods slowly, when I’m done. ‘Didn’t they film part of that last one at the college?’

Aaaggghhh! Why can’t I have a normal father? One that lines up to see all the blockbuster films with a supersize bucket of popcorn and a giant Coke instead of taking an apple to the arthouse cinema? Yes, that’s right. An apple. To the arthouse cinema. On date night.

‘Don’t you remember? We saw her boarding the ship this morning.’

Another squint.

‘Come
on
, Dad, you definitely saw her. I
saw
you seeing her.’ I remember his lobotomy look that matched mine all too well.

There’s a third squint. ‘Oh! Oh, yes I do remember now. She’s very beautiful.’ And a pointed look. ‘Though I did no such thing.’ Then he looks back at Holly again and there’s a long pause in which I can practically hear his
brain ticking over. Wait for it, wait for it …‘But how do you know her?’

I knew it! The man may be from the clueless system, but he zaps back down to earth from time to time to keep an eye on me. I know we’ll have to get this all sorted and out of the way before we take one step further. It’s a Dad thing.

‘Um, I met her before. On one of the top decks.’

The look changes from confusion to ‘What have you been up to, Nessa Joanne Mulholland?’, fast. ‘I hope you haven’t been bothering people.’

‘
Moi?
’ I’m all innocence. ‘Of course not. Now, come on. And do try to tone it down a bit, won’t you …’

‘Looking gorgeous, Nessa.’ Holly stands up and gives me a kiss first on one cheek and then on the other (how LA!) when we finally reach table three. ‘Love the outfit.’

‘Thanks! I love yours too.’ And I do. What I’d give to be able to wear a strapless number like that. Holly’s long black and white shimmering sequinned dress is mesmerising.

‘And this charming gentleman must be your father?’

I nod and do my introductions. First to Holly, then to Marc. ‘You’ll have to come and sit next to me,’ Holly says to my dad. ‘Nessa’s told me all about your work. It sounds fascinating. And I haven’t sat beside a professor for years. Actually, I think I only ever sat in front of them, so this is a first for me.’

‘You went to college?’ My dad looks surprised and I surreptitiously kick him on one ankle. He is
such
a snob! Like I said, Dad and celebrity don’t mix. Just because Holly’s an actress, he assumes she’s stupid.

Holly nods. ‘Microbiology was my poison. Nothing nearly as interesting as sociology, I’m afraid.’

‘But microbiology’s a fascinating field.’ My dad, animated now, reaches out and touches Holly’s arm. ‘Only the other day …’

And this is where my brain switches off. Holly and Dad sit down beside each other and, amazingly, start nattering away like they’re old friends. As for me, I take a seat beside Marc, who’s chatting to the man sitting next to him … and continues chatting to him through a bread roll (I eat Dad’s as well, for something to do), salad and the entrée.

Looks like Holly’s got a new ‘new best friend’.

It isn’t until our main meals begin to arrive and Marc’s friend ducks off to the bathroom that he turns to me. Grudgingly. ‘I hope your lip’s okay,’ he says gruffly, not really looking at me. The waiter places my main in front of me – an extremely yummy-looking chicken breast stuffed with macadamia and coriander, sitting on some sort of mango sauce. (I could do this every night! Way better than Dad’s develop-your-cellulite-while-you’re-young repertoire of lasagna, sausages and pork chops.)

‘It’s fine, really. It looked a lot worse than it was.’

Silence. Except for on the other side of me where my dad cackles loudly. I look at Marc. ‘Holly must be bored out of her mind.’

I’m expecting him to agree with me when he shakes his head and takes a mouthful of his lamb shank. ‘No,’ he says when he finishes chewing. ‘I don’t think so.’

I pause. ‘How do you know?’

‘Er …’ Marc pauses as well, his fork halfway to his mouth.

I can see I’ve caught him out. ‘What? What is it?’

‘Er, nothing.’ He takes another hasty mouthful.

I wait for a moment before I decide I’ve had enough. Who does this guy think he is? One minute he’s sticking up for me, the next minute I’m no-one. ‘Look. You’ve been ignoring me all evening. You may as well tell me what you think. How do you know Holly isn’t bored?’

Marc finally meets my eyes. ‘Fine. Okay. I know because she’d send me the signal if she was bored.’