Girl Online: On Tour (21 page)

Mum always tells me that the guests were dressed just as extravagantly. All the women wore shoulder-padded dress suits with matching hats, and all ten (yes, ten!) of her bridesmaids wore puffy sleeves and white gloves and had their perms freshly styled. I am actually pretty gutted to have missed out on their wedding, despite the fact I wasn’t even a twinkle in Mum’s eye then.

Good job I have all three of their vow renewals safely nestled in my memory, and their thirtieth wedding anniversary
coming up. Any excuse for a giant celebration in the Porter household.

Once the Roman wedding party moves on, there’s another one ready to take their place. This is like a wedding-photo conveyor belt! As I watch each couple take their position in front of the Colosseum, I can’t help but imagine what my own wedding day might be like. Mum will go to town and make it the most amazing wedding she’s ever done, I know that much.

My favourite flowers, orchids, would be everywhere.

Elliot would be my man of honour.

Mum and Dad would give me away together, one on either side.

But would it be Noah waiting for me at the end of the aisle?

A week ago I would have said yes, but now I’m not so sure.

A wave of sadness washes over me as I go back through our argument in my mind. I feel all mixed up between guilt and anger, and I don’t know what to think. Tears threaten my eyes, and my cheeks flush. I’m so confused.

This is exactly what I came outside to avoid. I stand up with purpose, frightening a flock of pigeons that had settled near my feet. One of the birds flies perilously close to one of the brides and launches a great stream of poop in the direction of her brilliant white dress.

“Watch out!” I yell, not sure if I’ll be understood by the Italian bride. Her groom understands, and gallantly throws himself in the path of the pigeon poo. I scurry away as fast as I can.

The queue to get into the Colosseum stretches round the block, so I decide to forgo getting a close-up of the gladiator arena. I do feel some sympathy for the poor gladiators, though. Last year, I felt like I’d been thrown into the modern version of the Colosseum, with everyone on the Internet able to give me the thumbs-up or -down to decide my fate. Was I good enough for Noah?

Currently, I’d get a thumbs-down. I’d be fed to the lions, for sure.

The thought makes me shiver. I decide to head to another famous Roman landmark before I have to go back to the hotel: the Trevi Fountain. I somehow missed it on my meandering path to the Pantheon. I look up directions in the guidebook, and take a quick selfie in front of the Colosseum to send to Elliot, just to prove I am actually sightseeing.

When I finally arrive at the fountain, my jaw drops. Not because of how breathtakingly beautiful it is, but because of how busy it is. People are pressed round it like sardines in a large semicircle, all trying to get the perfect photo. I decide the best thing to do is to hang back a bit, but I also want to get a photo and leave. I manage to slip in a little closer to the front of the fountain and get my camera out to take a photo. All of a sudden the fact that the sun is blaring down on me and there are people everywhere becomes all too real, and I start sweating. I try to shake it off and slowly move away from the fountain, but I can’t. I feel trapped against the pale stone of the fountain wall and all I can see when I turn round are the faces of other people.

My heart beats so hard inside my chest I feel like someone will be able to see it. My throat starts to close up and I can’t
breathe properly. I put my head down and run from the fountain, pushing everyone out of the way with my camera, accidentally snapping pictures as I go. Miraculously I find a nearby bench with nobody on it and lie down, looking up at the sky. There is barely a cloud to be seen, but I concentrate on counting even the faintest wisp of a cloud. I focus on my breathing and take a deep breath in and let a prolonged breath out. I don’t even care at this stage if anyone can see me; I just need to calm down.

When my breathing returns to normal, I look through the photos I took while running through the crowd, deleting them to free up my memory card, but then a face catches my eye: a girl wearing a bright red scarf. Her dark hair is styled into a neat, chin-length bob, but there’s something really familiar about her expression. I zoom in closer, but the tiny screen on my camera doesn’t give me a good enough view.

I look up, scanning the crowd for the girl, and spot her striding purposefully away from the fountain, her scarf fluttering in the breeze like a flag.
It can’t be . . . can it?

I jump up from the bench and race to catch up with her. As I draw close, I reach out and touch her arm.

“Leah?” I say. “Is that you?”

Chapter Thirty-One

There’s a moment of panic on Leah’s face as she spins round, and a man behind me yells, “Hey! Stop right there!”

But the panic disappears as soon as she recognizes me, and is replaced by a warm smile. “Penny! Thank goodness it’s you.” She looks over my shoulder at the man behind me. “It’s OK, Callum, stand down—it’s only Penny Porter, Noah Flynn’s girlfriend.”

She pulls me over to a nearby bench and we sit down. Her security guard stands a short distance away. Leah looks up at him. “It’s fine, Callum. You can go grab a drink or something. I’ll be OK with Penny.”

He hesitates for a moment, looking from me to Leah and then back again, then he nods.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I say, when he’s gone.

“Well, that
is
kind of the point of wearing a disguise, silly. You must have a good eye!” She leans back against the bench so her face catches the full blast of the sun. The wig she has on changes her look from long blonde Hollywood hair to a short brunette bob, cropped at her chin. She’s wearing bright
pink lipstick that exaggerates the shape of her lips, changing her natural pout. Accessorized with a pair of cheap sunglasses like the kind you can buy at a pound store, she is almost completely unrecognizable as the pop star that I know. Almost, but not quite.

“Isn’t Rome amazing?” she gushes. “Have you had any gelato yet? It’s honestly unlike anything on earth. Pinkberry in LA just doesn’t compare. I don’t often indulge in sweet treats, but gelato is my complete weakness.”

I shake my head. “Not yet. I don’t really know where I’m going, to be honest. I’m mostly following the other tourists or trying, and failing, to follow the map in this beat-up guidebook.” We both laugh, and it feels strangely natural and quite nice.

“OK, well, follow me,” says Leah. “I know the absolute
best
place and you won’t find it in any of those books.”

I can only imagine Tom’s face when I tell him I was rescued by Leah Brown in Rome and she took me for gelato. He might be into dubstep and electronic dance music, but I’ve caught him mooning over pictures of Leah Brown on more than one occasion. “Plus, if we move fast enough, I can ditch Callum.” She winks at me, then grabs my hand and leads me through the narrow Roman streets.

It’s so strange to be walking with Leah; of course she looks nothing like Leah, although there’s still something in the way that she carries herself with confidence and poise that speaks the language of Leah Brown. That’s not a look she can shake so easily.

We finally emerge into a large square, and I squeal with delight. There are artists and easels everywhere, painters
selling their wares and drawing portraits of the passersby. There are fountains at either end of the square, and huge columns that stretch up into the sky. It’s classic Rome.

“This is Piazza Navona,” Leah says, giggling at my amazed expression. “Come on, the gelato place is just here.” She pulls me inside a small shop that looks different from any other gelateria I’ve ever seen. Rather than large, fluffy mounds of ice cream, this gelato is in round metal bins and scraped down almost to the bottom—a sure sign of its popularity.

“This one is to die for. It’s pistachio,” Leah says, pointing to one of the round bins. “Definitely a firm favourite of mine.” She orders a scoop in a cup. When the gruff server hands her the order, she takes a huge scoop with her little plastic spoon and puts it in her mouth, making a satisfied noise as she does. “Mmmmmm. The trick is to look for a pistachio gelato that’s not overly green. It means it’s made from fresh ingredients—no chemicals. What are you going for?”

“Uh,
gelato alla fragola
,” I say, in a bad attempt at Italian, half to Leah and half to the man behind the counter. With my cup of strawberry gelato in hand, I follow Leah back into the square and we perch on the edge of one of the fountains, watching the people go by and the artists at work. It’s amazing that no one recognizes Leah. But then I notice something
is
different about her: she’s so relaxed.

“Can I take a picture of you?” I say, a bit out of the blue.

Leah looks up at me, her eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I won’t share them with anyone,” I say hurriedly. “It’s just that you look so pretty and relaxed, and the sun is coming down against these old buildings—the light is just perfect.”

To my relief, she smiles. “Sure.”

I put my gelato down—moving it far enough away so that it’s out of my shot—and then take a few steps back so I can snap a picture of Leah. There are people on either side of her, moving about their day, but the light is hitting her so perfectly it looks like she’s surrounded by a warm, golden glow. Like it’s her aura.

I can see why my brother and so many others have a thing for her; she really is very beautiful. Behind her is an elaborate statue, right in the centre of the fountain, with figures bursting out of the water.
Talk about an alternative perspective
, I think, remembering my A-level assignment. Here is Leah, who would normally have more in common with the statue—something ornate, isolated, something to be looked at and adored but not part of real life—sitting amid everything, like a normal person.

I look down at the photograph, pleased with the effect. I take a few more, and Leah’s natural sparkle and innate posing ability come out in full force. I show her a few of the thumbnails on the screen of my camera, but I can already tell they’re going to look way better blown up. Leah, for her part, makes appreciative noises.

“Would you ever sell any of your prints to the public?” Leah nods towards the many art stalls as I put my camera away.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure they’re good enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—you have serious talent. Is that what you want to be when you leave school? A photographer?”

I shrug. “I don’t really know right now. I guess it depends on my GCSE grades and how well I do at college. I’m just not sure it’s a career. I always thought by now I’d know what I wanted to do.”

“What on earth is a GCSE?” she says. “Is that like an exam or something for you Brits?”

“Yeah . . . they’re kind of important.”

“Well, an exam is an exam, but your talent is forever! Of course photography is a career. Surely there are famous photographers you admire? Anything is possible if you really believe in yourself, as corny as that sounds. It could very well be a lyric of mine, but there’s a reason why I sing it.” She laughs at herself. “You need to aim higher than you think you’re capable of.”

She goes back to her gelato and we’re both quiet as I reflect on what she’s just said. She’s right: I’ll never get there if I don’t at least try. And I’m going to need to really apply myself if I want to succeed at something.

“Leah? Quick question.” I finish my gelato and wipe my hands with the napkin. “How do you cope with being so incredibly famous?” I let out a little laugh, trying to dissipate my nerves at asking such a direct question.

She laughs along with me, but I can sense a deeper emotion beneath it. “It’s certainly something that takes a bit of getting used to. Which is why—Look, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I do worry about you and Noah. The music industry will chew you up and spit you out if you’re not ready for it, especially if you’re on the sidelines.” She looks at me with a deep frown on her face, and a hint of sadness follows it. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re out here on your own?”