The Seven Month Itch (6 page)

Hang on, my cell’s ringing. I pull it out of my pocket. ‘Hello?’

‘Nessa. I didn’t know you’d gone out again.’ It’s my dad.

Funny that, Mr Cupcake. ‘I had to drop off the dry-cleaning,’ I say. ‘I forgot to tell Vera it needed to go out.’

‘Can you pick up some milk on your way home? I’m afraid we’ve gone through quite a bit with those cupcakes.’

I roll my eyes. ‘I’ll pick some up.’

‘Thanks, pumpkin. I don’t know if I told you, but I really appreciate all your help lately. I know it’s your vacation, and I know I’ve been working too hard.’

Oh, great. I hate it when he does this – the ‘You’re the best, most understanding daughter in the world’ thing. It’s
a total guilt trip. Now, I try my best to stay mad at him, but can’t. ‘That’s okay,’ I mumble, half-heartedly.

‘Maybe we should go away somewhere after Holly and I get back from the honeymoon?’ he suggests.

‘Maybe.’

‘That would be nice.’

We both hang up and I decide I’ve had enough tourist-watching for one day. May as well pick up the milk and head home. Maybe I
will
be brave and call Toby after all. Maybe he won’t be busy tonight. Maybe the tourists will stop heading to Century 21 for some discount designer-clothes shopping after they pay their respects at the World Trade Center site. (That
really
bugs me.)

I glance down at my cell, bring up Toby’s number for one second, then stick it back in my pocket as another tourist pushes past me on his way towards shopping Mecca. Yeah, because all those things are going to happen today.

I stop off at the grocery store on the way home and pick up some milk (because Dad says we need it) and ice-cream (because I can). The queues at the checkout are long and the woman in front of me notices that one of her eggs is broken and asks for a replacement at the last minute. Great.

For something to do, I start to read the covers of the magazines at the checkout. Thirty-five best beauty buys … boring. Twenty top summer hairstyles … blah. One hundred shoes under a hundred dollars … big deal. Holly Isles and Kent Sweetman …‘Despite everything, we’re still so in love.’

WHAT??!!!

I lunge forward and grab the tabloid (I know Holly says I shouldn’t read them, but this is different, right?), and
within seconds, I’ve turned to the appropriate page and I’m reading all about it. Apparently Kent and Holly are being seen together all over LA. At restaurants. At the gym. Out and about in his Hummer. (In his Hummer … typical. What does Kent need a Hummer for? To keep his precious hairstyle safe?)

‘You gonna buy that or not?’ the checkout woman asks while giving me a ‘I wish you’d died this morning so you wouldn’t be hassling me right now buying groceries’ look. Now, that’s one thing I hate about living in New York City. The service is
terrible
. The land of ‘Have a nice day’? I think not.

‘Yes,’ I shoot back at her, giving her an equally mean look (strangely, it’s the only way they respect you). ‘And this one, and this one …’ I slap two other tabloids with similar headlines down noisily. I mean, I should get the whole story, yes?

The checkout woman rolls her eyes at me, but I don’t care. And while she’s busy scanning everything, I whip out my cell once more.

‘Alexa?’ I say. ‘Meet me at Yaffa’s in twenty. It’s an emergency.’

Having ducked back home in super-quick time and dumped the milk and ice-cream there (managing to avoid Dad and Susannah in the process), I then run, huffing and puffing in the heat, all the way to Yaffa’s. I’m almost melting during the last few steps.

I see Alexa waiting for me, sitting at one of the sidewalk tables underneath the café’s distinctive red awnings, its name spelled out in large yellow letters. Breathless, I slide into the seat next to her and wait to die. Running on a day like today is not a good idea at all.

A waitress approaches us. ‘Iced tea?’ she asks.

I nod.

‘That would be great,’ Alexa replies, and nods as well. ‘Um, are you okay there, Nessa?’

I shake my head, then realise I’m not actually dead after all, and nod again. ‘Give me a minute,’ I say, holding up one finger.

‘Did you want something to eat?’ Alexa picks up the menu in front of her.

I shake my head again. No way. I don’t feel like looking
at the menu at Yaffa’s today. Toby and I came here on a date once. Coincidentally, the menu choices are named after Hollywood stars. Of course, Toby had the Bette Davis – grilled shrimp with avocado slices and mango salsa. He also had a side – a fight with the waiter because they’d spelt Bette’s name wrong on the menu (‘Betty’). I had the Marilyn Monroe – grilled marinated chicken breast with Roquefort and avocado. I’d really wanted the Brad Pitt – house club sandwich with grilled chicken breast, bacon, lettuce and tomato – but felt like I’d be being disloyal. Plus, every girl wants Brad Pitt, and I didn’t want to look like a cliché. Needless to say, it wasn’t much of a date.

The waitress brings our iced teas and I slurp half of mine back thirstily, before stopping for a quick brain freeze.

Alexa watches me, shaking her head. ‘Do I want to know what this big emergency is?’ she asks. ‘Should I be worried, very worried, or very, very worried?’

I reach up into my T-shirt and pull out the magazines, slapping them down on the table. I had to stuff them inside my clothes in case Dad and Susannah noticed – in
fact, they barely even glanced my way as I entered and exited the apartment. (Sociology, it’s so fascinating, you can’t take your eyes off it.)

‘Nice,’ Alexa nods. ‘Sticky.’ But then she notices what sort of magazines they are and exactly what’s on the covers. ‘What are you doing?’ she says suddenly, her eyes widening as she looks up at me. ‘You know you’re not supposed to read those. Holly’s warned you about them.’

I take another sip of my tea before I answer. ‘I know, but –’

‘But nothing. Holly herself doesn’t read them. You know they completely freak her out. Remember that time she almost convinced herself that she’d had triplets as a teenager?’

‘Yes, but …’ I start to form a million different endings to this sentence in my mind. About how the magazines claim that Kent said this and that Holly said that. And about how their engagement was only called off because Kent did this and Holly did that. But, in the end, I can’t get the words out of my mouth. They sound silly. And wrong. Kind of like all the stuff with Susannah. ‘It’s just that …’ I start again. ‘I have this … kind of … gut feeling.’

Alexa groans.

‘No, it’s not like that,’ I try to assure her. I’ve had gut feelings before. And sometimes they haven’t been quite right. And I’m not exactly surprised that Alexa’s groaning. In fact, I’m surprised she’s not groaning louder and running away from me at top speed. ‘I know I’ve been wrong in the past, but …’

‘Wait.’ Alexa holds up one hand. ‘A gut feeling about what, exactly?’

I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. Just that something’s wrong.’ More like everything’s wrong – Susannah, Kent, the wedding. I pick at the edge of a menu with my fingernail.

‘Ness?’

I glance up at my best friend.

‘I know things are a bit weird for you right now,’ she says calmly, ‘but try to think about it logically.’

‘Think about what?’

‘Okay …’ Alexa takes a deep breath, then picks up a magazine in each hand. ‘Like I said, I know it’s weird, but so what if your dad has his gorgeous research assistant living with him while his fiancée’s away? And so what if Kent wants Holly back?’ At this, she points at one of the
tabloid headlines. ‘And so
what
if Kent and Holly are having lunch together every day, and gymming, and driving around LA?’ Now she looks at the third tabloid, which is still lying on the table, and shrugs. ‘I know it’s freaking you out, but your dad has a whole lot of work to do. And it’s hardly surprising that Kent and Holly are having lunch and going to the gym and driving around if they’re working together – though if Kent wants Holly back that’s his problem. What it comes down to is this: Holly loves your dad like crazy and he loves her like crazy, and they’re getting married in eight days’ time. This time next week she’ll be a couple of blocks away getting her hair done, Susannah and Kent will be history, and everyone will be all set to live happily ever after. Trust me, that’s how it’s going to happen. As long as
you
don’t go crazy.’

I don’t say anything, but simply look from one of Alexa’s hands to the other. From one tabloid to the other. ‘But –’

‘Like I said before, but
nothing
. Think about it
logically
. Holly loves your dad. Your dad loves Holly. You know what? It’d be my guess that what you’re worrying about isn’t even about these …’ Alexa waves the tabloids again.
‘Do you want to tell me what you’re really worried about?’ she continues. ‘Because I think you already know the tabloids aren’t going to report the truth – that Holly’s going to get married and have a great day, and everyone’s going to have a fantastic time and eat cupcakes and way too much Italian food.’

Again, I don’t say anything.

‘Ness?’

I shrug.

‘Come on, Nessa …’ Alexa puts the tabloids down. ‘I don’t want to sound mean, but you’ve got to shake yourself out of this.’ She reaches forward now to touch my arm. ‘What’s really wrong?’

I shrug again. ‘I don’t know. It just … Things don’t feel
right
.’ Nothing feels right at the moment. Nothing at all.

Beside me, Alexa sighs. ‘I think you’ve got cold feet,’ she tells me. ‘And
you’re
not even the one getting married.’

I laugh slightly at this. ‘Maybe.’

Alexa looks at her watch. ‘Damn. Sorry, but I’ve really got to go. I promised my parents I’d go to this stupid archaeology benefit. They’re trying to raise money to buy some dusty old dead thing. I’ll see you tomorrow. At the
final bridesmaid fitting. Okay?’ She digs into her pocket and leaves a couple of dollar bills on the table for her iced tea.

I nod.

‘Are you really okay?’ she asks again as she gets up to leave. ‘Did you want me to walk you home or something?’

I shake my head. ‘No, I’m okay. Like you said, I think I’ve just got cold feet.’

‘You
are
crazy. You adore Holly. And Holly adores you. And Holly and your dad adore each other. You’ve got nothing to worry about, Ness.’

‘I know.’ That’s what doesn’t make sense to me. How can I be freaked out by something that’s just so right? ‘I’ll have a think about it tonight.’

Alexa pauses. ‘Maybe it’s about …’ she pauses again, hesitating, ‘your mum.’

My eyebrows raise at this. Alexa doesn’t know too much about my mother. I mean, she’s seen pictures of her and knows that she died when I was six, of a heart condition, but that’s about it. I know Dad still thinks about Mum a lot, and he tells me things about her from time to time – how I look a little like her, and things like that. But as
for me, I don’t remember all that much about her. I remember smells, like her favourite perfume, and special days we all spent together, like when we went to Taronga Zoo in Sydney, and my first day at school, but not exactly what she looked like or how she’d say my name. The little things that somehow seem more important in the long run.

‘Do you think it’s about that?’ Alexa asks me. ‘Do you think it’s really about your dad getting remarried?’

I look up at her, standing above me. ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. The truth is, it would make sense if it were about my mum, but I don’t think it
is
about that at all. Dad asked me about it when he and Holly got engaged. I told him what I really thought, which was that I’d always be sad that I would never know my mum, but that I loved Holly and she was the best thing that ever happened to us. In a way, I wish Alexa was right, though. I wish all the strange feelings I’ve been having were about my mum, because at least then I’d have an answer to this. An answer to why I’m losing the plot.

‘Well, like you said, have a think about it.’ Alexa bends down and gives me a quick hug. She keeps holding my
shoulders with her hands when she pulls back again. ‘And remember, life is short. You’re capable.’

‘What?’ I frown.

‘It’s a quote.’

‘Shakespeare?’ We did
Romeo and Juliet
last term at school and Alexa was forever quoting from it.

Alexa sighs. ‘Gwen Stefani. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?’

Shakespeare. Honestly, Nessa. With my brain the way it is, I’d better not cross the road without adult supervision on the way home.

Having left the tabloids on the table at Yaffa’s, that evening, at home in my room, I try to work out what the problem really is. Maybe it is about having cold feet, like Alexa said. Maybe it’s that whole ‘pre-wedding jitters’ stuff I’ve been reading about in my bridal magazines. (Note to self: stop buying any and all magazines, Nessa; they’re the work of the devil.)

I think about calling Toby for a chat, which just makes me more depressed. I haven’t spoken to him since I saw
him at the library on Thursday. I haven’t had a text, or an email. He hasn’t even IM-ed me. Marc has, though …

I ignore his IM and, to cheer myself up, decide to pull out my collection of Marilyn DVDs, which Toby has now returned. And, strangely, when I open up the little silver cabinet I keep them in, one of them falls out onto the floor –
The Seven Year Itch
. I take it as a Marilynism, pop it into my DVD player and settle back on the bed, safe in the knowledge that my dad is busy, busy, busy with Susannah in the lounge room and will never know that I’m having a Marilyn-fest in the next room.