Toby’s another college orphan (that’s what Alexa and I call all the kids whose parents, like ours, practically live at the place). He’s cute and funny, and super smart. In fact, he’s so smart he’s already taking some college classes while he’s in his final two years of high school, including one where he’s writing an amazing paper on Bette Davis! You’ve got to admit it’s pretty strange, Toby being almost as obsessed with Bette Davis as I am (yes, yes, used to be!) with Marilyn Monroe.
It’s such a relief to finally meet someone like me – someone who’s watched all the movies a million times over and understands where I’m coming from, even if it isn’t the same movie star we like. And he must really like me because he’s been watching my Marilyn Monroe DVD collection one film at a time. In turn, I’ve been watching his Bette Davis DVDs. I’m not entirely getting the fascination. (I mean, what’s the big deal with Bette Davis? And those googly eyes … yikes!) But there you go. As Grandma Mulholland used to say, ‘There’s nowt as queer as folk.’ I never really got that, but I put up with it because she made these Yorkshire pudding things (kind of like big battery dumplings) that were to die for, so I could forgive her for almost anything.
Well, except for that dessert thing she called ‘spotted dick’. I mean, she said they were raisins in there, but … shudder.
‘Ready to hit the books?’ Toby gives me a toe-curlingly gorgeous grin and we head for the library.
‘And so, it looks like she’s moving in.’ I dump my lunch tray down on the table alongside Alexa’s and Toby’s, and slide into the seat in front of me.
‘What, moving in? And while Holly and Marc are away?’ Alexa’s eyes widen.
‘Thank you!’ I gesture at my best friend. ‘Finally, someone else sees it too. I was starting to think no-one else thought it was even slightly weird that my father is moving another woman into his fiancée’s apartment just a week or so before their wedding.’
‘So no-one’s said anything at all?’ Alexa asks.
‘No … well, except Vera. She hmpfed a bit.’
‘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?
* * *
The Seven Year Itch
Like any sane Manhattanites, Richard Sherman’s wife and son abandon him for the summer and head for the beach. As the temperature soars in the city, Richard (Tom Ewell) watches all the other long-married men around him become ‘summer bachelors’ (read: sad, balding, leery men who somehow think they’re still all that) and vows that he’ll never act in such a ridiculous way himself. That is, until Marilyn Monroe (aka The Girl) moves into the apartment upstairs.
A blonde, voluptuous and clueless model, Marilyn kick-starts Richard’s overactive ‘I’ve been married seven years too long’ imagination and we’re all off at warp speed on the itchy road to cheatersville. Adding to the heat is his growing jealousy at the fact that Tom MacKenzie, his wife’s former beau, happens to be holidaying on the same beach as her.
Marilyn Monroe makes this film. Richard is plain old annoying (just like your own dad!), but Marilyn is laugh-out-loud funny. I LOVE the potato-chip scene – sample line: ‘Hey, did you ever try dunking a potato chip in champagne? It’s real crazy!’
Other highlights include the famous scene where Marilyn’s white dress is blown up as she stands over a subway vent. (Don’t try this one at home, kids. It works.) And then there’s the treat of catching Ms M at her funniest: ‘When it gets hot like this, you know what I do?’ she asks. ‘I keep my undies in the icebox!’
A joy from start to finish – as long as you try not to think too hard about the pathetic-old-man fantasies your own dad probably has. I give it out of five stars.
* * *
‘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 ‘b
usy’ 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 coupl
e 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.’
The Seven Month Itch Page 3
