Diamonds are a Teen's Best Friend

by Allison Rushby

  “Out!” The voice makes me jump, and I wonder for a second if I’ve spoken out aloud.

  It makes Dad and Marc jump, too. They both stop walking at exactly the same moment and their heads swivel, trying to locate the noise.

  “Out! Get out!” the voice screams now. It’s Holly, I realize. The voice. It’s not me at all—it’s Holly.

  And it’s in that instant that everything comes together and I realize what I’ve done. What I’m doing. The past week flashes before my eyes—as if I’m seeing my life, Holly’s life, my dad’s life, Marc’s life—like a movie as well. Like I’m a bystander looking on. Watching. Except this isn’t a movie. And I’m not a bystander.

  I’m an actor. The villain, even.

  My mouth drops open in horror.

  Because what I’ve done, there’s no escaping it. What I’ve done is terribly, horribly, awfully wrong. And what have I done? Well, I’ve planted some paparazzo in Holly’s room for a start. I’ve lied to my dad, lied to Holly, lied way, way too much to the guy I like. I’ve ignored my best friend (who I’m now, um, thinking may have been right after all). I’ve tried to force Holly onto some guy she’s not really all that interested in, otherwise she would’ve asked him out eons ago. And I’ve pushed her away from my dad at every opportunity.

  I’m an idiot. An idiot.

  How could I be so stupid? How could I have betrayed Holly? That was what she’d said to me on my first visit to her cabin, wasn’t it? That she felt like I wouldn’t betray her. She trusted me.

  And I thought she could.

  But I guess I was wrong.

  ***

  I race into the suite, not stopping until I see Holly herself. She’s wrapped up tightly in a bathrobe with ruffled, wet hair. Unbelievable. She must be the only woman in the world who could look good with half a head of shampoo dripping onto her shoulders. Ted is across the room, pushed up against the wall, Marc’s finger digging into his chest.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Marc yells at him. “Who invited you in here?”

  Uh oh. I turn and look at the still open door, wondering if I’ve got time to make a break for it. Probably not. Anyway, I don’t think the ship, as big as it is, is big enough to hide out on when everyone finds out what I’ve been up to.

  “Well?” Marc’s finger digs in again and now Ted pushes himself up and off the wall and crosses his arms.

  “Do you want to calm down? I was invited. That’s what I think I’m doing here.”

  “I certainly didn’t invite you.” Holly looks first at Marc, then at my dad. “I was in the shower . . .”

  “I hope you didn’t take any photos of Holly in the shower,” Marc says.

  Ted snorts. “Pretty hard without a camera. And if I wasn’t invited, what’s this?” He pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of paper. He passes it to Marc, who reads it. He frowns. Then he gives it to Holly. “This is your handwriting.”

  She inspects it and, slowly, realization dawns. Her eyes flick to mine, looking confused, then at my dad, at Marc and back to Ted. I can tell she’s not quite sure what to say. She can’t admit, after all, that the note was meant for Antonio. Especially not with my specially ordered oysters and champagne combo sitting over there in the corner, looking like they’re just dying to be included in a romantic rendezvous.

  “It wasn’t meant for you,” she says, shaking her head at Ted. “It was meant for . . . for William.” She looks up at Dad. “I thought he might like an early dinner. And I know he loves oysters.”

  Nice save, Holly. One of my eyebrows raises. She really is a good actor.

  “Oh, yeah? Is that so? Then how come a steward gave the note to me?” Ted sighs, his eyes moving to meet mine.

  Thanks for nothing, Ted.

  There’s a pause.

  And then everyone else’s eyes follow Ted’s to mine.

  “Nessa Joanne Mulholland,” my dad starts. “Did you have something to do with this?”

  I try to think of a nice save, like Holly’s, but I can’t come up with anything fast enough. Anyway, there’s something inside me that just wants to come clean. I’m tired of lying, of telling half-truths. I want everything out in the open once and for all. I want a clear conscience. What did I think I was doing? All I want now is for Marc to like me again, for my dad to be happy and I want to be able to talk to Holly like I used to (that is, if she’ll talk to me ever again when she finds out what’s been going on). I just want that happy ending where everything works itself out. The one I’d thought about so much. And wanted so much I’d been kind of blinded as to what I was doing.

  “Nessa Joanne Mulholland?”

  “Um.” I’m not quite sure what to say. Where to start. In the mirror opposite me, I see myself shrink until I look like I’m about eight years old. “I just thought that . . . I mean . . .”

  “Yes, Vanessa?” My dad gives me a stern look and I know I’m really in trouble. Vanessa? I haven’t heard that for quite a while. Marc frowns, looking at me. But not like he hates me anymore. Now he just looks kind of concerned.

  I turn to Holly. It’s Holly, after all, whom I need to apologize to the most. “I’m really sorry, Holly. It’s just that when we got on the ship and you knew that line—from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—and then you needed to find Perfect Man, and Ted was here and he was like Ernie Malone, well, I started to think that you were a bit like Dorothy and I was a bit like Lorelei and . . .” I trail off, seeing that absolutely no-one has any idea what I’m talking about. Well, except my dad, that is.

  “Nessa Joanne Mulholland!” He groans. “Oh, Nessa. Not this again. I thought we’d put all of this behind us.”

  Behind my dad, Marc speaks up. “Um, I’m sorry, but I don’t get it. You’re going to have to explain . . .” His eyebrows are practically meeting in the middle, he looks so confused.

  Dad sighs. “Nessa has a bit of a thing, I guess you could call it, about Marilyn Monroe. She can get a little caught up with it all sometimes, for a thirteen-year-old. She has what you’d call an overactive imagination and sometimes she thinks the plots from Marilyn Monroe’s films are happening. In real life.”

  Oh no. I just want to die. There it is. Clear as day. For everyone to see. Not only do I think like I child, now everyone believes I am one, too. Oh, man. I want to spontaneously combust and have my ashes settle into the shag-pile carpet and be vacuumed up by one of the maids and be transported out of the room in a brown paper bag, never to be seen again.

  Across the room, Marc is staring at me, kind of white-faced. “Thirteen?” he mouths almost silently, looking first at me, and then at my dad. I can tell he’s thinking about that time he contemplated kissing me. He looks like he’s about to faint.

  “Almost fourteen!” I say, then bite my lip. What else can I do?

  Silence.

  I sneak a peek at Holly. Her face reads confusion as well. “Thirteen, huh? That’s, um, younger than I thought . . . But what’s it all got to do with Ted?” she finally asks, glancing over at him.

  Good question, I think. Everyone’s eyes turn to me again. “Um, in the film, Ernie Malone, he’s kind of like a private detective and he takes photos and he falls in love with Dorothy, who I thought was kind of like you,” I remind Holly. “And I thought that you might be happy, like Dorothy, if you could just see that Ernie, I mean, Ted, was right for you and . . .” I trail off again. Now I really do want to die. How could I have thought that? I may as well be three, not thirteen. But it seemed so . . . not logical, but magical at the time. Magical and perfect and right and wonderful—like a movie moment.

  Please, someone, institutionalize me, lock me up and throw away the key. I think I’ve lost it. I’m a danger to society. Who knows who I could try to marry off next?

  I’ve got to explain myself better. Right. Here goes nothing . . .

  “The Nessa’s Lessons in Love thing. I mean, I worked out pretty fast that was the wrong way to go. So, I thought that maybe if we followed the plot of the movie
properly, you’d meet Perfect Man, like you wanted. And then you said you’d met PM and that his name started with a T—and I thought you meant Ted, because he was just like Ernie Malone and Dorothy fell in love with him even though he wasn’t right on the surface, just like Ted wasn’t right for you, so I kept trying to get you together and . . .” I thought I’d be able to explain myself better, but I can’t. Wow. I really can’t. Waiting to die. Really wanting and waiting to die now . . .

  “Can you explain the Nessa’s Lessons in Love thing for me? What’s that?” Ted asks and we all turn to see him standing there, phone in hand, taking notes.

  “Hey!” Marc says. “Cut that out!”

  Silence again.

  It’s Holly who speaks first. “Right. Let’s try to clear this up a bit. Now, you thought that Ted and I would be perfect together?” she says.

  I nod a tiny nod.

  “Oh, Nessa,” my dad groans again.

  “Ted. And me,” Holly says again, unbelievingly.

  An even tinier nod from moi.

  More silence.

  But then, in the quiet, there comes this noise from Holly’s throat. A gurgle. A chuckle. It grows and swells and she starts laughing, still looking at Ted.

  Ted starts laughing, too.

  “Ted. And me,” she says, once more.

  “Holly. And me,” Ted says, from across the room.

  Oh, great.

  Their laughter gets louder and louder as they egg each other on.

  “Holly. And me!”

  “Ted. And me!”

  I stand and watch as they laugh so hard I think they’re going to be sick. They keep laughing and laughing and laughing until Holly’s laughing so hard she’s clutching at her sides.

  Hey! My mouth hangs open, as Marc and my dad both stare at me and then at Holly and Ted alternately. Cut it out! I want to say. I’m in trouble here. This is serious. And I think that Marc and my dad must see what I’m thinking written all over my face, because Marc starts laughing then as well.

  “I thought you were from some tabloid,” he says to me, before turning to the others. “I thought she was a journalist.”

  “A journalist?” My dad says.

  “I thought she was a really young-looking nineteen, not almost fourteen, or thirteen!” Marc says to my dad. “And I thought you were, like, her editor or something!”

  “Nineteen? A journalist? Editor?” my dad repeats like a parrot, but then he looks back at Marc again, who’s now joining in with the others, laughing himself sick, and he starts up too. “Nineteen? A journalist? Editor?” he laughs along.

  Oh, great. Laughing at Nessa disease. I’ve encountered it before. It’s contagious and highly infectious. I stand and watch. And not surprisingly, I’m immune. If only I could be quarantined, maybe for about twenty years. I might have recovered from the embarrassment symptoms by then. Maybe.

  In front of me, the laughing continues. For what feels like forever.

  All four of them have tears running down their faces now. Only Marc manages to get it together for a second or two to ask me a question. “Let me get this straight,” he says. “You thought that all Holly’s problems would be solved if you could just get her and Ted together. That’s why he’s been turning up everywhere?”

  I’m feeling more and more stupid by the minute, if that’s possible. In the mirror, I see that my face is now beet red. Hey, maybe I will spontaneously combust after all.

  “And, let me get this straight as well, you thought that this was all like Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Because we’re on a cruise ship and Holly recognized some line from the film and because she’s been unlucky in love?”

  “Hey!” Holly stops laughing for a second, taking the heat off me.

  “Well, isn’t that true?” Marc looks over at her.

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “But, what?” Marc asks.

  “But . . .” Holly pauses and then looks up at my dad, who’s by her side now. She smiles up at him. That big, wide smile she’s so famous for. “It used to be true. It used to be very true. But I think my luck may have changed . . .”

  From: “NJM”

  To: “Alexa Milton”

  Subject: Take my life, please

  I really will change lives with you. I’d much prefer to be with the dead dusties right now. At least they don’t say things like “Hi, Marilyn” or “Hi, Lorelei” every time they see you and then fall about laughing (do they?). Like I explained yesterday, I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Not even when I dyed my hair platinum blond and it all snapped off and Dad had to take me to get that buzz cut, remember? That was bad, but not this bad.

  I’m sorry again for being such an idiot. I should have listened to you. As per usual. I’m cringing again now just thinking about the whole thing—it took Holly, Dad, Marc and Ted the whole rest of the trip to stop laughing. Holly says she thinks she’s bruised her lungs from laughing so hard.

  Anyway, we’re in our little apartment now. In Paris. And have I ever got a few things to tell you. For a start, Marc forgave me almost instantly, because I’m, apparently, just a “complete weirdo”. (Okay, so maybe I am.) He even apologized to me for thinking I was taking money from Ted and that I was with a tabloid or something and that my dad wasn’t my dad.

  Holly forgave me as well. In fact, she thinks the whole thing is an absolute scream and that I should be applauded for having that “overactive imagination” of mine, as my dad calls it. Unfortunately my dad doesn’t think quite the same way, but Marc and Holly’s reactions have softened the blow a bit, that’s for sure. I may not be grounded till I’m 30 after all. But, wait, I haven’t told you the big news. The enormous news . . .

  Dad and Holly—they’re (pre-)ENGAGED. AGH!

  Dad finished up his study and spent the rest of the trip with Holly. And then, as we got off the ship, just as I was wondering what was going to happen with them (well, okay—with Marc and me as well!), Dad stops halfway down the gangplank, turns around, gets down on one knee and PROPOSES! And she (sort of) said YES!

  Can you believe it? My dad and Holly Isles?!

  My dad. Perfect Man. (Even if his name doesn’t start with a T—Holly says she was just kidding around with me when she said that; “Maybe his first initial is T. Or maybe it isn’t,” she reckons she said.) Hmmm.

  Whatever. Holly keeps telling me how great he is. How smart and kind and wonderful he is. About how she can “be herself” around him, no lessons or plots needed (ouch). About how happy he makes her. About the fact that she feels silly, rushing into yet another relationship, but how, this time, she knows she doesn’t have anything to worry about. And if she wasn’t talking about my dad, I might be able to stomach it. (Well, so maybe it’s a little bit sweet . . .)

  What? Oh, the “pre-” and “sort of” comments. Yeah, I know. I thought you might want me to explain those. I guess they’re not really properly engaged. They’re kind of like pre-engaged. It’s just that Holly wants to take things a bit slower this time. Not rush into anything. But Dad says that’s okay, he’ll wait for Holly forever. (Every time he tells her this they go revoltingly mushy again and I have to leave the room—really, my stomach’s having a tough time of things.)

  But anyway, watching him on the gangplank . . . oh, Alexa, you should have seen it. It was (and I’m sure I’m not allowed to say this, but it was! It really was!): just like a movie.

  And you know what? I can’t wait for the sequel . . .

  Nessaxxx

  ***

  Allison Rushby lives in Australia and has written a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats and corn chips. You can find her at https://www.allisonrushby.com/, or procrastinating on Twitter at @Allison_Rushby (https://twitter.com/Allison_Rushby?lang=en).

  ***

  Don’t miss the second book in the Living Blond trilogy

  The Seven Month Itch

  Book 2

  Nessa Joanne Mulholland, aka Marilyn Monroe’s No. 1 teenage f
an, is living the high life in Manhattan. Literally. Waffling and pancaking it up every morning (care of housekeeper Vera) in her soon-to-be stepmother’s Tribeca penthouse apartment. Things couldn’t be better. Or so she thinks, until things start to go terribly, horribly wrong, in true Nessa fashion. All of a sudden, she’s starting to feel the need to pull at her collar. Yes, it’s summer in NYC and things are heating up fast, including the professor and Holly’s wedding plans.

  Gasp!

  Along with Nessa as her dad’s too-gorgeous research assistant moves into the new family penthouse while Holly’s away filming in LA . . .

  Cringe!

  As Nessa gets dumped for “Doris Day” . . .

  Hiss!

  As Kent Sweetman decides he wants Holly back, wedding or no wedding . . . and

  Bite your nails!

  As the cupcakiest wedding ever hangs in the balance.

  Phew! The temperature’s getting hotter by the second, heat rash is setting in fast—and everyone’s starting to scratch that Seven Month Itch!

  “Hey, Vera!” I scramble off my seat at the breakfast bar as soon as I hear the elevator ping.

  Even before the doors slide fully open, the heavily accented voice starts in on me. “Hay, it is what the horses eat, young lady.”

  Halfway across the parquetry floor, I stop in my tracks. Young lady? That’s a new one. Vera has obviously been spending way too much time hanging around my dad. “Can I give you a hand?” I run over and attempt to take some of the grocery bags Vera’s clutching under each arm.

  “No, no, no,” she clucks in her now-familiar “Me, portly Russian housekeeper; you, child to be overfed” way, and lurches past me into the kitchen. She dumps the bags on the counter with a huff. “Now,” she says. “What you want for the breakfast?”