The It Girl in Rome

by Katy Birchall

  “Yes, you’re right, of course,” he agreed, suddenly sounding more Dad-like and practical. “When did you get so wise? Anyway, you don’t worry about it and have a wonderful time out there, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Absolutely,” he stated firmly. “We’ll talk later. Everything is fine.”

  We said good-bye and I put the phone down, feeling uneasy. I wasn’t sure if he had really been trying to persuade me that everything was fine—or persuading himself.

  * * *

  “You’re not coming tonight? But we’re making spaghetti!” James shook his head at me, bewildered. “Why would you want to miss making spaghetti in Italy? It’s where spaghetti comes from!”

  “I know, but I really need to phone my dad back and talk to him about something—”

  “What kind of phone call needs a whole evening? Phone him before we go and then come make spaghetti, bonehead,” Jess chuckled, picking up a bright orange-colored vegetable from one of the stands. “What even is this?”

  We were wandering up and down hundreds of rows of colorful market stalls in bustling Campo de’ Fiori where people were selling vegetables, fruit, spices, flowers, plants, and even fish. Jess was in her element, taking photos of stallholders at work with their stands overflowing with produce, going on about the spectrum of colors she was capturing.

  “I don’t know. He just wasn’t himself earlier and I felt like he rushed me off the phone,” I reasoned as she put the vegetable down and picked up another one to inspect.

  “Of course he’s not himself—he’s getting married to the most famous actress in the world!” Jess shook her head. “That’s going to mess with your head.”

  “He doesn’t see her as the most famous actress in the world. She’s just Helena.”

  “Yeah, obviously, but think about it.” She shrugged. “People get crazy in the lead-up to their weddings and he’s got the added pressure of the whole world watching.”

  “It sounds like you’re worrying too much,” James declared, swinging a string of garlic around to make us laugh until the vendor asked him to stop. At least, we think he asked him to stop. We actually had no idea what he was saying, but there were a lot of frenzied hand gestures, so James placed the garlic down carefully and backed away. “Like Jess said,” he continued, “he’s probably just a bit stressed about the wedding.”

  “He’s been stressed about the wedding before.” I sighed. “Trust me, he sounded different this time. I just want to check that he’s not . . . panicking.”

  “What, you think he’s going to cancel the wedding?” Jess blew a raspberry. “Don’t be stupid, Anna. He’s crazy in love with Helena. I mean, no offense, but they’re kind of gross about it.” She took a photo of a row of buckets exploding with colorful flowers.

  “Of course not,” I said, my brow furrowing. “He would never do that to Helena. But he said that there’ve been so many photographers following him around he doesn’t like leaving the house. That doesn’t sound like my dad. I just want to talk to him properly.”

  “Well, do what you need to do,” Jess said, clapping me on the back. “On one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “After your phone call and after we’ve finished making spaghetti, we meet up and go and get some ice cream. We need to get away from the teachers so that you can get an Italian boy to ask me out,” Jess said determinedly.

  “You need Anna’s help in getting boys to ask you out?” James smiled mischievously.

  “No, I mean that I—oh my goodness, would you look at the SIZE of this avocado?!—I mean that I could use some of Anna’s fame advantage.”

  “What’s fame advantage?”

  “Oh, you know, Anna and I are out walking and some handsome Italian men recognize her so they ask for her picture and then we get chatting and it turns out that they happen to have some Vespas and they would love to take us to see the sights on them,” she said dreamily. “Or, even better, Anna could get invited to a fancy Italian gala and bring me as her plus one, and there I meet a handsome teenage count wearing a tuxedo who has longed to meet the English girl of his dreams and go on vacation to London.”

  “She’s using me,” I said, sticking my tongue out at her.

  “You’re of no use to me if you’re not making the most of your fame advantage. Do you know how many free clothes she gets? Do you know how many she gives to me?”

  “It’s a little tricky considering you tower over me,” I laughed, defending myself. “They send things in my size. You’re too statuesque and model-like, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re right,” she sighed. “Most of them wouldn’t cover my bottom.”

  James made me smile by laughing out loud.

  “She got sent that little dress she’s wearing, don’t you know,” Jess informed him, knowingly. “It was made just for her.”

  “Oh, er, yes. It looks like it was. Excellent dress, Anna.”

  “Okay, you’re being weird.” I laughed, but then looked up to see James looking oddly awkward.

  Jess raised her eyebrows and looked at both of us carefully. “Well, would you just look at that chili! I’ll be back in a second, guys. I have to get a photo of the chili!” And off she ran.

  She disappeared into the crowd, leaving James and I alone to stare at a box of absurdly large avocados.

  13.

  From: connorlawrence1@zingmail.co.uk

  To: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Congratulations!

  Spidey, I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to reply to your messages—thanks so much for the congratulations e-mail and the voice mail you left me. Hearing your voice cheered my day!

  I really appreciate your support, especially as I can tell you that there is an agent officially interested in my work. Seriously! And she’s asked to see more examples, but of course I don’t really have anything.

  So I am spending every minute of the day working on the second storyline of The Amazing It Girl and trying to come up with some random sketches to show her so she can see some variety in my work. Do you think that’s a good idea? I wish you were here to give me some advice!

  I told her on the phone that you inspired the Ember character and she said she’d love to meet you when you’re back. Maybe you could come to one of the meetings with me? I know you’d probably be embarrassed about it, but I would feel so much better having you by my side.

  How’s Rome? You still having a good time? Have you tried the Nutella ice cream yet?

  Anyway, I better go—I need to work on my bad guy! At the moment, he looks like a cross between an old man and a llama. Not my scariest work . . .

  Connor

  xx

  Wow, this is boring.

  Jess! You can’t pass notes in the middle of a lecture!

  Why not? It’s way more interesting than listening to this dude talk.

  This DUDE happens to be one of Italy’s most esteemed gallery owners. And I happen to find what he’s saying very interesting.

  Oh, really? What’s he talking about, then?

  What do you mean?

  If you’re listening so hard, what’s he talking about?

  Duh. Art.

  What kind of art?

  I’m not going to play your silly games.

  Ha! You have no idea what he’s talking about. Admit it.

  I absolutely know what he’s talking about. Something to do with paint.

  Yeah, you really proved me wrong there.

  As an artist yourself, you should at least be making notes.

  I am making notes. And then passing them to you.

  I’m not sure that counts.

  Talking of art, have you heard back from Connor yet?

  Yes! An agent is really interested in his stuff. Looks like he made the right decision to stay at home in the end!

  Do you think so? I don’t. We’ve had the BEST time. Although, he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it so much.

>   What do you mean?

  You know, he’s not that into organized fun, is he? He wouldn’t have wanted to do any of the activities. He’s too shy for that kind of thing. Can you imagine Connor trying circus skills??

  I think he’d look rather dashing on a tightrope.

  Of course you do. Are you sure you want to miss out on the spaghetti-making this evening?

  I’ll see you guys after for ice cream. Uh-oh. I think Mrs. Ginnwell is looking this way. She doesn’t look happy.

  Nope. She’s gesturing something. What is she trying to say?

  Something not great by the looks of it. Why is she wriggling her hand around?

  I think she’s motioning a writing action.

  And now she’s doing a slitting-throat action.

  That’s never a good sign.

  I think she’s coming over.

  She looks very angry.

  We should probably stop writing notes before she catches us.

  Lucky we’re so stealthy about it.

  We’re like spies. Only we don’t pass international secrets.

  Wait. She just mouthed “stop passing notes.”

  I think she knows.

  “I hear you’re missing out on the spaghetti-making class to speak to your dad,” Sophie announced as she swanned past my bed into the bathroom before emerging with a large travel bag. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “No,” I sighed, trying to focus on painting my toenails without smudging. “We’re just having a chat. I’m not that concerned about spaghetti.”

  “You are such a bad liar,” she said. “If you’re going to lie, you can’t distort your face like that. It gives the game away.”

  I didn’t say anything in the hope she would drop it, but of course I was talking to Sophie Parker, who, in past experience, had never held back at the risk of hurting other people’s feelings.

  “Is it true what they’re saying in the magazines, then?” she asked, sitting at the dressing table in front of the mirror and whipping out some mascara to reapply.

  “I already told you that Tom and Marianne are—”

  “Not about them. About your dad and Helena.”

  I froze, a dollop of nail polish dripping off the brush and onto the carpet. I rubbed it in with my toe. “What are the magazines saying?”

  She stood up and walked over to her bed, throwing a batch of magazines across to me. I glanced down to see a picture of Helena and my dad on the front cover with a great big white zigzag running down the center of the magazine splitting the picture and loads of Italian words in bold red with exclamation points.

  “I got the receptionist to translate it for me.” She picked up her mascara again. “And, just to emphasize, I did not buy it because it had your weird family on the cover. Italian magazines have way better fashion pages.”

  “What does it say? It’s usually all garbage.”

  “It says the wedding is supposed to be on the twenty-third of August.”

  “What?” I put the nail polish down and picked up the top magazine. “How did they find that out?”

  “It says it’s on the twenty-third of August and is being held at the Tilney Hotel in London.” Sophie turned to watch my reaction. “Oh . . . so it’s not all garbage, then?”

  “What is the article saying?”

  “I don’t know.” She snorted, turning back to her reflection. “Why would I waste my time asking the receptionist to translate the whole article about your family? Who cares anyway?”

  I flicked to the main article, staring at all the pictures of Dad and Helena and the images of broken hearts dotted around them.

  I don’t know whether Sophie noticed my worried expression or if she liked the idea of being involved somehow, but, either way, she let out a sigh and came to sit down next to me on the bed.

  “So the implication is they might break up. And the receptionist said something about too much fame—her English wasn’t spot on so that doesn’t make much sense, but here”—she pointed at one of the sentences with her long blue fingernail—“pressione means pressure, so we can guess . . . too much pressure. And here in this sentence it says anormale, which I imagine means abnormal. And it has your dad’s name in the same sentence so maybe . . . it’s abnormal for him. Or maybe your dad’s just abnormal?” She smirked at her own joke.

  She leaned back. “Don’t scowl at me, Anna! I’m helping you. So, summing it up, I’d say the article is about your dad finding getting married to a big celebrity like Helena very stressful and it’s giving him second thoughts.” She rolled her eyes and stood up to go back to the dressing table. “Like that’s news.”

  “You’re not surprised by any of this?” I said, gesturing to the pile of magazines, all showing pictures of Helena looking concerned or upset in them.

  “Duh,” she said, applying her bright red lip gloss. “You are so naive it’s embarrassing. It’s a celebrity wedding, Anna, not a real one.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, it does. Everyone knows that when you’re famous, relationships just aren’t the same. You can’t date a celebrity and have a normal life, and you certainly can’t marry one and expect to have a normal wedding.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  She sighed, swiveled on the stool to face me, crossed her long, slender legs, and leaned forward, clasping her hands together as though explaining a life lesson to a small child. “Anna, do you think Connor enjoys being photographed when he’s out with you?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “Not that I know the freak all that well, but considering he has never once partaken in any school activity that requires socializing with normal people, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that being in the limelight is his idea of hell.”

  “He’s not a fan, but that doesn’t—”

  “He’s not mature enough for all that attention. Not that any of the boys in our year are very mature,” she huffed, pursing her lips. “Brendan thinks it’s cool to skim coins across the Trevi Fountain and splash my favorite dress at the same time. I bet Italian boys don’t do stuff like that.”

  “Connor knew about the photographers before we started dating,” I pointed out, not wanting to go off-topic, “but he still asked me out.”

  “Sure, he likes you and your dad likes Helena Montaine. Who wouldn’t? Helena, that is. She’s glamorous and beautiful,” Sophie said, flicking back her hair. “But he’s going to have to put up with a lifetime of reporters following his every move and printing his every mistake. Like I said”—she moved to pick up her handbag, throwing her lip gloss and mascara into it—“you can’t have a normal relationship with a celebrity. Why do you think the paparazzi even exists? You can’t report on boring, normal, happy relationships. The paps report on celebrity relationships, because they are none of those things.”

  “My dad is happy,” I croaked, my head spinning at what she was saying.

  “Anna, you’re missing an evening of fun just to phone him,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I don’t think you believe that.”

  I looked down at the magazines on the bed. Sophie shook her head and walked toward the door. She stopped as she reached for the handle and spun her head around to look at me, her glossy, highlighted hair swishing over her shoulders.

  “It’s the price of fame, right? Actors, models, singers, It Girls. They don’t usually get a happy ending.” She stood by the door watching me closely as I kept my head bowed, tracing the zigzag breaking up the photo of Helena and Dad on the magazine with my finger.

  “Anna . . .” She hesitated and I thought I saw a look of genuine sympathy. She opened her mouth, about to say something, but then caught herself and pulled out her cell phone instead, distracted by a message. “I have a toe separator,” she said hurriedly, not looking at me. “It will help you not to smudge the nail polish. It’s in that travel bag if you want to borrow it.”

  She put her phone away, fished her sunglasses out o
f her bag, slid them onto the top of her head, and left the room.

  If we hadn’t been talking about something so worrying, it might just have been a nice moment.

  I slammed the magazine down on the bed and reached for the phone, but it started ringing. “Hello?”

  “Anna? Is that you?”

  “Hey, Helena. Good timing—I was just about to call home!”

  “Anna, I’m calling about Marianne.”

  “What?” I asked, suddenly processing her frenzied tone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Tom broke up with her.” Helena paused, her breathing short and panicked. “She’s gone missing.”

  14.

  From: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  To: rebecca.blythe@bounce-mail.co.uk;

  helena@montaines.co.uk

  Subject: Places where Marianne might be

  1. Her bedroom

  She may have boarded up the door with her wardrobe or chest of drawers, like that time I tried to get out of school because Dad was ruining my life.

  2. The broom closet

  The first place you probably would go when feeling upset, like that time when I lied to Jess and the time before Sports Day and all the other times that I have humiliated myself, which has pretty much been every day since I emerged from the womb.

  3. The comic-book store

  A very good place to go to when people are annoying you, like that time when Dad got all mad just because I threw a pork pie at his head and I had to get out of the house.

  4. Walking around the park with Dog

  Dog has a very calm aura and is an excellent listener. The only disadvantage is his attention span, like that time I was midway through telling him about how I was pretty sure I’d swallowed a spider the night before, but then he ran off to fetch me that dead mouse and made all the children near us cry.

  Have you checked all these? Report back immediately.

  Love, me xxx

  From: rebecca.blythe@bounce-mail.co.uk

  To: helena@montaines.co.uk;

  anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: Places where Marianne might be

  Wonderful, Anna, thank you!

  Quick question though, darling, are you aware that it’s Marianne who is missing and not you?