The It Girl in Rome

by Katy Birchall

  He spun me around and gave my back a firm poke with his finger so I tripped over my feet following the guy, who had launched into a monologue about the history and heritage of the hotel, pointing out famous artworks as we passed them.

  I blame the fact that I was so compliant with all this on tiredness. Had I been a little more alert I would have certainly thrown something at my dad’s head before this stage and forced him to tell me what was going on.

  “And here is your room,” the man gestured. “Would you like help with your key?”

  I didn’t need to answer, though, because the door we had stopped at swung open and a pair of arms reached out and pulled me in, enveloping me in a warm embrace while the hotel attendant stood by.

  “Thank you, sir!” I heard Marianne say as she held on to me and the door creaked shut. She pulled back to hold me at arm’s length. “Well, hello there, droopyface.”

  “CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS GOING ON?” I yelled.

  “You haven’t worked it out already?” She squished my cheeks and then walked through our suite—which, by the way, was the size of the whole bottom floor of our house and was adorned with huge bouquets of flowers and large wicker baskets of exotic fruit. I felt like I was in a twisted modern-day version of Alice in Wonderland.

  I padded after Marianne, who suddenly stopped and pointed at something in the corner. Hanging up in the walk-in wardrobe, taking up the majority of the space in it, was a large ball of purple frilled silk and netting.

  “What is my bridesmaid dress doing here?”

  “Well,” Marianne checked her watch, “in a few hours, once you’ve had your beauty sleep, you’ll need to get into it.”

  I gaped at her, the truth finally dawning on me.

  She grinned. “It’s wedding time.”

  24.

  From: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  To: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: !!!

  THE CRAZIEST THING HAS HAPPENED.

  Okay, so you know how the wedding is next week at the Tilney Hotel? IT IS SO NOT NEXT WEEK AND IT IS NOT AT THE TILNEY.

  I am freaking out. Dad kidnapped me this morning and took me to where the wedding is really happening. And it’s TODAY.

  This is not a drill. I repeat. Not a drill.

  Can you believe he organized this without telling me anything? Marianne says she had no idea either and she was also kidnapped this morning. Dad and Helena kept it between themselves. And the hotel. And the wedding team. And all the guests. Including Connor. Who, by the way, didn’t say a word.

  Hang on. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure I’m the last to know.

  HOW COME I’M THE LAST TO KNOW?

  As if Dad told people like Kanye West so he could change his flights, yet he thought I, his beloved daughter, was better off not knowing. I am excellent at keeping secrets, like that time he told me about the mishap with my birth certificate. I haven’t told a SOUL.

  Anyway, the point is that they’ve gone to all this effort to trick the press!

  It’s incredible! They figured out the whole thing while we were in Rome—they helped all the guests to change their plans and even got the Tilney Hotel to play along. Helena has promised to have her next birthday party there, so they were happy.

  I would have called you to tell you both about this but there’s a hundred people in my room setting up to do our hair and stuff.

  I’ve escaped downstairs while Marianne is being shimmied into the makeup chair. But I’m up next so make your replies snappy.

  Love, me xxx

  From: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  To: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  Wow! That’s so cool!

  By the way, what do you mean mishap with your birth certificate?

  J x

  From: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  To: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  I just told you all that and you’re concerned with my birth certificate? Really? That’s your priority here?

  DID YOU READ THE REST OF THE E-MAIL?

  From: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  To: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  Seriously, though, what mishap on your birth certificate?

  J x

  From: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  To: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  Wow. There are so many capital letters in this e-mail chain.

  Danny

  From: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  To: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  SERIOUSLY, DANNY? THE FONT STYLE IS WHAT HAS CAPTURED YOUR ATTENTION?

  From: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  To: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  So I just tried thinking about what mishaps might occur on a birth certificate and I have come up with the following list:

  1. Wrong date

  2. Wrong name

  3. Wrong sex

  4. Wrong parents

  Which is it?

  J x

  From: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  To: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  Let us hope it is point 1 or point 2.

  Otherwise, things could get complicated.

  Danny

  From: anna_huntley@zingmail.co.uk

  To: jess.delby@zingmail.co.uk

  Cc: dantheman@zingmail.co.uk

  Subject: Re: !!!

  This reminds me. I forgot to make new friends in Rome.

  “Do you know what I feel like?” Marianne sighed as three members of Fenella’s wedding team carefully pulled the heavy dress over her curlers and then yanked it down before kneeling beside her and getting lost in the layers of netting trying to arrange it properly.

  “A giant cupcake.”

  “No, you look more like an upside-down hot-air balloon,” I said thoughtfully, looking down at my matching disaster of a dress. “Or some kind of pufferfish. Or perhaps a purple profiterole?”

  I turned around and the swish of all that material spinning at such force knocked one of the wedding team engrossed in my skirt right over. I apologized profusely as the hairdresser came over to take out my curlers, and then she was let loose with the hair spray, putting every stray hair carefully into place.

  Fenella declared us to be fit for a royal ball, and now that we were ready and it was time to beautify the bride, she snapped her fingers at the army of makeup, hair, and dressing professionals, who gathered up their crates of products and filed out of the room to make their way to Helena. She ordered Marianne and me to stay in our bedroom and not move.

  Marianne grinned. “I can’t wait to see Mom.” She picked up her phone and sat down on the bed, her dress ballooning up around her. She tried to push down the swathes of material. “It’s like some sort of weird duvet. I feel very padded. If some rugby player tackled me, they would bounce right off.”

  “I still can’t get over the fact that they changed the wedding to today.” I shook my head. “It doesn’t feel real.”

  “Yeah, it’s really cool. All those reporters still camping outside our houses are going to be so angry.” She nodded. “No wonder Mom and Nicholas have been so stressed. They’ve been reorganizing the biggest wedding of the year right under the paparazzi’s nose.”

  “It suddenly explains a lot,” I agreed. “Although . . .” I trailed off into thought.

  “What?” Marianne prompted.

  “It’s just, well, like you say, they went to a lot of effort
and through so much stress just to avoid the press. My dad hasn’t been himself at all.” I paused. “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives?”

  Marianne snorted. “Why, how many celebrity weddings are you planning?”

  I smiled and she shook her head, bemused, turning back to her phone and resuming her texting. I tried to distract myself. But all the worries that had been building up all summer were crowding my brain, and I couldn’t stop myself from wondering whether Dad had really thought it all through.

  Did he really know what he was getting himself in for? He hates the paparazzi and has changed his whole wedding just to escape them. But by marrying Helena Montaine he’s never going to escape them properly. Sure, for a day or two, but they’ll always be there lingering, waiting to get a good photo.

  I thought of everything Connor had said. This wedding was just the beginning.

  With no time to explain, I bundled up my skirt, stood up, and ran from the hotel room, ignoring Marianne’s confused cries after me.

  I had to talk to Dad before it was too late.

  25.

  “ANNA, WHAT ON EARTH IS going on?”

  I could kind of understand why Dad was confused. I mean, in very quick succession I had:

  1. Shouted his name as I came barging into the main reception.

  2. Made the mass of guests all look up from their champagne.

  3. Stopped the jazz band midway through one of their melodies.

  4. Bulldozed through the crowd when I spotted my dad on the other side of the room.

  5. Which, when I’m wearing a dress the size of Mount Kilimanjaro, would terrify anyone.

  6. Dragged him away without any explanation.

  7. Taken him up the stairs to the first floor in the hope of finding a space where we could be alone.

  8. And, when I couldn’t find one, pushed him through the fire escape and onto the steps.

  “What is your thing with fire escapes recently?” he asked, baffled. “Anna, you’re acting very weird. Whatever it is you have to say, spit it out.”

  “Dad . . .” I hesitated as I took in his slightly disturbing lilac waistcoat that had clearly been chosen by Helena. I shook my head and pulled back my focus.

  “Dad,” I repeated, “are you sure about this?”

  “Anna, what are you talking about?”

  “Are you sure about this—the wedding?”

  Dad looked at me as though I had lost my mind. “Of course I’m sure. What makes you think I’m not? Anna,” he reached out to take my hand, “is everything all right? Maybe this is from lack of sleep.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’m all right.” Then I shook my head. “No. Wait. I’m not.”

  I couldn’t stop myself and just like that the words spilled out. Everything I had been worrying about the ENTIRE summer just exploded from me in one big long rambling speech where I barely paused for breath:

  “If you marry Helena, you’re going to spend the rest of your life dealing with reporters and photographers. Not just for big events like a wedding but for every tiny thing you do; every decision you make is going to be watched and commented on by the whole world. Some people just can’t handle that, and it’s okay if you can’t. Recently, you’ve been acting strange and I think it’s because of the pressure of the paparazzi and of being . . . well . . . famous. And also rearranging the wedding in a matter of weeks. But the fuss and the pressure aren’t going to stop when this day is over. It will carry on for the rest of your life. And I’m worried.”

  Dad raised his eyebrows. “Let me get this straight. You’re worried that I might not be aware of all that?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just wanted you to be absolutely sure. Because it’s easy to get caught up in something, like falling in love with a glamorous movie star. But that doesn’t mean it’s real.”

  “Anna.” Dad held up his hands. He sat down on the top step of the fire escape and motioned for me to join him. I tried my best to sit next to him but the width of my dress rendered this impossible, and in the end he had to sit a few steps down to make way for all the material. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

  I sighed and looked out at the view. It was kind of beautiful actually. From the fire escape you could see quite far across London which, from up there, seemed incredibly tranquil and still. There were no sandwich-stealing pigeons in sight.

  “In Rome, someone was talking about how you can’t really fall in love when you’re famous. How celebrity relationships never work out. It’s always in magazines, you know. Who is dating who, who is breaking up with who. It’s like a game. They’re not real. The pressure of fame always destroys anything good. Just like with Marianne and Tom.”

  Dad nodded slowly. “I see.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” I continued. “I just want you to be ready for everyone to always want to stick their nose in your business and turn it into gossip. You hate that. That’s why you’ve been distant recently, right? And now you’re signing up for a lifetime of it.”

  “Yeah, I am.” He shrugged. “Because I love Helena.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts’—that’s all that matters. That’s it.” He smiled up at me, his eyes squinting as the sun shone down on the steps. “The fame bit of things, yeah, it’s annoying. And, yes, it is a huge pressure and some people can find that very hard. But the thing is, fame only gets in the way if you let it. If anything isn’t real, it’s the fame. How I feel about Helena—that’s real.”

  “So, you’re not worried at all?”

  “About my private life being splashed around the papers? Of course. But that’s what I signed up for when I started dating a film actress. That’s what they see, the photographers and the reporters. They see a film actress and they want photos of her and what she’s up to and who she’s dating and who she’s breaking up with.” He put a hand on my foot that was poking out from the mound of netting. “I don’t see a film actress—I just see Helena.”

  I nodded. “So, you don’t think the fame thing will get in the way of, you know, your relationship?”

  “No!” He laughed. “I’ve never doubted for one second what I was getting into. Even when I had to rearrange a wedding for hundreds of guests just a few weeks before the big day.”

  “You’ve been acting so strange that I thought the reality of being involved with someone famous was dawning on you,” I admitted. “I was worried you had realized that it wasn’t perfect and everything was going wrong.”

  “Things aren’t perfect—they never are. Look, Anna-pops, Helena might dress you up in quite frankly ridiculous fairy-tale dresses”—he ruffled my skirt—“but our relationship isn’t a fairy-tale one. We have to work hard, but that’s okay. We won’t let anything get in the way, least of all the press.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “So . . . this is the real deal. You’re ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  I nodded. “Okay, then. You can go and get married now.”

  I smiled at him and then started preparing to hoist myself up from the step, which was going to be difficult with all the extra netting weight I was carrying, but Dad stopped me.

  “Wait,” he said sternly. “Are you sure everything’s all right? There’s nothing else you want to talk about?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know—any questions about the future or uh, well, your . . . um . . . love life?”

  “GROSS, DAD, NO.”

  “What? Why is that gross?” Dad asked, feigning ignorance. “A dad is allowed to ask these kinds of questions.”

  “Uh, I think you’ll find that a dad is NEVER allowed to ask those kinds of questions without clear, indisputable permission. I certainly have not granted such liberties.”

  “Okay.” He held up his hands. “If you say so. But I’ll leave you with this thought.”

  “Oh no,” I groaned. “Are you going to quote a dead person? I really regret kidnapping y
ou from your wedding. If I’d known I was going to get a lecture—”

  “No,” he said, all defensive, “I was actually going to try something original.”

  “Go on, then,” I sighed, “and make it snappy. I’ve wasted enough of your time and I’m more worried about Fenella killing me than Helena if we muck up the schedule.”

  “Sometimes in life . . . let me finish, this is good advice,” he argued, having caught my very deliberate eye roll. “Sometimes in life, things don’t always go to plan. Things you thought you had all worked out, sometimes they’re just not meant to be, it’s not the right time or the right person and you have to let them go. But when something is worth fighting for, you fight for it. And you’ll know when it is. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so.” I eyed him suspiciously.

  “That’s all, then.” He got to his feet and then, using all the strength in his body, he hauled me up. “I’m guessing you didn’t think to prop open the fire escape door with anything and now it’s locked.”

  A sudden chill ran through me. “Oh,” I whispered.

  “Come on, then.” He grinned, looking hardly concerned at all. “We’ll have to go down the fire escape. I would offer to hold your hand as we go, but I have a feeling you’ve done this before.”

  “Very funny,” I muttered, trying to make my way down the steps without tripping on the bottom of the dress and rolling the whole way down like a purple snowball.

  “That dress, by the way, is completely absurd,” Dad commented as we neared the bottom. “I’ve never seen anything like it. What was she thinking?”

  “It’s rather unusual,” I agreed as he held out his hand to help me down the last few steps. “Suits our family, I guess.”

  “You can go around the back. There’s an entrance through the courtyard. Might be easier to rejoin the ladies there. I’ll go around the front and get into position.”

  He stood up straight and adjusted his tie. “How do I look?”

  “Like John Wayne without the cowboy hat.”

  He beamed at me. “That will do!”

  “Good luck, Dad. I’ll see you in there.”