How to Date a Millionaire

by Allison Rushby

  ‘Hi, G!’ I say and, on hearing her not-name, she does the cutest little nuzzling thing into my arm and I honestly think my heart is going to break.

  Ooooohhhhh. I love them already. They can mess up my room any time.

  ‘Do you have a short-list of names?’ I hear Marc ask from across the room. ‘Somehow I don’t think B and G are going to cut it in the real world.’

  I glance up protectively. ‘They could. If they stood for something.’

  ‘Like?’ Marc asks, his eyes laughing at me.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I look back down at them. ‘Like Bella. And George.’ I expect everyone to have a good laugh at my names, except there’s this overly long silence and I glance up again hesitantly thinking I’ve said something terrible.

  But it doesn’t look like it. The only thing Dad and Holly look is surprised.

  ‘George was on both our lists for B,’ Holly says.

  ‘And Isabella was on Holly’s for G,’ Dad adds.

  They glance at each other.

  ‘Well, that was easy,’ Holly says, after a moment or two.

  I start to panic again. ‘Nuh uh.’ I shake my head hard. ‘You can’t call them that just because I said so.’

  ‘What? Why not?’ Holly asks, looking confused.

  ‘Because … because I can’t take on that responsibility.’

  ‘Responsibility?’ Dad says.

  ‘Yes!’ I look up at him. ‘When they hate their names later on, and everyone does, it’ll be my fault. Not yours!’

  For the second time that day and about the millionth time in my whole life, everyone stares at me. And then, like they always do after they do the staring thing, they laugh.

  Right. Fine then. Bella and George it is. I bend down and whisper to them. ‘Sorry I didn’t warn you sooner, kids, but they’re both weird. After you’ve finished with this hospital gig and we all go home, you’re in for quite a ride.’

  After a busy morning holding (and, um, naming) my siblings, scoffing down bagels and generally having the best time in a hospital I’ve ever had in my life (previous visits, mostly to see my mum, hadn’t exactly been pleasant), Holly and Dad start to look tired again, so Marc and I decide to go home for a while. We make our way out to the front of the hospital and are greeted by bright sunshine, a gorgeous breeze and Central Park laid out before us. The perfect New York day.

  ‘How about we go for a walk first?’ Marc turns to me. ‘There’s actually something I’ve got to talk to you about.’

  I eye him warily. Maybe it’s not the perfect New York day after all.

  ‘What?’ he says. ‘No lectures. And when have I ever lectured you in the past?’

  I start to list the lectures I’ve had from Marc off on my fingers, before I stop. ‘Hang on, I’ll just take off my shoes and keep counting.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  We cross Fifth and enter Central Park, deciding to take a walk around East Meadow. We don’t last long and end up sinking into the green grass in no time.

  ‘Man, it’s such a perfect day.’ Marc lies down and stares up at the sky.

  Funny how I can’t relax quite that much. ‘Is it going to stay that way?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ He sits himself up a bit, resting on his elbows. ‘I didn’t want to bring it up before. Not when we had better things to do. It’s about Seth.’

  Now I’m really on guard. ‘Seth? What about him?’

  Marc sits up fully, his legs stretched out in front of him. ‘I spoke to him. He told me everything.’

  ‘Everything?’ I try not to gulp. Everything meaning Holly loved his screenplay and optioned it on the spot, or everything meaning everything everything, including his dodgy Hawaiian screenplay pushing and his fake heart transplant. Not to mention our kissing in front of, most likely, underage creatures of the sea.

  ‘Yes. Everything,’ Marc replies, reading my mind.

  Yikes.

  When I pull myself back together, I snort a nice little half-snort. ‘So, did you do the big-brotherly thing and throttle him for me?’

  Marc’s eyebrows raise. ‘Well, I was going to. Until he begged me to let him explain.’

  ‘Oh yes. He tried that on me too.’

  ‘And did you listen?’

  ‘Not after the bit about his heart being in perfect ticking order, no.’

  Marc sighs. ‘Yeah, well, I can understand that.’

  Again, I eye him warily. ‘Mmm.’

  Silence.

  For about five seconds. ‘So what did he say?’ Damn. I just couldn’t help myself.

  Marc gives me a look. ‘I thought you might ask that.’

  Surprise surprise. I did too.

  And so, for the next five minutes, Marc fills me in on Seth’s side of the story.

  He tells me about how Seth was supposed to be spending Spring Break at his apartment in LA alone, writing, but how Jason and Connor kept turning up and interrupting every time they had the tiniest piece of news about their screenplay. At the last minute, he decided to escape to his father’s Waikiki penthouse, unknowingly bumping people out who’d arranged to rent it. When he got to Honolulu and spoke to reception, he realised what had happened. It had been then that he’d spotted the name on the booking form. Holly Isles. The next time Jason and Connor called, he mentioned in passing that Holly and her crew had been bumped from the apartment and were staying elsewhere in the building. Jason and Connor arrived, uninvited, the next day. Their bags were packed mostly not with gear to wear to a luau, but with copies of the screenplay they hoped they could leave on Holly’s breakfast tray, under her cocktails and inside her pillow-case. They’d spent their flight over scheming, and Seth ended up trying to distance himself from their plans from the time the pair passed over his pineapple-shaped (okay, not really) doormat. They’d spent most of their Hawaiian Spring Break fighting with each other.

  Slowly, as I listen to Marc, I realise everything he’s saying is true. I even remember parts of the fight that Alexa, Nat and I had accidentally overheard (fine, deliberately switched off the spa in order to overhear) between Seth and the other two boys upstairs that day. What had we heard? Something about something being ‘disgusting’ and something else about someone going too far. And about making things right. It had been Seth’s voice saying all those things. He must have been trying to convince Jason and Connor to come clean. Yeah, well, not likely.

  So much for my perfect New York day.

  ‘Sorry to be such a downer, Ness.’ Marc pulls me in sideways for a quick hug. ‘But I thought you’d want to know I’d spoken to him. He’s really sorry. For everything. The thing with Seth is he’s a pretty quiet guy. Put in that kind of situation, I think he probably just panicked and didn’t know what to tell you. And the longer it went on and the better he knew you, the more he had to lose, so the harder it got to tell you anything at all. He never really lied to you. Not that it makes any of this better, of course. Like I said, I just thought you’d want to know what he told me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say quietly, thinking. Again, this is all true. Because, while I still feel hurt, I realise Marc’s right. Seth never really did lie to me. Instead, he concealed the truth. Not much better, but I can see where Marc’s coming from. Seth is a pretty quiet kind of guy. And put in that situation, who wouldn’t panic? I know I would. Especially if I was put in that situation and had met someone … someone who meant something to me and who I didn’t want to let go of. And that I knew I’d probably lose forever the moment I told them what was going on behind the scenes.

  Hmmm.

  And just when I think I’m feeling about as low as I can go, Marc asks me the kicker question.

  ‘I guess he’s a lot like you, Ness,’ he says quietly. ‘I mean, have you ever been in a situation you felt you couldn’t get out of?’

  I lie back on the grass dramatically when I hear this. Oh. Ow. Stab me through the heart, why don’t you?

  Because, of course, the answer to that question is ‘yes’. Fine.
More like ‘YES’. Like I said, there was the time I tried to get Holly to fall in love with a paparazzo (instead of, um, my dad). And there was the time I desperately tried to make sure Dad and Holly’s wedding would go ahead (which it probably would have anyway, despite Holly’s ex-fiancé’s Jason-and-Connor-like scheming). And there was the time … okay let’s not go there. If I listed them all we’d be here till midnight and I have a meeting with a cute pair of twins in the morning I need my beauty sleep for.

  Marc looks over at me. ‘Jason can be a pretty overbearing guy. It’s hard to say no to him.’

  ‘I know. Believe me, I know.’

  ‘Seth really is sorry, you know. The guy’s a mess. He must really like you, huh?’

  ‘Oh.’ I sit up, thinking I’m not quite sure what to say to this. Seth’s a mess? Because of me?

  Marc looks away. ‘He’s here, you know. He came back to New York for the rest of the break, to see his dad. He lives right … there.’ He points up and out of the park to a penthouse apartment on Fifth. ‘You know, if I called him now, he’d probably come straight down. In fact, I know he would. He’s sort of waiting.’

  I stare up at the apartment Marc’s pointing out. ‘Right up there, huh? Waiting?’

  ‘Yep. Right up there. Waiting.’

  Hmmm. I keep staring. ‘I guess you could call him. Maybe. I suppose. You know, if he’s waiting and all.’

  Marc laughs. ‘That’s a “yes”, then?’

  I nod, my heart already thumping in my chest, talking to me. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll push off and call him as I go. How about dinner tonight to celebrate the twins? Anywhere you like. Just us.’

  I smile up at Marc, who’s standing now and offering me a hand. ‘That’d be nice,’ I tell him as he pulls me up beside him. ‘How about the good old Tribeca Grill?’

  ‘I’ll book.’ He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. ‘See you in a few hours, huh?’

  I watch him as he turns to go. Just as he’s leaving, he turns back again and calls out to me. ‘It’s a good day today, Ness. A good day.’

  Despite my mixed feelings, I smile a smile back that just keeps on widening. It is a good day. We’re in Central Park. It’s spring. It’s nice and cool and beautifully sunny. I have a brother and a sister. And an older brother-type guy who’s not really related to me but we get along just the same and tonight he’ll take me out for dinner and we’ll have a ball together (plus, hopefully, the warm apple tart with sticky bun ice-cream for dessert).

  It doesn’t get much better than this.

  It’s a perfect day.

  Almost like we’re in a movie.

  Beep beep! My cell phone wriggles in my back pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Nat.

  U r right. NYC boring after Hawaii. Getting DVDs. Need names all Marilyn movies asap.

  I laugh, thinking of what Alexa’s going to say. A brand new Marilyn Monroe convert. Who would have thought? I text Nat back immediately with all my favourites and then tuck my cell back in my jeans.

  Now, what was I thinking about? Oh yes. How it’s a perfect day. Maybe even the perfect day of Spring Break …

  Almost too good to be true.

  So when, a few minutes later, I catch my first glimpse of Seth walking towards me across the grass in the park, I’m surprised that my ‘perfect day’ feeling doesn’t float off up and away into the blue sky. It remains. I smile that smile again. And I begin to think that maybe I was wrong. Maybe this really is like How to Marry a Millionaire after all. Finally, it seems, after a lot of misunderstandings, mishaps and misadventures, I’ve dug through the trash, found a few things worth keeping, discovered a few things more I never even knew about myself and am finally going to start making some happy endings. I guess it is sometimes worth taking that scary leap and trusting your heart over your head (don’t worry – I’ll still give Seth the biggest lecture of his life: that older brother-type guy has taught me a thing or two worth knowing over the years when it comes to telling people off).

  So, um, yeah.

  Cue: dazzling smile.

  Pan to gorgeous guy quickly approaching on path.

  And roll credits.

  Collect the other Living Blonde books …

  Excerpt from Diamonds are a Teen’s Best Friend

  ‘Is this the boat to Europe, France?’

  Honestly, I tried to stop myself asking the question, I truly did. In front of me, the porter guy looks at me as if I’m a fourteen-(almost fifteen-!) year-old idiot. Beside me, dear old Dad looks at me as if I’m delusional (that’s because a lot of the time he actually thinks I am – he’s even had me tested to make sure I’m not). And he’s about to open his mouth to start in on me (again … sigh) when, behind me, I hear it – someone laughs. Right on cue.

  I swing around quickly, my head zipping from side to side, trying to see who it is, but it’s practically impossible in this traffic jam of a crowd, especially when you’re as short as I am and your dad won’t let you wear a kitten heel, let alone rhinestones in the daytime. I bet Marilyn Monroe’s mother never said a thing about Marilyn wearing rhinestones in the daytime. Then again, Marilyn Monroe’s mother let her get married at sixteen and spent a great deal of time in a mental institution, so that’s probably not saying very much. I’m just about to give up on the searching thing when the crowd parts and someone dressed entirely in red, going out/in/out (in all the right places) and hips swaying, passes me by with a wink and a lift of one perfectly arched eyebrow.

  ‘Honey,’ she says, in the kind of voice that makes everyone turn and look at her. ‘France is in Europe.’

  Oh. My. God.

  It’s one of those moments when you just know you’ll think up a zillion and two perfect things to say later, but instead you stand there looking like you’ve recently had a lobotomy. Especially when I realise that the someone is actually a Someone and that the woman now heading up the escalator to the biggest ship I’ve ever seen in my life is, in fact, Holly Isles.

  Yes, the Holly Isles.

  Actress. Goddess. Star of stage, screen and various tabloid magazines that you skim as fast as you can at the supermarket checkout because your dad will never let you buy them and everyone else is allowed to rot their brain so why can’t I, Holly Isles.

  Someone whistles. And, this time, I don’t need to look around. This time, I know for sure it’s not for me. (Laughing, sure. Whistling? I am sincerely doubting it …) And because I don’t turn around, I don’t move for the guy. The one who smacks into my shoulder (ow!) and says, ‘Excuse me. I need to get to my aunt.’

  I follow his gaze directly up the escalator to Holly. His aunt? Holly is his aunt? Well, la de da. I go to give him my best ‘Get your filthy mitts off me, don’t mess with the outfit and don’t go anywhere near the hair, buster’ look when my mouth drops even further. Hello, sailor! Cute boy ahoy! He’s not kidding around. This guy is definitely related to Holly in a big way.

  ‘Ah …’ my dad exhales, the lecture he’d been working on giving me obviously forgotten. Funny, but he’s got the same kind of lobotomy look as me. And he’s staring straight at Holly.

  Excerpt from The 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. I shrug, then keep heading in the direction of the very solid form that’s now thumping towards me across the impressively large hallway. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ I go over 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 unceremoniously on the coun
ter with a huff. ‘Now,’ she says, turning back around. ‘What you want for the breakfast?’

  Down to Vera business.

  I shrug again. ‘I’ve already got some juice, and cereal’s fine. I was just about to get myself a bowl.’ I start back towards the kitchen.

  Within seconds, Vera has cut me off at the pass.

  ‘No, no, no,’ the clucking starts up once more. ‘You too skinny, Va-nessa. So skinny. You need to eat. No cereal. Is all sugar. You need the protein. Too skinny. So skinny!’

  I look down at my summer pyjama-clad stomach, to see if I’ve magically lost weight overnight. Nope. And I don’t think that bulge of stomach there, blocking out a gorgeous view of my feet, is bloating brought on by a severe case of malnutrition.

  ‘See?’ she says, and before I can either a) look up, orb) stop her, Vera’s pudgy hand has darted out and grabbed my hip-bone. ‘Nothing!’ She gives my hip, and its ample padding, a good squeeze. ‘Need to eat! Too skinny. So skinny! Boys like the girl with something to hold on to.’

  I shrug for a third time. Can’t argue with that, I guess. ‘How about waffles?’ I suggest. Never mind the boys, you have to keep your housekeeper happy, right? As Holly’s always telling me, it’s hard to get good help in Manhattan, especially downtown. Waffles are the least I can do. And if waffles keep the boys interested, well, so be it. We’ll call it a welcome side effect.

  ‘Waffles! Yes! Good!’ Vera claps her hands together, now a very happy little housekeeper.

  ‘I can help …’ I take half a step closer into Vera’s kitchen. (When she’s here, you have to be very careful about entering. I swear I once heard her start growling when I went to get myself a glass of water.)

  ‘No, no, no. You sit. Drink the juice.’ And there’s the look. The Vera look. The ‘Back away from my kitchen’ look.

  ‘Okay,’ I squeak, and turn around to take my seat at the breakfast bar. ‘I’ll just, um, sit here and drink my juice.’ Who knew that fixing yourself breakfast in your own home could be so dangerous?