“So, are you coming?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss this one for the world.”
My eyes narrow. Why didn’t I see him at the disco then? Had that been him on the dance floor? And I still need confirmation that it really was Ted with a “T” that Holly was talking about last night. I decide to quiz him.
“So, um, Holly’s amazing, isn’t she?”
“I wouldn’t photograph anyone else. She’s just beautiful. Not just on the outside, either.”
It must be him Holly’s talking about! “Have you had a chance to chat to her much lately? In the last few days, I mean?”
On the other end of the line, Ted pauses. “Chat?”
“Yes, chat.”
“Er, a bit, I guess.”
That’s something at least. “And how are you getting along?”
Another pause. “Good, I suppose. Holly and I always get along just fine. She’s given me some great photo-opportunities this trip.”
Oh. Photo-opportunities weren’t exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of great kisses.
“You still there?”
Oops. “Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”
“Well, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you there. Bye.”
I head upstairs. Wondering, as I go, about how I can get Ted to see Holly less as a subject to photograph and more as a subject to embrace. I’ve got to get him thinking about her the way she’s thinking about him. Like Holly said, I just hope he sees me in the same way. I think he does, but I’m not quite sure yet. Hmmm. Tricky.
I press the button for the elevator. This love thing—it’s not easy. And it seems to get even less easy the older people get. It’s like they grow blinkers as they age and can only see straight ahead. They have this idea of what someone they might be interested in will be like and if anyone’s slightly different, they don’t see them at all.
It was like that with Jessica and my dad. She was always buying him clothes with labels. The kind of labels she wanted him to wear and that my dad had never heard of. He’s more a jeans and tweed blazer kind of guy (yes, the kind with the patches on the elbows—a complete college-professor-geek fashion story). He always looked so uncomfortable in the clothes Jessica bought him. I never got it, because they could have been quite happy together if she’d just let him wear what he wanted. Stupid, really. And it wasn’t because of the clothes that they broke up, it was because of what the clothes meant, I suppose—that she was trying to change him. And he didn’t want to change. (Surprisingly, despite his whole sad Dad thing, I didn’t, and still don’t want him to change either.) Hmmm. I have to figure out a way to get Ted’s blinkers off. And fast.
The elevator doors ping open, and the first thing I see is Marc. Marc and Holly.
Oh. But wait. Oh, no. Marc. Marc’s not supposed to be here. Not when Ted’s about to turn up. I try to back into the elevator, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. Both of them. And, whump, with one last step back, my butt hits the just-closed elevator doors.
Marc and Holly race over. “Are you okay?” Holly asks.
I take a quick step forward. “Of course I am. Me and these elevators. Ha ha. They seem to have it in for me. It was just that . . . um, I forgot something, and I, um, was going to go back and get it, you see.”
“Oh,” Holly says. “What did you forget?”
What did I forget? My mind goes blank. Think of an excuse, Nessa. A good one. And quickly. “Um, er . . . lip-gloss. I forgot my lip-gloss.”
“Easy!” Holly reaches into her pocket, pulls out a tube of lip-gloss, and hands it to me.
“Um, thanks,” I say, squeezing some out and applying it. Now what am I going to do? I finish applying and pass it back over.
The three of us stand and look at each other.
“I, um, didn’t know you were coming,” I say to Marc.
“I didn’t know it was a Chocoholics Anonymous afternoon tea. But as I haven’t been to a meeting in a while, I thought I’d better come along.”
“You like chocolate?” I’m surprised. I mean, not that it’s weird or you have to be insane or something to like chocolate (if it is, I should be locked up), but it’s usually a girl thing, right? I glance over at the half-filled tables. I don’t think there’s another guy in here.
“I’m a dark chocolate fan.”
Holly makes a face. “You should see what he eats. The really bitter stuff. I can’t bear it.”
“Which is a good thing, because I can buy it and it lasts for more than five minutes in the pantry.”
“Are you suggesting I’d eat it?” Holly says. “You know Russell doesn’t let me eat chocolate.”
Marc snorts. “Yes, that’s why you’re here. At the Chocoholics Anonymous afternoon tea. Russell’s her personal trainer,” he says to me, before turning back to Holly. “And Russell obviously doesn’t live in our pantry.”
I’d laugh, but I’m too busy freaking out about Ted. Because now I have to stop Ted from turning up. Marc will lose it if he sees Ted magically appear here. Tucked away in the restaurant, for Ted to find us—it’s too much of a coincidence on such a big ship. Maybe I could get him to smear his face with chocolate or something and pretend he’s a closet chocoholic? I groan. No, that’s too stupid.
“Um, Nessa?” Marc and Holly are halfway across the room, heading toward the already set-up tables.
“Sorry!” I say and jog over to catch up.
“What’s the matter, Nessa?” Holly says, picking up her third miniature chocolate éclair. She inspects it with a frown, as if it’s done the wrong thing and needs to be punished. “Now, this is really the last one. I mean it.”
“Huh?”
“You’ve been toying with that piece of sacher torte for the last fifteen minutes. You’re putting our table to shame. If you don’t like it, try something else. I can personally vouch for the éclairs. All of them.”
Toying with my sacher torte? That’s not like me. I look down. Oh, I guess I have been. My eyes flick past Marc and over to the elevators again. For about the five-hundredth time.
Marc’s eyes move to the elevators as well. “Are you looking for your dad? Is he coming after all?” he asks.
“Mmmfff. Yummy.” Holly pops the rest of the éclair in her mouth. “He said he couldn’t make it.”
“You invited my dad?” I forget about the elevators.
Holly nods, licking her fingers one by one. “Mmmm. Maybe I could just have a little taste of . . . what? Sorry. Um, yes. I was having a chat with him yesterday.”
“For a couple of hours . . .” Marc starts, and I whip my head over to look at him. What? “And a couple of hours the day before. Pretty much every day, in fact.” Double what?
“You . . .” Holly replies, and I whip my head back to see her give him a warning look.
“Yes?” Marc says, and I whip my head back again. Ow. This Wimbledon-like conversation is starting to hurt. But what’s going on here? Holly’s been spending hours with my dad. Every day. All the time we’ve been on the ship. And how come I don’t know about this? Marc can’t mean Holly’s been spending hours with my dad literally. He probably means Holly chatted to him for a few minutes once and it felt like hours, or even days (this is far more believable). Oh, no. Unless she really is participating in Dad’s study now as one of his subjects? And I don’t think Holly wants me to, but I have to ask.
“You’ve been spending hours with my dad?” I look over at her once more.
“It’s a pity I can’t be part of his study.” Holly’s eyes move away from mine, obviously avoiding the question. “I think it’s really interesting.”
Phew. Holly can’t be part of the study. That’s good news. And I’m about to call her on the avoiding-the-question thing when the elevator doors open. I can’t help it. My eyes automatically flick over at the sound. And it’s just as I feared. Across the room, our eyes meet. Go away! Get out of here! I try to send him subliminal messages. But it doesn’t work. He looks away q
uickly (he’s not supposed to acknowledge me, after all) and makes a break for it, trying to duck behind one of the potted palms.
Too late.
“Oh, goody,” Holly says, swiping another éclair. “It’s Ted. And his camera.”
I stop breathing as I realize Marc’s staring at me. Really staring, with cold, hard eyes.
This is the end of the line. Marc knows for sure that I’ve been tipping Ted off. There’s no point in denying it like the other day. There’s no point in saying anything. And because there’s no point in denying what’s going on, this time, I don’t look away. I stare right back. And it’s not in defiance. I’m not sure what it is. I just can’t seem to stop looking at him. I can’t tear my eyes away from his.
“Sometimes I wonder if Ted has a homing device on me,” Holly says, from somewhere far, far away. “Now, that’s most definitely my last éclair. I might head off, actually. I promised I’d meet someone later.”
I look up then, realizing that Holly’s talking. Saying something about leaving. “I might, um, go too,” I say to Holly’s retreating figure, and scramble out of my chair.
“Not so fast.” Marc pulls me back down. But not before I see Holly and Ted leave the restaurant and get in the elevator together. Oh, brilliant! Maybe they’ll go get a coffee or something! I’m almost happy for a second—until Marc begins to speak.
“You look pretty pleased with yourself.” He’s still staring at me.
Back to reality. “Me?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb, Nessa. You’re not. And I’ve really had enough of it now. I’m sure Ted got a few good shots of Holly stuffing her face. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
I don’t say anything.
“I knew it.” Marc shakes his head. “I knew you were tipping him off all along. I was just too . . . too stupid to believe it. Too blind. You’re good, I’ll give you that much. You’re really good. It’s clever. A good cover. Which tabloid are you with, anyway? And how old are you really? Eighteen? Nineteen? I’m betting you’re something like one of those really young-looking journalists who go back to high school and report on the whole experience. I should have known. And what’s going on with your father, as well? Pushing himself on Holly. That’s if he really is your father . . .”
Huh? Marc thinks I’m with a tabloid? That I’m nineteen? That my dad isn’t my dad? What?!
I feel like I should burst out laughing, but when Marc’s eyes meet mine, I see that they’re saying a lot more than his mouth is saying. And I have to admit that looking into them is one of the most painful things I think I’ve ever done, because I see all kinds of things I never wanted to see in a friend: hurt, pain, confusion, betrayal.
He’s not joking. He’s really not joking.
“Well? Are you going to say anything? Defend yourself? Make me look like a complete idiot for trusting you for as long as I have?”
Nothing. Frozen.
Marc snorts. “I can’t believe I . . .” He shakes his head, throws his napkin onto the table, and pushes back his chair in one fluid movement. “Don’t call us,” he says. “Either of us. Don’t talk to us, don’t come near us, don’t contact us in any way. Nothing. You or your so-called father.”
I hole up in the cabin again, nursing my wounds. I think about checking my email, but then remember the last thing Alexa said to me and just know she’ll have emailed again hassling me, so I don’t. I try to read a book, but can’t concentrate. In the end, I lie back and stare at the ceiling, replaying my confrontation with Marc over and over and over again in my head.
“Hello, pumpkin,” Dad says, making me jump. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts that I hadn’t even heard him come in the room.
“Oh, hi, Dad.” I sit up a bit. He goes over and sits down on his bed, looking a bit glum. “What’s up?” I ask.
“Hmmm? Oh, nothing.”
You’ve got to love the guy—he’s so transparent. I sit up a bit further. “Yes there is. Come on, tell me.”
“It’s silly, really.”
“Come on.”
“Er, I was supposed to meet up with Holly late this afternoon. She said she wanted to see some of the data from the study. But about an hour before we were meant to meet, her nephew—Marc, is it?”
Don’t remind me. I nod, trying not to wince.
“Well, he called and said that she was busy. I guess . . .” He pauses for a moment.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I guess she wasn’t really interested in the study after all. Perhaps she was just making conversation. It’s funny because I thought . . .” Another pause.
Oh, no. I knew it. I knew my dad liked Holly. She hadn’t even needed to put her Nessa’s Lessons in Love moves on him for it to happen. “You thought what?” He’s past glum now. He looks so . . . sad. Just like me. What a pair.
“I thought . . .” But then he looks up, making an obvious and over-the-top effort to brighten his expression. “Sorry, sweetheart. Like I said, I’m just being silly. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I’ve got another two interviews to do this afternoon.” He jumps up from his bed then.
“But, Dad . . .”
“No,” he says, waving one hand as he opens the cabin door with the other. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll see you in a few hours. We’ll have a lovely dinner. Just the two of us. All right?”
I nod. And then he’s gone. But I can’t help but notice that, just before the door closes (when he thinks I can’t see him anymore), his shoulders do that all-too-familiar slump again.
To the sound of his retreating footsteps, I fall back down on the bed. That’s my fault, those slumped shoulders. All my fault. I’ve hurt everyone around me, including myself. My dad, who now thinks that Holly isn’t really interested in him or his study; Marc, who thinks I’m some kind of tabloid journalist hanging around with a guy who isn’t my father (who’s he supposed to be, anyway, my editor?); Holly, who’s going to think Dad and I are ignoring her; and Alexa, who I know for sure thinks I’m ignoring her.
Just for a second, all of this makes me question whether I’m doing the right thing—trying to get Holly and Ted together. But just for a second. No longer. Because it has to be right, doesn’t it?
Like I’ve been thinking all along, it’s too perfect. Holly herself had said she thought she’d met PM. PM whose first initial was T. Yes. Even if I don’t know what I have to do next, I have to keep believing that it’s the right thing to do. I have to have faith. In Holly. And Ted. And in Marilyn. I know that it will all work out in the end. It always does. Just like in the movies. Like they say, it’s darkest before dawn. And that’s always true in the movies—things always get very, very complicated before they unravel and work themselves out. And this is the complicated bit. Ugh, the really complicated bit.
I just wish I knew how to make it all work out.
Double ugh. I turn over and put my head under the pillow. I want this trip to be over.
Yesterday.
As it turns out, Dad and I don’t have dinner alone. Instead, we get invited to have dinner at the Captain’s table. I don’t think either of us really wants to go, not feeling much like socializing, but apparently being asked to dine at the Captain’s table is a Big Deal, so we don our finest and head up to the restaurant like the good little passengers that we are.
And I wish I was feeling more up to this, because the Captain is a complete and utter darling, and the people on the table turn out to be really interesting—there’s a guy who used to be a cosmonaut, a ballerina, a political activist who makes documentaries, Dad, and um, me (hey, not that I feel out of place or anything!). In a way, it makes me kind of proud of my dad. That people think he’s interesting and what he does is important, even if he doesn’t make much money doing it, like Holly or Antonio.
I’m chatting to the ex-cosmonaut (who’s got the best accent!) and am even starting to enjoy myself. But then I see them.
Marc and Holly.
Oh, no. Of course, I panicked when Da
d said we were going to the proper restaurant. And I almost lost the plot when I saw we were going to be sitting at table one, right near table three—Holly’s table. But then no-one had appeared, and I thought I was safe. That they were ordering dinner in their suite or something.
Wrong.
As they make their way to their seats, I focus my full attention back on Nikolai, the ex-cosmonaut. Well, my full attention except for one eye, which keeps a tab on what’s going on at the next table. Hang on, is that . . . ?
It is! Antonio. Oh, no. Antonio sits down beside Holly.
Now I can’t help myself. I really do look over. Seeing my movement, Holly glances over and waves. She goes to get up, but Marc reaches up and touches her arm. Says something to her. She glances down at him, then over at me for a second, then at my dad for even longer. Finally, a puzzled look comes over her face before she sits back down once more. And, in that moment, I know it wasn’t Holly’s idea to cancel her appointment with my dad this afternoon. It was Marc’s. She doesn’t know anything about it. And who knows what he’s told her about us? Both this afternoon and just now.
Holly doesn’t look at me, or my dad, again all evening. As for Marc, he never even looks at me at all.
Antonio, however, does enough “looking” for everyone. He doesn’t take his eyes off Holly all night long. In fact, he’s all over her. The weird thing is that, at first, it looks like he’s annoying Holly. But as the night progresses, she seems to change her mind. And by the time our main courses are taken away, strangely, Nessa’s Lessons in Love get dusted off and brought out once more. Holly starts flirting and simpering and batting her eyelashes, to the point where I kind of wish I’d never given her any lessons at all. Even more strangely, even though Holly’s doing all of this, she doesn’t look like she’s having a good time. I can’t help noticing that my dad’s eyes flick over to table three involuntarily, watching Holly and Antonio all too often. He can’t help himself, poor guy. I feel a stab in my heart then. Dad must really like Holly. So, for him to watch this . . . ugh, it must just be awful. Far, far more awful than it is for me.
As we work our way through dessert and coffee, Antonio just gets worse. Louder and more over the top. He’s so not right for Holly, and while she was trying before, now she really doesn’t look like she’s enjoying herself. But she doesn’t tell Antonio to go away, either. Beside them, Marc looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth than on table three (well, except maybe next to me at table one).