As the night wears on painfully slowly, my dad stops looking over at Holly. Which is bad. Because I can tell from his expression that he’s changed his mind about her. While he might have been disappointed not to see her this afternoon, she’s been re-categorized. He’s put her back in the “West Coast” box.
Holly’s just proved his theory to him. Now, he thinks she’s shallow. Shallow and flighty. And I want to turn to him and tell him she’s not. That Holly’s not like that. That she’s just gone a little crazy in her hunt for PM and doesn’t trust any of her actions or reactions anymore. That she’s confused and hurt. And most of this is my fault. But what can I say? How can I prove it? Sitting over there, letting Antonio make her look like a fool, how can I tell my dad that Holly’s not like that? He wouldn’t believe me whatever I said. However I explained it to him.
A little while later, I give up looking at table three as well. It’s just . . . embarrassing. That is, I give up looking until I can’t ignore the feeling any longer—the feeling that someone’s now looking at me. Staring at me. I glance up, my eyes instantly meeting Marc’s and my breath catches, tightening in my chest. Quickly, I look away again.
But Marc doesn’t.
I can feel his eyes boring into me for the rest of the evening. And every time I can’t help myself and take a quick glance over, his eyes are still there, unblinking, unfailing. Staring at me. It’s like he’s changed his mind and decided that as much as he wants to ignore me, he can’t afford to. That he shouldn’t let me out of his sight for a second. I can’t breathe every time I see this. It’s like he’s suffocating me. And maybe my dad feels the same way, because he refuses a second cup of coffee (he always has a second cup of coffee) and it’s not long before he turns to me. “Ready to go, pumpkin?”
Silently, I nod.
We say our goodbyes and then make our way to the elevators.
Marc’s eyes don’t leave me for a second. I can feel his gaze right up until the elevator doors close.
Dad and I then trudge, again silently, all the way back to our cabin. I think we’re both too tired and depressed to try to cheer each other up.
Inside, I sit down on my bed and my dad plants a kiss on that familiar old spot on top of my head. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he says, then grabs a few bits and pieces, makes his way into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him.
I stare at the bathroom door for what feels like a long, long time and then sigh a long sigh. So, now what? I’m so stuck. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stay holed up in the cabin for the rest of the trip. For two whole days. That would be stupid. And I can’t leave things as they are either. Everyone’s so unhappy. I have to do something. I have to make everything right again. I’ve got two days. Two days in which to fix everything.
But what am I going to do?
I stare and stare and stare and think and think and think.
And what I come up with is this: I need to stick to the plan. I mean, when in doubt, stick to the plan, right? After all, that’s what plans are for. You make them so that when things get tough, you’ve got something to guide you. To remind you what you have to do. And the plan was, and is, that I have to get Holly and Ted together. To make them see that they’re perfect for one another.
Hmmm.
Again, just for a second, I question whether I’m doing the right thing. I think about Marc. And about Alexa and her email. And my gut. But no. I can’t think about those things. Because I know I’m right. I think.
Remember, Nessa, it’s darkest before dawn. This is the complicated bit. It’ll all work out in the end. And once I get Holly and Ted together and everyone’s happy and can see that I was right all along, they’ll all pat me on the back. And thank me. Won’t they?
Again, just for a second, I pause, my eyes on the bathroom door, remembering how unhappy my dad was tonight.
Stop it, Nessa. Just stop it.
Right. That’s it. Time to get serious. None of this turning up at the same place at the same time rubbish anymore. I need a cracker of an idea to get Holly and Ted together. Once and for all.
Again, I don’t think I sleep at all. And I don’t think my dad does either, because he tosses and turns in his bed all night, each toss, each turn, making me feel more awful. Making me more anxious to make things right.
It isn’t until almost dawn that I work it out. (And the only reason I know it’s almost dawn is because of the red numbers on the alarm clock—there’s still no view down here below sea level.) And when I do, it seems so simple. All I have to do is keep following the plot of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I mean, that’s what all the signs have been pointing to all along: the cruise ship, Holly replying to my line when we were boarding, her need to find a decent guy, Ted turning up, the talent quest song . . . everything. So many signs! So many Marilynisms! And I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do this yet—follow the plot, that is. But it’s the faith thing again. It’ll come to me. I just need to have faith that I’ll get there. That it’ll all work out in the end. Just like it does in the movie. After all, it’s only in the final few minutes of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes that things become clear. And I have two more whole days up my sleeve.
***
I hide at the end of the corridor for what feels like forever, until Marc leaves the suite. And I’m tired and I’m hungry, but I wait. Because I need to see Holly, to tell her everything’s still okay with us. It was weird, what happened last night at dinner, and I need to talk to her about it. Anyway, there is no way that’s going to happen while Marc’s on duty, I know. So I wait.
As soon as I see him round the corner, I rush up to her door and knock.
“Oh. Nessa.” Holly opens the door only to give me a strange look.
“Hi, Holly.”
“Are you really supposed to be here?”
I give her a strange look in return.
“It’s just that Marc mentioned your dad thought we were spending a little too much time together.”
I pause a second, but then shake my head. “He never said that.”
“But . . .” She frowns, then quickly sighs. “Oh, I see. That Marc. I’m sorry, Nessa. He can be a bit too over-protective at times. He likes to scare off new people. Come in.” Holly waves me inside. “Believe me, I’ll be talking to him later.”
I make my way inside, trying not to breathe a too-obvious sigh of relief. At least Marc hasn’t told Holly about his weird tabloid journalist theory. Holly shuts the door behind us.
“You know, I called your dad a while ago to apologize for anything I’d done, but he wasn’t there. I had to leave a message.”
“Oh.”
“Can you get him to give me a call when you see him?”
Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, I can’t quite meet her eyes. “Sure,” I say, but I realize there’s no point. Dad’s not going to call Holly back. Not after last night.
Silence.
“Look, I . . .” Holly starts, but her voice quickly wavers.
I take a step forward towards her. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh . . .” She waves a hand. “I just feel like an idiot. About last night. With Antonio. I don’t know why . . . what I was doing . . . and now . . .”
I think back again to the scene at the restaurant. To Antonio and Holly. And her flirting.
“Everything’s just so . . . I can’t explain it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so mixed up. I feel like I’m twelve years old again and—” She breaks off as there’s a knock on the door.
I almost hit my head on the ceiling, I jump so high. “Who’s that?” I say quickly. Please let it not be Marc . . .
But Holly just waves a hand again. “I called for a steward. I need to send this note to Antonio. I can’t seem to contact him and . . .” She’s almost at the door when the phone rings and she hesitates.
“I’ll get the door. You get the phone,” I say, rushing over to the door. There’s no way I’m getting the phone. It could
be Marc.
“Thanks,” Holly says, abandoning the door and making her way over to the phone instead. She passes me the note as she goes. And I don’t mean to read it, but she hands it to me face up. And there are only a few words on it. I can’t help it, really. This is what it says:
Can you meet me in my suite—5.30 p.m.?
Love, Holly
Well, I guess it’s all still on with Antonio. I open the door for the steward and go to hand him the note, but Holly speaks up just as I’m passing it to him. “Hang on, it’s okay. Don’t bother with the note—it’s Antonio on the phone. Sorry about that,” she says to the steward. “Nessa, can you . . . ?” She glances at her purse, sitting on the side table.
Huh? Oh! A tip. I open up Holly’s purse and my eyes boggle at the wad of hundreds and fifties and twenties and tens all stuffed in there. I glance up at the steward.
“She usually gives me twenty,” he says.
Now I give him a look. “Yeah, right.”
He shrugs.
Behind me, Holly pipes up again. “Twenty would be good. Thanks, Nessa.”
My eyes widen. Twenty?! For delivering a note? Or not delivering a note, as things stand. Note to Nessa: Add stewarding to possible career list. And stick to the upper decks. Silently, I pass him a twenty, and he gives me a wink, closing the door as he goes.
“No, that’s fine. It doesn’t matter . . . It’s not important. We’ll catch up some other time . . . Thanks, Antonio.”
I turn toward her, putting her purse back down on the side table.
“Well, so much for that. He can’t make it. Not that it really matters. I only wanted to see him to apologize in person for last night. For acting so strangely. The thing is, I’m not interested in Antonio, I’m . . . oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m tired of thinking about it. Anyway, how awful do I feel, dragging that poor steward up here for nothing?”
I just look at her. I don’t think the “poor steward” feels so bad.
“Right. So, what are we up to this afternoon?” Holly claps her hands together. “Something nice? Cocktails/mocktails?”
I pause for a second, remembering Marc and his parting words to me. I shouldn’t even be here, let alone meet up with Holly for cocktails/mocktails. “Oh, I can’t. I promised my dad that I’d do something for him.” Lie, lie, lie.
“Oh.” Holly’s face falls a bit. “That’s okay, I understand.”
“Really?”
Holly nods. “Of course. But remember to ask him to call me when he has a minute, won’t you? I really want to talk to him. Maybe he’d even like an early dinner.”
Hmmm. I watch her carefully. She’s avoiding talking about something again. Maybe it’s about Ted? “What were you saying before, about last night and not being interested in Antonio?”
There’s another wave of a hand. “Oh, nothing. Really, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
I ask her again, but the moment has obviously passed. Whatever Holly was going to open up about before, it’s been locked away inside her once more to be kept safe and sound.
It’s only when I’m halfway back to the cabin that I see the steward again. The one that I tipped. And then I look down and realize I still have Holly’s note in my hand. Holly’s note to Antonio. But with no name on it. I read it again, just to make sure.
Can you meet me in my suite—5.30 p.m.?
Love, Holly
Finally, I know what I have to do.
“Hey!” I call out and the steward halts in his tracks and turns around. “Wait up. Holly’s changed her mind.”
Well, it’s only another little lie. Isn’t it? And it’s for a good cause . . . Here’s hoping he doesn’t expect another twenty to make this delivery.
From: “Alexa Milton”
To: “NJM”
Subject: Details?
Come on, Nessa. I know you’re avoiding me!
Alexa( )( )( )
From: “Alexa Milton”
To: “NJM”
Subject: Waiting . . .
Still waiting. I hope I never have to rely on you to save me from something (mummies most likely—I think we’re going to Egypt next year).
Alexa( )( )( )
From: “Alexa Milton”
To: “NJM”
Subject: Not very nice at all
You really are ignoring me, aren’t you? Because I said that stuff about being careful. Nessa, You can’t just ignore things you don’t want to face up to, you know.
Don’t come crying to me when this all crashes and burns around you. All right?
Alexa
From: “Alexa Milton”
To: “NJM”
Subject: Ignore last email
Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just freaking out over here. I don’t know what’s going on and I’m not there to watch out for you.
Friends? Talk to me? Please?
Alexa( )( )( )
I can’t help but read my email. I’m only supposed to be online for a few minutes—checking up a few details on the plot of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes—but when the emails pop up, I see there are four from Alexa, remember that she’s probably put her life on the line to send them, and the next thing I know, I’m reading away.
I have to smile at the emails, despite some of the things they say. They’re so . . . Alexa. That girl is my conscience. And, you have to hand it to her, most of the time she’s right. Most of the time. But not that time we thought that her dad was having an affair. (He kind of was, but with a mummy. Still, it was a female mummy, so she was sort of right.) She’s not right now, either. Still, right or not, I can’t leave her hanging like this, so I send her a quick reply to ease her mind.
From: “NJM”
To: “Alexa Milton”
Subject: Don’t worry
Can’t stop to chat, but just a quick email to say don’t worry. I know what I’ve got to do and now I’ve just got to do it. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. When everything’s perfect. And everyone’s happy. It’ll be great . . . you’ll see!
Nessaxxx
I press send, then, with a snap, Sugar Kane is shut again. Right. What’s the time? What?! Five fifteen?! I jump off my bed, grab my coat, and head for the door.
Time to see my plan put into action.
Back in my now-familiar hiding spot in the corridor (behind the fire extinguisher box), I stand (well, crouch) and wait for 5.30 p.m. to roll around. People kind of look at me as they pass by, then let themselves into their suites and close the door quickly behind them, not knowing if I’m a thief wanting to steal their Louis Vuitton suitcases, or a stalker wanting to stab them with their solid-silver letter openers. I guess I kind of am a stalker (I don’t want to stab anybody with anything, though).
I wait for about ten to fifteen minutes before he shows up. Right on time, I nod, checking my watch. He knocks on Holly’s door, waits, waits a bit more, then he shrugs, reaches out and tries the handle. Hey! I think, shouldn’t he wait just a little bit longer? But, surprisingly, the door hasn’t closed properly. It opens and—I hold my breath—he enters.
Phew.
So far, so good.
I stand up slowly, my knees not being very forgiving about all the crouching. I keep my eyes on the door though, still half-holding my breath as I wait, and lean against the wall.
As each minute passes, I smile a little more. A little wider. My plan—it seems to be working. I mean, I thought it would, I tried to have faith, but . . . well, you never know, do you? I check my watch again. Five minutes. Six minutes. I watch the second hand tick over. Seven minutes! Seven whole minutes. I shake my head and start to wonder what’s going on in there. Well, I can guess. Champagne. Oysters. Just like I’d ordered. Then they’ll look at each other and—What?!
Quickly, I crouch down again, my dream scenario fading suddenly.
What’s my dad doing here?
He shouldn’t be up here. What’s he doing? Interviewing someone? What?
I look agai
n, harder, in case my eyes are deceiving me. But no, there’s no mistake. There he is, starting down the corridor. Heading right toward Holly’s suite. My eyes widen in fright. And again, just like before, I hold my breath. Which is hard, at the rate my heart’s beating now.
He keeps going. Keeps heading toward Holly’s suite. Oh, no. He’s not interviewing someone—I remember Holly’s words then. From this afternoon. How she’d been trying to call him. But no, he can’t have returned her calls. He can’t have changed his mind. I know him. He wouldn’t have called her. Not after last night, after what he’d seen. This isn’t part of the plan, this isn’t in the script, this isn’t . . . Oh, no. No. No, no, no, no, no.
The elevator doors open again, and I watch in horror as someone else exits and starts up the corridor, tracing my father’s footsteps.
Marc.
Again, what? How can this be happening? This isn’t right. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. We’ve had the complicated bit. This is supposed to be the end of the complications. This is supposed to be where everything works out. The unraveling.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Marc pauses for a second as he sees my dad in front of him. And then he starts walking again. Faster this time. Trying to catch up.
I’m really not breathing now. I may never breathe again, in fact.
What should I do? What should I do?
I watch the scene unfolding before my eyes as if it’s a real film. A real film shot in lurid Technicolor. There’s my dad, approaching Holly’s door. A few more steps and he’ll be there. There’s Marc, hot-footing it up behind my dad, who’s completely unaware there’s anyone behind him. What’s going to happen?