Before I started in on the planning, I thought it would be all fun and cake tasting, but so far it’s mostly been plain hard work. In fact, I’ve spent most of my wedding-planning days doing “fun” things like staggering to the post office with a million and one invitation-stuffed envelopes. I don’t mind, though. The day itself is going to be amazing. And it’s less than two weeks away! I really can’t believe it. My dad and Holly Isles. What am I worrying about? I should go with the flow and enjoy this, because everything is simply PPP (perfect, perfect, perfect). Sigh.
Um, er . . .
Except for the fact that everyone is staring at me again. Well, Dad and Susannah, that is, because Vera, it seems, is busy staring at something else. A suitcase. On the floor. Beside Susannah. It’s not Holly’s, and it’s not Marc’s. Pink. Petite. Perfect. PPP . . . Yes, well, everything was PPP up until about fifteen minutes ago. Because it seems my dad has neglected to tell me a little something about Susannah.
The fact, that is, that she’s moving in.
My waffles sit in a big, fat lump in the bottom of my stomach as I make my way over to catch the subway uptown. I feel sick in the airless subway as we lurch to and fro and the guy sitting next to me breathes his garlic breath down my throat. (What did he have for breakfast anyway, garlic Cheerios?) I try to cheer myself up by wondering if I’ll have time to see Alexa before I start work. Alexa has that best-friend knack of always being able to make me feel better. I’m feeling more than a little weirded out by the fact that Susannah’s moving into our apartment while Holly’s away, and I’m hoping Alexa will be able to explain it all to me in Alexa Milton kind of terms.
She’s a very grounded person, Alexa. The opposite of me. I’m like my dad, my head always in the clouds, but Alexa has had to keep herself grounded and sensible from a very young age. And if Dad and I have our head in the clouds, Alexa’s parents (also academics) are somewhere in the stratosphere. Alexa’s been paying the bills, buying the groceries, cooking, and keeping an eye on them for quite a number of years now. Not that I can talk. I wince as I think back to the one time she couldn’t watch over me on the cruise ship last summer. (Her parents had dragged her to the middle of a desert where she had only intermittent internet access. Forget animals, what about cruelty to children?) Even then, as I attempted stunt after ridiculous stunt to try to find Holly some cruise ship love, Alexa had tried her hardest to keep tabs on me via email. Anyway, I’ve been seeing heaps more of her this summer, because she’s working on the other side of the college, in the Department of Classics and Ancient History museum (totally cruisey, dust-free, best AC on campus, the lucky thing). We get to meet up for lunch most days when we’re working, which is great.
Alexa’s also been helping me get my head around this wedding-planning thing. Together, we’ve got it all sorted out down to the finest detail. For the venue, we ended up going with Nico’s, which is Dad and Holly’s favorite restaurant. It’s kind of rustic family-style Italian and has this gorgeous little fountain courtyard out the back. Dad and Holly are going to get married in the courtyard and then we’ll all move into the restaurant for the reception. Under security detail, of course. Because that was the one really freaky thing about planning this wedding. Holly said she was fine with whatever I chose as long as there were three things: good food, good wine and good security. It’s been kind of strange planning a wedding where the first thing I had to book was bouncers and bodyguards, but there you go. That’s stardom for you, I guess.
The other security issue is with the guests. Flights had to be booked and accommodation had to be arranged for everyone, even the people who live in NYC. Here’s the thing: everyone, the NYC guests included, is staying at the Mercer the night before the wedding, and they don’t know the time or the venue the ceremony and reception will be held at, because Holly needs to keep the details secret from the media. So, what’s going to happen is that, a couple of hours before the wedding, they’ll be informed where they have to go. It’s all very Secret Squirrel.
The flights, accommodation and the security have been the expensive part of the wedding, but everything else hasn’t been too bad. When I started my planning, I thought Holly would want the whole big celebrity-wedding deal, but then when I told her about all the big hotels I’d been to see, she actually looked a bit sad. She confided in me that that was what her whole wedding to Kent (the one that never happened) had been about: show. The most expensive reception, the most expensive gifts, the biggest, most expensive engagement ring. I could hardly believe it when Holly told my dad she didn’t really want an engagement ring. I mean, I’d seen the one Kent gave her. It was HUGE! That rock was so big, I was surprised she hadn’t had to drag her hand along the ground behind her every time she wore it. Dad did buy Holly a ring in the end, a gorgeous smoky square-cut sapphire. It’s dark and beautiful and suits her perfectly.
Anyway, when Holly explained that she wanted a simple wedding that was about her and Dad, I realized what I had to do. I decided to go for the things that make them happy every day. Like Nico’s. And I’m getting the cake—or I should say, cakes—from City Cupcakery. Dad, Holly and I walk there every Sunday for a cupcake, and every week Holly makes us walk fast because she has cupcake guilt. I always tell her she shouldn’t make me feel bad about eating the cupcake, because I’m an impressionable youngster and if she’s not careful I’ll wind up hating my body. It’s sort of a ritual with us.
Still, I do think Holly worries about her weight too much. She was in this movie about best friends a while ago where her “best friend” was this tiny female actor and she freaked out thinking that every time she stood next to her, she looked fat. I hated that, because Holly looks amazing. Nice and curvy. Just like Marilyn Monroe . . .
Oh.
Er.
Oops.
The subway lurches once more and my eyes widen. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about her.
Instantly, I forget about Susannah, I forget about the wedding, and I am brought way, way, way back down to earth. To beneath the earth. To the subway. And garlic Cheerios man. And the trickle of sweat slowly sliding its way down my back.
I’m not allowed to think about Marilyn Monroe, you see. I know I did before and everything, in the apartment, but that was because I forgot to stop myself. Marilyn Monroe and I have a . . . I guess you could call it a checkered past. The thing is, I’m a little bit obsessed with her. Or used to be. I just love her films and . . . right, there I go again. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about her. You know all that business with the cruise ship, about finding Holly some love on the high seas? It was Marilyn herself who got me into a bit of trouble there. I sort of started to make myself believe that the plot of one of her films was playing itself out in real life. I started thinking there were these coincidences going on left, right and center (I like to call these little coincidences “Marilynisms”) . . . and, well, Dad, Holly, some weird photographer guy and I found ourselves in a bit of a muddle.
Dad’s always been a bit worried about my Marilyn thing. About my movie collection, my collectable Marilyn dolls and plates, and even more so about the $35,000 bra of Marilyn’s I once coveted on eBay (well, it was a total bargain!). But on the cruise ship, when I started to mess with people’s lives, he got serious: if I didn’t knock it off, it was back to the psychiatrist again. Thus, I’m trying very hard to kick the Marilyn habit. It’s difficult though, because she’s everywhere. Rhinestone-encrusted images of her on women’s handbags, on ads selling pantyhose and lipstick, on posters. Dad says I don’t have to forget about her, that it’s fine to admire her work, just not as much as I do. Or used to. I once asked him if I could like her as much as Holly likes her City Cupcakery cupcakes. He thought about it for a minute, then said yes. He told me that if all I did was have a fifteen-minute Marilyn moment once a week, he’d be happy with that. (Yeah, right. Like Holly’s cupcake lasts fifteen minutes!)
Anyway, since the cruise ship de
bacle, I’ve been on a strict low-Marilyn diet. Cupcakes, though, they’re another story. Like I was saying, we’re having Holly’s favorite—white chocolate. White chocolate cupcakes with white chocolate frosting, sprinkled with tiny white candy hearts. They’re going to be stacked practically to the ceiling. City Cupcakery offered to do it all for free (Holly is, after all, a big fan), but when everyone started offering to do everything for free (which happens to Holly a lot), Dad went all funny. He started calling up all the suppliers and insisting on paying. He went all Australian (because we are, originally) and stormed about the apartment saying he’d look like a “bloody fool” if he didn’t pay for anything. I was impressed, really. It was a real Russell Crowe moment.
Ugh. I’ve missed my stop.
Because I overshoot and have to double-back on the subway, I don’t have time to meet up with Alexa. I text her as I walk the library . . .
See you at lunch
“Nessa! Hey! Wait up!”
I whip around to see Toby running up behind me.
“I thought I saw you in the next car. But then you didn’t get off at your usual stop.”
“Oh, I, um . . . I had some wedding stuff to do.” Better to tell a little white lie than look totally stupid in front of your brand-new boyfriend, right?
Yes, that’s right.
Boyfriend.
I, Nessa Joanne Mulholland, aged fourteen (almost fifteen!), have an actual, real, live boyfriend. And when I say “boyfriend” I don’t mean I just have a crush on him. And I also don’t mean he’s a boy who’s a friend. I mean a proper boyfriend. Really! We’ve been dating for six weeks now.
Lunches, movies, the whole deal. I met Toby on orientation day—a nice word for the meanest librarian on earth grabbing us both by the throats and telling us exactly what we would and would not be doing during work hours. Frankly, I could hardly believe we even had orientation. How hard can putting books on shelves be? Not very hard, as I’ve discovered. It’s not exactly taxing on the brain, but it’s a great little workout for my biceps, which are going to look awesome in my bridesmaid dress in eleven days’ time.
Toby’s another college orphan (that’s what Alexa and I call all the kids whose parents, like ours, practically live at the place). He’s cute and funny and smart. In fact, he’s so smart he’s already taking some college classes while he’s in his final two years of high school, including one where he’s writing an amazing paper on Bette Davis! You’ve got to admit it’s pretty strange, Toby being almost as obsessed with Bette Davis as I am (yes, yes, used to be!) with Marilyn Monroe.
It’s such a relief to finally meet someone like me, someone who’s watched all the movies a million times over and understands where I’m coming from, even if it isn’t the same movie star we like. And he must really like me because he’s been watching my Marilyn Monroe movie collection one film at a time. In turn, I’ve been watching his Bette Davis movies. I’m not entirely getting the fascination. (I mean, what’s the big deal with Bette Davis? Those googly eyes . . . yikes!) But there you go. As Grandma Mulholland used to say, “There’s nowt as queer as folk.” I never really got that, but I put up with it because she made these Yorkshire pudding things (kind of like big battery dumplings) that were to die for, so I could forgive her for almost anything. Well, except for that dessert thing she called “spotted dick” I mean, she said they were raisins in there, but . . . shudder.
“Ready to hit the books?” Toby gives me a toe-curlingly gorgeous grin and we head for the library.
“And so, it looks like she’s moving in.” I dump my lunch tray down on the table alongside Alexa’s and Toby’s and slide into the seat in front of me.
“What, really moving in? While Holly and Marc are away?” Alexa’s eyes widen.
“Thank you!” I gesture at my best friend. “I was starting to think no-one else thought it was even slightly weird that my father is moving another woman into his fiancée’s apartment less than two weeks before their wedding.”
“So no-one’s said anything at all?” Alexa asks.
“No . . . well, except Vera. She hmpfed a bit.”
“Who’s Vera?” Toby asks.
I turn to look at him. “Holly’s housekeeper. I told you all about her. Remember?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry,” Toby replies quickly. And maybe a strange look passes between us or something, because Alexa looks away quickly, across the lawn to the admin building, where I know for a fact nothing exciting ever goes on. Alexa hasn’t ever said anything, but I don’t think she likes Toby very much. She thinks he’s a bit arrogant. (Which he is, but we all have our quirks, right?) Toby puts his burger down. “So he’s moving another woman in, huh? How long have Holly and your dad been engaged again?”
I think about it for a second. “Um, about seven months.”
“I see . . .” Toby picks up his burger again, takes a bite and chews slowly while Alexa and I watch him, wondering where he’s going with this. Finally, he swallows. “Seven months. Well, there’s your answer.”
“What’s seven months got to do with anything?”
Toby shoots me a look. “You, of all people, can’t tell me you haven’t heard about this.”
“Heard about what?” I ask. I’m getting frustrated now. Toby can be so annoying when he wants to be.
“Come on, Nessa. Seven days, seven months, seven years? Scratch, scratch?” Toby puts his burger down again to give himself a good, all-over, scratch.
“You’re saying Nessa’s dad is a seven-year-old chimp?” Alexa snorts.
Guess I was right on the not-liking-Toby thing.
She’s delivered a withering look in return. “Yeah. Sure.” He turns back to me. “You don’t recall a little movie called The Seven Year Itch? You were the one who made me watch it, after all.”
Gasp.
The Seven Year Itch. Seven days. Seven months. Seven years. Seven.
Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven.
I forget about my lunch and clutch the table in front of me.
It’s a sign.
It’s a Marilynism.
But, no. Hang on. There are no such things as Marilynisms, remember? I take a deep breath and the quad’s freshly cut grass summer smell fills my nostrils. I exhale and will the Marilynisms away. But, no. The sevens in my head are here to stay. There’s no denying it. Susannah moving in. Dad and his work. Holly and Marc being away over the summer. The slowly rising heat. Seven months. It’s too much of a coincidence.
The Seven Year Itch
Like any sane Manhattanites, Richard Sherman’s wife and son abandon him for the summer and head for the beach. As the temperature soars in the city, Richard (Tom Ewell) watches all the other long-married men around him become “summer bachelors” (read: sad, balding, old men who somehow think they’re still all that) and vows that he’ll never act in such a ridiculous way himself. That is, until Marilyn Monroe (aka The Girl) moves into the apartment upstairs.
A blond, voluptuous and clueless model, The Girl kick-starts Richard’s overactive “I’ve been married seven years too long” imagination and we’re all off at warp speed on the itchy road to cheatersville. Adding to the heat is his growing jealousy that Tom MacKenzie, his wife’s former beau, happens to be holidaying on the same beach as her.
Marilyn Monroe makes this film. Richard is plain old annoying (just like your own dad!), but Marilyn is laugh-out-loud funny. I LOVE the potato-chip scene: “Hey, did you ever try dunking a potato chip in champagne? It’s real crazy!”
Other highlights include the famous scene where Marilyn’s white dress is blown up as she stands over a subway vent. (Don’t try this one at home, kids. It works.) And then there’s the treat of seeing Ms M at her funniest: “When it gets hot like this, you know what I do? I keep my undies in the icebox!”
A joy from start to finish as long as you try not to think too hard about the pathetic fantasies your own dad probably has.
I give it ***** out of five stars.
?
??Nessa! Hello? Nessa are you there?” Alexa says.
“Huh?” I wake up from my seven-month-itch nightmare.
My best friend points a finger at me. “Don’t. Even. Go. There.”
I laugh a small laugh. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing,” Alexa continues. “It’s nothing. Nothing. In less than two weeks’ time, Susannah will be gone, and your dad and Holly will be married and on their way to their honeymoon. There’s no seven-month itch. So don’t start scratching.”
Toby’s gaze moves to Alexa’s finger, which is still pointing at my face. “You guys are weird.” He picks up his tray. “I’ve gotta go. I’ve got a call to make before I head back to the library.”
I lean back from Alexa’s finger. “Sure. Okay, Toby.”
But Toby is already halfway across the lawn.
“Nice manners.” Alexa gives me a “What are you doing with him?” look.
I don’t say anything. I just watch Toby’s retreating figure and bite the side of my lip, all the “sevens” forgotten for a second.
“Is everything . . . okay between you guys?” Alexa says after a while.
I keep watching his retreating figure. I want to say yes, but really, I’m not so sure. Just a couple of weeks ago, Toby and I were spending a lot more time together. Going to the movies, meeting up at the weekend just to hang out, calling each other every night. But lately . . . I don’t know. Lately he’s become a bit distant. He’s always “busy” or like right now, making and taking “calls”.
“Nessa?”
I turn back to Alexa. “I don’t know.”
“Are you still, um, going out?” She lowers her voice, as if she doesn’t really want to ask the question at all, her eyebrows pushing together in a concerned-best-friend kind of way.
“I think so,” I answer just as quietly, then make a face. “You can’t exactly ask, can you?”