Table three is Holly’s table. The best table in the room. And I can hardly believe my eyes as James guides us over to it. How did this happen? Had the maitre d’ felt bad and seated us here after the lip incident?
When we get close, Holly sees me and waves, and Marc half-turns in his seat. I wave at Holly and smile at Marc, who doesn’t smile back. Hmmm. Busted lip or not, it looks like I’m back in the bad books again. What is his problem?
“Who’s that?” My dad squints, seeing me wave at Holly.
I sigh as I look up at him. “You shouldn’t have to ask.”
“Oh. Do I know her? Is she from the college?”
Now I really sigh. Is she from the college? It’s like he really is from a different universe (more specifically, planet college, in the clueless system). “No, Dad. That’s Holly Isles. The actor.”
There’s a blank look.
“Come on, Dad. Even you must know who Holly Isles is.” I pause for a second, turn him to face me, and count down her three biggest and latest films on three of my fingers.
“Ah. I think I have it,” he nods slowly, when I’m done. “Didn’t they film part of that last one at the college?”
Aaaggghhh! Why can’t I have a normal father? One who lines up to see all the blockbuster films with a supersize bucket of popcorn and a giant Coke instead of taking an apple to the art house cinema? Yes, that’s right. An apple. To the art house cinema. By himself.
“Don’t you remember? We saw her boarding the ship this morning.”
Another squint.
“Come on, Dad, you definitely saw her. I saw you seeing her.” I remember his lobotomy look that matched mine all too well.
There’s a third squint. “Oh! Oh, yes I do remember now. She’s very beautiful.” And a pointed look. “Though I did no such thing.” Then he looks back at Holly again and there’s a long pause in which I can practically hear his brain ticking over. Wait for it, wait for it . . . “But how do you know her?”
I knew it! The man may be from the clueless system, but he zaps back down to earth from time to time to keep an eye on me. I know we’ll have to get this all sorted and out of the way before we take one step further. It’s a Dad thing.
“Um, I met her before. On one of the top decks.”
The look changes from confusion to “What have you been up to, Nessa Joanne Mulholland?” fast. “I hope you haven’t been bothering people.”
“Moi?” I’m all innocence. “Of course not. Now, come on. And do try to tone it down a bit, won’t you . . .”
“Looking gorgeous, Nessa.” Holly stands up and gives me a kiss first on one cheek and then on the other (how LA!) when we finally reach table three. “Love the outfit.”
“Thanks! I love yours too.” And I do. What I’d give to be able to wear a strapless number like that. Holly’s long black and white shimmering sequined dress is mesmerizing.
“And this charming gentleman must be your father?”
I nod and do my introductions. First to Holly, then to Marc. “You’ll have to come and sit next to me,” Holly says to my dad. “Nessa’s told me all about your work. It sounds fascinating. And I haven’t sat beside a professor for years. Actually, I think I only ever sat in front of them, so this is a first for me.”
“You went to college?” My dad looks surprised, and I surreptitiously kick him on one ankle. He is such a snob! Like I said, Dad and celebrities don’t mix. Just because Holly’s an actor he assumes she’s stupid.
Holly nods. “Microbiology was my poison. Nothing nearly as interesting as sociology, I’m afraid.”
“But microbiology’s a fascinating field.” My dad, animated now, reaches out and touches Holly’s arm. “Only the other day . . .”
And this is where my brain switches off. Holly and Dad sit down beside each other and, amazingly, start nattering away like they’re old friends. As for me, I take a seat beside Marc, who’s chatting to the man sitting next to him . . . and continues chatting to him through a bread roll (I eat Dad’s as well, for something to do), salad, and the appetizer.
Looks like Holly’s got a new “new best friend.”
It isn’t until our main meals begin to arrive and Marc’s friend ducks off to the bathroom that he turns to me. Grudgingly. “I hope your lip’s okay,” he says gruffly, not really looking at me. The waiter places my plate in front of me—an extremely yummy-looking chicken breast stuffed with macadamia and coriander, sitting on some sort of mango sauce. (I could do this every night! Way better than Dad’s develop-your-cellulite-while-you’re-young repertoire of lasagna, sausages, and pork chops.)
“It’s fine, really. It looked a lot worse than it was.”
Silence. Except for on the other side of me where my dad cackles loudly. I look at Marc. “Holly must be bored out of her mind.”
I’m expecting him to agree with me when he shakes his head and takes a mouthful of his lamb shank. “No,” he says when he finishes chewing. “I don’t think so.”
I pause. “How do you know?”
“Er . . .” Marc pauses as well, his fork halfway to his mouth.
“What? What is it?”
“Nothing.” He takes another hasty mouthful.
I wait for a moment before I decide I’ve had enough. Who does this guy think he is? One minute he’s sticking up for me, the next minute I’m no-one. “Look. You’ve been ignoring me all evening. You may as well tell me what you think. How do you know Holly isn’t bored?”
Marc finally meets my eyes. “Fine. Okay. I know because she’d send me the signal if she was bored.”
Now I really pause. “The signal?”
Marc looks cagey. As if he shouldn’t be telling me this.
“We have a ‘save me’ signal. You know, for the weirdos and the freaks who don’t look like weirdos and freaks initially. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Anyway, Holly can signal me, and I’ll know to come and rescue her.”
“Oh. So, what’s the signal?”
Marc’s busy buttering another roll. “Well, I can’t tell you that. She might want to use it on you.” He chuckles at this.
Complete and utter silence follows his comment. Marc continues buttering until, mid-buttering stroke, he realizes what he’s just said, freezes, and looks over at me. “Sorry, Nessa, that was an awful thing to say. I didn’t mean . . .”
I almost want to cry. I’d thought Holly and I had had such a great time together earlier today. I thought . . .
“Nessa.” Marc reaches out and touches my arm. “It was just a joke. Holly’s not going to use any signal on you, believe me. She was raving about you all afternoon.”
I perk up a bit on hearing this. “Raving? About me?”
Marc laughs. “Yes, you. She thinks you’re quite a character for a sixteen-year-old. That’s why I was coming to see the maitre d’. To see if he knew who you were. Holly wanted you at her table for dinner.”
So that’s how . . . hang on. Holly Isles wanted me at her table? Me? My brain takes a while to register what Marc’s just said.
“You don’t need to look so surprised.”
“But I am surprised.” Not including the fact that I’m surprised everyone’s buying the sixteen-year-old thing.
“What? No-one’s ever wanted to sit with you before?”
Now I laugh. “Maybe it’s happened once or twice in the school cafeteria, but it hasn’t happened with an Oscar-winning actor before, that’s for sure.”
Marc shrugs. “That’s not all she is . . .” And there’s that gruff tone again. I watch as he returns to his roll.
“You’re pretty protective of her,” I say slowly, watching him.
Marc pauses, sizes me up, and then shrugs. “I guess we both look out for each other. Holly’s very . . . trusting, I guess, is the word. She lets people into her life too easily sometimes, and certain types of people take advantage of that.”
“Well, I’m not trying to.”
He sighs. “I know. I know. It’s just hard to tell sometimes. When p
eople don’t treat her like a real living, breathing person, it makes me so angry. Or when they forget about everyone else when she’s in a room, like she’s the only person that matters. Okay, remember the maitre d’ this afternoon? I mean, he didn’t care that you’d hurt yourself. And he wouldn’t have cared about me, either, except he knows I’m traveling with Holly Isles.”
Now there’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask. I place my knife and fork down on my plate so I can give Marc my full attention (and this is saying something—the chicken really is good). “So why are you traveling with Holly?” I ask. And then the conversation really starts.
As we finish off our mains and move on to dessert, then on to a scrumptious cheese platter, Marc fills me in on, well, Marc. As it turns out, we’ve actually got quite a lot in common. Marc comes from a family pretty much like Alexa’s and mine—nomadic. His parents are surgeons who’ve spent the past two years working for Médecins sans Frontières. (That’s “Doctors Without Borders” to non-French-speaking plebeians like me.) According to the latest letter he’s had from his folks, they’ve been traveling to Sri Lanka and are hiding out on an island just north of their destination, trying to avoid a particular Tamil Sea Tiger stealth boat. So far they’ve been searched twice and all their supplies have been confiscated by the army. (My eyes grow wider and wider as Marc tells me about their adventures—it doesn’t exactly sound like Club Med.) While his parents have been dodging bullets overseas, Marc’s been living with Holly in order to finish high school (unlike me, the lucky thing’s got less than a year to go).
“That must be weird,” I butt in then.
“What’s that?” Marc stabs a piece of blue cheese.
“Living with Holly.”
“Well, not really. She’s my aunt. Always has been. Even when she wasn’t Holly Isles, if you know what I mean.”
“I guess. But don’t you miss your parents?” Talk about the most uncool question that’s ever left my lips. I must remember to introduce my brain to my mouth sometime this century.
But Marc doesn’t seem to think so. He looks straight at me when I ask this. “I worry about them. A lot. They weren’t going to go until I started college, but they were needed. They’re both amazing surgeons. They can really help the organization out. I talked them into it in the end.”
I bet he did. I would too, given half the chance. But then I look over at my dad and change my mind. He wouldn’t last five minutes being chased by a Tamil Sea Tiger stealth boat. He’d probably try to win the rebel fighters around by inviting them over for afternoon tea and a chat about something sad like the theory of evolution. (That’s the oh-so-exciting topic he’s raving on about at the moment with Holly, who, amazingly, still hasn’t sent “the signal.” Maybe her brain has petrified out of boredom and she’s forgotten it?)
“And Holly talked me into being here,” Marc continues.
“On the cruise?”
Marc nods. “It was supposed to be her honeymoon. Hers and Kent’s. The first thing we had to do on boarding was move into a suite with two bedrooms and two normal beds.”
Two bedrooms? I can only dream. “Oh.”
“The honeymoon suite only had a gigantic four-poster.”
Ugh. I make a face.
“My thoughts exactly.”
I glance over at Holly for a second. Sitting beside my dad, she looks happy, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She really is a good actor. “It must be awful for her. Is she very upset?”
Marc glances at Holly as well. “She’s good at hiding it. After the last few times . . .”
I nod.
“If she hides her feelings, the magazines make less of it, and it’s easier for her, I suppose.”
I just don’t understand it, I think to myself, as I stare at my plate. Maybe if I’d met her and she’d been horrible. If she hadn’t been like she seemed in all her films and interviews—the happy-go-lucky girl always willing to sign an autograph and talk to her fans.
“What is it?” Marc asks.
“Why?” I look at him, puzzled.
“Why what?”
“Sorry, I mean why do they always dump her? She’s so nice. I can’t believe anyone would dump Holly.”
Marc snorts. “It’s always the same reason. Always. The guys—they’re intimidated by her. By her success. Kent’s the perfect example. A couple of his films flop, hers don’t, and he’s off. They just can’t bear it. It’s pathetic, really.”
I think back to her last fiancé—Tom Hollings. And to the one before that—Jude Johnson. Maybe Marc’s right. Tom had tried to move from being a sitcom star to a film star and failed miserably. Jude had ended up directing a film that ran way over budget and was still a real turkey.
“What she needs is a guy who isn’t in the industry at all. A guy who isn’t even interested in it. But she never meets anyone who isn’t in the industry.”
“Oh, come on . . .”
Marc leans forward. “No, it’s true. Have you been to LA?”
I shake my head.
“Well, it’s like living in a different universe. The industry’s everything—you can’t get away from it. If Holly grabs a coffee, the barista will try to get her agent’s number. If she hires a new cleaning lady, she’ll leave a film script on the toilet cistern in the hope that Holly will read it. It’s weird. I’ve been trying to convince her to move to her place in New York.”
“Wow.” I can hardly believe what Marc’s just told me. “Is that really true, about the cleaning lady?”
He nods. “And that’s not all. The last time Holly’s clothes came back from the drycleaners, there was a film script packed into the bottom of one of the bags with a note begging her to read it.”
“Weird.”
“Definitely. Anyway, like I said, if she’s got any hope of having a lasting relationship, she needs to meet different kinds of men. All sorts of men. That’s why I ended up agreeing to the cruise. I thought she should get away from LA. Even if it’s just for a bit. France isn’t really far enough, but it’s a start. She wouldn’t go without me. So here I am.”
I laugh at the idea of France not really being far enough away and, beside me, my dad turns around. “Having a good time, pumpkin?”
I give him the “Do I look like an orange vegetable in my exquisite get-up?” face. And he must be having a really good time with Holly, because he’s Mr Playful. He reaches out and pinches my cheek. “You’ll always be my little pumpkin.”
Oh, great.
Next to him, Holly laughs, her own cheeks pink. She looks like she’s been having at least a half-good evening.
“You’re lucky to have such a great dad, Nessa,” she says.
Mmm. Right.
“You ready to go, sweetheart? I’ve got two interviews tonight and an early start tomorrow.”
I nod, even though I don’t really want to go.
Holly sighs. “I didn’t even get a chance to talk to you. I meant to pop down to your cabin this afternoon and give you something for your lip. I’ve got this cream—it works miracles on bruises, it really does. How about I come down tomorrow morning?”
I think about our cabin. I don’t think there’s room for a third life form in there. Not even a mosquito. “How about if I come up?”
Holly nods. “Sure. That would be great. Should we say 11 a.m.? We’re in 1256.”
After we say goodbye to Holly and Marc, Dad and I both turn, link arms, and start the long, stumbly walk back to the bottom of the ship. (High heels—who invented them?) We pause outside for a moment in the cool, salty-smelling sea air, lean on the railing and look out to sea.
“Holly’s lovely, isn’t she?” my dad says, after a while.
“For an actor?” I shoot him a look.
“I never said that.”
Hmmm.
“This afternoon, when you came back to the cabin, you didn’t tell me you’d met her.”
I hadn’t had a chance. And then later I’d been racing around like a mad thing
trying to get ready for this evening, hassling the maitre d’, bumping into people and making myself bleed, putting single-serve Coke cans in my hair, and drawing on fake moles. You know, that kind of thing. Girl stuff.
“You must really like her,” he says. Dad then takes my arm again, and I wobble across the deck to the stairs that lead down to the next set of stairs that leads down to the next set of stairs that leads down to the only set of elevators that will take us to our cabin.
I look up at him. “I do. But why?”
“Well, she said you gave up one of your maraschino cherries.”
“And?” I’m not getting him.
“One of your maraschino cherries? I should be so lucky!”
This makes me laugh. As he starts down the next set of stairs, I stop and plant a kiss on his right cheek. Mwah. “Dad, I’d give you one of my maraschino cherries any day, and you know it.”
He looks smug. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
***
It comes to me in the middle of the night. With the ship’s engine going full steam ahead next to my left eardrum, I sit straight up in bed. That’s it! All through my shower, getting changed, crawling into bed (literally—this room is so small, I don’t have much choice) and trying (unsuccessfully) to fall asleep, Marc’s words about Holly had reverberated in my mind—mainly that Holly is always getting dumped because men are intimidated by her. That Holly needs to meet different kinds of men. That she needs a guy who isn’t in the industry. But now I’ve got it. I know how I can help Holly out. I know what I have to do.
But first . . . I turn my head and check on Dad. Not that I really need to—he’s snoring. In time with the engine, no less. Excellent. Quietly, quickly, I reach over and grab my jeans, a T-shirt and my green flip-flops, and get changed out of my pajamas. Then, again quietly, quickly, I locate Sugar Kane and tiptoe out of the cabin, slowly, slowly opening and closing the door behind me.
Then I stop and wait on the other side. What I’m waiting for is my dad to bounce out of bed and spring the door open with an “Aha!”
Waiting, waiting . . . Phew. Looks like I’m okay.
I head up to the deck where I’d been with Holly earlier today and sit in the chair she’d cocktailed and maraschino-cherried in, for inspiration. I look around me as Sugar Kane starts up. There’s absolutely no-one about. Not a great surprise, as it’s 1.30 a.m. and more than a bit chilly. But I’ve got better things to think about than being cold. I know how I can help Holly out. How I can help her to attract a different sort of guy. How I can get her out of her rut.