by Zoe Sugg
Elliot groans. “Oh god, what’s he going to put in it this time?”
“No idea. Remember that time he added pineapple to one of the layers to make it Hawaiian style?”
“I actually liked that one! I was more thinking about that time he heard that in Mexico they use chocolate in their sauces, so he melted a bar of Dairy Milk into the bolognese!”
“That was pretty gross,” I concede. “Maybe I should tell him to stick to breakfasts.”
“Nah, you know I love your dad’s experimenting, even if it doesn’t always work out. I mean, who thought putting ready salted crisps on top of a lasagna would make it so delicious and crunchy? He should patent that recipe. Move over, Jamie Oliver!”
All the talk of food makes time seem to disappear, and before we know it we’re back in front of my house. Elliot doesn’t even look at his front door but follows me straight through mine. A rich smell of herbs and frying meat greets us as we step inside.
“Something smells amazing!” Elliot calls out from behind me.
Dad appears in the hallway, wearing a lopsided chef’s hat. “Tonight it’s lasagna Greek style! Feta! Oregano! Lamb! Aubergine!”
“So it’s moussaka?”
“Oh, no.” Dad waggles a spatula at me. “It’s still going to be a lasagna. And wait until you see what it’s got on top . . .”
“Please, please, please not olives!” I wrinkle my nose.
“Even better . . . anchovies!”
Both Elliot and I groan.
“Hello, happy people!”
“Tom!” I turn round and squeal as my brother pushes open the door, followed by his long-term girlfriend, Melanie. “Happy birthday!”
“Thanks, Pen-Pen!” He throws his arm round me and ruffles my hair.
“Hey! Stop it,” I say, shaking him off. I skip past him to Melanie and give her a big hug. “Hi, Mel, how are things?”
“Great, thanks, Penny. Can’t wait to try what your dad’s been cooking up.”
I laugh. “Should be interesting, as always!”
The next few hours are a blur of food and laughs, wrapping me in a warm blanket as comforting as Mum’s old woolly cardigan, which I take with me whenever I have to get on an aeroplane. The Greek lasagna turned out perfectly (even if I took off all the slimy little fish and passed them to Tom) and now everyone is relaxed round the table: Mum talking to Melanie about her next wedding (a Cabaret-themed affair in Soho), Tom and Elliot laughing at one of Dad’s jokes.
An idea strikes me. I slip out of my seat and pad out into the hallway, grabbing my camera, which I’d left next to my backpack.
When I return, I turn the lens on my family—capturing their smiles and laughter. This is something “uniquely Penny.” It’s everyone I love, all in one room.
I look down at the photograph again. Well . . . almost everyone.
17 September
Seeing Ghosts
Thanks to everyone for their support on the last blog. Sorry I had to close comments—it was getting a bit out of hand. Maybe, though, we can get through this together? You guys always have the best advice.
For me, right now, the hardest thing to deal with is the ghosts. I don’t mean actual ghosts (at least, I hope not) but the shadows—the imprints—of the missing person that are left all around in my everyday life, ready to spring out at me at any moment and stop my heart all over again.
Every time I walk round a corner there’s another reminder of him. Even though I’m sure he must be far away from where I am, I keep thinking that I see him in a crowd of people just ahead of me. Once I even stalked some poor boy down the street, and when he turned round—of course it wasn’t him. It was just someone else with dark hair.
Am I going crazy? You know that saying that goosebumps happen when someone walks over your grave? That’s the same feeling I get—shivery, cold, a little bit scared—and it always makes me feel a bit pathetic. What can I do to drive the ghosts away and feel normal again?
Girl Online, going offline xxx
Chapter Three
After publishing the blog post two days ago, three main pieces of advice stood out from all the comments:
1. Surround yourself with friends and family. –Done.
2. Distract yourself: get out and do more exciting things, until the memories of him start to fade away. –That maybe I can do more of.
3. Move on. –Yeah, that’s Elliot’s main advice too. And yet somehow I don’t think it’s going to happen.
So I decided to try method number two. And, in order to distract myself, I accept an invitation that’s been sitting in my text messages for a couple of weeks now. Megan has been asking me to come up and visit her in London at the Madame Laplage School for the Arts—where she’s in the sixth form. It’s a really prestigious place and I’m super proud of her for getting in. It was such a big deal that she even featured in the local newspaper under the headline: SCHOOLGIRL WINS PLACE AT ACADEMY FOR THE STARS. Loads of famous actors and actresses have graduated from there (“As Megan never fails to remind you,” says Elliot), but it’s not just drama for which the school is famous. There are also musicians, dancers, artists—probably even a few photographers. She also has to live on campus, so in a way it’s like she’s already gone off to uni. Despite her crazy and sometimes arrogant ways, I do miss her.
“COME UP AND VISIT ME,” shouted one of her most recent texts. “You’ll love it.”
Elliot had rolled his eyes at that. “She probably just wants someone to brag to about her ‘starring role’ in Les Mis or whatever play they’re doing.”
“West Side Story,” I corrected him. Megan had posted on Facebook earlier that day all about how she was going to play Maria in the school’s first big show of the year at Halloween.
“Rehearsals are intense,” she wrote to me, “but if you come up on a Saturday after eleven we all just chill out in the common room and I can introduce you to everyone.”
OK—I’ll do it
Elliot tutted, but I could see even he was glad I was getting out and doing something different and a little more out of my comfort zone.
Eeek! See you on Saturday!
Now it’s Saturday, and it’s one of those bright, beautiful September days that makes London sparkle as if someone’s given all the buildings a good wash. As I step off the train, I can’t help but think about how far I’ve come in only the past few months. There’s no way that I would’ve taken a train on my own into London before this summer, let alone a train and a Tube journey, but I now have the little strategies in my back pocket that help me to keep my anxiety under control. Not completely—I know it will be something that stays with me in some way for the rest of my life, and it can rear its ugly head at any moment. But as long as I rule, challenge, and accept my anxiety—and not the other way around—I know I’ll be OK.
The Madame Laplage School is on the banks of the River Thames, and Megan meets me at Embankment Tube station so that we can walk down together.
“Penny!” She waves at me from outside Starbucks, a coffee in her other hand. I never knew her to drink anything other than milkshakes or Coke, but then this is now “grown-up” Megan. “I hope you don’t mind I got myself a drink,” she says. “You don’t like coffee, do you?”
I shake my head. “I’m all good.”
“Great.” She loops her arm through mine and leads me across the bridge by the station. I can see St. Paul’s Cathedral as the river sneaks round the bend, and I stop to take a picture. Megan sidles into the frame and drapes herself across the railing.
“Wait, take a picture of me in front of the National Theatre,” she says, gesturing to the big concrete building that is near her school. “Maybe one day when I have my lead role in a fabulous play at the National you can sell this picture for millions.” She cackles in a way that makes me reel with slight embarrassment, and I snap the picture. “Lemme see?”
I turn the camera round to show her the photograph in the little screen. She squeals. “Oh my god,
that is so great, Penny! Maybe you should do my headshots.”
I smile back, matching her wide grin, but something feels off. Even Megan isn’t normally this bubbly and excited. I would put it down to too much coffee, but I don’t think that explains it all.
“How’s everything going at school?” I ask, once we’ve crossed the bridge.
“Oh, the school is just amazing. Did you know that a big Hollywood couple are going to send their kids here? It’s all hush-hush according to Celeb Watch, but Madame Laplage is the only place for proper Shakespearean actor training. And the professors are just unbelievable. Did you know that they even have a monologue specialist? You should see the dancers too . . . I have never seen so many hot guys in one place.” She winks at me.
As she continues to walk and talk, I notice that she still hasn’t answered my question. I know all about the school already. I just don’t know how things are going for her.
• • •
The Madame Laplage School is in a huge old Edwardian terraced building, the kind that was probably divided into several tall and skinny houses once upon a time. But a lot of the walls have been knocked through and are now painted with bold, bright murals by the art students. I look through the glass pane of one door and I can see the polished wood floor and mirrored walls of a dance studio.
Megan continues to talk a million words a minute as we climb a set of stairs. We stop on the third floor outside a door that says DRAMA COMMON ROOM on the outside.
“Now, don’t freak out, Penny, but some of the girls in here know about you and Noah and they’re all mega jealous, OK? Don’t worry—I’ll make sure they stay cool, but, like, don’t make it a bigger deal than it needs to be.”
“Uh . . . I won’t,” I say, frowning. “Trust me, the last thing I want to talk about is Noah.”
“Good. All right . . .” She takes a deep breath, as if to ready herself. Then she opens the door.
The first thing the common room reminds me of is the green rooms I’ve been in backstage at concerts. There’s certainly a lot more going on than in our sixth-form common room back at school. There’s that same chilled-out vibe: guys lounging on worn-down sofas, girls slouched with their legs over the arms of their chairs. One of the guys even has a guitar, which he’s tuning in the corner. And everyone is really attractive. I wonder if I’ve somehow stumbled onto the television set of Glee.
In fact, it’s almost exactly how Megan has described it—I’ll have to go back and tell Elliot that she wasn’t bragging at all. It actually is as creative and crazy and free-spirited as she made out.
Megan waits until I’ve taken everything in, then she grabs my hand. We walk over to a group of girls who are sitting at a table, reciting lines to each other. It takes a moment before they register that we’ve been standing there. I look questioningly at Megan, wondering why she isn’t just saying hello, but she’s focused on one of the girls.
“Oh, hi, Megan,” says a tall redhead, her hair gathered up in a high ponytail. She barely lifts her eyes in Megan’s direction, and her lips are pursed together in a tight line.
“Hey, Salena,” says Megan. Her voice is so high, it’s almost a squeak. I’ve never seen her like this before. “This is the friend I was telling you about. You know . . . Penny Porter.”
Salena turns her gaze on me and smiles. The smile transforms her face, making her seem bubbly and warm. “Penny!” she says. She reaches round behind her and grabs the back of a chair, swinging it to a stop next to her. “Do you want a seat?”
“Oh, uh . . .” I look at Megan, who pushes me straight down into the chair. “I guess that’s a yes, then!” I say, with an awkward laugh. Megan darts across the room to the only other free chair and drags it over to the table.
Salena’s gaze stays fixed on me. “This is Lisa and Kayla. They’re in Drama Year One, like me.”
“Like Megan!” I say brightly.
She nods. “So first of all, I have to say, I love your blog.”
I blush, my cheeks heating up. I still can’t get used to the thought of actual people reading my blog, even though the numbers on my page statistics show me it must be true. “Thanks . . . I’ve been doing it a while now.”
“I know! I mean, you’re just so authentic.”
Beside me, Megan is nodding enthusiastically to everything Salena is saying.
“And of course we’re gutted about . . . you know,” says Kayla from across the table. Her eyes are huge and round, and her hair is cropped short.
“Thanks,” I say again, not sure what to add. “Are you guys excited about West Side Story ?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. “Megan is such an amazing singer. Did she tell you about our school’s production of Romeo and Juliet ?”
Salena opens her mouth, but Megan stands up abruptly. “Well, I’d better continue giving Penny the rest of the tour. See you girls later.”
I give them all a small wave. “Nice to meet you. ’Bye.”
“Nice to meet you too, Penny. Feel free to come back here anytime. I would love to pick your brains about my blog.”
“Oh, sure,” I reply. “Ow.” Megan yanks my arm, pulling me up out of the chair so I bump my knee on the table. She drags me into the centre of the room. “Hey, what’s up?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to talk to those girls anymore; they were a bit boring. I told you they would be—always nattering on about Noah and the blog.”
“They weren’t that bad . . .”
“Anyway, there’s loads more people I want you to meet, and more of the school to see too. You have to see our main stage and the dressing rooms and my room.”
We’re just about to leave when a hand taps me on the shoulder, making me jump. I turn round to see a gorgeous guy staring at me. I immediately think he must want Megan, but when I step aside he reaches out and stops me with a touch.
“Excuse me, but . . . are you Penny Porter?”
Chapter Four
I blink at the six-foot vision standing in front of me, his sparkling, seafoam almond eyes, his dirty blond, slightly wavy hair perfectly quiffed to the side. He beams at me with gleaming teeth, waiting for me to respond, but as his smile begins to slip I realize I’ve just been gawking at him. More specifically, at his loose-fitted tank top that shows much more pec than the average garment.
“Kneeshirt,” I blurt out, my brain not registering the question he’s just asked me but coming out with some random mumble that I think was supposed to be nice shirt. My mind is screaming at me at this point. Make words, Penny, HUMAN ADULT WORDS. “I mean, aren’t you cold?”
“No, but you sound like my grandma.” He breaks into a soft laugh and holds out his hand to shake mine. He has this casual Scottish accent that sounds so dreamy I almost need shaking back into reality. “Name’s Callum. Nice to meet you. It is Penny . . . right?”
I take his hand in mine and notice how unbelievably soft it is, his nails perfectly manicured.
Finally, I manage a normal smile. “Yes, Penny is right! Do I know you?” I frown, racking my brain trying to recall meeting him before now. I’m sure I would remember someone who looks like something angels carved out of the Scottish hills.
“We haven’t met before, but I know you. Well . . . I know your photographs. You got my dream internship working with FPN and I had to look up your work to see who beat me to the post. I was impressed.”
I can’t help blushing under his praise. He knows me from my photography? I didn’t think that was possible.
“What brings you here anyway?” he continues. “Are you studying? I don’t think I’ve seen you in any of our seminars.”
Megan is getting irritated at this point and shuffling her feet; clearly a conversation between me and Callum isn’t what she had scheduled in for her tour. “No, Penny isn’t studying here. I am, though. Megan, nice to meet you.” She jumps in between us and holds out her hand to shake Callum’s, tossing her glossy brown hair. He takes it and smiles politely back at her. Before I get a cha
nce to reply to Callum, Megan jumps in again. “I’m actually just giving her a tour of the school. I’m hoping she will be visiting me lots while I study here. When I’m not too busy rehearsing, of course.”
“Of course!” I grin at Megan, but my eyes are drawn back to Callum’s like they’re magnets. “You’re studying photography here then, I take it?” I chip in, before Megan can say anything else.
“My second year—it’s a cool place,” he replies. He sinks back so that he’s leaning against one of the sofas. For a moment, the world seems to fade except for his aquamarine eyes. It’s as if only Callum and I exist, locked in each other’s gaze, everything else in slow motion. It must have only been a split second, because suddenly colour rushes back in as one of the music students starts strumming a tune I recognize—“Elements,” straight off Noah’s last album.
That’s when it hits me. For the whole time (OK, the whole one minute) I’ve been talking to this guy, I haven’t thought about Noah at all. Everything feels electric—a feeling I thought I’d never get again, ever since Noah and I parted ways. I notice too that he has a camera slung over his shoulder on what looks like a customizable strap with stickers and scribbles in the leather. He smiles broadly as he spots me checking out his gear.
“It’s a nice camera, right? It’s vintage.” He swings it round his shoulder so I can get a better look. I ooh and aah approvingly.
“You must really know your stuff!” I say.
“I love photography, but, hey, only the best of us get to hang with François-Pierre Nouveau, right?” He jabs me lightly on my arm and I feel my face blush hot. He’s laughing, and I nervously join in. Why is Callum McCutie making me feel like this? It’s like I’m thirteen all over again. I mentally shake it off and try to be slightly cooler. I also feel Megan’s big toe press down firmly on mine, and I know it’s time to go.
“Anyway,” I say, “nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you around at some point. I’ll tell François-Pierre you say hi.” I turn on my heel and start walking away, grabbing Megan as I go.