The Seven Month Itch

by Allison Rushby

  I nod. Things have a tendency to slip my dad’s mind. Like just about everything except work. And whether we have enough coffee. And if I’m grounded or not. He always remembers those things.

  ‘I know it’s a bit strange, having a … well, a stranger around,’ he continues, ‘but she’s a very nice lady and we really do need to get things finished off before this blessed wedding. We worked flat out today.’

  I nod again but, inside my head, several words scream out at me. Nice lady? Hello?! Irini, our cleaning lady, is a ‘nice lady’. She has twelve grandchildren, always wants to show you their photos and brings Marc little boxes of her home-cooked Greek shortbread. (With all these old ladies cooking for him, I’m surprised he isn’t the size of a house by now.) My English teacher is a ‘nice lady’. She donates a lot of time at a homeless shelter. Dad and I know quite a few ‘nice ladies’, in fact, and Susannah is not one of them. No. What Susannah is, is a man magnet. She’s a foiler (one of those women you see spending each and every Saturday at the hairdresser with industrial-size rolls of tin foil all over their heads in the vain attempt to stay blonde). She’s a fake – fake nails, fake tan, fake teeth … though no fake chest, I did check on that. (Maybe that’s why she’s gone into sociology?)

  And there’s another important word that’s just exited my father’s mouth and made my ears prick up. And that would be the word ‘blessed’. Blessed wedding. As in vows, Dad. Sacred vows. So don’t go working ‘flat out’ with anyone but Holly, capische?

  ‘Nessa? Did you just say “Capische”?’ My dad is staring at me, worriedly.

  I sit up in my seat. Oops. Some of that must have accidentally slipped out. ‘I was, um … just thinking about Irini’s shortbread.’ Where did that come from? How does that make any sense?

  ‘Oh, no,’ my dad says, shaking his head. ‘Irini’s Greek, dumpling. “Capische” is Italian.’

  Well, phew. Saved once again by my ever-educating dad.

  At least it looks like there’s going to be one benefit to the Susannah ‘flat out’ Tribeca tour: I think we’re going to be ordering in every evening. Tonight, after she returned, we had Mexican, which I’m vetoing from now on because of Susannah’s mole-sauce finger licking. Could she be any more of a blatant hussy? I think not.

  Plus, she was still wearing Holly’s jacket when she came back from her trip to her own apartment, even though I turned the AC off and opened up all the windows. Hello? It’s hot outside. Hot. Doesn’t she get that? No, I guess not. I guess she’s going to sit around and do the skinny-woman-mole-sauce-finger-licking ‘I’m sooo cold’ shiver the whole time she’s here.

  Well, yay. Or ‘hmpf’, as Vera would say.

  Anyway, after dinner I retire to my room (read: slunk off so I didn’t have to watch the skinny-woman-mole-sauce-finger-licking ‘I’m sooo cold’ shiver for one minute longer). With nothing on TV, and because I’m not allowed to have TiVo in my room – Dad thinks it will deaden my brain, which it probably will, but he manages to turn a blind eye to the TiVo hook-up in Holly’s bathroom, the main bedroom and the kitchen, all of which are, apparently, for her ‘work’ – I boot up Sugar Kane, my trusted iBook. I spend some time IM-ing Marc for a bit (What do you call a blonde in a tree with a brief case? Answer: branch manager. What are the worst six years in a blonde’s life? Answer: Third Grade) until he gets to be too much of a dumb-blonde-joke pain, and then I try reading instead. But I can’t concentrate, my mind moving from one nasty train of thought to another. I can’t stop thinking about a) the seven-month-itch thing, and b) the Toby thing.

  In the end, despite the presence of the finger licker a couple of rooms over, it’s Toby that I can’t stop thinking about. Toby and his text messages. And his calls. Alexa is right: if something feels wrong, I should just come right out and ask. I mean, what if it’s not even about me? What if something’s wrong with him at home? My dad likes to tell me almost on a daily basis that things aren’t always about me. What if, this time, they’re not? Maybe there’s something I could help him with. So, before I can talk myself out of it, I lunge for the phone and punch in Toby’s number.

  ‘Hey, Toby,’ I say when he answers the phone.

  ‘Oh, hi. Can you hang on a second? I’m just on another call.’

  ‘Sure,’ I answer, but find myself cut off when Toby hurriedly switches back to the other line. ‘Not a problem,’ I say into the nothingness, as my Mexican food instantly joins this morning’s waffles in that all-too-familiar things-aren’t-quite-right stomach space. I stare at the walls of my room, waiting. It seems to take forever for Toby to return.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he says, switching back to me.

  ‘That’s, um, okay.’ I close my eyes. Wrong thing to say, Nessa. Wrong thing to say. That would’ve been the perfect time to ask the question. Except I now realise I was never going to ask the question in the first place, because I still don’t know how to word it. I don’t know what I want, or need, to ask.

  ‘So what’s going on at yours?’ Toby fills the silence.

  I take a deep breath and fill him in. About Susannah. And the jacket. And the mole sauce.

  When I’m done (and this takes some time – I cut down on story embellishments for no man), I expect Toby to jump to Susannah’s defence, as I’m sure guys do for her all the time. Either that or I’m thinking he’ll tell me I’m over-dramatising things, Alexa-style.

  But, surprisingly, Toby doesn’t do that at all.

  Instead, there is a long, long pause on the other end of the line.

  ‘Toby?’ I say eventually. ‘Are you still there?’

  The silence continues for a while longer. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,’ he says at last. ‘But I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.’

  With this, my Mexican food really starts shaking its maracas. This is it, my intestines tell me. He’s going to come clean about what’s going on. He’s going to tell me what all the calls and text messages have been about. He’s going …

  He’s going to break up with me.

  Or maybe not … Because when I tune back in, Toby isn’t talking about breaking up at all.

  ‘You saw it, right?’

  I shake my head. What? ‘Sorry, Toby? What did you just say?’

  ‘The film All About Eve. You saw it, right?’

  What? Hang on … All About Eve – it rings a bell. It was one of the DVDs I borrowed from Toby, one of his Bette Davis ones. And it had been the very first film of his I’d watched because Marilyn Monroe had been in it. ‘Yes, I saw it,’ I tell him. ‘Why?’

  ‘You remember the plot?’

  I bite my lip and think back. Let’s see. It was all about … Oh.

  Oh.

  ‘Oh …’ I breathe into the phone. I remember the plot now all right. A little too vividly for my liking, in fact. All About Eve had been about this really famous actress, Margo, who let this girl, Eve, a groupie of hers, into her life and took her under her wing as her unofficial secretary. Big mistake. Because what Margo soon found out was that Eve didn’t want to take dictation – she wanted to take over Margo’s life. Including her career, her friends and her partner. And I can’t remember the film perfectly, but there was plenty of backstage brouhaha, and I’m pretty sure one of the things Eve did was la-dee-da around, trying on Margo’s things. Just like Susannah’s been doing today.

  Gulp.

  ‘Maybe you don’t have a Seven Year Itch problem at all, Nessa,’ Toby laughs. ‘Maybe you have an All About Eve problem. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, huh?’

  And, just like that, Toby is gone.

  Slowly, very slowly, I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Then I turn and stare at the wall. The wall that’s dividing me from my own evil Eve. And, right then, as I keep staring, the breeze picks up outside, ruffling the curtains in my room and moving inside to cool me down. Even though I’m hot and sticky and tired, I hardly notice. Which is funny, because, if it had been last week, I would have enjoyed tha
t breeze. If it had been last week, I would’ve turned my face to it. Embraced it.

  But that was last week, when the two people sitting out there were my dad and his fiancée, sickeningly in love. Last week I had a boyfriend who didn’t hang up the phone on me. Last week I was having my PPP summer.

  Well, adieu to last week. Because now I’ve hit this week and all I’m starting to feel is SSS (sick, sick, sick). Something’s telling me that the lead-up to this wedding is not going to be smooth sailing.

  Double gulp.

  I guess, as Bette/Margo herself said in All About Eve, ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!’

  ‘Eat! Eat! You too skinny! So skinny!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ I say, pushing my plate to the side, my buttermilk pancakes with warm maple syrup virtually untouched. ‘I just can’t.’

  Vera sucks her breath in at my words, then comes over to study me. ‘You are sick. Very sick. Must be.’ Her hand whips out to press itself over my forehead. ‘But not hot …’

  I sigh. ‘I’m not sick. Just a little depressed.’ I check to see if my dad’s within hearing distance before I say this. Things have continued to worsen with Toby all week. We’ve barely spoken, and it’s now obvious that he’s avoiding me. Of course, I still haven’t been able to ask him what’s going on. I’m a complete and utter relationship wimp.

  ‘Ah,’ Vera nods sagely. ‘Yes. Life. But as we say in Russia, “Stormy weather cannot stay all the time. The red sun will come out too.”’

  I think about this and then nod. It makes sense, I guess.

  ‘Also, my favourite: “Curious Varvara’s nose was torn off.” And next favourite: “One does not go to Tula with one’s own samovar.”’

  I forget about my misery for a second as I try to work out whether Vera is still speaking English or not. ‘Right. I’ll try to remember that – leave samovar at home when packing for Tula.’ What’s a samovar? Where’s Tula? Something tells me if I ask, we could be here for the entire, long Russian winter.

  Vera laughs a hearty laugh. ‘After a storm comes fair weather, after sorrow comes joy. Do not worry, mya morkovka, my little carrot. Vera will make the chicken soup with dumplings today and all will be better.’

  I go to protest, but give her a wan smile instead. Will it kill me to try the chicken-soup remedy? (Answer: no. It’s really yummy.)

  ‘Yes. Yes. Big bowl of chicken soup with the dumplings, and you will see.’

  ‘Okay.’ I don’t know what I’m going to see, but it’s got to be better than what I’m seeing at the moment – Susannah entering the apartment once more after her early morning run. Oh, great. I wait for Vera’s ‘hmpf’s to start.

  ‘Ah! You want the pancakes, Susie?’ she calls over to her. ‘Must eat! You too skinny! So skinny!’

  Bigger bummer. How could I forget? It’s Friday and, over the past four days, Susannah has become Vera’s star eater. Honestly, I don’t know where she’s been putting all those piroshkis. If she eats any more, I’ll have to start checking the pot plants, because they’re certainly not making their way to her hips.

  Susannah takes off her cap and shakes her hair out. (Or should I say ‘luscious locks’? Is there any time of the day she’s not a man magnet? Darn foilers …) ‘Hi Vera, hi Nessa,’ she calls back. ‘Do you have any batter left?’

  Vera nods. Hard. ‘Always more batter!’

  ‘If it’s okay, I’d love just one, thanks.’

  ‘Good girl!’

  Susannah laughs. ‘I’m just going to duck off for a quick shower.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Will keep pancakes warm.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Susannah says, as she trips off in the direction of the guest room like a lithe gazelle.

  So unfair. I never trip off anywhere like a lithe gazelle. I don’t even trip off like a lame gazelle. A blind, lame gazelle. Sigh. When my loathing eyes return to the kitchen, Vera is staring at me, and I get the feeling she might have been doing this for some time. She shakes her ladle at me. ‘Va-nessa …’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  Vera glances back to the hallway, where Susannah has just retreated. ‘The devil – he is not so frightful as he is painted.’

  I look over to the hallway myself and twist my mouth as I think about how the four days of Susannah’s stay have been so far. In all truth, not as bad as I’d been expecting. She’s okay if you’re into that bubbly-little-blonde kind of thing (which I’m definitely not), and it’s true that she and dad have been working really hard. I’m still not convinced, though – something still feels wrong about her being here and about her in general, and I’m sorry, but I’m not putting her on my best-friend list any time soon. Plus, I’m fifteen years old. I’m a teenager. It’s my right to be surly and obstinate, isn’t it? If I change my mind about her now, it’s like I’m letting the team down.

  Vera clocks the look on my face. ‘Hmpf,’ she says, shaking her ladle at me again.

  Oh, fine. Now I’m on the receiving end of the ‘hmpf’s.

  ‘You go to the college today?’ Vera returns to her pancakes.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I only work Monday and Tuesday. I worked an extra two days this week, though – Wednesday and Thursday. But I told Mrs Timmons I couldn’t work today because I’ve got to wedding-plan.’

  Vera turns once more. ‘Ah. The wedding plans. Yes. Is good?’

  I nod slightly. Actually, most of what I’m going to be doing today is kind of pointless checking and re-checking that I’ve already done, but if there’s one thing I like, it’s being in control and I don’t seem to have much control over anything else in my life at the moment. So pointless checking and re-checking is suddenly looking like it could turn out to be a whole lot of fun.

  ‘Ah, is not good?’ she asks again, picking up on my muted reaction.

  I look up at Vera to see a worried expression on her face. Now, I nod harder. ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine.’ I glance down at my uneaten pancakes and make a quick decision: I’ll tell her about the food to keep her happy. My stomach churns slightly, thinking about the menu, but one more look at Vera’s ever-deepening wrinkles pushes me through the courses. ‘I’m going to Nico’s today,’ I say. ‘You know, to taste some of the food.’ (Like I haven’t tasted it all already. Dad, Holly, Marc and I usually eat there at least twice a week.)

  Vera claps her hands together. ‘Yes. Yes. Nico very good cook. Very good boy, I think.’

  I almost laugh at this. Good boy. Nico must be at least forty-five, but he’s a ‘good boy’ because he loves food and looks like the type who always eats everything put in front of him by his nonna. Of course, now the subject of food has been brought up, Vera’s looking so happy I can’t help but continue, whatever my stomach thinks. ‘We’re having oysters, little crispy grilled sardines, bruschetta, hand-formed pizza baked on granite – one with four cheeses and another with mozzarella and fresh basil; fish with sweet Italian sausage and rosemary potatoes; clams sautéed with lots of garlic, a touch of white wine and served over linguini; large hexagon-shaped ravioli with Maine lobster, topped with a white wine cream sauce; a salad with shaved onions, dried cranberries, sliced almonds, gorgonzola cheese and a honey-balsamic dressing …’ I get more and more elaborate as I go on, until I can’t remember any more of the menu. ‘Oh, and tiramisu and this really yummy flourless chocolate torte. And the cupcakes, of course.’

  Vera nods. ‘Yes. Cupcakes. They very good cupcakes.’

  I nod back. They are very good cupcakes. And I’ll have to tell the City Bakery people they’ve got the Vera seal of approval. It’s a pretty big deal. One of the highest awards in tasty cookery. ‘And that’s why I shouldn’t eat too much this morning,’ I finish up. ‘I have to save myself for Nico’s.’ My stomach churns again and I try not to look at my pancakes. ‘I’d better get going, Vera. He’s expecting me by about eleven. Before the lunch rush.’

  Within fifteen minutes, I’m out of the apartment, having managed to dodge Susannah and my dad on the way out. T
he first thing I do when I get out onto the street (apart from breathing a sigh of relief) is to turn left and head for the florist who’s doing the wedding flowers. It takes a good ten minutes to walk to her shop and, when I get there, I learn nothing’s changed since last week. Everything’s right on track. The flowers are ordered, the wholesaler has confirmed the order and time of delivery, she’s written down exactly what I want perfectly, and … well, that’s it really.

  Next stop is the Mercer, in Soho, the hotel where all the guests will be staying. But everything’s fine there, too. I turn once more and start the walk back to Tribeca. It’s getting hot now. Really hot. And by the time I make it onto the block that Nico’s is on, the sweat is dripping off me. NYC truly is foul in the summer, and it’s no wonder so many people try to escape the heat, heading out to the Hamptons and Fire Island and anywhere else even slightly cooler on the weekends. I find a bit of energy to walk the last few steps through the restaurant’s iron gates and inside.

  Ahhhhh.

  Air-conditioning. Who said the greatest, most important invention was the wheel? Obviously somebody who had four of the things attached to the bottom of their very fast sports car and a beach house they could escape to on the weekends.

  Even without the AC pumped up, it would still be lovely and cool in here. The wide expanse of terracotta tiles, thick red brick walls, cool white starched tablecloths set with rustic earthenware and the fountain tinkling away in the courtyard out the back, all make sure of that. I make my way over to the equally cool, long marble-topped bar and resist the urge to climb on top of it and have a lie down.

  ‘Bella!’ Nico spots me in a second.

  ‘Hey, Nico!’ I reply, as he comes over to kiss me first on one cheek, then the other. You’ve got to love those Italian stallions.

  ‘We have not seen you for years.’

  Um, it’s been less than a week. But still, he’s right. We usually eat here a lot. ‘Holly’s away in LA.’

  ‘Ah, but then you must eat here more, with nobody to cook for you.’