Nessaxxx
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type my quickie email. I’ve got to go. It’s almost four and dinner starts at eight, which leaves me with half an hour to attend to my “important cruise ship business”, and three-and-a-half hours to get ready (and it might just take that long to get my eyebrows into some kind of shape).
The thing is, when I got back to the cabin after my chat with Holly, my dad had surprised me with the news that we were going to be dining at the proper restaurant tonight. As in, not slumming it at the buffet. Tonight, we’ll be at the adults’ table! Of course, the first thing I did was check the time. Quarter to four? Was he kidding? And now, five minutes later, he must see the look on my face.
“What’s the matter, pumpkin?”
This, at least, makes me pause. I look at the floor. At the beds. At the tiny writing table. “I don’t see any ground-dwelling vegetables here, Father.”
“Yes, yes. I remember. I won’t call you ‘pumpkin’. But what’s up? You’ve got something to wear. We bought you something special. Remember?”
I forget all about being Holly Isles’s “new best friend” and bite my lip, shifty-eyed, because I suddenly remember he hasn’t yet seen how I altered the “something special” number that made me look five years old. Uh oh. “Of course I remember! It’s just that a girl needs time to get ready . . .” (Remember the eyebrows? I wasn’t joking about that). Anyway, no time to think about this. I turn toward the door, blowing a kiss at Dad. “Must fly, dahling.”
“Dahling? Fly?” The poor guy looks totally confused. His natural state, I’ve come to realize.
I turn back for one second. Just long enough to roll my eyes at him. “Do you think I’m just naturally beautiful? No. It takes work. Work and people.” Oh, how I wish I had people. I’m sure Marilyn had people. And plenty of them.
He’s still rating a 9.75 on the confusion scale.
“It’s okay, Dad.” I reach over and pat him on the arm (sadly, I can do this from my position in the doorway). “It’ll all be okay. Really it will.”
“Hmmm. So much for ‘toning it down’. Nessa, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, but ‘people’ sounds expensive. Just don’t a) spend a lot of money or b) fall overboard, and I’ll be a happy man.”
My hand still on his arm, I pause, wondering whether he really meant to place his requests in that exact order. Still, I think I can manage to toe the party line on this one. “Well, I’ll try to cut back. I won’t have the caviar face mask after all.” I give his arm one last pat, wink, and close the door behind me.
And, for the second time today, “Nessa Joanne Mulholland!” follows me up the corridor.
I already feel right at home.
“Here’s the thing . . .” I look up at the maitre d’ and put on my best doe-eyes. Then, at length, I fill him in on “the thing.” The thing being the fact that I want to try to weasel my way onto Holly Isles’s table for dinner. Well, me and my dad’s way. I work my magic on the French guy with the little twiddly moustache standing in front of me to the best of my abilities. But my so-called abilities must be quite poor, because after I’m done, there’s a pause . . . and then he laughs.
Laughs long and hard.
“This is a joke, yes?”
I stare at him. Maybe I got the doe-eyed thing wrong? I give up, let it go, and try fluttering my eyelashes instead.
“Little girl, the head waiter is making you come here and say this? It is one of his, how do you say it, practical jokes?”
Little girl? Head waiter? Practical joke? What?
I flutter harder. I am sophisticated. I am classy. I am a young woman who knows what she wants (not even close to being a “little girl”).
“Little girl, what is wrong with your eye? Is there something in it? Are you about to have a fit?”
I stop fluttering and start to panic. Now what?
In front of me, the maitre d’ folds his arms. “Tell me. How much does he give you? I will double it if you go back and tell him I have put you on the table.”
“You’re going to put me on the table?!” Yes! I can’t believe my luck. How easy was that? “Thanks!”
His eyes roll back in his head, his breath sucks in, and now, he guffaws. “Of course, I am not going to put you on the table! Are you crazy?” He pronounces this “crazee.” “Everyone wants to be on Mademoiselle Isles’s table. And some of them are even willing to pay.”
Oh. Right. Now I get it. I should have remembered. I’d seen Marilyn seek out the maitre d’ in one of her movies when she wanted someone seated at her table for dinner. Everyone wanted to sit on Marilyn’s table too (and had been willing to pay for the pleasure). She’d ended up threatening to take all her meals in her room if the maitre d’ didn’t do what she wanted. Which meant that he’d have to give all the money back that he’d taken from people.
Hmmm. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to work for me. I’m doubting the maitre d’ would care if I stayed in my cabin for the rest of the trip, sucking on a single dry cracker for sustenance. I dig around in my pocket, hoping there’s magically going to be a hundred dollars in there. There’s not. But there is a ten. “How about if I give you this?” I hand it over to him.
He laughs again, looking at my outstretched hand. “You are crazy, little girl.”
I stuff the ten dollars back in my pocket. Fast. “I am not crazee. And I am not a little girl!” I scowl my best scowl (and it’s much better than my best doe-eyed look, or my eyelash fluttering).
He stops laughing when I say this. “Now I am really not going to seat you on Holly Isles’s table.”
No. I’m guessing he’s not. I turn around and start the long trudge toward the elevator, the thick carpet making my feet feel heavier with every step. When I finally get there, I reach out and press the button to go down. Down, down, down to the depths of the ship again. Well, at least my physical depth will match the depth of my misery. Why did I think this would be so easy? I’m no Marilyn Monroe. I’m no little girl, either, but when I look down and see my jeans and T-shirt, I realize I’m not exactly sophisticated and classy, like I’d thought before.
Ugh. I don’t even want to go to the dinner anymore. For a start, my dad’s going to flip when he sees what I’ve done to my dress. He is not going to be a happy pappy. Looking at my reflection in the shiny elevator doors, my shoulders slump even further. Like I have a choice in the matter. I’m going to this dinner tonight and that’s that. Well, maybe I’ll at least get to talk to Holly tonight. And I’ll probably get to see that nephew of hers in a tux. That should be worth leaving the cabin for . . .
Where is this stupid elevator? I reach out and press the button again. And again, and again, and again. Then I cross my arms, feeling the maitre d’s eyes on my back. He’s probably still having a good laugh at me, I think, waves of embarrassment flowing over me. How dumb was I? Thinking that I could just waltz in and do a bit of table bargaining, Marilyn style. I mean, what did I have to bargain with? Ten bucks. Ten bucks I’d got off my dad. Well, whoopee. Ugh. No, double ugh. Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up . . . I want to reach out and kick those buffed-up doors. I’m sure I can feel his eyes on me. Don’t look, Nessa. Don’t look.
So, of course, I look.
And I’m right. The maitre d’ waves at me. “Enjoy your treep!” he says smugly.
I give him my best withering look (and it’s pretty good—I’m a teenager, after all). And I think I’m done when I turn back around and choke half to death. Marc is standing right in front of me, the elevator doors now wide open.
He looks almost as surprised to see me as I am to see him.
“Er, hi,” he says gruffly. “Nessa, isn’t it?”
I nod dumbly. He really is good-looking. No, scratch that, he’s great-looking, I think to myself as he runs one hand through his hair.
“Er . . .” He looks to one side of me.
Oh, no. He wants to get out. “Sorry, sorry,” I say and step aside, then realize I�
�m waiting for the elevator myself and step back again so I can get in. Which means that Marc and I collide. Hard.
“Oopphh”, I think, is the not very ladylike noise that escapes my lips as our shoulders collide. And I’m just about to lose my footing and end up on the floor when Marc grabs me by both arms, pressing me into him and squeezing the air out of my lungs. He hugs me for a second or two until I’m standing upright again. Though it feels like two minutes. Maybe even three. When I’m finally balanced again, he pulls back.
“Sorry. You okay?” His expression has completely changed. When he looked at me before, it was as if I was smelly road-kill on the highway of life. Behind him, the elevator doors slowly close again.
“Um . . .” I start. Am I okay? I’m not sure. I’m actually feeling kind of dazed, though I’m not sure if that’s from our little accident, or being pressed into Marc’s chest. (I really should fall over more often.)
“Nessa! You’re bleeding.” He steps forward now and touches my lip, bringing his finger back to show me a spot of blood.
I’m bleeding? I am bleeding, I realize when I see his finger. I reach up and touch my lip as well. I must have bitten it when we collided.
“Mr Harris. Mr Harris, you are all right?”
Huh? I turn around to see the maitre d’ closing in on me. Who’s Mr Harris?
“Mr Harris?” He’s looking straight at Marc. Oh. Duh. Marc is “Mr Harris.” Still half dazed, I watch as Marc steps to one side, so he’s standing in front of the maitre d’. And there it is. That look again. The road-kill look. But this time, it’s not directed toward me.
“I’m fine,” he says. “It’s Nessa who’s hurt.”
I shake my head now, waking up to myself. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” I wave my hands.
“No, it’s not okay,” Marc continues, glancing over at me for a second before turning back to the maitre d’. “You saw what happened. You heard me say Nessa had hurt herself. So why are you asking me if I’m all right?”
“I, er, I . . .” The maitre d’ doesn’t quite know where to look.
I reach forward and press the elevator button again. Please, oh, please let it come faster this time. “Ha ha,” I laugh nervously as I step back once more. “I’m fine. Really I am. Just fine.” I touch my finger to my lip again and it comes away clean. “See?” I hold it out. “No blood. Just fine.”
“That’s not the point.” Marc’s still staring down the maitre d’.
Suddenly, thankfully, the elevator appears. I squeeze into it as the doors are still opening and start pressing the “close doors” button immediately. But the doors keep opening, and opening. And Marc and the maitre d’ are both looking, and looking. Oh, man. I press the button a few more times and, finally, the doors start to close. “Yep, just fine. Um, thanks.” I don’t look at Marc, but his feet. Thanks? Thanks for what? The doors have almost closed now. “I’ll see you around.” I finally bring my eyes up to meet his, which look like he doesn’t entirely understand what’s just gone on. And the last word or two I say to the back of the elevator doors.
See you around? Nice work, Nessa.
Ugh. How embarrassing. I hope I don’t see him around. Maybe not being able to switch tables was for the best after all.
***
I take a deep breath and open up the bathroom door. “Ta da!” I say, hoping the flourish of my arms will distract my dad’s attention away from my dress. I’ve done a few small alterations on it when he wasn’t looking. Like taking the original high-neck, long-sleeve top off the full pleated skirt, and replacing it with this cool vintage Marilyn-style white halter-neck number found in a recycled clothes shop in Chelsea. (There have been definite shopping advantages to our recent six-month stay in NYC. Ones that, frankly, never presented themselves during a short-lived, three-month study stint in Laos.) I’ve given myself loose curls as well. It’s really easy—you do them around empty single-serve Coke cans. Though drinking all that Coke can make you rather gassy, and drinking all those tiny single-serve Cokes from the mini bar can lead to instant death (not from the Coke, from your parental figure when they see the bill).
Anyway, the outfit’s all very Seven Year Itch. You know, the scene where Marilyn’s skirt blows up? That one.
I’m also hoping to distract my dad’s beady eyes away from the eyeliner and beauty spot I’ve got on. (I get away with mascara, a bit of blush and lip gloss, but Dad tends to freak when I take things any further. In his mind, I’m eternally piggy-tailed and five years old. Daddy’s little girl . . .)
Except that it’s not the dress or the eyeliner, as it turns out, but something else entirely that distracts him. Sitting on one of the single beds, his eyes suddenly look watery.
“You look more like your mother every day.”
Oh.
He sucks in his breath then. “Sorry, sweetheart. You look lovely. Just lovely.” He smiles a fake smile.
I turn around and take another look at myself in the mirror. A good hard look. But I can’t see my mother at all. I try hard to match my features up with hers. All the ones I’ve seen in the photo albums. Because that’s all I have, really: photos. A few vague memories of her voice, and photos. Sometimes I’ll think I remember something we did together—a trip to the park, to the zoo, baking a cake—but then I’ll see a photo of us doing the same thing and realize I’ve somehow worked the photo into a recollection. Sometimes I wonder if I truly remember her at all.
Dad once said that the best way I could remember her would be to convince everyone I meet to become an organ donor. Because that’s why she died, you see. She had cardiomyopathy. A virus you get in your heart. And she might still be alive today if she’d had a heart transplant. But there weren’t enough hearts to go around. There never are, apparently. So, as soon as I get my driver’s license, I’m ticking that “Do you want to be an organ donor?” box. Both my dad and I are on a list too, somewhere. Some kind of organ donor registry. When I turned thirteen we had a big talk about it—about whether I wanted to be a donor or not. There wasn’t much to talk about, though. I figure I won’t be needing my heart after I die. And if someone else can use it, well, they’re more than welcome to it. As I keep looking at my white-outfitted reflection in the mirror, searching for my mother, I remember something else—something I’d heard my dad and the kid psychiatrist talk about outside his office. (Of course I listened at the door, wouldn’t you?) The psychiatrist had said something about my making up a fantasy world based around Marilyn Monroe because my real world was so transient. My mother had gone and we moved so often—the world in my head couldn’t be taken away from me as easily as the real world seemingly could. I’ve never really known what to think about that . . .
Dad gets up off the bed and comes over to turn me around and give me a kiss on one cheek. “You do look lovely,” he says, smiling down at me. But then the smile fades. Oh, no, I think. He’s really upset. He’s going to cry.
Wrong.
Instead, the smile fades to a sharp narrowing of the eyes. “Nessa Joanne Mulholland. That’s not the dress I bought you, is it?”
Just when I thought I’d got away with it.
There’s another look. And a licking of a thumb that quickly makes its way toward my face. “Now, come here. You’ve got a smudge on your cheek.”
Aaaggghhh! Incoming Dad spit!
I try really, really hard to look sophisticated and accustomed to walking in heels as we exit the elevator (another Chelsea bargain that Dad didn’t know about until five minutes ago). I’ve even resorted to using a bit of double-sided tape, nicked from a passing steward, between the bottom of each shoe and the soles of my feet. (Not very Marilyn, I know, but needs must . . .) And heads do turn on our arrival, but they also turn back again very quickly when they see we’re not Someones. Oh, well. Someone who doesn’t turn away, though, is the maitre d’. I can tell something’s up the moment I see him and he fixes me with a “Not very happy, young lady” look as Dad and I cross the floor (me hanging on to his arm fo
r dear life to keep from tripping and falling inelegantly on my face).
“Bon soir, Mademoiselle Mulholland,” the maitre d’ says through his teeth when we reach his small desk. “A pleasure. Yet again.”
“You’ve met?” Dad looks at me, and I shrug, my face frozen. I’ll get the lecture of the century if he finds out what I’ve been up to (trying to get us seated on Holly’s table, that is). Let’s just say that my dad . . . he isn’t keen on celebrities. He thinks anyone who lives on the West Coast (especially within a million-mile radius of Hollywood) has to be a bit dim. Beauties can’t have brains in my dad’s little universe. Anyway, he may not be keen on celebrities, but I hope he is keen on sitting next to either the kitchen or the bathrooms. Because that’s where I’m thinking we’ll be sitting tonight.
The maitre d’ glances at the list in front of him, before lifting his head once more to really give me a look. Something is up, I think to myself. Either that or the guy’s going to pass a kidney stone in about thirty seconds. “Well, it looks like you will be on table three tonight.” The eyes narrow. “Enjoy.” He practically spits the word. “James . . .” He clicks his fingers and a guy materializes from behind one of the potted palms. “Show Professor and Mademoiselle Mulholland to their table, please. Table three.”
James looks at us, then pauses, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “Table three?”
The maitre d’ whips around then. “Yes, table three. That is what I said, is it not?”
James gives us the once-over again. “Table three. This way, please.”
Table three. I’m half scared to follow him. Because I’m starting to think that table three might be the one in the middle of the fancy fish tank. The one with the miniature sharks in it.
But, as it turns out, that’s not where table three is at all. And it’s nowhere near the kitchen or the bathrooms, either.
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