Diamonds are a Teen's Best Friend

by Allison Rushby

  Silence again. But, this time, the guy fills the pause by giving me a complete once-over. “Who . . . who are you?” He shakes his head when he’s done.

  What? This guy really is weird. For a start, he’s not making any sense. Who am I? What’s that supposed to mean? Oh . . . hang on. The other day. Holly and I had left before he could take our details. Of course he knows who Holly is, but me? Probably not. I don’t have a very red-carpet life. “Sorry, I’m Nessa Mulholland. Cabin 252b. I guess it must be hard being the ship’s photographer. I mean, trying to remember who’s who and everything.”

  “Huh?” The guy keeps looking at me, but then he suddenly brightens up. “Oh, right. Now I remember. You were the girl with Holly Isles the other day, weren’t you?” He whips a notebook out of his back pocket and I can see other names and dates jotted down in there. “Sorry about the mix-up. I didn’t get your name. What did you say it was again?”

  This time, I spell it out for him. And when that’s done, he stops being weird altogether, loosens up, and we even chat for a bit about what I’m doing on board the ship, my dad’s study, and how I got to know Holly. When he asks me about Holly’s broken engagement and cancelled wedding plans, however, I feel a bit uncomfortable. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about that,” I say, my eyes not meeting his face.

  He shakes his hands. “No, no. I shouldn’t have asked. None of my business, but everyone on staff loves Holly so much . . . we just want the best for her, you know.”

  Now I do meet his eyes. “Yeah, I know. So how much are the photos?”

  Strangely, he looks a bit blank again, as if he can’t remember his own prices. “Er, because of the mix-up, how about I slip a couple underneath your cabin door, free of charge?”

  I pause. “Really? Are you sure?”

  He nods. Hard. “Of course. I hate it when I don’t get people’s names right. It’d be my pleasure.”

  “Well, thanks. That’d be fantastic. It’s 252b, um . . .” I realize I don’t know the guy’s name.

  “Ted. Just call me Ted. And don’t worry—I’ve got it all down here,” he adds, patting his notebook.

  “Great. I’d better let you get back to it, I guess.”

  Ted nods.

  “See ya! Watch out for those railings!” I turn and leave him, walking around the pile of deckchairs and continuing along the edge of the deck. And I’m tripping along merrily when I stop dead in my tracks. Well, hello . . . look at what’s at nine o’clock. I take a few steps back now, out of their line of vision and just watch.

  Watch Holly and my dad, that is.

  Like last night, they seem to be having an absolute ball together. My dad says something, Holly replies, Dad says something else, and then her head tips back and she laughs and laughs and laughs. When she recovers, he says something else again and she laughs once more. I almost want to rub my eyes. How funny can sociology or microbiology be? And besides all that, I don’t quite know what to do now. Do I go over? Do I leave them alone? After all, they seem to be having a pretty good time without me. My dad—I don’t think I’ve seen him look so happy since . . . gosh, I can’t even remember. Oh. Right. Since Jessica, maybe?

  My heart sinks when I remember her. Jessica. She was a woman my dad dated for a while. I didn’t really like her all that much. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. Jessica was okay. It just hadn’t worked out. They’d both broken it off, really. Yes. Jessica was okay, but she was no . . . well, she was no Holly. My eyes lift up as I think this and I take a second look at my dad. And Holly.

  Oh, no. No.

  I hope my dad doesn’t think that Holly being nice to him means the same thing that Jessica being nice to him meant. I mean, Jessica and Holly . . . they’re kind of different people. Jessica was a psychologist. A normal-looking, normal person with a normal job (so she had a few quirks, but don’t we all have a few quirks?). But Holly—Holly’s in a different league. I keep watching them, laughing and talking, talking and laughing, and my heart sinks even further.

  No. This is not good. Not good at all.

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I think Holly’s too good for my dad because she’s so pretty, or because she’s famous, or anything like that. It’s just that . . . well, how on earth would it ever work out? I mean, my dad and Holly Isles. She lives in LA, we’re going to live in Paris (well, for a year, at least). She’s a world-famous actor, he’s a professor of sociology. She dates famous actors, he dates . . . rarely. Get my drift? Their two worlds—they just couldn’t merge and . . .

  “Hey, Nessa! How’s it going?”

  I whip around on the spot. Marc. Marc is walking up the deck toward me. Oh, no. No. What do I do? I start to freak out and then wonder why I’m freaking out at all. What have I got to freak out about? I haven’t done anything wrong. For once.

  “Hey, yourself!” I wave back at him and then realize instantly what the problem is: I don’t want him to see Holly and my dad. I don’t know why, I just don’t. So, I race up to him, grab his arm, and spin him around. “Let’s go for a walk!” I say brightly. Too brightly, I think. “Not on this deck, though, it’s too windy. Or maybe we can catch a movie, or something? Yes. A movie would be great. Any movie. I don’t care. We could get popcorn and everything.”

  Marc gives me a strange look (I don’t blame him) and his head twists back for a second, as if he realizes I’m trying to divert his attention away from whatever’s up ahead. Don’t see them, I chant in my head, don’t see them, don’t see them, don’t see them, don’t see them, don’t see them. But it’s no good. He’s looking so far back around his shoulder now that he must see them. And just when I’m getting ready for him to say something, his head twists back and his eyes meet mine before he shrugs.

  “I saw a movie this morning, but a walk would be great. As big as this ship is, it’s making me feel cooped up.”

  “Great!” I say, still too brightly. But inside my head I think, That’s funny, I was sure he’d seen Holly and my dad just then. Positive, even. If he has, though, Marc doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything about it at all.

  From: “Alexa Milton”

  To: “NJM”

  Subject: What? What?!

  Let me get this straight. You are Holly Isles’s new best friend, and you are helping her find a new guy? Um, Nessa Joanne Mulholland (to quote your dad), if even 1 percent of any of what you have told me turns out to be true, I will bury myself alive with all the other dead dusties out here. Email me back. Right now. I need details!

  Alexa( )( )( )

  From: “Alexa Milton”

  To: “NJM”

  Subject: I’m waiting!

  Hello? Anyone out there? It’s been 48 hours. It’s cruel to keep me waiting. Cruel!

  Bad best friend.

  Bad best friend.

  Alexa( )( )( )

  From: “NJM”

  To: “Alexa Milton”

  Subject: Details

  Hey! I can’t believe your mother let you use the super-expensive satellite phone to call me (the bad influence in your life), even if it was only for five minutes. She must’ve known you were desperate. That you’d die if you didn’t find out what was going on. And you were right—it was an “emergency situation,” and that’s what the phone’s for, after all.

  Completely justified.

  Okay. So I guess I should fill you in on what’s been happening since we spoke. It’s been, what, twelve hours? I can’t believe it’s only been twelve hours. You know something, Alexa? A lot can happen in twelve hours on a cruise ship. A lot, lot more than can happen on dry land, let me tell you. It’s all a bit manic, cruising. Like any emotion you have is doubled. No wonder Dad’s doing a study on it. I still haven’t come up with any kind of a grand plan to get Holly to meet every guy on the ship, but that doesn’t seem like a huge problem at the moment, because she’s doing pretty well on her own. Every time she walks in a room, she gets surrounded by a new group of men. And so far, there seem to be a f
ew likely contenders for PM. She went to a champagne supper with some big shot IT guy last night, a dawn helicopter joy-flight with a tennis player this morning, and then had breakfast with a race car driver. I hadn’t heard of the other two, but I know the race car driver’s name (Antonio something unpronounceable and Italian). He must be really famous, because even my dad had heard of him (and that, as you know, is saying something).

  Speaking of Dad, I feel a bit sorry for him, actually. He and Holly had been having some lovely little chats (like I told you about), but he invited her to have dinner with us last night and she couldn’t make it—she’s booked up for ages. (I guess you have to get in quick with those Hollywood stars.) She said she’d try to get out of it, but Dad wouldn’t hear of her cancelling anything for his sake. Oh! Oh! I almost forgot. She wants to be part of his study. Can you believe it? Holly Isles in one of my dad’s creepy studies. Shudder. I hope she knows what she’s in for.

  As for the other thing you wanted—“frequent Marc updates” (what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?)—I don’t have much else to report there. Yes, we’ve been spending most of our time together, but we’re just friends. Really. That’s all. No, really, Alexa. I can hear you making noises from the other side of the world. What else can I tell you? We just get along really, really well. He’s a great guy. And that’s it. Really. I mean it, Alexa! Stop it!

  Anyway, must run. I’ve got to try to come up with something so Holly can meet every single male floating around with us.

  Nessaxxx

  I change position on my bed, sitting up and crossing my legs, read back over my email quickly for mistakes, then press send. As it zips away, I think over what I’ve just said, especially the bit about Holly agreeing to be part of Dad’s study. Ugh. I hadn’t spoken to Alexa about it, but it’s not good that Holly’s interested in signing up. The thing is, my dad, of course, doesn’t know all about the Nessa’s Lessons in Love stuff. (And I can’t say I’ve told Alexa the whole truth about what’s going on—I’m sure she wouldn’t approve either. In fact, sometimes I think Alexa and I might’ve been swapped at birth. She’s much more like my dad than I’ll ever be.)

  Over the past couple of days, Holly’s been pretty good with her lessons, actually. She’s been laying it on thick—batting her eyelashes (three coats of mascara every morning seems to have helped, rather than just one or two), reaching out to touch arms gently as she makes a point (one that agrees with his, of course), and wearing flirty, short skirts. And thankfully, she seems to be having a ball. She says it’s been fun. Like being “in character.” And she’s been getting a ton of dates. So I guess Nessa’s Lessons in Love are working after all.

  But, anyway, to get back to Dad and his study, I definitely do not want Holly being involved. Holly taking on the “lessons” means that I’m affecting her behavior, which, in turn, means I’m affecting Dad’s study and his results. Like I said, not good. Not good at all. I’ll be grounded forever if he finds out I’ve affected his results. So, I have to try to get Holly uninterested in the study. I guess if I come up with something brilliant on the meeting men front, then maybe she won’t have time for the study. Not a bad idea, really—it’d be killing two birds with one stone, wouldn’t it?

  The answer comes at lunch. Dad and I are going for seconds at the buffet (cruising, as it turns out, truly is bad news for the waistline), when I see it.

  “Nessa! You’re holding everyone up.” My dad gives me a nudge from behind, moving me on from the rice salad to the Greek salad.

  Oops. I’ve obviously been reading the notice for too long and now everyone in the queue behind us is starving to death. I keep moving along the salads, but at every opportunity, my eyes move back to the notice. “Talent quest”, it says, in big letters. “Tonight. 7.30 p.m. Theme: Hollywood glamour.”

  I have to keep reading it to check it’s true. But it is true. So, today, I don’t go back for thirds. Instead, I run off to track down Holly. First, I need to talk her into doing this (which I think is going to take some very creative coaxing). Then we need a routine, dresses, some practice, and some more practice. All before 7.30 p.m.

  I finally locate Holly on one of the upper decks, playing badminton of all things. At first, I don’t see her. Instead, I hear her giggle. From three decks below. And then, slowly but surely, I work my way up until the giggles get closer and closer.

  And there she is . . . wearing a tiny little pleated white skirt, a white v-neck sleeveless T-shirt and white baseball cap, surrounded by a group of muscly, cruise-wear-attired male admirers.

  “Oops!” She throws the shuttlecock into the air and then misses it with her racquet by a mile. (She misses, but her moves, mind you, manage to show off her tanned thighs perfectly.)

  But hang on. Walking across the deck toward her, I stop in my tracks. I’ve seen Holly play badminton before. She personally whipped my butt at the game just the other day (and I’m not a bad badminton player, if I do say so myself). Afterward, I’d practically had to stop her doing a victory lap of the deck as well. That girl likes to win.

  “Oops!” She misses again now, but flashes her waist this time. Giggle, giggle, giggle.

  “Need some help?” The muscliest of the muscle men steps forward (sans shirt) and moves in behind Holly. He reaches around her back, hugging her into him, then lifts up her arms, shuttlecock and racquet still in place, and guides her through the moves. “Like this . . .” he says as, together, they throw the shuttlecock into the air and then follow through with the racquet.

  “Ooohhh, thanks, Glen!” Holly pirouettes to face him and then leans into his chest to balance herself. “Oops! Sorry! I guess I’m just little Miss Clumsy today! Maybe I’ll need your help for the whole game!”

  Ugh. My eyes boggle now. What is she doing? Why is she throwing the game like this? The guys all move in now. “Can I get you a drink, Holly?”; “Do you need to sit down, Holly?”; “Here, I’ll take the racquet for you, Holly” . . . blah, blah, blah.

  And that’s when I get it.

  Oh.

  Well, duh, Nessa.

  She’s doing exactly what I told her to do. What I’m seeing here—it’s Nessa’s Lessons in Love in action. And boy is it working, I think as I watch the guys crowd in even further. I’d just been taken aback for a minute there. Watching Holly pretend not to know how to play badminton when she’s actually so good at it—it was weird. Kind of disturbing. And, um, maybe not such a great idea after all.

  “Water?” I turn my attention back to her as she places a hand on another guy’s arm now. “You’re too kind. That would be lovely. Just make it Evian. With lots of ice and a squeeze of lemon. Thank you, darling.”

  Across the deck, I snort to myself. If I tried that line on the guy who’s now sprinting off to find Holly her extra-special water with a squeeze of lemon (can’t wait for those slow drinks waiters), he’d probably point me to a tap and walk away. That’s if he didn’t ignore me in the first place, walking over my parched and dehydrated dying body on the deck.

  Maybe Holly hears me snort, I don’t know, but she sees me then. “Nessa, honey, sweetheart, you just have to come over here right now and meet these perfect gentlemen. They’ve been teaching me how to play the most amusing game. What’s it called again? I can’t seem to remember . . .”

  “Badminton!” they chime in unison, their eyes moving from Holly to me for only a nano-second.

  Badminton, huh? Oh, brother . . .

  ***

  So I was wrong about a couple of things. I didn’t need to coax Holly creatively at all. In fact, she said she felt very “devil may care” (whatever that means, I’ll have to look it up sometime) and agreed to the talent quest on the spot. The other thing I was wrong about was the practice-and-some-more-practice thing. We actually needed some practice, some more practice, and a whole lot more practice after that. Well, not Holly (who is a natural and picked up the moves and the song in about five minutes flat when she was away from her admirers, had re-installed her brai
n, and was back to being her smart old self again), but me. Let’s just say I wasn’t meant for a life on the stage.

  When I have to sing (I don’t even sound that great in the shower) and dance (Fred Astaire, where are you when I need some pointers?) at the same time, I don’t have two left feet, but three. Maybe even four. I keep tripping up, or getting my timing wrong and bumping into Holly. Instead of getting mad, though, like some people would, she just laughs and tells me not to give up my day job. I explain that’d be pretty easy—I don’t even have a day job.

  By 7.15 p.m., Holly and I are in her suite, staring at ourselves in her mirror. It’s a completely surreal experience for me—staring at myself standing beside Holly Isles. In some ways, it’s like I know two Hollys: Hollywood Holly (the one everyone knows and sees in her movies and in the tabloids, etc., the one I used to think I knew) and the real Holly (the one who can’t control herself around a plate of nachos). Anyway, sometimes, like right now, these two people mesh into one and it gets kind of confusing.

  “Hello?! Nessa? Is that you under there, Nessa?”

  I wake up to myself to see Holly is laughing at me, looking at my reflection, then over at the real me (or what’s left of the real me, anyway).

  “Huh? Oh, I’m, um, not sure.” I check out my reflection as well. Pink satin strapless dress (thankfully long enough to hide the sneakers I’m wearing—there’s no way I could dance in heels—remember the other night? I couldn’t even walk across the floor of the restaurant), platinum-blond wig—can you believe they hire out fancy dress costumes and wigs on board a cruise ship? Holly and I couldn’t—a face full of make-up (and I mean full—false eyelashes and all), and a diamond necklace and bracelet of Holly’s. I have to keep touching them to check they’re both still there and I haven’t lost them. Who knew diamonds could be so scary?