“You just walk normally. I know it’s hard for you but give it a go.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. He turned back to his computer, but I didn’t budge, studying his disheveled state. He was hunched over his desk wearing his blue-striped nightgown, his hair sticking up at all sorts of angles—clearly the victim of frantic hands—and the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than they had been.
“Hey, Dad, maybe we should both take Dog for a walk today.”
“I’ve already arranged for Sam down the road to do it,” he answered, dismissing my suggestion with a wave of his hand. “It would be chaos if we tried.”
“The photographers aren’t that bad.”
“HA!” He shook his head and then reached for the phone before dialing a number and then looking up at me. “Off you go now. I have lots to do.”
I let out a long sigh so that he knew I was annoyed—not that he noticed—and then I shut the door to his study and went to the sitting room, where Marianne was crouched over the chessboard, Dog lying next to her on his back with his legs splayed and his tongue lolling out.
As she was still finding the breakup hard and couldn’t face the public quite yet, she was spending a lot more time at our house, enjoying the peace and quiet of being cooped up, unlike me.
Her forehead was creased in concentration. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, rubbing Dog’s belly, “I’m pretty sure that you can’t just move your pieces any old way. I think there are rules about that. Like only certain pieces can move in certain ways.”
“Nah,” I said innocently, coming to sit opposite her. “That is stupid. You’re just saying that because I’m winning.”
She lifted her eyes. “So, what did your dad say about the rehearsal? When is it?”
“He said there isn’t one.”
“Why is your face weird?”
“What do you mean?” I said defensively. “This is my face.”
“I mean, your expression. You look concerned.”
“It’s just . . .” I bit my lip. “Dad’s acting a bit strange. That’s all.”
“So is Mom,” Marianne informed me. “She’s been spending a lot of time chatting quietly to Fenella and people on the phone. I told her to come here, but she said she didn’t want to draw any more attention to this house. I guess she’s really busy sorting last-minute plans.”
“Dad hasn’t left the house in days,” I huffed. “He’s scared of the paps.”
“He’s going to have to get used to it. I thought he would be by now.”
“It is a lot more intense with the wedding,” I said, moving to the window and peeking past the curtain at all the journalists standing around our pathway, chatting among one another, flicking cigarette stubs onto the pavement, and checking their phones every few seconds. “You’d think they’d get bored.”
“A wedding this big? No way. They won’t risk missing a minute.”
“I’m worried about Dad. I want to help.” I sat down again. “Do you think we should do something?”
She moved her queen and then gestured for me to take my turn. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I rested my head in my hands. “Something to get rid of that lot outside.” I nodded toward the window.
“Like that’s going to happen,” Marianne snorted.
“I’m being serious!”
“So am I. It’s just part of the deal, isn’t it?” she said, picking dog hairs off her jeans.
“What deal? I don’t remember there ever being a deal? Did I sign something?”
“Not like that, dummy.” She chuckled, rolling her eyes. “As in, it comes hand in hand with what we do.”
“I don’t see why,” I said huffily.
“Don’t you? I do. Mom needs the press to be successful in the film industry. As annoying as they are,” she said, jerking her head, “it’s also thanks to them that she has had publicity for her work. And it’s thanks to them that I have been able to promote certain brands and campaigns. We’re in the public eye and, because of that, certain opportunities come our way. You know all this.”
“I just never thought they would be so interested in my dad. It’s not like he’s a celebrity. I don’t think he was prepared for all this attention.”
“He should have been.” She shrugged. “He’s marrying my mom. He knew what he was getting himself into.”
“It’s quite intimidating.”
“Well, yeah, I guess it’s worse at the moment, but you’ve gotten used to it, haven’t you? So has your dad, I’m sure.”
“But, Marianne . . .” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “With you and Tom”—I saw her wince—“do you think if you weren’t famous it might have worked out?”
Her face contorted and I regretted asking it at once.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Forget it. Let’s just play chess.” I stared at the board and then moved my castle.
“In answer to your question, I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Maybe it would have been easier if we weren’t pestered all the time. Maybe if he hadn’t been famous, he wouldn’t have met Natalia. Maybe I was just wrong about who he was.” She sighed heavily. “The thing is, Anna, it’s easier not to ask that question. This is the world I’m in whether I like it or not. I’ll never be able to have a relationship without the fame that comes with it. I’m an It Girl—it’s who I am. And now so are you.”
She reached over the board, lifted her bishop, and then placed him down in another square.
“Checkmate.”
“Impossible,” I protested. “Bishops can only move backward and they’re only allowed on the black squares.”
“You’re just saying that because I won.” Marianne held my king up victoriously in the air.
Not one to miss an opportunity, Dog suddenly scrambled to his feet and jumped at her, grabbing the king in his jaws, throwing back his head, and swallowing it all in one. He licked his chops and then hopped up onto the sofa, nestling happily into the cushions.
“Well,” Marianne said, “I think we don’t need to argue anymore over who the winner is in this situation.”
We both burst into laughter and Dog let out a triumphant burp.
* * *
The next day, Connor wanted to go to the park together, but there was no way we could have gone somewhere so open, not at the moment. I felt awkward about it being so complicated, especially when he was so busy with his drawing, and I did wonder whether we should just cancel the date altogether and leave it until we saw each other on the day of the wedding.
But then he made the suggestion that I come over and check out his new comic book, which seemed like the perfect solution for both of us: It meant he wouldn’t have to take too much time off from working, plus we’d be in private so he could see me without having to worry about being the top hit on a showbiz gossip website.
I also wanted to talk to him about my dad, who had been so quiet lately, hiding away in his study and brushing away any questions I had about the wedding. Even something as simple as asking whether Mom was going to drop me at Helena’s on the day so I could get ready with Marianne. I had no idea what was going on or what he was feeling—although he was clearly feeling anger when Dog vomited the chess piece up in his study a few minutes after consuming it.
“Look at this, Anna,” he said in a disgusted voice, showing me an opinion column in a newspaper. “All that space dedicated to guessing at how the Tilney Hotel is preparing for the wedding. It’s not even fact! The writer admits he hasn’t had any contact with them! He believes, however, that they will be doing all this. Oh, well, it must be right, then.” He shook his head. “What a waste of a perfectly good column. I’ve met that journalist—he’s an intelligent man. What a waste,” he repeated, angrily buttering his toast and sending crumbs flying everywhere, much to Dog’s delight who snapped ferociously at them like edible confetti.
“You don’t care about this stuff, right?” I asked nervously, putting the paper to one side
. “It doesn’t affect the wedding or, you know . . . the marriage. It will be really great. The Tilney is perfect for you and Helena. The perfect wedding.”
“Yeah,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.
“One week away now, Dad,” I began tentatively, watching him closely. “One week until you become a married man.”
He didn’t say anything. He just took a bite of his toast, went, “I’ve got to get on with things,” and then walked out of the room with Dog in hot pursuit of crumbs.
* * *
I bit my nails anxiously as I relayed all this to Connor.
“He’s probably busy with wedding stuff. I wouldn’t worry, Anna. Maybe you’re overthinking?”
I chewed my lip. Connor was probably right. He knew how worried I was about Dad. But something still wasn’t quite right with the whole situation. If only I could put my finger on it—
“So, what do you think of her hair color? Do you think it works?”
“Sorry? Whose?” I looked at what Connor was pointing at on the page. “Oh.”
Ember, the heroine of The Amazing It Girl, was running through the streets of London in pursuit of someone who had stolen government secrets.
“She’s . . . blond.” I looked up at Connor, trying not to sound hurt. She had originally been a redhead, inspired by the hair color I chose to change to after Dad had announced his engagement and I was suddenly being photographed all the time.
“Yeah. The red worked for the first book, but you have to mix things up, I think,” he said, shuffling some paper around on his desk and pulling out another one for me to see.
I nodded. “She looks great. Maybe I should go blond,” I quipped. Connor smiled but didn’t say anything.
“Do you think the storyline works? I’m not sure if it’s too obvious, like it’s been done before,” he said anxiously. “Is it too bland?”
“It’s a good storyline,” I assured him. “It’s fast-paced, action-packed, and has brilliant characters. I love that the main suspect is Ember’s childhood friend, a good clash of emotions. Your agent will love it and it will become a huge hit.”
He held the drawings tightly in his hands. “I hope so.”
I couldn’t help smiling at his creased forehead and dark furrowed eyebrows as he examined his work closely. I loved seeing him so passionate about the comic, even if it did mean it was all he ever talked about.
“Sorry,” he said when I got my stuff ready to leave, “this can’t have been the most fun date for you.”
“Don’t be silly—it’s my fault. Once the wedding is out of the way, it will go back to normal.” I nodded cheerily.
“What do you mean?” He looked confused.
“Well, the press,” I said, wondering what else it could be.
“But,” he began, his brown eyes fixed on mine, “it was never . . . normal.”
“No, I know, but I mean it won’t be so bad,” I explained. “We can just carry on like we were.”
He hesitated. “You don’t think it will get easier, do you?”
“Of course it will!” I exclaimed, baffled that he didn’t get it. “After the fuss of the wedding, they’ll lose interest and move on to the next thing.”
“Anna,” he said gently, “I don’t think that’s going to happen. If anything, it will get worse. Your dad will be married to Helena Montaine. You’ll move and be the stepdaughter of the most famous actress in the world. And, yeah, your dad is of interest to them because he’s Helena’s husband, but the world will be way more fascinated by you and Marianne. They’ll be watching you every step of the way. Two It Girls under one roof?” He shook his head and exhaled. “It’s a reporter’s dream.”
But before I could say anything Connor’s mom interrupted to tell us that the car had arrived to pick me up.
* * *
That night it took me a long time to fall asleep. I was starting to think Sophie could have been right about everything, but I buried my head in my pillows and told myself that I would feel different in the morning. I would talk to Dad first thing and all would be well.
But it turned out he had other plans.
23.
SOMEONE WAS SHAKING ME. I batted them away and rolled over into my pillow.
“Anna! Anna!” The shaking began again.
Half asleep and trying to work out what was going on, I opened my eyes to see my dad standing over me with a flashlight. “What the . . . Dad?”
“Come on, it’s time to get up.”
“What?” I squinted at my clock. “No, it’s three a.m.”
“Up you get. Put this on.” He was holding out one of my sweaters.
“Have we been called up to the secret service or something? That’s the only reason I can think of as to why I’d be up this early. Did the queen call?”
“Just put your sweater on and don’t turn on any of the lights.”
“Look, Dad, clearly you’re having some kind of mental breakdown. And I wanted to talk to you about this whole thing and it’s important to—”
“We can talk another time, Anna,” he said, placing my sweater on my bed and leaving the room. “Just get dressed and come downstairs. Remember, no lights.”
I pulled my sweater on, swung my legs out of bed, and stretched before plodding out in my slippers and treading very carefully down the stairs in the pitch black. Feeling the walls to guide me along, I followed them into the kitchen, where I could see the pool of light on the floor from a flashlight.
“Hey, Anna,” I heard a voice say from one side of the room.
“Sam?”
The flashlight moved so that it lit up the face of our neighbor. “Howdy,” he replied. In the light, I could see Sam was holding a plate of ham and throwing a bit at a time to Dog, who was sitting obediently next to him, a pool of drool at his paws.
“What is going on?”
“Sam is here to look after Dog. We’re distracting him with ham so he doesn’t bark when we go,” Dad whispered, shining the light into my eyes and frazzling my retinas.
“Go where? What is going on? Why am I awake?”
“I’ll explain in a bit,” Dad said, before moving the light back to rest on Sam’s face. “I’ve parked around the corner so we’ll go out the back. I’ve written everything down.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Huntley.” He grinned. “I’ll hold the fort. They won’t suspect a thing.” He happily tossed another bit of ham in the air for Dog.
“Thank you. Come on, Anna, we’re going out the back. Take my hand, please.”
Before I had time to ask once again what on earth was going on, Dad grabbed my hand and pulled me through the kitchen and out the back door, following the path around the side of the house. He raised a finger to his lips and pointed at all the cars parked nearby with sleeping journalists in the front seats. Then he switched off the flashlight and we hurriedly walked down the road without saying a word.
Since Dad was clearly in a VERY fragile state I decided not to say anything until we were in the car and Dad had jabbed the keys to the ignition and begun driving, his eyes wide and bright with adrenalin. He honestly looked like he’d just escaped from prison.
“Dad.” I held up my hands, feeling very alert now after my early-morning wake-up call. “I appreciate that you are going through a lot of stuff right now and your stress levels are through the roof and, don’t get me wrong, I am kind of enjoying the little Famous Five–type adventure with a bit of Shawshank Redemption thrown in that we’re having right now, but I think that you need to pull over and we need to have a talk about everything. I want you to know that it’s okay that you’ve completely lost your mind. We can talk it through and I will probably not tease you about what’s just happened. I say probably because I can’t make any promises. Especially with your hair looking like it is. You look like the creepy, mad professor on those cereal boxes. I’m just saying it how it is.”
“It’s okay, Anna,” Dad said excitedly, speeding down the empty roads that would be rammed with traff
ic at a normal hour. “Everything will make sense in a moment. Here, let’s listen to some radio.”
He turned on some music and did the weirdest thing. He began to hum. HUM. And not in an absentminded kind of way either, but in a really cheery way.
He really had lost his mind.
Speechless, I just watched the blurred street lamps out the window, baffled by my father’s behavior. I didn’t even notice where we were going until he slowed down and pulled into the car park of a very swanky hotel.
“Dad—”
“Come on,” he interrupted, getting out of the car, slamming the door, and passing the keys to the valet, who greeted him as though he’d met him before.
I got out, suspiciously eyeing up the valet—who pretended not to be weirded out by the way I was staring at him—and followed my dad through the large doors of the hotel, opened for us by a man wearing a top hat and tails.
“Good morning, Miss Huntley,” he said cheerily, touching the brim of his hat. “Welcome to the Dashwell Hotel.”
“Er. Yeah. Hey,” I mumbled back, instinctively mirroring him, but I forgot I wasn’t wearing a hat so I just touched the top of my head for no reason.
I stepped into the lobby of the hotel and immediately regretted the fact that I was still in my pajamas and Eeyore slippers. I obviously knew the Dashwell. Everyone knows the Dashwell. It is one of London’s oldest, most beautiful hotels and it was grander than any place I’ve ever been to—and, considering I hang out with Helena Montaine, that’s really saying something.
I hurried to catch up with my dad who was talking to the smiling receptionist and, in my haste, skidded across the marble floor, slamming right into his back. “Dad—”
“I’ll be with you in a second, Anna,” he dismissed, continuing his conversation.
Eventually he turned around and passed me a heavy, gold room key. “Here you go—that’s yours.”
A young man wearing a smart blue gold-buttoned uniform with his hair tucked under a matching blue hat came out of nowhere and was suddenly by my side, telling me that he was going to show me to my room.
“I’m at the other side of the hotel.” Dad grinned, wiggling his key in his hand. He bent down and gave me a kiss on the head. “See you later, Anna-pops.”
The It Girl in Rome Page 14