“What?” she answered grouchily from under a pile of rumpled bed linens. Hannah had stayed up half the night emailing Richard from the hotel’s business center—but so far no dice. He wasn’t answering her messages, nor the calls she made from the hotel room’s phone to his private mobile line.
“You’ll want to see this.” I held up the front page of the Daily Mail’s Entertainment section: AMERICAN GIRLS: MORGAN ABBOTT AND HANNAH DAVIS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN.
The photo spread featured a couple of semidecent official White House shots of me, supplied by Courtney, no doubt, plus a nice one of Hannah and me together at the press conference. The story itself was what Mom would call a cream-puff piece, with plenty of favorable angles.
“And listen to this. It says, ‘Miss Davis is the epitome of American chic, a young Halle Berry in the making. Her composed responses to our questions were certainly light-years ahead of her peers.’ A young Halle Berry! Aren’t you dying over that?”
“I guess.” Hannah hauled herself up and reached for the nearest paper. She eyed an image of her with sunglasses and a fuchsia trench coat that made her pop out of the crowd while she strode through a busy London thoroughfare. “I wish Rich would call…or email…or anything.”
“He will, don’t worry.”
“I’m not sure about that. We’re talking the royal family here. Rich says it’s hard to go against family tradition. I need to make it clear to him that I don’t have any thoughts whatsoever of becoming a future queen. I mean, my main goal right now is to get accepted to Parsons School for Design—not to become royalty! Why can’t people leave us alone? It feels like the whole world is trying to split us up. And…I miss him.”
She dropped her head into her hands.
I felt awful. Hannah and Prince Richard were only trying to live a normal life. Why did the press have to ruin everything within the pressure cooker of celebrity?
“I tell you what. Why don’t we hang together today? We can do whatever you want. Shopping, sightseeing, you name it.”
“Don’t you have plans with Max?”
“He’ll understand.” At least, I hoped so. Hannah was my best friend. She needed me now.
I prodded Hannah out of bed and sent her down to the hotel’s day spa for a massage and facial, my treat. Then I called Mom’s deputy secretary in charge of her itinerary to arrange a surprise for Hannah that I knew would get her mind off Richard. I hated using the power of the presidency for special treatment, but this was my BFF we were talking about.
I risked a call to Max from the hotel room’s phone. It went straight to voice mail. I had to leave a cryptic message in case someone was listening: “Change in plans. Out with Hannah all day. Sorry.” I hoped he could read between the lines. Hannah needed me.
The plans came together fairly quickly. The only thing I had to worry about was the continued unwelcome presence of Brittany Whittaker. If she so much as sniffed a clue that Hannah and I were going somewhere cool, she’d use her blackmail to tag along and destroy our fun. Why did Brittany always want to hang around us anyway?
Scratch that. I knew the answer. Brittany was e-vil. But no way would I let her ruin the surprise I had cooked up for Hannah.
Chapter Nineteen
Leave it to Brittany to give ruining my day her bestest effort evah, as the British would say. If she put that much energy into being nice, she might have a decent chance at being a human being.
Hannah and I headed out later that morning with George and a few Secret Service colleagues in tow. As expected, Brittany “just happened” to be loitering down in the lobby by the concierge desk. When she saw us, she immediately bailed midsentence on the über-tolerant concierge and tagged after us. “Where are you two going?”
“Just some sightseeing,” I said offhandedly. “Could you excuse us? We’re in a hurry.”
She fell in step beside us anyway. “Must be big if you’re taking the full security team.”
I shrugged. “Nah. You know how it is, daughter of the president, foreign country and all. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Doesn’t seem that way to me.”
“Well, it isn’t always about you, is it, Brits?” Hannah put in.
“Ooo, cranky. You still upset about your royal boyfriend dumping you, Davis? Frankly, who could blame the guy? Maybe I should get in touch with him and show him what a classy American girl is all about.”
Hannah turned around to let Brittany have it.
“Stick to the plan,” I whispered to her.
Hannah ground her teeth together and nodded grimly. We continued a few more paces until we came to the revolving doors in the hotel lobby.
“I’ll see you later, okay, Morg?” Hannah called.
“Sure, we’ll catch up then. Have a good time.”
Hannah peeled away down a corridor leading to a different street-level exit, while the Secret Service detail stayed with me. Brittany checked her step, not sure who to follow.
I swept out to the parking garage, wrinkling my nose at the smell of diesel and motor oil. A fleet of unmarked limos had taken over the deck. “Is she still following?” I whispered to George.
George glanced behind. “Affirmative. Just like you suspected. Here we go.”
George gave a prearranged signal to her fellow agents and I hopped inside one of the unmarked limos.
“Hi, Mom!”
My mother looked up from reading a brief. “Hi, honey. Did you get everything arranged for your day with Hannah?”
“Yup. I’ve got everything under control,” I said. “See you later.”
“Have fun.”
I crawled through the backseat of the limo and slipped out the opposite door. Then I scooted between two unmarked cars until I came to the one I wanted. Gently I cracked open the door. George was inside waiting for me. As soon as I inched in and settled on the seat, George muttered into her com: “Tornado’s on the move.”
Limos began backing up and moving out in a flurry of squealing tires. Through the smoked glass, I could see Brittany standing stock-still in confusion in the middle of the garage, unsure of which limo I’d gotten into.
The limo eased out into traffic and around the block to the service entrance at the rear of the hotel. Hannah emerged from the doorway and hopped inside. “Did we lose her?” she asked.
“Worked like a charm.” I allowed myself to feel a little smug. I’d outmaneuvered the CEO of underhanded manipulations and I felt that I deserved to bask in the glow of that little victory for the rest of the day.
The limo fought the traffic through Charing Cross as we headed to Covent Garden and the heart of London’s West End theater district. Tourists flooded the sidewalks. Row after row of shabbily majestic theaters, cool boutiques, and the occasional pub lined the streets. Buskers played guitar for money, artsy Londoners mixed in with picture-snapping tourists, and the whole area reeked of fun.
Hannah grew visibly more excited. “Wow, I’d love to go backstage at one of these musicals,” she said, practically bouncing in her seat.
“Oh yeah?”
“You know it. The costumes, the staging. The fabulous makeup! I’d die.”
“Don’t die. I’d like to keep my BFF around for a little longer.”
“What?”
“Check it out.”
From Shaftesbury Avenue, the limo turned into an alley behind the Lyric Theatre, where a group of theater people had gathered.
Hannah started freaking out. “Oh my god! Is that Sally Gordon, the star of Scheherazade? And Chaco Bruce, who originated the role of the Sultan? I luuurve him!”
“I thought you could use some cheering up, so I arranged a special backstage tour before the matinee showing.”
“Morgan! Oh my god! Just…omigod!” Hannah flung her arms around my neck and nearly strangled me.
The rest of the afternoon was a blast. The cast and crew treated us to an insiders’ tour backstage and they even offered to let us help with the matinee performance. The makeup artist
s took Hannah under their wing and she got to help transform Sally Gordon from a fair-skinned blonde into the sultry Arabian beauty Scheherazade.
“You’re a natural at this,” I heard Sally tell Hannah while she helped ease the long black wig over her head, making sure Sally’s blond hair didn’t tangle under the wig cap and sliding bobby pins gently around her hairline. “Usually I want to weep or scream after donning this wretched wig. But you have the right touch.”
The happy glow on Hannah’s face meant she’d temporarily forgotten about her troubles with Prince Richard.
I exchanged looks with George, who nodded back in acknowledgment. She’d had the theater swept for security clearance in record time so we could give Hannah this experience. I owed her and the office of the presidency big-time.
Chaco Bruce, the actor who played the romantic male lead (oh lord, the dude was a stone-cold fox!), approached. I tried not to spontaneously combust. “I heard you’ve been in a few plays yourself,” he remarked.
“Just high school productions,” I answered. Did I sound like a gibbering idiot because Chaco’s deep blue eyes reminded me of Max’s? “Nothing as epic as a professionally staged musical, though.”
“Would you like to find out what it’s like?”
“What do you mean?”
“We could fit another extra into the big ensemble pieces. You wouldn’t have to sing, just stand in the back and pretend you’re part of the Sultan’s entourage.”
“Are you serious? I’d love to!”
Curtain call was in twenty minutes, so I was hurried into a purple silk kaftan, pointy slippers, and a turban loaded with costume jewels. Hannah dusted a deep bronzer over my skin and glued a fake mustache over my lip.
Nerves ate me up as the curtain rose, but one of the other chorus Arabians kept an eye on me and made sure I hit my mark so I didn’t interfere with the principal cast members. The lights blinded me at first, but I quickly got used to them—as well as the unique smell of actors baking inside the elaborate costumes. Adrenaline pumped through me when the applause of a full house swelled along with the music from the orchestra playing in the pit in front of the stage.
The finale included all the cast members mourning the death of Scheherazade. My chorus partner had placed me at the very end of the stage so I could be the first one off after curtain call. One by one the principal actors took their bows to a standing ovation. Then the chorus lined up to bow. I bent at the waist and my turban toppled off my head onto the stage.
I should have warned the stage manager that I was prone to disaster.
“It’s the president’s daughter!” someone in the audience yelled.
“Huzzah, Morgan Abbott! Bravo! Bravo!”
One of the chorus boys took my hand and led me to the front of the stage. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and raised my hand to the audience.
The noise in the theater was deafening, but the cheers were friendly. I pasted a smile on my face and, turban in hand, took another bow to renewed cheers. Thank gawd the British had a sense of humor. Later, I’d probably be able to watch myself on YouTube, if the massive amount of cell-phone cameras lighting up the audience were any indication.
Afterward, I met up with Hannah as she finished swapping makeup tips with the head makeup artist. “Wasn’t this a total blast?” she said. “I’m so going to do this after college. By the way, you looked good out there! The spotlight suits you.”
“I’ve had a ton of practice with the spotlight,” I said. When wasn’t I in the spotlight? Truth be told, I was getting tired of it. I was ready to be plain ol’ Morgan Abbott and give the spotlight a rest.
Sally Gordon recommended a trendy Asian/tapas fusion restaurant around the corner toward Piccadilly Circus. Ten minutes before we arrived, George called management to reserve a table in the quietest corner. As promised, KitKue Klub’s decor mashed a weird mix of animal prints and Japanese anime, but somehow the whole thing worked. I loved the edgy kitschiness right away. Luckily, the patrons and management at KitKue Klub were used to celebrities popping in, and our arrival with the security detail was met with a collective yawn.
“Wow, check out the menu,” I said to Hannah, who sighed in ecstasy over the fabulous fringed leopard print club chairs. “The ahi pizza sounds killer. I’d never think of pairing sushi and pizza.”
Hannah wrinkled her nose. “Sounds gross to me. I’ll stick with the Asian fries and duck salad, thanks.”
I ordered the pizza, kimchee fried rice, salmon carpaccio, and a molten lava chocolate cake to appease Hannah.
She raised her passionfruit mocktail served in a twisty martini glass. “Thanks for the day, Morgan. You really pulled out all the stops, and I know what a hassle it must have been to arrange a day at the theater.”
“Well, to be fair, I came up with the idea, but George and Mom’s aides did most of the work. You’d do the same for me if I needed cheering up. Besides, you’ve stuck with me through some major issues. Brittany, impersonating my mom, guy troubles—”
“When you put it that way, yeah, you owe me big-time.”
We giggled and clinked our glasses together.
“Seriously,” Hannah said. “Thanks. Spending time backstage today made me realize that I belong in the visual arts. I’d love to be able to dress people up for a living.”
I toyed with a piece of sushi. “I wish I was as certain about my future as you are about yours.”
Surprise flicked across her face. “You mean you don’t want to go to college? I thought that’s why you were stressing out about your SAT so much…so you could get into a good school.”
“C’mon, Hans. I’m not really Ivy League material, am I?” I gave a hollow chuckle.
“All right, Morgan. Dish.”
I could never hide much from Hannah.
“Well, what I’d really like to do is become a chef.” Admitting it felt like taking off in Air Force One—the rush and then flying.
“Chef? Like, cook food and stuff?”
“Yeah. Cook food. But really cool food like this, surprising food that makes people happy. And I want to own my own restaurant someday. Something fun and trendy, constantly evolving. I’d love that.”
“Then why don’t you go for it?”
“Hello, daughter of the president here. I’m supposed to sit on the board of my father’s corporation or go into politics. Or at the very least become a civil rights lawyer or aid worker with the U.N.”
“Listen, Morgan. It sounds corny, but you should follow your heart. Otherwise, you’ll be miserable.”
I sighed. I wished I could be sure my heart knew what it was talking about. I felt pulled in so many different directions, I didn’t know which way to go.
A waitress in a neo-punk outfit set the molten lava chocolate cake in front of us. Hannah picked up her fork with enthusiasm. “What do you wanna bet Brittany is camped out in the lobby of the hotel waiting for us?”
“Probably whining to the concierge that we ditched her.”
“Which we did.”
We slapped a high five over the cake.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning, Hannah discreetly left the hotel room early to have breakfast in the tearoom in the lobby so I could beautify before Max arrived. We’d arranged a secret visit through a series of cryptic phone messages.
I’d never make it as a spy. But I knew Max was spy material. As much as I wanted Max to land this MI6 job, I selfishly didn’t want it to happen even more. How awful.
I’d just swiped some bronzer on my cheeks and got my hair fluffed when the tap came at the door. I opened it and hauled Max in for a big hug.
“Easy, Morg. You’re strangling me,” he laughed.
“I missed you lots.” God, he smelled great and looked even better, despite his blah suit.
“Missed you, too. Are we…alone?”
I grinned. “Yeah.”
“So where’s Hannah?” he asked.
“Down in the lobby tearoom learning to love Marm
ite and toast.”
Max shuddered. “Why would anyone ruin a good piece of toast with that horrible salty goo?”
“Hey, I like it! Expand your food horizons.”
“Bangers and mash is about as far as I want my food horizons to expand. Is Hannah feeling better about the Richard thing?”
“No. She’s putting on a brave face, but I can tell she’s still upset that he won’t talk to her.”
“The palace probably issued a noncommunication edict.” Max and I plopped down on the sofa, snuggling together. “Richard must be waiting for things to cool down before contacting Hannah again.”
“Well, it’s tearing her up.”
“I’m sure it is.” Max’s face settled into a serious expression. “It can be hard dating a celebrity. The security, the subterfuge—”
“I’m tired of all the sneaking around, too.” I sighed and unglued myself from him a bit. “Why don’t I tell my mom about us? She could talk to the head of the Secret Service about that stupid fraternization regulation between agents and protectees. I’m sure she could work something out.”
“Out of the question,” Max said sharply. “I would never put the president in the position of using her power to ask for a special favor, and neither should you.”
“Hey, don’t get angry. I’m only trying to think of a way we can see each other more often. I hate the sneaking as much as you do.” More, in fact. Hiding my relationship with Max from my parents was really wearing me down.
“I’m not angry.” Max sighed and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. “I’m frustrated. I’ve never been good at lying. And it feels like every time we’re together, we have to lie to make it happen.”
“Whoa. That’s a pretty negative way of putting it.”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“But it’s worth it. At least to me, it is. Don’t you feel the same way?”
But Max said nothing.
“Max?”
“I don’t know anymore,” he said.
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach.
Max looked wrecked, but he took a deep breath and continued. “You should be able to enjoy your senior year without worrying about sneaking around. I know it’s eating you up hiding me from your mother. You should find someone you can bring home to meet your parents and not have to sneak around with in boiler rooms.”
Secrets of a First Daughter Page 10