Take on Me

by Sarah Mayberry

  TAKE ON ME

  Sarah Mayberry

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  Thanks to all the Shortland Street and Neighbours people who have inspired this book—bits of all of you are in there somewhere. As always, thanks to my faithful readers—La-La, the fabulous Miss Moneypenny and Hanky Panky—and to Wanda, the maple syrup queen, who always knows best.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Coming Next Month

  Prologue

  Grovedale Senior High Prom, 1994, Los Angeles, California

  SADIE POST STARED at her reflection in the girls’ bathroom mirror. More specifically, she stared at her chest. Her flat, featureless, pancake of a chest. Her mother kept telling her she was a late developer, but Sadie had given up on hoping for late development two years ago. At seventeen, with a chest like an ironing board, she was officially a freak of nature. One day soon, a documentary crew would turn up on her doorstep and she’d be starring as The Girl Who Skipped Puberty. They’d have a doctor and diagrams, and they’d explain how all the stuff that was supposed to go toward breasts and hips in her body had instead been used by Mother Nature to stretch her out to a skinny six feet tall, with no extra to spare for luxury items like curves.

  No wonder Dylan Anderson didn’t know she existed. She’d sat next to him in American Literature for a whole year, and he’d barely glanced her way. The one time he had, she’d been doodling his name all over a page in her notebook, and she’d barely managed to slam it shut before he saw it.

  She bit her lip, thinking about what had happened in class today. He probably knew she was alive now. And not in a good way.

  Why had she suddenly decided it would be good to stand up for herself?

  She knew why. She might not have breasts, but she had desire to spare. In the privacy of her bedroom, she’d mapped the silky smoothness of her own body, discovering what felt good, what felt great, and what made her lose control when she did enough of it. And it was always Dylan’s name she whispered into her pillow when she climaxed.

  The door suddenly swung open and music filtered through into the bathroom as two girls entered, their high heels click-clacking on the tiled floor. They were giggling, their blond heads leaning toward one another as they whispered conspiratorially.

  Sadie stepped back from the mirror, allowing them to take her place. She knew where she fitted into the school food chain. Cindi Young and Carol Martin were cheerleaders—she was an amoeba compared to them. Less, probably.

  She kept her eyes averted as they smoothed on lip gloss and fluffed their hair, finally teetering back to the gym to gyrate some more and send the boys wild with their sexy, curvy bodies and gravity-defying breasts.

  Cindi and Carol and girls like them were why Sadie had done what she’d done today. She knew she didn’t have what it took to get Dylan’s attention the old-fashioned way. And she’d wanted him to notice her so badly. When the opportunity had seemingly fallen into her lap…she’d jumped in, feet first.

  Which was probably why it had all gone so horribly wrong. She hadn’t thought through her strategy enough. Usually, she liked to script important events in her mind first before she tackled them in real life. Of course, in real life, people often diverged wildly from her mental script—but for some reason it helped her feel braver if she’d already imagined a version of the scene in her head.

  She took a deep breath and tried to fluff her blond hair into a semblance of Cindi or Carol’s provocative hairstyles. It resolutely refused to do anything but hang limply by her face, and she finally dropped her hands to her sides. She was stalling. She had to go out there and face him.

  She tried her best smile in the mirror. She had good teeth, small and straight and white. And she liked her lips—they were full and pouty, even more so with some of her mom’s lipstick on. The smile looked okay. She tried a greeting.

  “Hi, Dylan.”

  She grimaced. She sounded way too familiar. It wasn’t as if they were friends or anything. Especially after today. But what were her options? She could hardly call him Mr. Anderson. He’d die laughing.

  “Hey, do you have a moment?” she said instead, trying to sound sure of herself, a woman of the world. Her voice came out all weird and croaky, like Miss Piggy.

  Her eyes dropped to the bodice of her satin gown once more. Who was she kidding? She looked like a kid playing dress-up—a really tall, skinny kid. Why would Dylan glance twice at her when she didn’t even look like a real woman?

  On impulse, she spun on her heel and stepped into the first cubicle. Working feverishly, she plucked again and again at the single-sheet toilet paper dispenser, her hands a blur of motion as she harvested a mountain of paper.

  One nervous eye on the door, she stuffed the tissue down her bodice. It prickled against her skin as she adjusted it again and again until two respectable-looking mounds tented the front of her spaghetti-strapped, knee-length, black satin dress. She turned sideways to the mirror, then spun around the other way. A small smile curved her lips. She looked good. She had breasts! Surfing a wave of confidence, she pushed her way out into the corridor.

  Music throbbed loudly as she made her way toward the gym. Madonna’s “Vogue” was playing, and as she entered the cavernous gym she saw Cindi and Carol and their clique striking a series of sexy poses on the dance floor.

  Immediately she began to scan for Dylan. Her eyes ran over the Jocks, lounging on the bleachers and eyeing the dancing cheerleaders with lascivious intent. Next were the gaggle of Art Geeks, their dramatic black hair and smudged kohl eyeliner making them look like extras in a Michael Jackson video in the gym’s nightclub lighting. The Burn-outs and Freaks were next, then the Math Nerds. A frown pleated her forehead as she turned slowly, trying to find Dylan’s tall, rangy frame in the crowd. He wouldn’t be dancing—he was too cool to dance. And he wouldn’t necessarily be hanging out with any of the established groups. He was a lone wolf, operating outside the cliques that made up the school’s social hierarchy. Luckily for him, he was good-looking enough and funny enough and cool enough to get away with it. James Dean for a new generation, except his hair was raven-black instead of dirty-blond and his eyes a dark, disturbing gray.

  The crowd parted briefly as the tide shifted on the dance floor between songs. Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do” came on, and suddenly she saw him standing on the other side of the gym. As usual, her heart skipped a beat. He was so dark and dangerous and beautiful.

  She moved toward him, edging past dancing teens, dodging uncoordinated elbows and knees until finally he was within reach, his back to her as he talked to another guy from their year.

  Nerves tap-danced in her belly now that she was near him. She almost turned away, but instead she forced herself to reach out and touch his arm, rationalizing that he probably wouldn’t hear her over the music if she tried to attract his attention verbally. Plus she got to touch him, even if it was only through his clothing.

  He swung around to face her and she swallowed a lump of pure adoration as she looked into his face. His unusual dark gray eyes, fringed with sooty, wasted-on-a-boy lashes, his straight, strong nose, the carved perfection of his lips and chin—she could practically sculpt him from stone she knew his features so well.

  His expression was unreadable as he stared at her, but there was no missing the
way his eyes dropped down below her face for a brief moment. She felt a zing of triumph rocket along her veins. He’d noticed her cleavage! It had made a difference!

  “I just wanted to say I’m really sorry about today. And to let you know I can help you with American Lit, if you like,” she yelled over the music.

  His face screwed up impatiently and he shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  Greatly daring, Sadie stood on her toes to make up for the few inches of difference in their heights and leaned toward him. She was so close, she could feel the heat coming off his body.

  “American Lit. If you need any help…?” she yelled.

  He definitely heard her that time, but his expression was unreadable. Crucially, though, he didn’t say no outright. She congratulated herself on at last getting through to him. He simply hadn’t understood her earlier offer, the one she’d made in class, before she’d…Well, obviously she could make up for all that now.

  He leaned close.

  “Sure, Sadie,” he said in her ear. “You can help me out with American Lit—but first you have to tell me something.”

  She was awash with relief and excitement. She could feel his breath on her ear. And he was going to forgive her. She had a second chance to prove herself.

  “Sure. What?”

  He pointed to her chest.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Sadie glanced down—and froze. A glowing nimbus of white light was radiating out of the neckline of her dress. For a moment her mind went blank with horror, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Then she realized that the bleached tissue she’d stuffed down her dress was responding to the black-light disco lighting. Not just responding—she had a supernova in her bodice, enough light to rival the neon glow of Vegas. Astronauts were probably pointing and staring from the moon, her chest was glowing so brightly.

  She gasped, clapping her hands to her breasts to try to cover the incriminating radiance. Stricken, she glanced up and saw that Dylan was grinning, a hard glint in his eye now. He hadn’t forgiven her for today. Not by a mile.

  “You got a cold or something?” he asked. Then he reached forward and pulled her clutching hands effortlessly from her chest. Crooking a finger into her bodice, he tugged it out so he could look down her top more clearly. “Man, you’ve got a whole rainforest down there, haven’t you?”

  She was numb with shock as he reached into the neckline of her dress, unable to comprehend what was happening. She’d imagined his hands against her skin a million times, but as she felt the warm brush of his fingers against her body there was no desire, only a rising tide of nausea and shame. Slowly, casually, he plucked the scrunched-up tissue from her dress, handing each piece to her so that soon she was holding a small pile of glowing white balls. A crowd gathered to witness the spectacle. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Jocks doubled over with laughter as they saw what was happening, while Cindi and her pack giggled behind their hands. Others murmured sympathetically, shaking their heads as they witnessed her humiliation.

  At last she was holding all the tissue, and Dylan reached forward and covered her clutching hands with his own. Leaning in close, he squeezed her hands meaningfully with his own and looked her in the eye.

  “I think we’re about done, Sadie Post,” he said. For the first time she smelled the alcohol on his breath and registered the glassy cast to his eyes.

  He turned his back on her. She stood frozen for a few more pathetic seconds as he walked away, then she turned tail and ran, glowing balls of tissue scattering in her wake.

  She wanted to die. She could never come to school again. She could never do anything again. Within minutes, the whole school would know what had happened, and she would be the absolute laughingstock, a figure of pity and fun for everyone to take a shot at.

  Tears streaked her face as she bolted down the corridor, her sobs echoing off the brick walls. She hated Dylan Anderson. She hated him as much as she used to love him. More, even.

  And she was never, ever, going to forget this.

  1

  “SADIE, STOP FIDGETING. You’re a bride. You’re supposed to be serene and dignified,” Claudia said.

  Sadie grimaced apologetically. “Sorry. I just wanted to see,” she said hopefully.

  “Well, you can’t. Not until I’ve finished,” Claudia Dostis said firmly, returning to the task of lacing the corsetlike back of Sadie’s ivory-silk wedding gown.

  Sadie sighed and nodded, and her other bridesmaid, Grace Wellington, smacked her lightly on the shoulder.

  “That includes your head, too,” she said. Grace was trying to anchor a frothy veil into the upswept mass of Sadie’s honey-blond hair.

  “Does this mean I have to go back to bride-training school?” Sadie asked meekly.

  “If you’re very still for the next twenty seconds, we’ll put in a good word for you,” Claudia said.

  They were her closest friends, as well as her work colleagues and she trusted them implicitly, so she made a big effort to calm her nerves and stand docilely for the next few minutes as they continued to fuss. Finally, she felt a last tug around her middle, then Claudia let out a sigh.

  “Done!”

  “Me, too,” Grace said.

  They both stepped back and surveyed her with satisfaction.

  “Nice work with the veil,” Claudia said to Grace.

  “Not so shabby on the dress work, either,” Grace said, returning the compliment.

  Sadie raised an amused eyebrow. “Does this mean I finally get to look?”

  Grace and Claudia grabbed a shoulder each and gently turned her around to face the freestanding mirror in the middle of her bedroom.

  The woman facing her was a stranger, an elegant fairy princess in floating ivory silk, her blond hair swept into a sleek, sophisticated updo, her neck long and slender, her pale skin flawless, her large brown eyes dramatic and sexy.

  “Wow. Is that really me?” Sadie squeaked.

  “Yep. Gorgeous, as always,” Claudia confirmed.

  Sadie blushed at her friend’s compliment, but a frown creased her forehead as her gaze inevitably drifted to her chest. It was pathetic, but she would probably never be one-hundred-percent happy with the size of her breasts, she admitted to herself. Too much baggage. Too long waiting around for the damned things to arrive in the first place. Who didn’t develop breasts until they were nineteen, for Pete’s sake? It was a form of cruelty, as far as Sadie was concerned.

  “What’s wrong? You hate the way I did the veil, don’t you?” Grace asked, her clear green eyes clouded with concern.

  Sadie pushed the old, old worry way. She was a B cup. Perfectly respectable. It was because she was nervous—that was why such an old, dusty preoccupation had reared its ugly head.

  “It’s perfect, thank you. I was just wondering if I should have gone with a white dress instead of ivory,” she fibbed.

  Claudia made a rude noise. “Even ivory is pushing it, lady,” she said knowingly.

  “Hey!” Sadie said, pretending to be offended. “Are you implying I’m not a virgin?”

  “I hope you’re not,” Grace said. “I’ll have to take down all that stuff I wrote about you on the toilet wall.”

  They all giggled like idiots, then Sadie caught sight of the time and a jolt of adrenaline rocketed through her. The car would be here in twenty minutes.

  “You guys had better get dressed,” she advised.

  “Remind me again how you talked me into this dress,” Grace muttered as she unzipped the long, figure-hugging, strapless red sheath that had been tailor-made for her bombshell figure.

  “Let me see…Because I am Bridezilla, and I must have my way?” Sadie suggested lightly.

  “And because you were outvoted two to one,” Claudia said as she slid into her pint-size version of the same dress. Although she was petite, Claudia’s figure was still feminine, and the red fabric clung to her curves. With her olive skin and almost-black Gree
k eyes, she looked stunning.

  “Oh, God.”

  Sadie turned from contemplating Claudia’s dark beauty to see that Grace had pulled on her dress and stepped into her stiletto heels. Red silk outlined her classic hourglass figure, zooming in dramatically at her tiny waist, and then out again for her fantastic, sexy hips. She looked like Veronica Lake and Betty Grable and Marilyn Monroe, all rolled into one sexy, hot mama.

  “Hubba, hubba.” Sadie hooted approvingly.

  Grace blushed a fiery red to match the dress. “I look like an overcooked hot dog,” she said gruffly. “If one of these seams gives, duck for cover.”

  Sadie laughed and shook her head. They looked beautiful. Red had been the ideal choice for both of them, and the classy dress set off their different figures to perfection.

  “I think we need more champagne,” she said, moving across to where the last bottle rested on ice. She and Grace had already guzzled a whole bottle while their hair and makeup was being done—Claudia being a staunch teetotaler—but Sadie figured the alcohol would help settle her growing nerves.

  She was getting married! Her mind turned briefly to Greg Sinclair, the handsome blond man she would soon call husband. She wondered what he was doing, how he was feeling. Was he as nervous-excited as she was? Would it be cheating to call him before the wedding?

  Resisting the temptation to jinx things by making a quick phone call, Sadie concentrated on working the cork loose from the champagne bottle as Claudia and Grace put the finishing touches on their hair and makeup.

  She had to stifle a smile as she heard Claudia bossily telling Grace to not even think about putting on the heavy black-framed retro glasses she habitually wore.

  “Banned from the wedding,” Claudia announced firmly.

  She was going to make a great producer on Ocean Boulevard, Sadie knew. She sighed happily to herself as she poured out the champagne. Her life was so good right now. It had been cool enough working with Grace for the past two years as script producer to her script editor on Ocean Boulevard, the daytime soap that currently consumed her working hours, but now Claudia would be joining them as producer of the show. It didn’t get much better—doing something she loved for a living with her two closest friends by her side. And, in under an hour’s time, she would be married to an amazing, funny, clever, gorgeous man.