by Zoe Sugg
“Yes,” I say, shuffling up to a seated position.
Elliot comes bounding through our adjoining door. “I’ve been awake for ages,” he says. “I’m too excited to sleep.”
I look at the clock and see that I’ve slept for ten whole hours. This is an incredible achievement after the nights of fitful sleep back home.
Elliot plonks himself down on the end of my bed and opens his laptop. “OK, I know you didn’t want to go online while we’re over here but there’s something you need to see.”
I instantly feel sick. “No, please, Elliot, I don’t want to see anything to do with the stupid video. I just want to forget about it.”
Elliot shakes his head and smiles. “It’s not the video; it’s your blog.”
I stare at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you, my dear, have gone viral again—but this time in a very good way.”
“What?” I crawl up the bed toward him and turn the laptop around so that it’s facing me. I see my post about facing my fears.
“Scroll down,” Elliot says.
I scroll down. There are 327 comments.
“What the . . . ?” I stare at the screen blankly. I’ve never had this many comments. Ever.
“They’ve all been posting about their fears,” Elliot says, “and how they’re going to face them. They’ve been sharing it too. Look how many followers you’ve got.”
I look at the followers bar on the right-hand side of the screen. “Ten thousand?”
Elliot nods. “Ten thousand, seven hundred, and fifteen, to be precise.”
I sit back, stunned. “Oh wow.”
“You should read them, Pen, some of them are so moving. There’s one girl who says she’s going to stand up to the bully in her class and there’s another who’s going to confront her fear of dentists. And, oh my God, you have to read this one.” Elliot starts scrolling through the comments. “Look.” He turns the screen back to face me.
Hi Girl Online, my fear is a bit different to the others on here and, to be honest, I’ve never told anyone about it before. But if you’ve got the courage to face your fear after your car accident, then I feel like I ought to face up to my own fear too. My fear is my mum. Well, not exactly my mum herself . . . I’m afraid of her drinking. Ever since she lost her job she’s been drinking more and more and I hate what it does to her. It makes her really angry and moody and she always shouts at me. But that’s not what I’m most afraid of. I’m most afraid that she doesn’t love me anymore. That probably sounds really dumb but she seems so different—like she doesn’t care anymore, about anything or anyone, even me. But your blog post has inspired me to do something. Today, I’m going to tell my auntie how I’m feeling. I know she won’t be able to fix anything but she might be able to give me some advice, and just telling someone might help me to feel a bit better. Thank you so much for being so brave and for inspiring us to be brave too. Lots of love, Pegasus Girl xxx
I look at Elliot, my eyes filling with tears. “Oh my God.”
Elliot nods. “I know and look at this.” He scrolls right down to the bottom of the comments.
Hi again. Just wanted to let you know that I told my auntie and she was so lovely. She came over to see my mum and my auntie has asked us to both come and stay with her for a while. My mum didn’t get angry with me at all—she was really sad and she said how sorry she was and that she was going to get help. Thanks so much, Girl Online, you’re so right: sometimes you have to face up to your fears to realize that they aren’t actually real. Lots of love, Pegasus Girl xxx
Tears spill down onto my face. I wipe them away and stare at Elliot. “I can’t believe that—that something I wrote . . .”
“I know.” Elliot puts his arm around my shoulders. “I’m so proud of you, Ocean Strong.”
I snuggle into him. “Thanks, Elliot.”
He shakes his head and frowns at me. “Thanks, Waldorf Wild.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“It’s my new Sasha Fierce name.”
• • •
Nothing beats Dad’s “Saturday Breakfast,” but breakfast at the Waldorf definitely comes a very close second. After we’ve all feasted on crispy bacon, blueberry pancakes, and maple syrup all on the same plate (which might sound weird but actually works), Mum and I go up to the suite where the wedding’s going to be held while Dad and Elliot head out to do some sightseeing. Although I’m really flattered and excited to be asked to take some photos for Cindy and Jim, I can’t help feeling a little wistful. I hope I get the chance to go out later; I’m itching to see some more of New York.
As soon as we enter the wedding suite, I look at Mum and gasp. “Oh, Mum—it’s perfect.”
She nods and smiles. “I know.”
With the portraits on the walls and plush carpets and antique furniture, it looks just like the set from Downton Abbey.
Mum puts her To Have and to Hold planner down on a small table by the door and I instinctively turn my camera on. She’s put the planner right next to a beautiful antique table lamp, which seems to perfectly sum up the theme of the wedding. I zoom in close enough to pick up the lettering on the planner and take the picture.
“So, this is the room where they’re going to get married,” Mum says, gesturing at the rows of gilt-edged chairs that have been arranged in front of a grand fireplace. “Then after the ceremony the guests will be brought through to the dining room for the wedding breakfast.”
“Why’s it called a wedding breakfast ?” I ask as I follow Mum toward a pair of huge doors on the other side of the room.
“I’m not exactly sure,” Mum says. “Maybe because it’s the first meal the couple have as husband and wife?”
I make a mental note to ask Elliot; he’s bound to know. “Oh wow!” The double doors open onto an even grander room, which is full of round tables. Huge old-fashioned chandeliers are suspended from the ceiling, with lights that look just like candles. Each table has a beautiful centerpiece woven from holly and white rosebuds. And at the far end of the room the long head table is trimmed with a border of sepia Union Jack bunting. It all looks really beautiful—and really British.
“Oh, Mum, it looks amazing!”
She looks at me hopefully. “Do you think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hello! Hello! Well, this must be Miss Penny.”
I turn to see a woman coming through a small door at the end of the room. She’s wearing a polo neck and smart trousers and has her long grey hair tied up into a bun. She’s clearly in her sixties, and she’s striking-looking, with really high cheekbones and eyes as brown as conkers. Her lipstick is a beautiful shade of dark red against her porcelain skin.
“Hi, Sadie Lee,” Mum says. “Yes, this is Penny.”
“It is so lovely to meet you,” Sadie Lee says, giving me a twinkly-eyed smile. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Before I can reply, she’s giving me a hug. She smells lovely—a really comforting mixture of soap and cinnamon.
“How did y’all sleep?” Sadie Lee asks in a husky Southern drawl, looking from Mum to me.
“Great,” I say.
But Mum shakes her head. “I’m afraid I was too nervous to get much sleep.”
Sadie Lee looks at her and smiles. “Honey, there’s no need to be nervous. You’re doing a wonderful job. Or as they’d say in Downton Abbey—it’s going to be simply splendid.” Sadie Lee throws back her head and laughs a really warm, throaty laugh.
There are some people you officially fall in love with within seconds of meeting them. Sadie Lee is definitely one of those people.
“Penny’s going to be taking some behind-the-scenes photos for the Bradys,” Mum explains.
“What a great idea.” Sadie Lee smiles at me. “Well, you know, I’m about to start doing some baking for the reception buffet so y’all would be very welcome to come and take a few pictures in the kitchen if you’d like?”
“That would be perfect,” Mum says. Sh
e looks at me. “Will you be OK, Pen? I just need to go and check that the waiting staff’s costumes all fit, OK?”
“Of course.”
As Mum heads off, I follow Sadie Lee into the kitchen. After the olde worlde vibe of the other rooms, it’s really weird to see the sleek stainless-steel counters and huge industrial-sized ovens.
“We’re doing most of the cooking tomorrow,” Sadie Lee explains. “But I thought I’d get the cakes for the reception buffet done today. I’m making a traditional British afternoon tea.”
“Don’t you have any staff to help you?” I say, looking around the empty kitchen.
She shakes her head. “Uh-uh, not today. But tomorrow I’ll have a whole team of chefs.”
I take a few pictures of Sadie Lee baking and a close-up of her flour-splattered cookbook. Then I decide to go and take some pictures of the dining room. But I leave the kitchen through the wrong door and come out into another huge room. This one has a long polished wooden dance floor running down the center of it, with small round tables lining either side. I’m about to leave when I hear the gentle strum of a guitar coming from the far end of the room. It’s so dark I can only just make out the silhouette of someone seated on the stage.
I go and investigate, creeping down one of the carpeted areas at the side of the dance floor. As I get closer to the stage, the sound of the guitar gets louder and I can hear someone singing. They’re singing so quietly I can’t quite make out the words, but whatever it is sounds beautiful and really, really sad. I tiptoe a bit closer until I see the figure of a boy sitting cross-legged on the stage, playing the guitar with his back to me. He’s surrounded by musical equipment—a drum kit, a keyboard, and a microphone stand. There’s something so magical about the image that I can’t resist turning on my camera and sneaking a tiny bit closer. I focus and take the shot, but—to my horror—I forget to turn the flash off and the stage is flooded with light.
“Whoa!” The mystery singing person leaps to his feet and spins around, putting his hands over his face. “How did you get in?” he yells in a really strong New York accent. “Who sent you here?”
“I’m sorry—I couldn’t resist—you looked so—” Thankfully, I manage to stop myself from committing an Act of Gross Embarrassment and change tack. “I’m taking some photos for the wedding that’s happening here tomorrow. How did you get in? Are you the wedding singer?”
“Am I the wedding singer?” He peers at me from between his fingers. There’s a tattoo of a bar of music notes on his wrist.
“Yes. Are you practicing?” I walk a bit closer to the stage and he actually takes a step back, like he’s scared of me. “I wouldn’t do that song tomorrow, if I were you.”
He stands motionless, with his hands still half covering his face. “Why not?”
“Well, it’s not very wedding-y. I mean, it was beautiful—what I heard of it—but it sounded so sad and I don’t think that’s the right kind of vibe for a wedding, you know? You need to be thinking more along the lines of the theme from Dirty Dancing. That always goes down really well at weddings. Did you guys get Dirty Dancing over here?”
He lowers his hands and stares at me, like he’s trying to work out if I’m an alien from another planet. And now that I can see him properly, I’m so stunned I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a thought bubble bursting from my head saying, WOW! He’s what Elliot would call Rock-God–tastic: all messy dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, faded jeans, and scuffed-up boots.
“Yeah, we got Dirty Dancing over here,” he says, but his voice is a lot softer now, almost like he’s trying not to laugh. “It was actually made in America.”
“Ah, yes, of course it was.” That familiar sinking feeling returns. Even when I’m in New York, I’m a liability. I’m now an international embarrassment waiting to happen. But then a strange feeling comes over me—a strong, determined feeling. I am not going to make a fool of myself on this trip. Even if it means not talking to anyone other than Elliot and Mum and Dad. Even if it means not talking to someone totally Rock-God–tastic—someone totally Rock-God–tastic from New York.
“Well, sorry to bother you, and good luck tomorrow,” I say, my cheeks burning, and I turn to go.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m not the wedding singer,” he says, before I’ve even taken a step.
I stop in my tracks. “You’re not?”
“No.”
I turn and look at him. He’s grinning at me now—a really cute lopsided grin, featuring several dimples. “So what are you doing here then?”
“I like breaking into hotels and playing really sad songs in their wedding suites,” he says, grinning even more.
“Interesting career choice,” I say.
“It is,” he says, nodding. “But the pay’s lousy.”
What if he’s a craz y person? my inner voice whispers. A New York craz y person. What if he’s broken into the hotel suite? What if I have to make a citizen’s arrest? Do they even have citizen’s arrests over here? Aaargh! What am I going to do?
He doesn’t look like a crazy person, though. Now that he’s smiling, he looks like a very nice person, but still . . .
“Why the frown?” he says.
“I was just thinking.”
“What?”
“You’re not—crazy—are you?”
He laughs really loud. “No. Well, yes, but only in a good way. I’ve found that life’s a whole lot better if you get a little crazy sometimes.”
I nod. That definitely makes sense to me.
“What’s your name?” he asks, picking up the guitar and placing it back on its stand.
“Penny.”
“Penny.” It sounds really good said in his voice. “I’m Noah. And I’m guessing from the accent that you’re British, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet. And you’re a photographer?”
“Yes—well—an amateur photographer, but one day I hope to be professional. My mum’s doing the styling for the wedding here, that’s why they’ve asked me to take some behind-the-scenes pictures. So, why are you here really?”
“Really?” He tilts his head to one side, still grinning.
I nod.
“My grandma’s working on the wedding too.”
“Your grandma?”
“Yes, Sadie Lee. She’s doing the catering.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve met her.” I breathe a sigh of relief. He’s not a craz y person. I’ve met his grandma. I love his grandma. I won’t have to make a citizen’s arrest.
“I gave her a lift here this morning and she said I could hang out for a bit if I stayed out of everyone’s way,” Noah continues. “So I came through here and saw the guitar and I couldn’t resist playing it.”
“Are you a musician then?”
He gives me a funny little smile. “No, not really—it’s just something I do in my spare time. Are you hungry?”
“What? Oh, yes, a bit.”
He jumps down from the stage. The closer he gets, the cuter he gets. His eyes are as dark brown as Sadie Lee’s and just like hers they seem to twinkle when he smiles. It makes me feel all strange and light, like I’m made of feathers and could drift away at any minute.
“Let’s go get some food from Sadie Lee. But first”—he stares right at me—“can you please say ‘tomato’?”
“What?”
“ ‘Tomato.’ Please, can you say it for me?”
I grin and shake my head; he is definitely crazy, but good crazy. “OK then, tomato.”
“Ha!” He claps his hands together with glee. “Tom-ah-to,” he mimics. “I love the way you Brits say that. Come on.” And with that, he strides off in the direction of the kitchen.
The kitchen now smells amazing, with one counter lined with trays of tiny jam tarts and fairy cakes ready to go into the oven and one lined with trays that have just come out. Sadie Lee is over by the huge sink, rinsing out a mixing bowl.
“Hey, G-ma,” Noah calls out to her. “You got a
ny food that needs testing? Me and Penny here are starving.”
“Noah!” Sadie Lee exclaims joyfully, as if she hasn’t seen him for years. “Penny!” she cries, when she sees me. “You guys have met.”
“Yep, Penny caught me pretending to be the wedding singer.”
Sadie Lee looks really confused. “Pretending to be the wedding singer but—”
“Never mind—you had to be there, I guess,” Noah says, cutting her off, and then he looks at me and winks before turning back to Sadie Lee. “So whatcha got cooking?” He looks at the tray of freshly baked jam tarts hungrily.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Sadie Lee says, flicking at him with a tea towel. “These are for the wedding.”
“What, all of them?”
“Yes, all of them. But if you guys want—”
Just at that moment, Mum bursts into the kitchen. “There’s been a disaster!” she cries, causing Noah and Sadie Lee to look instantly alarmed. But I know better; I’ve seen Mum react like this when she’s burned a slice of toast.
“What’s up?” I say.
“The tiara has broken,” she says, glancing questioningly at Noah, then back at me. “It’s snapped right in half and Cindy is adamant that she has to have an authentic Edwardian tiara. I don’t know what to do! I’ve left messages at a couple of vintage stores but—” Mum’s phone starts ringing and she slams it to her ear. “Hello? Oh yes, thank you for calling back. I’m looking for a vintage Edwardian tiara—it’s for a wedding tomorrow so it’s kind of an emergency.”
We all watch in silence.
“You do? How much is it? And what kind of condition is it in? Oh, that’s brilliant. Thank you. Yes. This afternoon. Thank you, bye.” Mum sighs with relief. “OK,” she says to us, “there’s a store in Brooklyn that has one.” Then Mum’s smile curves down into a frown. “But how am I going to get to Brooklyn when I’ve still got the dress fittings for the flower girls? And I’ve got to check the cake. And meet with Cindy and Jim?” She throws her hands up into the air.