Diamonds Are a Teen's Best Friend (7 page)

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 really gone on about it to Alexa, 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, but
not too 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 behaviour, which, in turn, means I’m affecting Dad’s study and his results. Like I said, not good. Not good at all. Dad will have my head on a stick 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 pm. 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. (Not that Dad and I usually do thirds. We think seconds are fine, but thirds are a bit piggy, really. And we totally scorn the people who go back for fourths and fifths.) 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 pm.

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 … turned out in a tiny little pleated white skirt, a white v-neck sleeveless t-shirt and white sun-visor, 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 towards her, I stop in my tracks. I’ve seen Holly play badminton before. She personally whupped my butt at the game just the other day (and I’m not a bad little badminton player, if I do say so myself). Afterwards, 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, gorgeous?’ 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. Yuk. 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.

‘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 brain 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 (and I don’t even sound that crash hot 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 pm, Holly and I are in her suite, staring at ourselves in her ensuite 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?! Earth calling 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-blonde 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?)

‘If your dad sees you, he will
kill
me.’ Holly shakes her head. ‘You look about twenty-one.’

‘Really?!’ I check out my reflection again. I guess I do look a lot older. It’s the make-up. And the … um … the ‘chicken fillets’, as Holly calls them. ‘You think the chicken fillets look real?’

Our two sets of eyes both move down to my chest, where, underneath my strapless boned gown, two pieces of skin-coloured plastic are hiding. Kind of like implants, but on the outside. Holly calls them her ‘secret weapons’ – she doesn’t believe in the kind of implants that go on the inside.

‘Let’s put it this way,’ she shrugs, ‘do you think mine are real?’

Now our two sets of eyes move to Holly’s chest.

‘But yours
are
!’ I say. ‘They must be, because I’m using the secret weapons tonight.’

‘Think again, babe. I’ve got a pair and a spare.’ Holly smiles and then leans forward to reapply her lipstick. ‘What if I lost one in the pool? I always carry a pair and a spare.’

‘In the pool? More likely in the racing car driver’s spa.’ I give Holly a look. Between practice sessions this afternoon, she’d ducked off to have a spa with the racing driver. A private spa. (He has the flashiest and most expensive suite on the ship.)

Holly looks over at me with one raised eyebrow. ‘I keep telling you. It was just a spa. Nothing else. Antonio is a perfect gentlemen …’ She pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Well, most of the time.’

Hmmm. I decide that maybe this is the right time to bring up the Nessa’s Lessons in Love thing. With all her badminton and spa bookings, I haven’t had a chance yet. Frankly, I’d been slightly freaked out by watching Holly make what could only be called a fool of herself at badminton. ‘Um, Holly?’

‘Mmmhmmm?’ she replies as she fluffs her hair.

‘Nessa’s Lessons in Love. If they’re not working out for you …’

Holly waves a hand. ‘Oh, they’re just a bit of fun. And
I’m
having fun. I’m lucky you reminded me that’s what I should be doing.’

‘Well, that’s good, but maybe if you toned it down a bit.’ My eyes widen as the phrase comes out of my mouth. Tone it down a bit? Who am I? My dad?

‘Maybe.’ Holly keeps fluffing.

‘I mean, a bit of flirting is good, but you don’t want to look silly or anything.’

‘Of course not.’ Fluff, fluff, fluff.

‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with Antonio. Maybe finding PM is going to be easier than we thought?’ And maybe, if Holly finds herself a nice boyfriend, she won’t need so much badminton coaching, or so many spas.

Holly sighs. ‘I hope that’s true, but I have to remember that, this time around, I’m going to move a bit more slowly. No more rushing into engagements for me. I’ve learnt my lesson. The hard way.’

‘But what if Antonio really is PM?’

Holly turns her whole body towards me. ‘But if he
really is PM,’ she says, lisping, her mannerisms, her whole
being
changing before me, ‘he really will wait for me.’

‘Oh. My. God.’ My eyes practically pop out of their sockets and I instantly forget all about my Nessa’s Lessons in Love nagging. ‘How do you do that?’ It’s like Holly
is
Marilyn Monroe. We may both be dressed exactly like her – pink, blonde and diamonds – but it’s like Holly’s channelling the woman.

She laughs. ‘Years of practice. I used to make my family laugh themselves sick when I was little. I’d do impersonations of anyone and everyone they asked me to. Famous people, people we knew, whoever. They’d even get the neighbours over to watch sometimes, like I was a circus act. Anyway, enough about that. Are you ready?’

We both take a final look at ourselves in the mirror.

‘I think so,’ I say. But, really, I’m lying. I’ve never been less ready for anything in my life.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I say, clinging on to the black curtain in front of me for support. I take another peek out
at the audience. There must be a few hundred people out there at least. ‘No, I really
am
going to be sick.’ I look around for a bucket (though what a bucket would be doing back here, I have no idea). Behind us, some guy with the most disgusting ventriloquist’s dummy you’ve ever seen sniggers at me. Holly throws him a look.

‘Pervert,’ she says, eyeing off the doll that he’s got his hand stuck up.

‘Hey!’ he pipes up now. ‘It’s a
dummy
.’

She turns back to me, pats my back and shakes her head. ‘What is it with those dummies? Why can’t they ever make a nice-looking one? I mean, how could you sleep at night, knowing that thing was in your house? It’s revolting.’

My thoughts exactly.

‘Hey, he can hear you, you know.’ The guy looks first at Holly, then at the dummy, who looks back at him.

I shudder.

Holly just shakes her head. ‘Forget about them. Are you really going to be sick?’ She keeps patting my back rhythmically.

I pause. Will the flow back down my throat. Take a deep breath. ‘I think I’m going to be okay.’

‘Good for you. Just don’t think about it too hard. Just think about it as another rehearsal. It’s when you think too hard that you lose it.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Like you’d know! You’re a natural!’

Holly snorts. ‘Is that what you think? I was petrified of performing. Especially in plays. I used to throw up three or four times before I went on every night. Night after night. It can’t have been good for me.’

‘Really?’

She gives me a look. ‘I’m not Wonder Woman, you know. I am a real person. I’m petrified now, in fact.’

I forget about my own fear entirely when I hear this. ‘Really? Of performing in some silly talent quest?’

Holly shakes her head. ‘Did I say that? No. I’m scared that your dad’s going to catch us out. He’ll never speak to me again if he sees you looking like this.’

Now it’s me who shakes my head. ‘Don’t worry about it. He’s working tonight.’

‘I certainly hope so. For my sake. No, actually, for both our sakes.’

I forget how queasy I’m feeling and snort. ‘Can you see my dad looking for a good time and heading to the talent
quest? I don’t think so. He’d be more likely to be alphabetising the magazines in the gift shop, for easy referencing.’

Holly frowns now. ‘You’re too hard on your dad, Nessa. You don’t realise what a complete and utter sweetie he is.’ But then she can’t help but giggle. ‘I can just imagine him doing that – alphabetising the magazines.’

‘Believe me, I don’t have to imagine. I’ve
seen
him doing it.’

‘Really?’ Beside me, her eyes widen, Marilyn Monroe style.

‘Well, no. But I could see he wanted to.’

Holly giggles again.

‘Stop it!’ I say. ‘You’re freaking me out. It’s like Marilyn’s really here.’

‘Sorry.’ Holly stops giggling.

‘Marilyns?’ A guy sticks his head back through the curtain and looks at us.

‘Yes?’ we say, in unison.

‘You’re on.’

Eeekkk!

The great thing about being on stage is that the lights are so bright that you can’t actually see much beyond the first few rows of people. This, however, is scary enough for me – I haven’t even performed in front of a number like the thirty people or so who fill up those rows, let alone a few hundred. Surprisingly, though, things go quite well. Like Holly told me to, I pretend we’re rehearsing again. That it’s just me and Holly in her suite, each wearing a ton of make-up, a very tight pink dress, a scratchy wig and baking under a spotlight. Hmmm, sure. I think of Marilyn singing ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
and, like Holly, I try to
be
her. Pink-outfitted, diamond-encrusted, man-hunting Lorelei.

Step, kick, step, kick … twirl and step and step …
(quick, surreptitious check that bracelet and necklace are still attached)…
arms out, arms in, twirl again …

By the time we’re halfway through our little number, I’m even starting to enjoy myself a bit and Holly gives me a big wink just as there’s a flash from the audience. I look down to see the ship’s photographer. Hey! It’s Ted! Just like he’d promised, the photos of Holly and me had appeared under Dad and my cabin door the very same evening that
I’d spoken to him. And not just one or two copies – ten copies! And a note, saying that if I wanted any more photos taken of Holly and me, just to let him know where and when we’d be doing things. Wasn’t that nice of him? I flash him an extra big smile as Holly and I head into our finale.

Step, kick, step, kick … twirl and step and step … arms out, arms in, twirl again …

I really get into the spirit of the thing with our last sequence.

Twirl, kick, step, kick …
‘Diamonds!’ I belt out. ‘Diamonds! Diamonds are a …’
twirl, kick, step, kick
. Wow. This is easier than I thought. This is fun. Maybe I
should
consider a career on the stage?
Twirl, kick, step, kick …

Oh. Cancel that. Maybe I won’t.

Because, oh.

Oh no.

No.

Dad alert. Dad alert.

And I must freeze slightly, because I think Holly notices and her head turns to see him only a fraction of a second after I do. He’s hanging around the aisle in one of
the front rows, searching for a seat. Someone hands him a program and he holds it up. At first quite close to his face and then a long way away. His glasses, I think to myself, trying to keep my steps in time with Holly’s while, at the same time, Ted’s camera flashes away, lighting us up even further. Making us even more obvious than two pink-out-fitted, bewigged, diamond-encrusted girls can be. Hello! it says. Look at the girls on the stage! Pay attention to them! Eyes up here!