Diamonds Are a Teen's Best Friend (12 page)

My hips. Just like that creepy guy inside.

I flinch and Marc pulls back, but it only takes a second for me to realise Marc’s not the guy inside and that I don’t want to stop after all. ‘No,’ I say and pull him back in closer to me again.

We kiss for … minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks. I have no idea.

I manage to get back to the cabin five-and-a-half minutes before my dad, turn the TV on, chuck the note out and jump in the shower. Within fifteen minutes, I’m tucked up in bed and, after Dad reads for half an hour, it’s lights out. But do you think I sleep? No way.

I keep replaying that kiss in my head, over and over and over again. And it’s like some kind of drug, because every time I replay it, my heart
boom
,
boom
,
boom
,
boom
,
booms
so loud I’m sure I’m going to wake Dad up. But I can’t help myself. If you’d been kissed like that, you’d replay it in your head, too. Even if you were never kissed again, it’d keep you going until you were old and grey.

And I’m so happy. So, so happy. I think I feel even more happy because of the contrast with this afternoon when I was so miserable and the revolting incident of this evening. It’s like this one good thing has cancelled everything else out. Finally, everything’s working out perfectly. Holly and Ted. Marc and me.

At ten past midnight, I can’t bear it any longer. I have to tell someone (and I’m hardly going to wake up Dad and tell him). So I reach over quietly and grab Sugar Kane from under my bed.

I surf for a few minutes (okay, so I admit it, I even Google Marc’s name). I have a hard time following the links that come up, though (nothing exciting – just school awards and stuff), as every time I remember that kiss, my fingers shake, making it hard to press the right buttons. Wow. My fingers are really shaking. It must’ve been a good kiss. In fact, it was so good – I glance over at my dad, whose breathing has just changed, no, it’s okay, he’s still asleep – it was just like the movies. Like that bit in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
when Lorelei kisses Gus and he forgets everything he’d been saying and almost falls over and Dorothy asks Lorelei if she puts novocaine in her lipstick. Except it would have been Marc with the novocaine in his lipstick and I don’t think Marc wears lipstick and wait this is
getting a bit weird, but … Oh. There’s an email for me …

Alexa’s final comments are a complete downer and, on reading them, I immediately snap Sugar Kane shut with a frown, effectively logging off.

I’m on such a high, I don’t want to think about anything bad tonight. Right now, life’s perfect and I don’t want to be lectured or frowned at or ‘spoken to’ or anything like that. All I want to do is remember that kiss … ah.

I lean back over again and push Sugar Kane under the bed once more. As I do, I see the time on the bedside clock, which reminds me it’s tomorrow and the word ‘tomorrow’ makes me think about what’s going to happen in the morning – when I see Marc. Damn. Because that makes me think that he’s going to want to talk. Yes, maybe he’ll want to talk about ‘the kiss’ (and wouldn’t I be fine with a replay!) but he’s also going to want to talk about what happened at the disco and about our fight the other day. And that’s one thing I really don’t want to talk about – our fight the other day.

I hate that Ted’s filing stories on Holly, but I’ve got to keep those romantic rendezvous coming because I’ve got to get them to fall even deeper in love so I can be sure they’ll do the whole perfect wedding, perfect house, perfect babies thing. I mean, sometimes love needs a helping hand (and this helping hand will be disembarking in France). And I know Marc doesn’t like the fact that Ted keeps turning up
absolutely everywhere, but he’ll be happy when Holly’s happy and everything’s perfect, perfect, perfect and we have our double wedding just like at the end of
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
– Holly and Ted and me and …

Oops, that would be illegal at my age, wouldn’t it? Well, Holly and Ted can get married and Marc and I will, um … gaze at each other soulfully or something. (That’s if my dad doesn’t kill Marc first.)

Yes, I think, settling my head back down onto my pillow dreamily. I’m not going to think about that last bit of Alexa’s email. I’m going to pretend that every single last detail in my little world is fitting together. And I’m going to think about that kiss. Over and over again.

I’ve arranged to meet Holly for the special Chocoholics Anonymous afternoon tea at 4 pm. I call Ted a few minutes before I’m due at the restaurant.

‘So, are you coming?’ I ask.

‘Wouldn’t miss this one for the world.’

Sure, I think, my eyes narrowing slightly. And last night, would he have missed an opportunity to photograph Holly Isles getting down and dirty on the dance floor? Was that flash I saw, mid sleaze moment, from Ted’s camera perhaps? Hmmm … Almost immediately I dismiss the thought – come on, we’re talking PM here! Perfect Man! Anyway, I realise I’ll have to be a little more careful in the future. Especially where disgusting drunken disco guys are concerned. I shudder thinking about it again and, with a shake
of my head, return my thoughts to the plan. I decide to go for broke. ‘Holly’s amazing, isn’t she?’

‘I wouldn’t photograph anyone else. She’s just beautiful. Not just on the outside, either.’

Wow. This cheers me up. After all, what Ted’s just said – it’s a bit of a compliment, isn’t it? ‘Um, have you had a chance to chat to her much lately? In the last few days, I mean?’

On the other end of the line, Ted pauses. ‘Chat?’

‘Yes, chat.’

‘Er, a bit, I guess.’

That’s something at least. ‘And how are you getting on?’

Another pause. ‘Great, I suppose. Holly and I always get on just fine. She’s given me some great quotes this trip.’

Oh. Quotes weren’t exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of great kisses. Kind of like the great kiss I had last night. Mmmmm …

‘Nessa?’

Oops. ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about something.’

‘Well, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you there. Bye.’

I hang up the phone, apply a little more lip-gloss and head upstairs. Wondering, as I go, about how I can get Ted
to see Holly less as a subject to photograph and more as a subject to embrace. I’ve got to get him thinking about her the way she’s thinking about him. Like Holly said,
I just hope he sees me in the same way. I think he does, but I’m not quite sure yet
. Hmmm. Tricky. I press the button for the elevator with a shake of my head. This love thing – it’s not easy. And it seems to get even less easy the older people get. It’s like they grow blinkers as they age and can only see straight ahead. They have this defined image of what someone they might be interested in will be like and if anyone’s slightly left of centre, they don’t see them at all.

It was like that with Jessica and my dad. She was always buying him clothes with labels. The kind of labels
she
wanted him to wear and that my dad had never heard of. He’s more a jeans and tweed blazer kind of guy (yes, the kind with the leather patches on the elbows – a complete college-professor-geek fashion story). He looked silly in the clothes, though he’d wear them when Jessica was around (and scratched at his collar uncomfortably every five seconds). I never got it.

They would have been quite happy together if she’d just let him wear what he wanted. All I could see was that
Jessica had this image of what her partner should wear and she was going to make my dad fit that mould. Stupid, really. And it wasn’t because of the clothes that they broke up, it was because of what the clothes meant – that she was trying to change him. And he didn’t want to change. (Surprisingly, despite his whole daggy Dad thing, I didn’t, and still don’t, want him to change either.) Hmmm. I have to figure out a way to get those Ted blinkers off. And fast.

The elevator doors ping open and I step out, my heart starting up that familiar
boom
,
boom
,
boom
,
boom
,
boom
, because the first thing I see is Marc. Marc and Holly.

Oh. But wait. Oh, no. Marc. Marc’s there. I try to back into the elevator, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. Both of them. And,
whump
, with one last step back, my butt hits the just-closed elevator doors.

Marc and Holly race over. ‘Are you okay?’ Holly asks.

I take a quick step forward. ‘Of course I am. Me and these elevators. Ha ha. They seem to have it in for me. It was just that … um, I forgot something and I, um, was going to go back and get it, you see.’

‘Oh,’ Holly says. ‘What did you forget?’

What did I forget? My mind goes blank. Think of an
excuse, Nessa. A good one. And quickly. ‘Um, er … lip-gloss. I forgot my lip-gloss.’

‘Easy!’ Holly reaches into her pocket, pulls out a juicy tube and hands it to me.

‘Um, thanks,’ I say, applying it. Damn. Now what am I going to do? I finish applying and pass it back over.

The three of us stand and look at each other.

‘Hi,’ Marc says eventually, taking a step towards me.

‘Um, hi,’ I say. He takes another step forwards. Oh no. I look up just as his face closes in on mine and freak out. What’s he doing? He wants to kiss me here? Now? Oh, hang on, he wants to kiss me on the cheek. Like a friend. I move my head at the last moment and we end up kissing on the lips. Oh, no …

Marc pulls back.

There’s an awkward silence.

And then Holly whistles. ‘Well, well, well.’

Both Marc and I give Holly a dirty look.

‘Well, well, well …’ She whistles again.

‘Cut it out,’ Marc tells her.

‘I, um, didn’t know you were coming,’ I say to him.

‘I didn’t know it was a Chocoholics Anonymous
afternoon tea. But as I haven’t been to a meeting in a while, I thought I’d better come along.’

‘You like chocolate?’ I’m surprised. I mean, not that it’s weird or you have to be insane or something to like chocolate (if it is, I should be locked up), but it’s usually a girl thing, right? I glance over at the half-filled tables. I don’t think there’s another guy in here.

‘I’m a dark chocolate fan. The darker the better.’

Holly makes a face. ‘You should see what he eats. The really expensive bitter stuff. I can’t bear it.’

Marc nods. ‘Which is a good thing, because I can buy it and it lasts for more than five minutes in the pantry.’

‘Are you suggesting I’d eat it?’ Holly says. ‘You know I can’t eat chocolate. Russell doesn’t let me eat chocolate.’

Marc snorts. ‘Yes, that’s why you’re here. At the afternoon tea. Russell’s her personal trainer,’ he says to me, before turning back to Holly. ‘And Russell obviously doesn’t live in our pantry.’

I’d laugh, but I’m too busy freaking out. Not about the misplaced kiss (embarrassing though it was and I’m sure I’ll freak out about it later), but about Ted. Because, now, I have to stop Ted from turning up. Marc will probably
explode if he sees him here and anything between us will be off again. Tucked away in the restaurant, for Ted just to turn up – it’s too much of a coincidence on such a big ship. He couldn’t just be passing by and happen to see us. Maybe I could get him to smear his face with chocolate or something and pretend he’s a closet chocoholic? I groan. No, that’s too stupid.

‘Um, Nessa?’ Marc looks back and I see that he and Holly are halfway across the room, heading towards the already set-up tables.

Wow, I really have to stop spacing out. ‘Sorry!’ I say and jog over to catch up.

‘What’s the matter, Nessa?’ Holly says, picking up her third chocolate éclair. She inspects it with a frown, as if it’s done the wrong thing and needs to be punished. ‘Now, this is really the last one. I mean it.’

‘Huh?’ I put my cake fork down.

‘You’ve been toying with that piece of sacher torte for the last fifteen minutes. You’re putting our table to shame.
If you don’t like it, try something else. I can personally vouch for the éclairs. All of them.’

Toying with my sacher torte? That’s not like me. I look down. Oh, I guess I have been. My eyes flick past Marc and over to the elevators again. For about the five-hundredth time.

Marc’s eyes move to the elevators as well. ‘Are you looking for your dad? Is he coming after all?’ he asks.

‘Mmmfff. Yummy. Is he coming?’ Holly pops the rest of the éclair in her mouth. ‘He said he couldn’t make it.’

‘You invited my dad?’ I forget about the elevators for a second.

Holly nods, licking her fingers one by one. ‘Mmmm. Maybe I could just have a little taste of … what? Sorry. Um, yes. I was having a chat to him yesterday.’

‘For a couple of hours …’ Marc starts, and I whip my head over to look at him. What? ‘And a couple of hours the day before. Pretty much every day, in fact.’ Double what?

‘You …’ Holly replies and I whip my head back to see her give him a warning look.

‘Yes?’ Marc says and I whip my head back again. Ow. This Wimbledon-like conversation is starting to hurt. But
what’s going on here? Holly’s been spending hours with my dad. Every day. All the time we’ve been on the ship. And how come I don’t know about this? How much did I miss while I was being miserable? Marc can’t mean Holly’s been spending hours with my dad
literally
. He probably means Holly chatted to him for a few minutes once and it
felt
like hours, or even days (this is far more believable). Oh, no. Unless she really is participating in Dad’s study now as one of his subjects? And I don’t think Holly wants me to, but I have to ask.

‘You’ve been spending hours with my dad?’ I look over at her once more.

‘Um, it’s a pity I can’t be part of his study.’ Holly’s eyes move away from mine, obviously avoiding the question. ‘I think it’s really interesting.’

Phew. Holly can’t be part of the study. That’s good news. And I’m about to call her on the avoiding-the-question thing when the elevator doors open. I can’t help it. My eyes automatically flick over at the sound. And it’s just as I feared. Across the room, our eyes meet. Go away! Get out of here! I try to send him subliminal messages. But it doesn’t work. He looks away quickly (he’s not supposed to acknowledge
me, after all) and makes a break for it, trying to duck behind one of the potted palms.

Too late.

‘Oh, goody,’ Holly says, swiping another éclair. ‘It’s Ted. And his camera.’

I stop breathing. My eyes flick over to Marc’s face. He’s already staring at me. Really staring, with cold, hard eyes.

And that’s when I realise this is the end of the line. Marc knows for sure that I’ve been tipping Ted off. There’s no point in denying it like the other day, there’s no point in saying anything. And because there’s no point in denying what’s going on, this time, I don’t look away. I stare right back. And it’s not in defiance. I’m not sure what it is. I just can’t seem to stop looking at him. I can’t tear my eyes away from his.

‘Sometimes I wonder if Ted has a homing device on me,’ Holly says, from somewhere far, far away. ‘Now, that’s most definitely my last éclair. I might head off, actually. I promised I’d meet someone later. You kids have fun. But not
too
much fun. Don’t think I didn’t see that kiss before …’

I look up then, realising that Holly’s talking. Saying something about leaving. ‘I might, um, go too,’ I say to
Holly’s retreating figure, and scramble out of my chair.

‘Not so fast.’ Marc grabs my arm, pulling me back down. But not before I see Holly and Ted leave the restaurant and get in the elevator together. Oh, brilliant! Maybe they’ll go get a coffee or something! I’m almost happy for a second – until I feel Marc’s hand on my arm again.

‘You look pretty pleased with yourself.’ He’s still staring at me.

Back to reality. ‘Me?’

‘Oh, don’t play dumb, Nessa. You’re not. And I’ve really had enough of it now. I’m sure Ted got a few good shots of Holly stuffing her face. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’

I don’t say anything. But something is telling me we’re definitely off again.

‘I knew it.’ Marc shakes his head. ‘I knew you were tipping him off all along. I was just too … too stupid to believe it. Too blind. You’re good, I’ll give you that much. You’re really good. It’s clever. A good cover. Which tabloid are you with, anyway? And how old are you really? Eighteen? Nineteen? It’s like those really young-looking journalists who go back to high school and report on the whole experience. I should have known. And what’s going
on with your father, as well? Pushing himself on Holly. That’s if he really is your father …’

Huh? It takes a while for what he’s saying to sink in. And then, to quote Alexa, What? What?! What?!! What?!!! What?!!!! What?!!!!! Marc thinks I’m with a tabloid? That I’m nineteen? That my dad isn’t my dad? What?! And, if this is what he thinks, why was he kissing me last night? But, again, like before, I can’t say anything. I’m frozen. My body, my eyes – frozen. I can’t move, can’t talk. Nothing. It’s because of his eyes, I realise. I’ve met Marc’s eyes again and I’m transfixed – because they’re saying a lot more than his mouth is saying. And I have to admit that looking into them is one of the most painful things I think I’ve ever done, because I see all kinds of things I never wanted to see in a friend, especially Marc: hurt, pain, confusion, betrayal.

‘Well? Are you going to say anything? Defend yourself? Make me look like a complete idiot for trusting you for as long as I have?’

Nothing. Frozen.

Marc snorts. ‘I can’t believe I …’ He shakes his head, throws his napkin onto the table and pushes back his chair in one fluid movement. ‘Don’t call us,’ he says. ‘Either of
us. Don’t talk to us, don’t come near us, don’t contact us in any way. Nothing. You or your so-called father.’