The It Girl (9 page)

3. You end up giving up attempting to eat because it is causing so much drama and thus return home starving and are reduced to eating Nutella out of the jar with a spoon.

“Why don't you two go upstairs and bond?” Helena suggested, clearly sympathetic to my disastrous sushi plight.

Marianne's face dropped, and I snorted wasabi sauce so hard I thought my head was going to explode.

“That's all right,” Marianne said in a slight panic.

Normally I might be insulted by this but, still speechless
from my wasabi brain-fire, I knew where Marianne was coming from. There had been no point in the evening that Marianne had been outwardly rude or uncivil. She had replied politely to my dad's eager attempts at conversation starters and had looked at me with genuine interest when Dad mentioned I had a school dance coming up.

Not that she had been particularly impressed with my response of, “Yeah, I don't have a date though. Might have to dance with a balloon again. Ha ha ha.” In fact, she hadn't said anything at all.

It was just clear that Marianne Montaine and I had very little in common. The only thing that we shared was outrage toward our irresponsible single parents.

“I think that's a great idea.” Dad nodded, looking at me. I knew he was trying to appeal to my forgiving side. I glared back at him.

“We can just . . . bond here,” I suggested, giving Marianne a helping hand with the situation.

“I know!” Helena exclaimed, ignoring me completely. “Why don't you show Anna your shoe collection? Marianne has the most wonderful shoe collection!”

“Do I?” Marianne said in a strained voice.

“Anna would love that!” my dad announced.

“Would I?”

“Off you go, while Nick and I clear the table.” Helena rose from her seat and picked up her dish.

Marianne, without looking at me, stood up slowly and made her way out of the dining room. I reluctantly followed, two pairs of eyes following me, our parents happily witnessing their plan come into action.

I stood awkwardly by Marianne's bed as she stepped into her walk-in closet. I told myself to try to keep an open mind about what kind of future stepsister relationship we might have.

“These are my pride and joy I guess,” Marianne claimed, holding out a pair of black stilettos with the highest heel I have ever seen.

My open mind closed again. How could she walk in them and not trip? Some of us have trouble avoiding that embarrassment in flat shoes.

“They're . . . wonderful,” I said. Silence reigned. “Um, do you . . . do you always wear heels on your feet?”

“Yes. Most of the time. And definitely on my feet.” Marianne looked desperate and then went back to studying her shoe collection a little too intensely. I looked around the room for inspiration.

“Pretty cool that your mom's an actress,” I began. “You must have seen loads of movies growing up.”

“Not really.” She shrugged, looking relieved that I had said something that another normal human being might come out with. “I didn't enjoy movies that much.”

I blinked at her. She was reaching up for a handbag on her top shelf. “Wait a second.” I couldn't help myself. “You don't enjoy watching movies?”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“I mean, your mom is in some classics,” I said, still in shock by this discovery.

“Yes, I guess so.” She nodded. “It's just not my thing.”

“How come?”

“Well, my dad wasn't around. My mom was always away filming. If I stayed in and watched a film, I felt pretty lonely. And who wants that?”

“Um, yeah.
No one
.” I looked at the floor.

“Going out and talking to people, going to events and parties, made me feel less . . . ,” Marianne said animatedly, warming up to what she clearly thought might be our first normal conversation and oblivious to the fact she'd just demoted me back to the ranks of complete loser. “Well, you know.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, not knowing anything about celebrity parties at all. “I
totally
know.”

She looked at me in disbelief.

“Well, I know about the lonely bit anyway. Being an only child as well.”

Marianne nodded. We sat in silence for a moment, both lost in thought.

“Well,” I said eventually, relieved we'd found the tiniest sliver of common ground. “That was a nice moment.”

“Um, right. So, this all seems a bit rushed. Your dad and my mom.”

“Yes. I know. At least you don't have to get around the whole celebrity aspect. The whole you and Helena being these big famous stars. I mean it sounds weird, but I'm used to seeing you in magazines and reading about you in the papers. And now here you are in person and we're about to be . . . family.”

Marianne grimaced slightly at the term “family” and then slumped back onto her bed. “I just hope it all works out.” She let out a long, dramatic sigh.

I picked up a framed photo of Marianne with a group of beautiful girls, on a night out, hands on their hips, all posing perfectly for the photographer. I thought about the framed
photograph on my desk of Dog wearing a cowboy hat. I put the photo down, a sinking feeling in my stomach. How could this possibly work out?

“So do I. Honestly though, I'm not sure any of it has really hit me yet.” I picked nervously at the side of the table.

“Don't worry,” Marianne replied calmly, staring at the ceiling. “It will.”

And it did. Sooner than I was expecting.

IT WAS DOG WHO GAVE
me away.

We had been safely holed up in the closet, tucked behind the vacuum. I had been consoling myself for the last fifteen minutes, after the stormy events of the morning. Dad had been making an idiot of himself trying to reason with me through the door of my bedroom—completely unaware that I wasn't actually in it.

Serves him right. Thanks to him, I am a goner. Yes, thanks, Dad, for destroying my hope for a normal life.

If it wasn't for him and his frankly thoughtless engagement to a famous actress, then my Saturday morning would have been extremely pleasant. I would have gotten up, put on my bathrobe, greeted my previously faithful yellow Labrador, eaten bacon, and then spent the rest of the day enjoying my life.

Instead I got up, put on my bathrobe, greeted my traitorous
yellow Labrador, and went into the kitchen to find Dad standing in the corner, arms folded, hair disheveled, and looking like he'd just found Dog eating his
West Wing
box set.

“Whoa, Dad, too many whiskies last night?” I chuckled, grabbing the kitchen tongs and placing the bacon on my plate, careful not to wave it too near Dog's snout, which was cunningly resting on the side of the table. Dog was looking the other way though, trying to play innocent. He couldn't fool me.

Dad shook his head and cautiously pushed the newspaper on the table across to me.

On the front page was a picture of Helena at a recent premiere, and above it the headline read “Helena's engagement: third time lucky.” It started with a nice introduction on her new engagement to “renowned journalist Nick Huntley,” gave details about how they met and that, according to their source, the pair's current focus was “bringing the two families together.”

But it didn't stop there. Oh no. The writer then went on to share a nice paragraph about Marianne and “Nick's preteen daughter, Anastasia,” who were both “thrilled” about the engagement.

Thrilled? THRILLED? Who
was
this person?

I looked up at Dad. By the look on his face there was more. I read on with a very odd feeling in my tummy.

There was a smaller piece a few pages in, accompanied by a photo of ME strolling unaware down the road in my blouse and jeans with Dog trotting beside me yesterday evening after the dinner at Helena's. WITH SOY SAUCE SPILLED ALL DOWN ME.

Seriously. A little box in the corner of the article completely dedicated to me. The headline was “Britain's new It Girl?”

BY NANCY ROSE—THE DAILY POST

Now that Helena Montaine is getting hitched again, all eyes will be on Anastasia Huntley, Helena's almost-stepdaughter. While Marianne Montaine is no stranger to the spotlight, her new sister seems to opt for a more laid-back approach, choosing a simple—and casually “distressed”—outfit to take her dog for a walk in London.

“Anastasia is new to fame and will most likely be shy,” says our resident therapist. “One can only hope she will be a calming influence on Marianne. She must not get caught up in the fame game and lose sight of her goals.”

Marianne Montaine is well known on the party scene
and has often been accused of setting a bad example for young girls. “Anastasia isn't like that,” a source close to the family explains. “She's not into fashion, partying, or social events. But as she's so young, her father marrying someone so high profile has come as a shock to her. She is, however, taking it in stride.”

Could Ms. Huntley be a new kind of It Girl? We'll have to wait and see. . . .

An It Girl?
ME?!
I HAD SOY SAUCE ON MY TOP! And it was in a NATIONAL NEWSPAPER.

This was unimaginably awful. I guess I knew deep down that at some point it would be in the papers and it would be really embarrassing. But I didn't realize any focus would be on
me
. I thought my embarrassingly-in-love-for-his-very-old-age dad and Helena would get all the attention. I could never show my face at school again—I imagined how hard Sophie and Josie would be laughing right now at the thought that the biggest loser at school had been talked about in the papers in this way.

Why did it have to be sushi with soy sauce? WHY? Could have gone with a simple easy-to-eat dish like chicken, but no, it just HAD to be sushi with SOY SAUCE.

I will never eat soy sauce again. It is the worst of all the sauces.

“Dad, there's only one thing we can do. And I think you know what that is.” I pushed the paper away and bit my thumbnail as he watched me carefully. “I'm thinking Italy. It's sunny there and there's a lot of cheese. That's all we need if we're talking basics.”

“Anna.” He sighed, looking exasperated, which if you ask me was very unfair of him. If anyone should have been looking exasperated, it should have been me. “What are you talking about?”

“Dad, we have to leave the country. And don't suggest Sweden. I know how you feel about those cinnamon buns, but we have to be logical here and Sweden can be very expensive.”

“Anna, stop.” Dad held up his hand. “We're not leaving the country. I know it's a lot to take in, but we're going to have to face it. They were going to find out at some point, and maybe it's better that it's out in the open. No more secrets.”

“You expect me to stay in London? Are you CRAZY?”

He looked bewildered. “Why am I crazy to expect you to stay in London?”

“Dad, I'm not sure whether you're thinking straight right now. I know you had that limoncello at Helena's last night after coffee; I'm not sure if that's gone to your head. But
surely you can appreciate that you have completely ruined my life.”

“I think you're being a little dramatic now, Anastasia.”

“And that's another thing. My full name, Dad, they used Anastasia! People at school are really going to go to town on that one.”

“You have a lovely full name.” He sighed. “I think you're overreacting slightly.”

I glowered at him. “Dad! This is all your fault. Everyone in the world will read this and know that I am a massive loser who can't dress herself! This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and it's all because of you!”

I turned on my heel and walked straight out of there.

Then I walked back in to grab the bacon.

But THEN I walked out again, Dog in tow, and slammed the door, ignoring my dad's calls for me to come back to talk about it.

Talk about it! Ha! No way. I knew he would expect me to go shut myself away in the bedroom so I shrewdly shut myself away in the closet, taking Dog with me of course. It was a little annoying when Dog kept shoving his butt in my face as he got restless and decided to move around a bit, but
eventually I managed to quiet him with half of my bacon and a tummy rub.

So I sat in the closet with my trusty sidekick, listening to Dad talk to no one through my bedroom door, and reflected on what this would mean.

I didn't even really know what being an It Girl meant. I just knew that Marianne was one. School was going to be one big nightmare. I could never leave the house again. Ever.

Either that or I could undergo some major plastic surgery.

Just as I was considering what facial features I could adapt, Dog greedily decided that he was bored of all the attention I was giving him, and he scrambled up, barged out of the closet, and went on the hunt for more bacon.

“Anna?” Dad said, as he heard Dog loudly bang the closet door open.

I felt so stressed and confused, especially now that Dog had deserted me and Dad was coming down the stairs hopefully feeling a little foolish, that I decided the best thing to do would be to get in the fetal position.

“Anna, what on earth are you doing on the floor? Are you in the fetal position again?”

“The fetal position is strangely calming. And you can't just stroll on in here, Dad! You have to knock.”

“This is a closet. Not your bedroom. Why should I have to knock on my own closet doors?”

“Honestly, Dad.” I sighed. “I shouldn't have to teach you these things. Go away.”

“We have to talk,” he insisted, leaning on the door.

“No we don't.”

“Yes we do.”

“Fine. I'm staying in here forever.”

“Oh really?”

“Go away!”

“You're staying in the closet forever.”

“You, of all people, shouldn't mock other people's life choices.”