The Seven Month Itch Page 10

  Uh oh. Locked. I run back down again and circle the van, trying the back first. Brilliant. The back window, the one that lies above the table and bench-seat area if the inside of Holly’s trailer is anything to go by, is open. Now, if I can just find something to stand on, I can probably wriggle inside and land safely on the padded bench seat.

  I look around me and spot a couple of plastic crates stacked next to some industrial-size rubbish bins. Within seconds, I’ve run over there, grabbed one and hauled it back, stacking it underneath Kent’s window. Now for the hard bit. Dumping my backpack on the ground, I reach up and manage to grab the bottom edge of the window, haul myself up onto the crate and then pull myself up to a standing position. From there on in, it’s plain sailing. I can stick my head into the trailer easily. Shimmying on in, however, is a little bit harder. I have to push my torso and stomach over the metal bottom of the window, and it hurts. So does the not-very-commando manoeuvre I manage to do to get myself fully inside. I think I’ll call it a half-head-whack-on-bench-seat side somersault, with a back-cracking table dismount.

  Ouch.

  I end up on the floor and sit for a second, a bit stunned. I guess interning for Mikey any time soon isn’t on the cards, but still, I’d like to see him try to get through that window. (Or maybe he’d just take the easy route and kick the door in.) Slowly, I check each of my limbs, and rotate my neck. Well, everything seems okay. Then I gradually get up, rubbing my back as I go. It isn’t until I’m fully standing that I look around me properly.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Psychopath warning.

  Total midday-movie psychopath warning.

  My hand freezes right where it’s rubbing my back. I stop breathing. Then, just as slowly as before, I turn and look around me.

  Kent has pictures of Holly up all over his trailer. Not plastered all over the walls like a complete and utter psychopath about to go on an axe rampage; but he’s certainly a psychopath in training, because there are more than a few pictures of his ex-fiancée in here. Sitting on his kitchenette bench, for instance, there’s a framed one of them together on a beach somewhere. Then, stuck on the mini-fridge, I see a magazine clipping of them on a red carpet – an awards night, no doubt. And there’s a photo of the two of them smiling, at a restaurant, pushed into the edge of his mirror, and a few others besides.

  Sick.

  I take a step back, shocked at what I’m seeing, hit the edge of the bench seat and sit down with a whump as I put two and two together. All the stuff I’ve been reading and hearing in the media, Kent’s obvious over-the-top screen kissing on the set and, now, this collection of photos. So, the rumours aren’t rumours after all. They’re true. Kent still loves Holly. And, no doubt about it, he wants her back.

  Most likely before this Saturday. Before the wedding.

  I sit there, staring at the photos around me, not really knowing what to do now. Maybe Kent’s going to try something truly awful. And I don’t just mean sabotaging the wedding. I mean to Holly. But no, he wouldn’t hurt Holly, would he? Not if he loves her. Not if he’s trying to win her back. But spoil the wedding … definitely. As far as he’s concerned, that would be fair game.

  Wait. Hang on a second. Maybe that’s why the marriage licence went missing. Maybe I was right, and Kent is connected to Susannah in some way … I bite my lip now, my brain whizzing around in way too many directions. Kent and Susannah? Do I really believe that? I think back to Alexa’s words – what did she say again? Something about one of Hollywood’s highest paid actors paying off his ex-fiancée’s wedding security service and planting a research assistant in her and her current fiancé’s home.

  Um, er, okay. So maybe that is a little far-fetched. Even for me.

  So, my guess is that Alexa’s right. For some reason (hey, call it a gut reason!), I don’t really believe Kent and Susannah are linked. The thing is, though, it’s still a bit weird that the marriage licence went missing like it did, and then there’s the Susannah photo-taking incident to consider as well. I shake my head, frowning. It’s all so confusing. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know who to trust. And, worst of all, I don’t know what to do. Because, I mean, I have to do something, don’t I? It’s my job to pull this wedding off. Everyone’s counting on me. Again, I bite my lip. Think, Nessa, think …

  But, as hard as I urge my brain on, nothing comes. Except some more of Alexa’s words, that is. I can’t stop thinking about something else she’d said. About how much Holly and my dad love each other and how they’d get married in the living room in their underwear if they had to. (I really need to change my thought processes sometime soon. Cute butts, and weddings in the living room with bride and groom in their underwear? If I’m not careful, I’ll be thinking about my dad kissing Kent Sweetman next. Shudder.) Anyway, Alexa’s right, I realise. And, if that’s the case, which it is, why does everything still feel so wrong? All I can come up with is it’s because of the Kent and Susannah stuff. They’re making things messy in the lead-up to the wedding. Messy and awful and unromantic, and I’m sick of it. So, yes, I really do need to do something. And fast.

  But, again, what? I simply don’t know. I’m not coming up with any answers today. Just more questions. Stupid LA. Where’s my inner peace? Why wasn’t it served along with my in-flight meal?

  I whip out my cell phone from my pocket in the hope that Alexa might have some ideas. I called her when my plane landed and it’s probably about time to check in again anyway.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, when she picks up the phone. ‘Guess where I am?’

  ‘Where?!’

  ‘Oh, just in Kent Sweetman’s trailer.’ I try to act cool about it but fail miserably.

  ‘Are you kidding? What’s it like?’

  ‘Kind of freakish, actually. That’s why I’m calling. I don’t know what to do. He’s got photos of Holly up all over the place.’

  ‘No …’ Alexa exhales. ‘Like, plastered up all over the place? Like a midday-movie psychopath?’

  The girl can read my mind. I look around me again. Okay, so I can only see five photos. ‘Maybe not psychopath territory,’ I say, to be fair. ‘But he’s definitely pining for her. He’s definitely one lovesick man.’

  Alexa pauses. ‘That’s not … good.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you think he’s going to do something?’ she asks. ‘Like try to wreck the wedding?’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to think any more. In fact, I’ve just realised that coming here has raised way more questions than it’s answered.’

  ‘It sounds like it.’

  Silence. It’s obvious that my best friend’s not going to be much help here. I don’t think either of us has any idea what to do. It’s Alexa who pipes up first, though. ‘Maybe you should call Mikey again, Nessa.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘The only thing I’d call Mikey for is to check up on Susannah’s measurements. And I don’t think that information is anything I’ll be wanting or needing in this lifetime.’

  ‘Okay. So what are you going to do, then?’

  I look around me once more and shrug. ‘I have no idea,’ I tell her. ‘Come back, I guess. There’s nothing I can really do here. I think I’m better off trying to hold things together on the Manhattan front. To make sure the wedding goes ahead without any hassles.’

  There’s another pause from Alexa. ‘The Manhattan front?’

  ‘Well, I had to call it something.’

  ‘Um, Nessa?’ she asks, seriously now.

  ‘Yes?’ I lean forward on the bench seat. Maybe Alexa’s come up with something brilliant after all.

  ‘Are you still in that trailer?’

  ‘Uh huh.’ I nod. Great. She has come up with something!

  ‘Hadn’t you, um, better get out of there, before Kent comes back?’

  My eyes widen. Oops. ‘Good idea. I’ll talk to you later.’ I snap my cell shut. Alexa’s right – I was making myself a little at home, wasn’t I?

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nbsp; My phone shoved back in my pocket, I jump up onto the bench seat and try to figure out how in the world I’m going to get back down onto that garbage bin. In the end, I use a vaulting hip scrape combined with a butt-thumping-onto-bitumen-as-I-entirely-miss-the-stupid-crate dismount. Another gold medal performance. This time, however, there’s not going to be any slow limb checking or back rubbing as I get up. Because, this time, a shadow standing above me grabs my elbow and drags me up to a standing position.

  ‘Nessa?’ the shadow’s voice says, its hand keeping a firm grip on me so I don’t get away.

  Uh oh. It’s Marc.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Nessa?’

  I bite my lip yet again. Talk about needing to reapply lip-gloss on a minute-by-minute basis, that bottom lip of mine is really getting a workout today. Nice of Marc not to mention me being in Kent’s trailer, though, isn’t it?

  ‘And what are you doing falling out of Kent Sweetman’s trailer?’

  I wince. Darn. Right when I thought I’d got away with it.

  The grip on my elbow tightens. ‘Well?’ he asks again.

  ‘I, um …’

  ‘Holly doesn’t know you’re here, does she?’ His eyes are boring into mine now.

  ‘No,’ I whisper.

  ‘So what are you doing here? And you still haven’t answered my question about Kent’s trailer.’ Marc frowns his best frown (and it’s a good one).

  ‘That’s Kent’s trailer? Whoops …’ I laugh slightly. ‘Hey, have you got any new dumb-blonde jokes for me?’

  Marc’s standing stock-still in front of me, and I can see he’s not impressed. He knows me well enough to work out I’m up to no good. ‘Nessa …’ he starts, and I realise that, no, there aren’t going to be any dumb-blonde jokes today. Or maybe even tomorrow. Perhaps by the weekend he’ll be back in form.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, grabbing my arm back from his tight grasp and rubbing my still fall-sore backside. Time to fess up, I guess. ‘There’ve been some weird goings-on at home, and when weird goings-on started to happen here, I thought they might be connected in some way. Connected to Kent. You know, that this might be goings-on central.’

  That frown still hasn’t left his face; if anything, it’s become more intense now. ‘No, I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Weird goings-on? What do you mean?’

  I sigh. ‘For a start, the marriage licence went missing. And Susannah, Dad’s research assistant, is a bit weird. I caught her taking photos of the apartment, and things.’

  ‘Wait. Back up. Okay, that is a concern, I admit, that some stranger’s photographing the apartment. But … but if Holly and your dad trust her, that’s good enough for me right now.’ And I can see he is concerned, because, for just the briefest of moments, his eyes dart to one side, releasing mine. I reach down to the ground and retrieve my backpack, but, too soon, the interrogation continues. ‘Anyway, Nessa, what’s this all got to do with Kent?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ I say, and support the words with a shrug of my shoulders. ‘I just thought he might be trying to do something stupid, like wreck the wedding.’

  Marc shakes his head. ‘And this is all connected to your dad’s research assistant, how?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know yet.’ And I glance upwards, at the blue, blue sky for explanation inspiration. ‘Yeah, and then there was all the seven-year/month/week-itch business,’ I continue. ‘That’s what started everything. But I gave up on that pretty fast. I know Dad and Holly are really in love. But that brings me back to Kent …’ I turn away from the Hollywood sky at this point and suddenly remember who I’m talking to. Oops. What am I doing telling Marc all this? Something tells me he’s not going to understand. ‘Anyway, have you been in that trailer?’ I jerk my thumb back behind me. ‘There’re pictures of Holly up all over the place.’

  Marc gives me a look, but doesn’t reply.

  ‘What?! There are! See for yourself.’

  I get another look for this. A withering look. ‘I’m not going to go snooping around in Kent’s trailer, Nessa. The guy’s an idiot, but he’s not a psychopath. What do you expect me to believe? That he’s got pictures of Holly plastered all over the walls in there, like something out of a bad midday movie?’

  Wow. The midday movie is featuring largely in my life lately, is it not? I clench my jaw before anwering. ‘Fine. Not like a proper psychopath. But don’t you think it’s weird that Holly’s ex-fiancé has quite a number of photos of her in his trailer?’

  ‘So he wants Holly back. Everyone knows that. So what? It’s not going to happen. He’ll realise that soon enough.’

  ‘After he’s wrecked the wedding, or before?’

  Marc grabs my elbow again now. ‘What are you talking about? He’s not going to wreck the wedding, Nessa. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s here. In LA. Working. How is he going to wreck the wedding – which, in case you’ve forgotten, is three days and a six-hour flight away – when he’s here and working in LA?’

  ‘I said, I don’t know. That’s what I’m doing here. Trying to find out what’s going on and how it all fits together … And ow!’ I pull my arm back for a second time.

  ‘Did you ever stop to think that it doesn’t all fit together because nothing’s going on?’ Marc hisses at me. But then he seems to retreat a bit, and sighs a weary sigh. ‘I can’t believe this, I really can’t. I rang you the other day to check if everything was okay and I just knew you were up to something … Man, I really can’t believe this.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Marc, but you’re going to have to.’

  ‘So I see.’ He sighs again and tilts his head to one side. ‘Tell me, Nessa, did they charge you for an extra seat on the flight over?’

  ‘Huh?’ I don’t get it. (Is this another dumb-blonde joke?) ‘What for?’ I ask.

  ‘For your imagination.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Very funny.’ I roll my eyes.

  Marc gives me a long, hard stare. ‘It’s not funny at all. Did I just hear you refer to a Marilyn Monroe movie a few minutes ago, The Seven Year Itch? I thought this wasn’t going to happen again, Nessa.’

  ‘What wasn’t?’

  ‘This! All of this!’ He waves a hand at me. ‘After that cruise-ship business …’

  Oh no. BORING ALERT! BORING ALERT! MAN OVERBOARD! WILL SOMEONE SINK THAT CRUISE SHIP ALREADY? WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PASS ME AN ICEBERG? ‘I really don’t want to hear about the cruise ship. Again.’ And to prove the point, I look away and down the long bitumen road behind Marc.

  ‘Maybe you don’t, but it’s the same thing all over again, isn’t it? You’re just being ridiculous.’

  I look over at him now all right. ‘I’m being ridiculous?’ I say. ‘I’m not the one with photos of my ex plastered up all over the place.’

  Marc snorts. ‘No, but you’re the one who’s flying all over the country because of some weird conspiracy theory. I’d say that’s way weirder than a few photos.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I turn my head away again. Wow, that bitumen is really interesting. And look – a guy in a little golf buggy!

  ‘No, not “whatever”,’ Marc insists, and he grabs my arm for the third time and spins me around to face him, pulling me in close. ‘You’ve got to stop with this stuff, Nessa. You’re too old for it. Can’t you get it into your head that the wedding is going to go ahead as planned? Holly and your dad will get married on Saturday, and that’s that. You’ve got to stop worrying about the things you can’t control, because you’re never going to be able to control everything in life. Not everything can be “Nessa perfect” a hundred per cent of the time. I know you want it to be that way, but it’s not and it won’t ever be. And if you try to force things, like you always do, you’ll simply push Holly and your dad apart. All this sneaking around and making things up, it doesn’t help. It hinders. You almost ruined their getting together in the first place. Don’t ruin their wedding as well. Go home, Nessa. Go home and grow up.’

  It’s about halfway through Marc’s speech that
I really start listening. Control. Perfect. Force. Push apart. Sneaking around. Making things up. Hinders. Ruined. The words are like knives stabbing into my heart. And he means it, too, I can tell by his eyes. He means every word. By the time Marc finishes, I can’t breathe and I can’t move. My eyes stare back at his. And even though there’s nothing wrong with me, I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain. I feel like someone’s just punched me in the stomach. Winded. Crippled.

  Because Marc’s right. I did almost wreck Dad and Holly’s chances of getting together. I am always trying to control everything. To make everything perfect. And I have been pushing things. And sneaking around. But I don’t want to ruin the wedding. And I really, really, don’t want to push Holly and Dad apart. So maybe he’s also right about that last bit. Maybe that’s what I need to do – go home and grow up.

  Slowly, slowly, my eyes still locked with Marc’s, I pull my arm back. And I try to keep calm, I really do, even though my heart is beating a million times a minute. But I can’t. My face crumples as my arm falls, Marc’s words reverberating in my head. Control. Perfect. Force. Push apart. Sneaking around. Making things up. Hinders. Ruined. Control. Perfect. Force. Push apart. Sneaking around. Making things up. Hinders. Ruined. And, still standing on that same spot, with Marc right in front of me, and even though I don’t want to, I start to cry.

  I don’t want to push Holly and Dad apart. That’s the last thing in the world I want to do. I want him to be happy. Her to be happy. Us to be happy together. My breath comes in short, sharp spurts as I look at Marc. ‘I just wanted everything to be perfect. I just wanted us to be happy,’ I tell him. And I’m crying more now, even though I really don’t want to. And it’s that horrible, gulpy sort of crying. Real crying. The sort that comes from way down inside.

  Marc steps forward, closer to me, and his eyes suddenly change. He’s not angry any more. ‘Oh, Nessa …’