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we moved so often – the world in my head couldn’t be taken away from me as easily as the real world seemingly could. I’ve never really known what to think about that …
    Dad gets up off the bed and comes over to turn me around and give me a kiss on one cheek. ‘You do look lovely,’ he says, smiling down at me. But then the smile fades. Oh, no, I think. He’s really upset. He’s going to cry.
    Wrong.
    Instead, the smile fades to a sharp narrowing of the eyes. ‘Nessa Joanne Mulholland. That’s not the dress I bought you, is it?’
    Damn. Just when I thought I’d got away with it.
    There’s another look. And a licking of a thumb that quickly makes its way towards my face. ‘Now, come here. You’ve got a smudge on your cheek.’
    Aaaggghhh! Incoming Dad spit!

    I try really, really hard to look sophisticated and used to walking in heels as we exit the elevator (another Chelsea bargain that Dad didn’t know about until five minutes ago). I’ve even resorted to using a bit of double-sided tape, nicked from a passing steward, between the bottom of each shoe and the soles of my feet. (Not very Marilyn, I know, but needs must …) And heads do turn on our arrival, but they also turn back again very quickly when they see we’re not Someones. Oh, well. Someone who doesn’t turn away, though, is the maitre d’. I can tell something’s up the moment I see him and he fixes me with a ‘Not very happy, young lady’ look as Dad and I cross the floor (me hanging on to his arm for dear life to keep from tripping and falling inelegantly on my face).
    ‘ Bon soir , Mademoiselle Mulholland,’ the maitre d’ says through his teeth when we reach his small desk. ‘A pleasure. Yet again.’
    ‘You’ve met?’ Dad looks at me and I shrug slightly, my face frozen. I’ll get the lecture of the century if he finds out what I’ve been up to (trying to get us seated on Holly’s table, that is). Let’s just say that my dad … he isn’t keen on celebrity. He thinks anyone who lives on the WestCoast (especially within a million-mile radius of Hollywood) has to be dull. Beauties can’t have brains in my dad’s little universe. Anyway, he may not be keen on celebrity, but I hope he is keen on sitting next to either the kitchen or the bathrooms. Because that’s where I’m thinking we’ll be sitting tonight.
    The maitre d’ glances at the list in front of him, before lifting his head once more to really give me a look. Something is up, I think to myself. Either that or the guy’s going to pass a kidney stone in about thirty seconds. ‘Well, it looks like you will be on table three tonight.’ The eyes narrow. ‘Enjoy.’ He practically spits the word. ‘James …’ He clicks his fingers and a guy materialises from behind one of the potted palms. ‘Show Professor and Mademoiselle Mulholland to their table, please. Table three.’
    James looks at us, then pauses, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. ‘Table three?’
    The maitre d’ whips around then. ‘Yes, table three . That is what I said, is it not?’
    James gives us the once-over again. ‘Table three. This way, please.’
    Table three. I’m half scared to follow him. Because I’m starting to think that table three is the one in the middle of the fancy fish tank. The one with the miniature sharks in it.
    But, as it turns out, that’s not where table three is at all. And it’s nowhere near the kitchen or the bathrooms, either.
    Table three is Holly’s table. The best table in the room. And I can hardly believe my eyes as James guides us over to it. How did this happen? Had the maitre d’ felt bad and seated us here after the lip incident? When we get close, Holly sees me and waves and Marc half-turns in his seat. I wave at Holly and smile at Marc, who doesn’t smile back. Hmmm. Busted lip or not, it looks like I’m back in the bad books again.
    ‘Who’s that?’ My dad squints, seeing me wave at Holly.
    I sigh as I look up at him.