Girl Online(47)

“Good morning!” I say to her, because I’m so overexcited I’ll even talk to a doll. “Did you sleep well?”

I imagine the doll saying, “No actually, I slept terribly because my eyes are glued open. How would you sleep if your eyes were glued open?”

OK, I need to get up.

I have a shower, then I sit cross-legged on my bed with a towel around my wet hair and open my laptop. I feel really nervous as I wait for my blog to load. What if my readers thought my last post was stupid and over-the-top? What if I’ve got some negative comments?

But I needn’t have worried—the comments are all even lovelier than ever, most of them containing little red heart emoticons and demands for more details about Brooklyn Boy.

I’m just about to see if Elliot is awake when I get a text message. Please, please, please be from Noah, I silently plead. As I pick up my phone, I notice the doll gazing at me from where I’ve sat her up on the pillow. “Oh, purlease,” I imagine her saying. I take a deep breath and try to be cool, but as soon as I see that the text is from Noah, the fluttering begins.

I dreamed that I was taking you all around New York and every place we visited turned into cake. What could this mean?! N



I quickly text back.

That you’ve been struck by the Curse of Magical Mystery Day . . . ? Sounds amazing, though. Imagine if the Empire State Building turned into cake!



Have you looked outside yet?



No, why? Has the moon turned green?



I go over to the window and pull back the curtain. Feathery flakes of snow are tumbling from the sky. The buildings down below look as if they’ve been sprinkled in icing sugar.

Oh wow—it looks so beautiful!



Yep—now it feels like Christmas! Have a great day and see you at midnight!



You too!



Even though I think it’s going to be the slowest, dullest day in history because I’m so excited to see Noah, the wedding is actually really good fun. As the guests start to arrive, the suite becomes more and more like Downton Abbey. The men look so handsome in their black and grey dress suits with their hair all slicked back. And the women look stunning. Every twenties-style dress is a work of art, made from satin and lace and the most intricate beading, all in the most beautiful muted shades like lavender, emerald, and plum. Even the children are in costume, looking just like china dolls in their ruffles and buttoned-up boots. I can’t help feeling a bit wistful as I look down at my own servant’s costume—a plain, starchy black A-line dress with an even starchier white apron over the top of it.

While the professional photographer takes some posed shots of the groomsmen and the guests, I sneak around with my much smaller camera, taking impromptu shots. I get a few lovely close-ups of the detail on some of the dresses and a super-cute shot of two of the flower girls whispering in each other’s ear. Then, just as someone announces the bride’s arrival and the guests all rush to their seats, I take a really romantic picture of Jim at the top of the aisle, looking so nervous and hopeful and handsome as he waits for Cindy to appear.

In the end, they decide not to put on British accents to read their vows, which I’m really glad about. The vows are so beautifully written and heartfelt. They’ve added in all these really fun, personal details like Cindy promising not to moan about Jim watching baseball and Jim promising to learn to love reality TV. By the time the ceremony’s over, I’m a gooey emotional wreck.

As the guests all start tucking into the wedding breakfast, Mum pulls me over to one side. Her eyes are bright and sparkly and she’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Pen, you’ll never guess what! I’ve been asked if I’ll theme a party. Here in New York.”

“What? When?”

“Next week.” Mum looks over at the head table. “You know the maid of honor—the big lady with all the hair?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s her thirtieth birthday on the day before New Year’s Eve and she’s asked if I’ll help her organize a mods-and-rockers theme for it.”

“Wow! But—but we’re flying home tomorrow. How are you going to do it?” I get a horrible sinking feeling at the prospect of Mum staying here and us all having Christmas at home without her.

“She’s said she’ll pay for us to all stay on longer—to have Christmas and New Year in New York. And they’ll pay for us to rearrange our flights too. These people are seriously rich, Pen, money’s no object to them.”

I stay rooted to the spot as I try to process the news. “We’re going to stay here for Christmas?”

Mum nods. “Yes. I’ve called your dad and he’s fine about it.”

As soon as I start feeling excited, my brain instantly starts searching for reasons why this can’t possibly happen—why it has to be too good to be true. “But what about Tom? And what about Elliot?”

“Elliot can stay too,” Mum says with a smile. “Well, hopefully he can; I’ll need to call his parents. And Tom will be fine. He texted me this morning asking if he can spend Christmas with Melanie and her family.”

I’m now so excited I feel like dancing the conga all the way through the dining room. I don’t, though, because there are way too many trip hazards.