Please, Penny, I hope you’re there soon . . .
I text him back straightaway.
I’M HERE! I’m so sorry. Are you still on Skype?
I don’t wait for him to answer, but flip open my laptop and Skype him. It dials for what seems like an age and my anticipation spirals. I feel a sense of panic, which is replaced with relief as I see Elliot’s face finally appear on the screen.
“Penny, FINALLY!” I can’t quite work out Elliot’s expression as he glares at me from above the green rim of his square glasses. It’s an expression that I don’t often see from Elliot.
“Elliot, if you’ve panicked me with nine desperate texts in order to tell me off for the small amount of sightseeing on this tour then that isn’t funny. You got me worried.” I start searching Elliot’s face for any small signs of humour, and wait for him to ease up and laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Penny, what was the name of that stalker person you were worried about?”
My heart feels like it stops beating within my chest.
“You mean TheRealTruth?” I ask, willing it not to be true.
Elliot’s face falls.
“What? Why are you asking?”
“I don’t think they’re a fan,” says Elliot, looking miserable. “Not unless they’re very committed.”
I clutch at my temples, fearing the worst. “What’s happened?”
Elliot sighs. “On the train back from the magazine shoot, I got this weird email from an unknown address. I’ve forwarded it on to you.” He places his hands on his head and sinks into them.
I quickly open a browser window for my email and I can see that Elliot’s forwarded me a message from TheRealTruth. I don’t even want to open it, but I have to see what’s scaring Elliot so badly.
From: TheRealTruth
To: Elliot Wentworth
Subject: READ ME
Penny breaks up with Noah, or this goes viral.
ATTACHMENT: image1052.jpg
I click on the attached image, and my heart sinks even further. It’s the photo of Alex and Elliot kissing on the balcony at Noah’s concert. It’s a really lovely photo and I almost want to smile a little bit at how cute they are. They are so clearly in love, lit up by the stage lights and surrounded by other people who are all watching Noah in awe. Almost like, in that very moment, it was only the two of them in their own world.
But since Alex isn’t out to his friends or family yet, a picture like this . . . it could shake up his entire world.
“You took this photo, didn’t you? At the Brighton gig?” He crosses his hands and rests them on his knees.
“I did, but—”
“But you didn’t think to tell me about the fact that this was on your phone too when it was stolen, and now someone is threatening to make it public! Alex is going to be furious that we could be blackmailed this way. And of course you didn’t think there was anything incriminating on your phone because you didn’t think about me and my relationship at all.”
I’ve never seen Elliot like this before. He’s angry and sad and frustrated all at once.
But I’m angry too. “OK, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight when it happened. Elliot, I feel awful that you’re being dragged into this. I didn’t know exactly what this person’s intentions were then, but now I guess it’s pretty clear. Penny breaks up with Noah. Someone wants us apart, no matter what.”
“Penny, I don’t know what to do! I have to tell Alex. If this gets out . . .” Elliot lets out a huge sigh. He sounds defeated, like this has sucked all the energy out of him. “You know how he is about us, Penny. He isn’t confident about coming out to his friends and family. Even when we’re away from Brighton, when there’s no one we know around, it’s rare that he holds my hand. That concert was one of the best moments in our whole relationship. And your house is our safe place. If he thinks we’re not even safe around you . . . he’s going to be so upset.”
Visions fill my mind of Alex’s absolute horror at knowing the photo exists full stop, let alone in the wrong hands. Although this sort of picture would be no big deal to lots of people, to Alex it will be a very huge step—one he certainly isn’t ready to take.
Yet I know too that Elliot secretly wishes he could have the photo as his profile pic. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him in a relationship. The only thing that makes Elliot sad is being unable to express his feelings in the way he’d like. He’d love to be able to hold hands and cuddle up on a picnic blanket in the park in the summer, but Alex just isn’t in that place yet.
“I don’t know what to say, Elliot. I’m so sorry that I took the photo, and that they stole it from my phone. They must have had enough time to download the last lot of photos I had taken before I changed my passwords and everything. How do they even know that Alex is this private?”
It’s quickly occurring to me that TheRealTruth isn’t some obsessed fan. But what are the chances of my phone falling into the hands of someone who knows me, and has an agenda like this? It was an accident.
I start racking my brain for any evidence of who this could be? Maybe it was Megan? Was it too convenient that she found me in the crowd, just after my phone went missing? She would have been surprised at seeing the picture of Alex and Elliot on my phone, since no one knew they were together. Could she still be annoyed about our confrontation and jealous of my relationship with Noah? Surely not, especially considering the conversation we had after the concert. It all seems too weird.
“I thought you understood, Penny. Taking a photo like that in the first place would have always unnerved Alex.” Elliot looks awkward.
“I know. I’m sorry, E. You know what I’m like—I take photos of everything. I didn’t think anyone would see it. And I would never have posted it anywhere without asking you first.” I continue to try to put Elliot’s mind at ease, but he remains downhearted and distant. “I can come home if you want? Try to make it right?”
“No, no, it’s OK, Pen. I’ll deal with this. And, whatever you do, don’t let it come between you and Noah—it’s just some stupid bully. I better go call Alex and let him know . . .” He ends the conversation, waving sadly at the camera.
For a few moments I stare at the blank screen, paralysed with indecision. But Elliot’s right: this is just a bully, and they can’t break us. I also decide that I can’t deal with this on my own now.
I pull up my email again and send a note to all my closest friends and family, warning them about the bully and potential stalker, and let them know that I am gathering all the evidence to go to the police. That way, if it really is Megan or someone else who knows me, they will also know that I mean business.
I am Ocean Strong, and no bully is going to threaten my friends or stop me from living my dream.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’m just about packed and ready to leave Rome when a wave of sadness passes over me. Even though I got to do a little bit of exploring yesterday, I feel like I’ve hardly scraped the surface of this amazing city. I stare out of the window and make a vow to come back.
There’s a frantic knocking at my door, and for a moment I think I must be late—but there’s still lots of time left.
“Penny? Are you in there?”
“Coming!” I open the door for Noah. He’s got his backpack slung over his shoulder, and I can see a little tag with Dean’s details scrawled on the side. He’s so used to being ferried from one place to another that he doesn’t know where he’s staying in each destination or what time his planes are. Dean keeps track of all that life admin for him.
“I saw your email this morning—did that creep really strike again?”
I nod. “This time with Elliot.”
“I can’t believe that! Good idea to keep a note of all the incidents—we can give it all to Dean and he can handle it with the police.”
“That sounds great,” I say, relieved that I can share the burden.
“Now, ma chérie, are you ready to go?”
“To Par
is?” I pull a face, attempting to look sophisticated and Parisian. “Mais oui! I’ve never been more ready.”
• • •
Landing in Paris, I feel so excited I want to run about like a child at Disney World. As we drive from the airport to our hotel, I gawp like a fish in a tank at the sights we’re passing.
My mum has always loved Paris—especially as she thinks she is living in the film Amélie when she’s there. It’s her favourite place in the world to be, and when she was eighteen and a young, aspiring actress she ran away to live the bohemian life in the Latin Quarter for a few months. Now she and Dad make a special point of coming here for little breaks away, and now finally I’m able to see why they love it so much.
I’m in the city of love, with the guy I love. Could it get any more perfect?
“Paris is going to be the best, Penny. Tonight at the gig, all the top music journalists are going to be there, reviewing the show. We’re going to have to be better and play harder than ever,” Noah says, as we exit the car in front of the hotel. It’s the grandest hotel we’ve been to yet, with porters collecting our luggage and hauling it up a wide staircase. It’s exactly how I imagined our Paris hotel to be, and I know it’s going to be so romantic. I turn and look at Noah, his face eager with excitement, and I smile a big, toothy smile—the kind you only do when your grandparents ask you to pose for a photo with your siblings. I’m not sure if it’s an attractive smile, but at this point I don’t care.
“And, after that, AFTER-PARTAYYYYY!” yells Blake from behind us, completely incongruous in the otherwise grand and peaceful scene.
Noah turns round and high-fives Blake. It’s the night that everyone has been super excited for: the night of the biggest after-party of the tour. It’s taking place at a hot Paris nightclub—one I normally would never be allowed in (not least because I’m underage) but, since it’s a private party, it’s OK. I’ve never been to an after-party before—not unless meeting up with your best friend after the complete disaster of the Year-Eleven ball and then gorging on a month’s worth of pizza can count as one . . .
Noah drops me at my hotel room, then dashes off to the venue—they have only hours before their set begins. I take a deep breath—the hotel room is stunning, with a wide bed that has a burnished-gold headboard and crimson velvet covers. Tall windows open out onto a little balcony, from which I can just about see the tip of the Eiffel Tower. It’s perfect.
I’ve got a few hours before I need to leave for the concert, so I take the opportunity to dump the entire contents of my suitcase onto the bed. Tonight is different from any other night, because tonight I’m going to be seen at Noah’s side by a lot of people.
The problem is, I have no idea what to wear to an after-party. And this is not just any old after-party, but the sort of after-party where everyone cool will be: all the guys from The Sketch, their girlfriends (undercover or not) and their management, Leah Brown and her entourage, Noah and the rest of the guys from his band, and every single crew member who is on the tour. There will probably be paparazzi and media lining the streets—not to mention all the fans.
I stare at myself in the full-length mirror, its ornate gilded frame perfectly matching the gold headboard of the bed. It’s the type of mirror I could imagine Marie Antoinette staring into—but, unlike her, I hope this isn’t the night before my execution. In my mum’s big cardie and leggings, I feel anything but Parisian chic. To be honest, none of my clothes feel right. This is not the time to be wearing a tea dress. Everything I own feels very young and very uncool.
I know that Noah loves me no matter what, but tonight I don’t want to feel like the sixteen-year-old girl who probably shouldn’t be in cool bars with her famous boyfriend. I want to feel sexy and chic. Maybe makeup can solve all, but I’ve never exactly been a whiz with it like Megan and some of my friends are.
I grab my makeup bag out of the suitcase and sit down cross-legged in front of the big mirror. I take out my black eyeliner and smudge a little more round my eyes and attempt to add some false lashes. After wrangling with both sets of eyelashes for a good twenty minutes, I finally give up and try to apply more eyeliner to even everything out. I’m not sure that it works.
Next, I know I have to tackle my pale complexion. I’m starting to think I look slightly more gothic than I was hoping for. What would a makeup artist like Kendra say? Would she tell me to add a bit of bronzer? Would she recommend a red lipstick? Or avoid red lipstick with lots of eyeliner? It’s times like these I could actually do with having Megan here, and I never thought that wish would ever cross my mind. Then someone else pops into my head.
“Hi, Leah. It’s Penny . . . Um, I’m just doing my makeup, and I wondered . . . do I go with an orangey-red lipstick with a smoky eye, or more of a pink red—”
I don’t get any further before Leah interrupts.
“PUT DOWN THE LIPSTICK, HON. What room are you in? I’m on my way.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rushing around Paris with Leah Brown in a chauffeur-driven car is up there with my highlights from this tour so far. After ripping my poor attempt at false lashes off my eyes and removing my thick layer of black eyeliner, Leah insists on taking me out to help me get ready. Our first stop is makeup superstore Sephora, where she hands me product after product that I then stack neatly in my basket.
“Leah, I don’t know what to do with half this stuff. I mean, I think I can guess . . .” I turn over a pack of copper transfer tattoos and it suddenly dawns on me that I really have no clue at all. “When did transfer tattoos come back into fashion, and where do they go?”
Leah snatches the pack off me and places it back in the basket. “Penny, you aren’t going to be putting this on by yourself. I’m going to get my makeup artists and hair stylist to come and help you. And these tattoos have been the in thing for a while now, Pen. Don’t you read Glamour ?” As we walk around the store, I try to avoid noticing that everyone else is noticing us—or, rather, noticing Leah. I think there’s a crowd gathering outside the windows, and I notice that the shop assistants have moved to the entrance to stop anyone else from coming in.
“Well, obviously, I love Glamour. It’s my favourite.” I smile weakly and pray she can’t sense my lies through my wonky voice.
“Oh, thank goodness, you almost had me fooled there.” She laughs and gives me a friendly nudge, while adding something called “bronzing dry oil” to the basket.
Once the basket is almost overflowing with beauty products I didn’t even know existed, Leah takes it to the checkout, where the girl behind the counter starts beeping it all through. It comes to well over a thousand euros and my chin almost hits the floor.
“Leah, thank you so much for helping me, but I can’t afford all this . . .” I go to take the products and put them back on the shelves, but Leah grabs my arm.
“You British are always so polite. It’s cute.” She hands over a black credit card and the sales assistant swipes it through her machine.
“Thanks so much,” Leah says, grabbing everything, which is now packed in two huge paper bags tied up with black-and-white string.
“Bonne journée. I love your music, by the way,” the girl says in an amazing French accent.
I definitely wish I sounded that sexy. Maybe I should work on my accent and bowl Noah over? I attempt an Au revoir, but the shop assistant gives me a strange look that I think means I should never attempt to speak French again.
We hop back into the car and Leah instructs the driver where to go next. He turns onto a wide boulevard lined with shops bearing designer names I’ve only ever seen in Mum’s fashion magazines. Each store seems to be attempting to outdo the one next to it with fancy window displays, mannequins contorted at different angles, and explosions of brightly coloured flowers everywhere. I swear I see a dress made entirely out of baked goods. Judging by the women I see walking in and out of the shops, though, that is probably the closest they come to a cupcake.
As we slow to a sto
p outside one of the fancy stores, I realize Leah’s about to spend a whole lot more money on me and I can’t help but feel awkward. “Leah, this is too nice of you. I wish there was a way I could pay you back.”
She puts her hand on mine. “Penny, please just let me do this. I like being able to do it—I don’t get a lot of time to go out shopping with my friends, and I needed a spree anyway. What better way than to do it with you, for you? I have everything I need and more, so shut up and enjoy this.” She opens the car door, grabs my hand, and pulls me out onto the pavement.
We run into the nearest shop, and I glance down the street to see a crowd of paparazzi storming our way. Once we’re inside the safety of the store, the bright flashes of camera bulbs illuminate the front window.
“Wow, Leah, no wonder you sometimes go around in disguise!” I say.
“Tell me about it,” she says, rolling her eyes. She walks straight over to the racks and starts pulling out dresses for me, bundling them into my arms. I end up trying on dresses that are more expensive than some of the entire wedding budgets Mum has had to work with. I hobble out of the fitting room in a hot-pink cocktail dress and snakeskin stilettos that are way too high—I feel like a strong wind would knock me over.
“I’m not sure. I feel silly.” I look down at my hips and skinny ankles and grimace.
“Penny, you have a body to die for,” says Leah. “You have curves in all the right places. EMBRACE THEM.”
“It’s not my body I’m worried about. In these heels, I’m a liability to everyone else!”
“Mademoiselle? Perhaps you wish to try on something un peu plus élégant ?” The small Parisian man who runs the store is dressed head to toe like he is about to meet the Queen. “Something more . . . sophisticated?” He hands me a little black satin sleeveless dress that has a big satin bow at the waist and a lace insert across the entire back and along the bottom.
I feel as though this man is handing me a newborn baby. I don’t know how to hold the dress, how to feel about it, how it will look, but I take it into the fitting room with me. After struggling for a while with the whole stick-on-bra malarkey, I finally walk out of the fitting room. I’m met with stunned silence and then a flurry of applause. Even Callum, Leah’s bodyguard, is clapping wildly.