Free The Seven Month Itch by Allison Rushby

at Yaffa’s, that evening, at home in my room, I try to work out what the problem really is. Maybe it is about having cold feet, like Alexa said. Maybe it’s that whole ‘pre-wedding jitters’ stuff I’ve been reading about in my bridal magazines. (Note to self: stop buying any and all magazines, Nessa; they’re the work of the devil.)
    I think about calling Toby for a chat, which just makes me more depressed. I haven’t spoken to him since I sawhim at the library on Thursday. I haven’t had a text, or an email. He hasn’t even IM-ed me. Marc has, though …
    What do you get when you cross a blonde and a gorilla?
    Who knows, there’s only so much a gorilla can be forced to do.
    Go away, Marc!
    I ignore his IM and, to cheer myself up, decide to pull out my collection of Marilyn DVDs, which Toby has now returned. And, strangely, when I open up the little silver cabinet I keep them in, one of them falls out onto the floor – The Seven Year Itch . I take it as a Marilynism, pop it into my DVD player and settle back on the bed, safe in the knowledge that my dad is busy, busy, busy with Susannah in the lounge room and will never know that I’m having a Marilyn-fest in the next room.

 
    ‘Hi, Nessa!’ Susannah says brightly, from the far end of the kitchen bench. It’s the worst possible thing to see first up on a Saturday morning – something washed, juiced (Juicy Coutured, that is), make-upped, bright, chirpy and all’s-well-with-the-world friendly. It’s like looking directly at the sun. Like being tied down to a chair and having to listen to the Celine Dion collection. Like having to watch Doris Day movies back to back.
    Bleh.
    I look away quickly in case her blondeness (is that a word, or should it be ‘blondity’?) blinds me. ‘Hi.’
    ‘Your dad’s just popped out for some croissants,’ she continues, stuffing some papers back in a folder.
    But wait. Hang on. My sleepy eyes suddenly wake up.They’re not just any papers she’s stuffing there. And she’s not stuffing them into just any folder. They’re my papers. And my folder. The wedding folder. Susannah is going through Dad and Holly’s wedding folder …
    ‘What are you doing?’ I take the five steps over to her quickly.
    ‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she replies. ‘It was right on the edge of the bench and I brushed past it and it fell off. The papers kind of went everywhere. Don’t worry, though, none of them seems to be dirty or anything. They look fine.’
    I take another two steps closer, right up to her now, and watch in disbelief as she places the papers back in the folder in completely the wrong order. ‘Here,’ I tell her, holding out my hand. ‘I’ll do it.’
    Susannah hands over the papers still left in her hand and the folder. ‘I’m sorry. I’m doing it all wrong, aren’t I?’ She laughs slightly as she says this.
    I bite back my ‘Yes’ and start flicking through the papers, placing them in the right order. Florist, restaurant, hotel …
    ‘Ooohh, Nico’s,’ she says, handing over the last piece of paper – a menu. ‘I’ve been there. Isn’t it just the best?’
    I glance up for a second, before going back to sortingmy papers. I’ve got most of them in the correct order now. All of them except one. I take a quick step back, then to the left, then to the right, looking at the surrounding floor area. Finally, I look back up at Susannah.
    ‘Is there something missing?’ Her eyes widen, all innocence.
    My teeth grind together. ‘The marriage licence,’ I say. ‘The marriage licence is missing.’
    Susannah’s eyes widen further. ‘You can’t find the marriage licence?’ She runs around to the other side of the kitchen bench, back again, then gets down on her hands and knees.
    I watch her little show and, slowly, cross my arms.
    ‘Have another look,’ she says, looking up at me from the floor. ‘Only a couple of things fell out and they fell out right here, on the floor. It must be here