The school bell rang, harsh and jangling, but it wasn’t enough to jolt Sophia back into common sense. Her eyes were glazed with delight even as Ivy turned her around and shoved her gently towards the school building.
We are going to have to have a real talk soon, Ivy thought grimly. Away from all skateboards and sunglasses!
There might not be time to fix Sophia now, but at least Ivy had finally solved one mystery. Lillian had been right, as usual. Sophia was being driven by a huge crush . . . on Skater Finn!
Chapter Seven
Snap out of it! Olivia told herself.
She was on the deck of a yacht, cruising directly past Hampton Court Palace. It should have been one of the coolest moments of her entire life, but all she could think about was the boy next to her. Jackson.
What was he really thinking as he leaned over her shoulder, pointing out London landmarks? What did he want from her, and for their relationship? And what did Olivia want for herself ?
Hampton Court Palace was impressive. Apparently, Henry VIII had once lived there. Admittedly, Olivia knew less about English history than she did about quantum physics, but Jackson was full of fun facts. The palace sprawled along the riverbank like something out of a fairy tale, but Olivia was very much not enchanted by it.
Then Ivy’s brisk voice in her head answered her question: Stop being silly and enjoy this experience!
Right. Olivia focused on the lapping waves, and the long-necked swans that floated past the yacht. Be in the moment, she told herself.
And what a moment it was! The yacht had been privately rented by Jackson just so that the cast and crew could have a special treat at the end of Week One. That’s so Jackson, thinking of everyone! All around them, people were milling about, carrying crystal flutes filled with pomegranate juice or elderflower spritzers, and there were whole tables covered in sparkling white linen tablecloths and platters of food.
Olivia loved seeing so much history floating past her . . . and better yet, she didn’t even have to wear a corset to enjoy it! Instead, she was wearing her favourite light pink, knee-length sundress. She had never appreciated loose-fitting contemporary clothing so much until she had spent a week dressing like a Victorian!
Smiling, Olivia took a deep breath just to prove that she could. Thank goodness I live in the twenty-first century, and not the nineteenth! Breathing comfortably is definitely underrated.
She couldn’t wait to switch to 1950s style, when they got back to the States for their next block of shooting. After corsets, poodle skirts sound like heaven!
Now she looked around, hearing the hum of voices behind her. Olivia had spent the first part of the cruise mingling with the rest of the cast, while her parents hung out with the other actors’ parents and guardians below deck. After half an hour, though, Jackson had asked Olivia if she wanted to walk with him along the deck, alone . . .
‘’Ave a butcher’s at that!’ he said now, pointing over her shoulder. ‘Can ya believe all this ’istree, right in front of us!’
Olivia sighed, even as she smiled politely. It was hard to be thrilled by the ’istree of anything!
She knew it was important for him to practise and stay in character. Better yet, she could see that it was paying off in his performance. Yesterday had been the best day of filming so far. Jackson had had to do a monologue twice, once in the posh voice and once in the Cockney, and even terrifying Ingrid, the Vocal Coach of Doom, had actually agreed that it was good.
It’s not that I don’t admire Jackson’s commitment, Olivia thought glumly. But it’s hard to feel romantic when he sounds like a stranger.
The sound of a throat being cleared behind her made her turn – and her momentary annoyance evaporated as she saw a waiter approaching with a platter of delicious-looking appetisers.
‘Oh good!’ Jackson stepped forward, smiling. ‘I’m Dean Martin!’
The waiter rolled his eyes. ‘No, you’re Hank Marvin,’ he said, in a real London accent.
‘Are you sure?’ Jackson frowned, looking suddenly less confident. ‘I really thought I was Dean Martin.’
The waiter shook his head. ‘No, you’re definitely Hank Marvin.’
Are you both crazy? Olivia wanted to scream. He’s Jackson Caulfield!
Then she bit back a groan as she realised what was going on. Why can’t anything just make sense?
Ever since she’d arrived in London, it had felt like everything was in a code she couldn’t read . . . from the language that everybody spoke to the feelings that Jackson might or might not have for her.
Still, she was pretty sure she could work out this particular puzzle. Hank Marvin rhymed with . . . starving! Jackson must have meant he was hungry. And she was, too!
The waiter offered the platter to her. ‘Miss?’
‘Thank you.’ I can do this! Olivia braced herself to make the attempt. ‘I’m so . . . Sally . . . Tungry?’