The It Girl by Katy Birchall Page B

and spend weekends re-enacting the climbing of Mount Doom scene with my Labrador.
    She has a Wikipedia page for goodness’ sake! I once got left off the school registery at the start of the new year. MY OWN SCHOOL DIDN’T REMEMBER ME.
    The doorbell rang. I looked at Dad. Dad looked at me. My eye twitched.
    â€œAnna . . . ,” he warned. I feigned innocence.
    Then without a moment’s warning I leaped to my feet. Dad was clearly prepared and jumped up at the same time.
    The race was on.
    I ran full speed toward the stairs with Dad in hot pursuit. As I went to jump two steps at a time, he propelled himself forward and gripped my right ankle. I fell flat on the stairs, desperately trying to drag myself up while shaking my right leg manically in the hope of loosening his iron grip.
    â€œAnastasia Huntley! Stop . . . this . . . now!” Dad said through gritted teeth.
    â€œYou . . . stop . . . this . . . now!” I retorted, trying to reach for the banister to get some kind of grip. I flung my leg from side to side, but he held tight, determined to reign victorious in our grapple.
    Gradually he managed to slide me down the stairs until, with a last yank on my ankle, I slumped to the floor, my chin bumping each step as I went. Dad sat next to me, leaning against the wall and out of breath.
    The doorbell rang again. He got to his feet, turned to me as I rolled over onto my back, said, “Right, I’ll go let them in,” gave me a thumbs-up, and went to open the door.
    I was still lying awkwardly on the stairs in a contortedstarfish position when Helena and Marianne Montaine breezed through the door and Dad gave them both a warm welcome. They looked a little surprised as I stood up awkwardly from the stairs and brushed myself down.
    â€œUm,” Dad began, glancing at me. “This is my daughter, Anna.”
    â€œHello.” I nodded and then curtseyed.
    I CURTSEYED.
    Dad closed his eyes in exasperation. Marianne Montaine looked at her mother in utter bafflement. Helena Montaine glanced at Dad and then took a step forward and curtseyed too. “Lovely to meet you, Anna.”
    â€œLet’s all go into the living room, shall we?” Dad laughed very nervously and ushered us in.
    It was completely surreal. I found myself standing stiffly in my living room with Helena and Marianne Montaine. And I’ll tell you something: all it takes is a Hollywood film star and an It Girl standing in front of you to become exceedingly aware of how unacceptable it is to go into society every day looking like yourself.
    Helena was exactly as a film star should be. Tall and elegant, she was dressed in a white pantsuit with a chunky gold necklace and matching earrings. Those face products must beworking, because her skin was glowing as she looked down at me with a bright smile.
    Marianne has the same delicate features as her mother, the big blue eyes and slightly pronounced mouth. Her brown hair was impossibly glossy and, wearing a short blue minidress with a leather jacket and sunglasses perched on the top of her head, biker boots, and sporting plenty of black eyeliner, she looked every inch the rock star’s daughter.
    Which, incidentally, she is, as Helena’s first husband, and the father of her only child, was one fifth of a rock band in the seventies. There was no mistaking the brief up-and-down glance she gave me as she took in my appearance.
    I wanted to die. There was no way I was ever going to forgive my dad for this one. He could at least have given me a moment to attempt to make my hair look presentable before their arrival.
    Although maybe he thought that since I hadn’t managed to make my hair ever look acceptable in the past twelve years, ten more minutes probably wasn’t going to help.
    â€œIt’s so lovely to have you both here, Helena and Marianne,” Dad announced, clapping his hands together.
    â€œIt’s