Sadie Lee looks at her and smiles. “Honey, there’s no need to be nervous. You’re doing a wonderful job. Or as they’d say in Downton Abbey—it’s going to be simply splendid.” Sadie Lee throws back her head and laughs a really warm, throaty laugh.
There are some people you officially fall in love with within seconds of meeting them. Sadie Lee is definitely one of those people.
“Penny’s going to be taking some behind-the-scenes photos for the Bradys,” Mum explains.
“What a great idea.” Sadie Lee smiles at me. “Well, you know, I’m about to start doing some baking for the reception buffet so y’all would be very welcome to come and take a few pictures in the kitchen if you’d like?”
“That would be perfect,” Mum says. She looks at me. “Will you be OK, Pen? I just need to go and check that the waiting staff’s costumes all fit, OK?”
“Of course.”
As Mum heads off, I follow Sadie Lee into the kitchen. After the olde worlde vibe of the other rooms, it’s really weird to see the sleek stainless-steel counters and huge industrial-sized ovens.
“We’re doing most of the cooking tomorrow,” Sadie Lee explains. “But I thought I’d get the cakes for the reception buffet done today. I’m making a traditional British afternoon tea.”
“Don’t you have any staff to help you?” I say, looking around the empty kitchen.
She shakes her head. “Uh-uh, not today. But tomorrow I’ll have a whole team of chefs.”
I take a few pictures of Sadie Lee baking and a close-up of her flour-splattered cookbook. Then I decide to go and take some pictures of the dining room. But I leave the kitchen through the wrong door and come out into another huge room. This one has a long polished wooden dance floor running down the center of it, with small round tables lining either side. I’m about to leave when I hear the gentle strum of a guitar coming from the far end of the room. It’s so dark I can only just make out the silhouette of someone seated on the stage.
I go and investigate, creeping down one of the carpeted areas at the side of the dance floor. As I get closer to the stage, the sound of the guitar gets louder and I can hear someone singing. They’re singing so quietly I can’t quite make out the words, but whatever it is sounds beautiful and really, really sad. I tiptoe a bit closer until I see the figure of a boy sitting cross-legged on the stage, playing the guitar with his back to me. He’s surrounded by musical equipment—a drum kit, a keyboard, and a microphone stand. There’s something so magical about the image that I can’t resist turning on my camera and sneaking a tiny bit closer. I focus and take the shot, but—to my horror—I forget to turn the flash off and the stage is flooded with light.
“Whoa!” The mystery singing person leaps to his feet and spins around, putting his hands over his face. “How did you get in?” he yells in a really strong New York accent. “Who sent you here?”
“I’m sorry—I couldn’t resist—you looked so—” Thankfully, I manage to stop myself from committing an Act of Gross Embarrassment and change tack. “I’m taking some photos for the wedding that’s happening here tomorrow. How did you get in? Are you the wedding singer?”
“Am I the wedding singer?” He peers at me from between his fingers. There’s a tattoo of a bar of music notes on his wrist.
“Yes. Are you practicing?” I walk a bit closer to the stage and he actually takes a step back, like he’s scared of me. “I wouldn’t do that song tomorrow, if I were you.”
He stands motionless, with his hands still half covering his face. “Why not?”
“Well, it’s not very wedding-y. I mean, it was beautiful—what I heard of it—but it sounded so sad and I don’t think that’s the right kind of vibe for a wedding, you know? You need to be thinking more along the lines of the theme from Dirty Dancing. That always goes down really well at weddings. Did you guys get Dirty Dancing over here?”
He lowers his hands and stares at me, like he’s trying to work out if I’m an alien from another planet. And now that I can see him properly, I’m so stunned I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a thought bubble bursting from my head saying, WOW! He’s what Elliot would call Rock-God–tastic: all messy dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, faded jeans, and scuffed-up boots.
“Yeah, we got Dirty Dancing over here,” he says, but his voice is a lot softer now, almost like he’s trying not to laugh. “It was actually made in America.”
“Ah, yes, of course it was.” That familiar sinking feeling returns. Even when I’m in New York, I’m a liability. I’m now an international embarrassment waiting to happen. But then a strange feeling comes over me—a strong, determined feeling. I am not going to make a fool of myself on this trip. Even if it means not talking to anyone other than Elliot and Mum and Dad. Even if it means not talking to someone totally Rock-God–tastic—someone totally Rock-God–tastic from New York.
“Well, sorry to bother you, and good luck tomorrow,” I say, my cheeks burning, and I turn to go.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m not the wedding singer,” he says, before I’ve even taken a step.
I stop in my tracks. “You’re not?”
“No.”
I turn and look at him. He’s grinning at me now—a really cute lopsided grin, featuring several dimples. “So what are you doing here then?”
“I like breaking into hotels and playing really sad songs in their wedding suites,” he says, grinning even more.
“Interesting career choice,” I say.
“It is,” he says, nodding. “But the pay’s lousy.”
What if he’s a craz?y person? my inner voice whispers. A New York craz?y person. What if he’s broken into the hotel suite? What if I have to make a citizen’s arrest? Do they even have citizen’s arrests over here? Aaargh! What am I going to do?
He doesn’t look like a crazy person, though. Now that he’s smiling, he looks like a very nice person, but still . . .
“Why the frown?” he says.
“I was just thinking.”
“What?”