The It Girl: Don't Tell the Bridesmaid. Katy Birchall

are you doing? Why are you walking down the stairs like a crab?’

      ‘I am walking down the stairs stealthily,’ I hissed back. ‘Keep your voice down. The slightest out-of-place noise will send Dog investigating and then he will see me with the suitcase and go into a FRENZY. Honestly, Dad, you are so unsubtle. You could never be a spy.’

      But just then my arms failed me and the suitcase dropped from my hands, landing with a loud thunk on the stairs and then clonking down every last step before landing at Dad’s feet.

      Dad and I froze.

      We waited for the sound of Dog barging out of the sitting room. No footsteps came and I breathed a sigh of relief and motioned for Dad to quickly pick up the case and take it out through the door. I helped him get it into the boot, ignoring his grumbling about how I must have packed the kitchen sink and, for goodness’ sake, did I really need enough outfits to last me a year? In his day you would go for weeks with just a shirt on your back.

      I didn’t think it was the right moment to remind him that things had moved on since Biblical times.

      As we both turned back to the house, I gasped and stopped still. Dog was sitting on the front step watching us.

      We were busted.

      He must have seen the whole thing. ‘Dog,’ I began in my most soothing voice, ‘it’s not what it seems. I’m just going away for two weeks, but I’m not leaving you and I’ll be right back in no time. Dad’s going to make sure he gives you extra rations every day to make up for the inconvenience.’ Dad snorted next to me so I punched him on the arm. ‘Now, why don’t we just go back inside, sit down and talk this through like adults.’

      I saw Dog’s eye twitch.

      In a flash he was up on his paws, springing back into the house and flying up the stairs at full pelt. ‘NO, DOG, COME BACK!’ I yelled, bolting after him into the house and seeing the tip of his tail sailing into my bedroom. I rushed up the stairs and skidded to a halt in the doorway. Dog was standing on my bed facing me and in his mouth he was holding my phone.

      ‘Dog,’ I said slowly and calmly. ‘Let’s not do anything rash. We don’t want to do something we regret, do we?’

      His tail swished slowly from side to side.

      ‘Give me my phone, Dog,’ I said gently, taking a step forward. He took a step back and shook his head in warning. Dad joined me in the doorway and let out a loud sigh when he saw us both in the position of a highly charged stand-off. ‘Dad, this is your fault.’

      ‘My fault?’

      ‘I told you that we’d been watching too many John Wayne movies. It was bound to rub off on him.’

      ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Dad said, nudging me aside and striding forward confidently towards our Labrador. ‘Dog, drop!’

      Knowing he had the upper hand, Dog waited until my dad was close enough and then he leapt down from the bed, dodging him and zooming past me back downstairs. Dad and I chased after him into the kitchen, stumbling to a sudden stop as we saw Dog dangling my phone over his water bowl from his drooly jaws.

      ‘Hellooooo!’ Helena cheerily sauntered into the house with Marianne and Mum in tow. ‘Anyone in?’

      They came into the kitchen and saw Dad and me both standing like statues, watching Dog. ‘Oh dear.’ Mum bit her lip. ‘Did he see the suitcase?’

      ‘Don’t encourage Anna, Rebecca. The two things aren’t linked.’

      ‘Of course they are, Nicholas.’ Mum sighed. ‘It’s so like you to dismiss something so obvious.’

      ‘Dog, it’s just two weeks.’ I knelt down on my hands and knees to attempt a different approach, hoping he might back down if I wasn’t towering over him. ‘I promise I’m coming back. I’m just going to Rome.’

      On the word ‘Rome’ there was a big splash as Dog released my phone from his jaw and it plopped perfectly into the middle of his water bowl. I closed my eyes in horror and Dog trotted past me with his head held high to go sulk in the sitting room. Soon enough I heard him chewing away on the Monopoly board just to hammer home how he felt about this situation.

      ‘Oh, Anna, your phone!’ Mum cried, quickly rescuing it and grabbing a tea towel, desperately trying to dab it dry.

      ‘You need to put it in a pack of rice,’ Marianne instructed, going immediately to the cupboards to find one.

      ‘That dog,’ Dad sighed as I clambered to my feet.

      ‘Don’t blame Dog,’ I said huffily. ‘It’s my fault for not being honest with him. Anyway, it’s about time I got a new phone – that one you got me is ancient.’

      ‘Let’s discuss it in the car.’ Dad threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Now, everybody in.’

      I let them all pile into the car and Dad stood tapping his foot, impatiently waiting to lock up as I sat cross-legged next to Dog, who was even sulkier now that Dad had taken away the Monopoly board and put absolutely anything of value out of his reach. All he had to distract him from his sorrows was a manky old tennis ball. I gave him a big cuddle and I think he must have forgiven me because he gave me a lick and a loving headbutt.

      As soon as we had come through the airport doors and turned the corner to the check-in desk, we were hit by a barrage of shouting and paparazzi camera flashes.

      At first I was shocked that they could possibly know which desk to wait for us at, but then I saw that our teacher, Mrs Ginnwell, was standing there holding a big sign that said ‘WOODFIELD CHECK-IN POINT’.

      Helena, a paparazzi professional, immediately took it in her stride, guiding me towards Mrs Ginnwell and smiling angelically at the cameras as she swanned past in her wide-brimmed sunhat and billowing summer dress. Marianne clacked along in her heels next to her mum, wearing sunglasses that dwarfed her face, tiny denim shorts and a crisp white shirt, her arms and hands dripping in jewellery. I wish I could look so effortless in front of the national press but, you know, doing something as casual as checking in your luggage becomes much more difficult when you’ve got a hundred flash bulbs going off in your face and people shouting questions at you.

      ‘Anna, who are you wearing?’ (Actually, funny story – this T-shirt was originally a dress but Dog ate half of it to punish me when I turned the TV off halfway through Homeward Bound.) ‘Helena, any wedding dilemmas?’ (Yes, excellent question. Big dilemma, in fact: she is dressing her daughter and her stepdaughter up as giant purple Moomins.) ‘Marianne, is it true that you and Tom Kyzer are on the rocks?’ (Well, you obviously don’t have the whole moving-in-together scoop, duhbrain). ‘Anna, are you worried about causing chaos abroad after your recent disaster at the London Comic-Con event?’

      I froze.

      The reporter clearly smelt fear: ‘Anna, do you consider the embarrassment you might cause your friends and family when these incidents occur or do you like the attention? How is your boyfriend coping with the pressure . . .?’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘At HOME?’

      All cameras suddenly pointed away from the rest of my family and focused entirely on me.

      ‘I . . . I . . .’

      Suddenly Dad’s arm was round my shoulders, leading me away from the check-in desk and towards the security queue for departures. ‘Here’s your passport,’ he said, placing it in my hand. ‘What have I told you about the paparazzi? Ignore them.’

      ‘But they were asking about Connor!’ I felt horrible thinking about how Connor would react to being dragged into the latest news story when he wasn’t even here this time.

      ‘They’re trying to push your buttons – you know that. Don’t let them.’ He gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze as I nodded.

      When we got to the queue, the press still swarming around us taking photos, Helena produced a thin box from