Release Date: 11/2013
Summary from Goodreads:
Fifteen-year-old Thea Wallis was born to entertain. Her mother, Oscar winning actress Cassie Hartley, thinks differently and has kept her daughter out of the spotlight since day one. Coming from showbiz royalty, it hasn't been easy to go unnoticed, but mismatched surnames, a family home in Tasmania and a low-key scriptwriter father has made this possible.
Just like her cousin Rory on the hugely popular TV show Saturday Morning Dance, Thea loves to dance. She learns the show's routines off by heart each week, despite her mother's attempts to convince her that dentistry would be a far more fulfilling career choice.
Just like her cousin Rory on the hugely popular TV show Saturday Morning Dance, Thea loves to dance. She learns the show's routines off by heart each week, despite her mother's attempts to convince her that dentistry would be a far more fulfilling career choice.
However, when Rory goes off the rails in LA, Thea's mother is suddenly left with no choice at all – Rory needs them and to LA they must go. Within forty-eight hours, Thea finds herself a long way from Tasmania and living her dream – on the road to Las Vegas with the Saturday Morning Dance team.
It doesn't take long before Thea's talents are discovered and she's offered everything she's ever wanted on a plate, including the dance partner she's had a crush on forever. But, as her mother has always told her, Hollywood dreams come at a price. Thea soon realizes she will have to work out just how much she's willing to pay. And, ultimately, discover her own way to be Hartley.
Available from:
Request a copy of Being Hartley here!
EXCERPT
EXCERPT
Unlike
Miley, I hop off the plane at LAX, not with a dream, or a cardigan, but with a
hoodie and a mother who's dragging her feet, lagging way behind her peeps (aka
Deb and Anna and me).
As
we make our way down the long corridor toward immigration, my mom texts Dad to
tell him we've arrived, then pulls a Hermes scarf out of her purse and ties it
around her head, leaving only a few trademark blonde curls peeking out the
front.
I
walk backward for a few steps, other first class passengers passing by and
taking in her airport outfit modification. "You know they never let you
keep it on," I tell her, shaking my head. Honestly, I don't know why she
bothers. She used to get away with it years ago, but immigration is way
stricter now. She hasn't been allowed to keep a scarf on since I don't know
when. I've told her—if she really wants to fly under the radar, she'd be better
off borrowing one of my hoodies, flying coach, and ditching her fancy luggage,
her in-flight pashmina, SK-II beauty regimen, Hermes passport holder, her
staff, all that stuff.
In
front of the immigration officer, it all goes exactly the way we both knew it
would. "Remove your scarf, please, ma'am," the guy says, and Mom
complies. He looks down at her passport, then up again with a slight frown.
Then down again, then up again with a wide smile. "Lovely to see you home,
Ms. Hartley."
Next
to me, I feel my mom tense. "Well…" is her reply as she reties her
scarf, angling to get moving again. Thankfully, she doesn't stop to point out
that "home" is now in Tasmania. She finishes off with a jaunty knot
and a "Thank you." My mom prides herself on being one of those stars
who values her privacy, but who also signs autographs when asked and who
doesn't actually throw things at the paparazzi. (But to be fair, she did once
beat one half to death with a rolled-up magazine when his camera flash woke me
up from my toddler nap in my stroller and he snapped one of those three photos
I mentioned, but everyone thought that was totally justified and he dropped the
charges because his mom made him.)
Of
course, by the time the rest of us have been processed, with our luggage
collected from the conveyer belt and our group passed through customs, the fact
that Cassie Hartley is in the terminal is practically old news. By this point,
there's an airport security guy assigned to us, and as we head out of arrivals,
there are already about thirty paparazzi waiting for us.
"The
car's waiting." Deb nods at Mom, cell to her ear. "We can go
now." She turns to the security guy. "It's a black Mercedes SUV.
Right out front."
"We're
waiting on security at the other end," the guy says, but then he gets a
call on his radio. After he answers it, he points forward. "He's there, so
we're good to go. Straight through. I'll lead the way. I'm sure you know the
drill by now, Ms. Hartley."
Mom
turns to Deb, Anna, and me. "Like I told you. No stopping. Not for
anything. And try to keep Thea between you two."
"Mom,"
I groan. "I'm not a baby anymore."
"And
no arguments!" she snaps at me. We've only just landed in LA and she's
already had enough.
"All
right already!" I say.
We
walk quickly—the security guy first, then Deb with a luggage cart, then Mom, me
and Anna bringing up the rear with another cart. The flashes start almost
instantly, bright and blinding, the voices yelling over the top of each other
to get Mom's attention. I'd been feeling okay before, but now, with all the
confusion, I'm suddenly a bit woozy from the long flight.
"Cassie!
Over here! Here! Cassie!" they call out, and Mom's hand grips mine
tighter, pulling me toward her. "Cassie! Hey! Oh my god, I can't believe
it! It's my lucky day—it's her daughter!" I hear as we keep walking.
"Cleo! Over here!" someone else calls out. "It's not Cleo, it's
Tia. No, Thea, that's it! Lose the hood, kid! Hey, Thea! Show us the
hair!"
When
she hears my name, Mom pulls my hand again, and I jerk forward, losing the hood
on my head that she made me pull up seconds before we hit arrivals.
And
there it is, in all its glory. The Hartley hair. The paparazzi go absolutely
wild. The yelling gets louder and the flashes flash faster.
"Thea!
Thea! Hey, kid! Over here!"
But
it's too late. In a second we're outside, and I'm being shoved unceremoniously
into the back of the SUV.
As
my mom sits down beside me and buckles up, she glances at my unhooded head and
doesn't look one bit impressed. "Not. My. Fault." I point one finger
at her. "You pulled me forward and it fell down."
She
leans back into the tan leather seat with a sigh and stares out the window, not
even putting up a fight or pointing out that after my hood fell down, I didn't
exactly rush to pull it back up again. "Ugh, I hate LA," she says, petulantly. "That Erik…"
As
for me? Well, as my mom is dealing with the fact that my hair and I are about
to be seen by millions of people, I look out the window trying to hide my grin,
because how my mom feels about LA? I have to admit I feel exactly the opposite
way.
Allison Rushby is the Australian author of a whole lot of books. She is crazy about Mini Coopers, Devon Rex cats, Downton Abbey and corn chips. You can often find her procrastinating on Twitter at @Allison_Rushby or on Facebook. That is, when she’s not on eBay, or Etsy, or any other place she can shop in secret while looking like she’s writing…
Author Links:
No comments:
Post a Comment