Dear Diary, it's Marilyn

Chapter 23

 I just realized this story has over 50,000 reads! Can you believe it? I can't! Thanks so, so much everyone! So this chapter is dedicated to all of you for your support and amazingness, if that's a word. If I could give you all a cookie, I would.

I promised you another chapter today so here it is! I'm sorry it took so long but I had all this summer work today that I had put off. I'm such a procrastinator! But trust me, while I was drawing my world map for history, I was thinking of you guys!

So voici le chapitre! Haha like my french? Yeah, I'm totally bilingual, not! I've taken two years of french though in school...I guess it's good for something.

Chapter 23

            In the winter of 1953, London was not the place to be.

The city was crowded, noisy, dirty, but worst of all was the smog. This was not your regular light morning fogginess; this was thick, soupy, and utterly disgusting. Getting off my private flight, I could hardly see more than a few feet in all directions. And to think I had wasted so long getting dressed to impress fans and reporters when in reality, they can’t even see me!

I literally had to squint to find my way to a bus stop. I loathed public transportation, but a bus was the easiest way to get to the heart of London. Then I’d just ask around to find my way to Bebe’s townhouse. Somehow people always know where the celebrities live.

The bus pulled up to where I was standing. If it hadn’t been for the bus lights, I doubt I would have noticed it at all.

 I climbed in and paid my fare to the man driving. He was a grumpy looking thing with a handlebar mustache. He hardly spared me a glance as I took my seat. I suppose he didn’t recognize me.

I sat in the seat directly behind the driver, beside a thin teenage girl. Her long, blonde-almost white hair fell in ripples around her shoulders and badly framed her baby-like face. Her clothes were very loose-fitting and dark, except for a white and red polka-dot scarf around her neck. The girl was tearing a picture out of a magazine, careful not to rip the photo.

She glanced up at me, a blank expression on her face, before returning to her task at hand. I considered saying hello, but she hardly seemed friendly.

So I studied my fingernails, wondering what I was going to say to Bebe. Should I start with a greeting, polite conversation, and then apologize for our argument? Or should I just apologize immediately on her doorstep? Or maybe I should-

“You’re Marilyn Monroe, aren’t you?” A high-pitched voice laced strongly with a British accent pulled me from my thoughts. It was the girl, her expression now one of excitement. “Of course you are! I should know; I have about a hundred photographs of you.” She held up the picture she had just torn out of the magazine. It was an old one of me, my very first professional photo ever, in fact. I was grinning from ear to ear dressed as a farm girl and holding a little lamb.

The photo brought back memories of Mr. Pierce, Becky the receptionist, Mrs. Dougherty, but most of all, Jim. They say you should focus on the good parts of a past relationship; did Jim and I really have any good times? When we first met, he took me to the movies. That was nice, I suppose.

And then my thoughts drifted to our wedding night. Maybe that was why our marriage hadn’t worked out; it was never consummated. But no, that wasn’t why it ended in divorce. Jim and I were just so different, completely incompatible. But I didn’t hate Jim for that.

Still, my first husband had left me a virgin. I had the right to feel a little anger towards him.

“Miss Monroe?” I had completely forgotten about the British girl. “Could you sign this? I’m a huge fan of yours.”