Picture Perfect (24 page)

And here are some things the guidebooks
didn’t
mention.

They didn’t say, for instance, that the New York subway makes the London Underground look like an enormous toy constructed for children.

They didn’t say that everything is gun-metal grey: the floors, the lights, the outsides of the trains, the insides of the trains, the handrails and the seats.

They didn’t say that the map isn’t littered with chirpy names like Piccadilly Circus or Green Park
,
but has strict, angry-looking numbers and letters instead
.

They didn’t say how huge it is, or how busy, or how incredibly hot and bright.

But probably the single most defining fact that
none
of the guidebooks mention is that the New York subway map makes no sense.

Literally none.

Wilbur and I stand by a large map for at least ten minutes, tilting our heads to the side in the hope that one way or another will make everything clearer.

It doesn’t.

“So …” I say after a long silence. “The red line is 1, 2
and
3?”

“Apparently,” Wilbur sighs. “And the orange one is B, D, F
and
M.”

I get a bit closer to it. “And this one is called 14th Street, and
this
one is called 14th Street? And
all
of these are called 34th Street?”

“Apparently so.” Wilbur sighs as he starts scrolling through his iPhone. “Honey-puff, New York is the most magical place on earth, but the subway can kiss my cat’s pyjamas. Next time, we’re
so
getting a taxi.”

I spend the rest of the journey tucked into a steel seat, staring surreptitiously at everyone getting on and off the train.

There’s an old lady, dressed head to toe in fluorescent green with an enormous scarlet flower tied around her head. There’s a girl with dreadlocks and enormous high heels and a pair of fluffy headphones. There’s an old man, muttering to himself, and a woman in an expensive-looking suit, quietly crying into her handbag.

Every age, every nationality, every dress sense clambers on and off the F train as we rush through the city; through Manhattan over the river into Brooklyn, popping in and out of the ground like a little mole coming up for air.

And slowly the city starts to shrink: from enormous skyscrapers to smaller buildings with colourful graffiti and stars and words and paintings etched bravely across them.

Sunshine begins to pour in, and the sky opens out again. From tiny, far-away patches it gets closer and brighter and bluer and lighter until it’s back to its normal size.

“Are we there?” I say as Wilbur starts packing up his sketchbook. He’s been doodling in earnest ever since we left Manhattan, but every time I try to see what it is he bops me on the nose with the end of a pencil. “Are we at the seaside?”

“Uh-huh, my
petite grenouille.
As close as we can get without driving straight into it, anyway.”

As if to prove his point, my stomach does an excited little frog-like hop. The windows of the train are open, and I can smell saltiness and sweetness and candy floss and hot dogs.

Maybe Wilbur will let me go for a quick swim with the dolphins. Ooh, maybe the shoot will be under water.

I’ll just have to hope fervently that nobody ever finds out about the octopus in Tokyo or they will never let me near any kind of sea life.

“Where are we meeting Nancy?” I ask as we both climb off the train on to a platform that’s much smaller, quieter and less cavernous than the last one.

“Right here,” a clear-cut American voice says.

And I turn around and immediately begin to flush.

Nancy is standing behind us, glowing. She’s in a large white shirt and white trousers; she’s holding a bright white handbag and wearing bright white sunglasses. She looks like something out of
The Lord of The Rings
.

But that’s not why I’m slowly changing colour.

Standing next to her is a boy. He’s tall and deeply tanned. His hair is blond and swept in messy, sandy tufts across his forehead. There are little white strands around the front where the sun has bleached it, and his eyes are bright piercing blue.

He looks like a wolf, except one with a little scar across his cheek that somehow makes him even more handsome.

But none of this is why I’m blushing either.

The reason I’m getting steadily hotter and redder and more uncomfortable is that I already know him.

It’s the boy from the reception at LA MODE.

Except he’s not studying his phone now.

This time, he’s staring directly at me.

ver the last year I have learnt quite a lot about boys.

I’ve learnt that some of them are frightened of seagulls, particularly large ones. I’ve learnt that some had a hamster called Strategic when they were six, and it met an untimely end when a door blew shut during an impulsive bid for freedom.

I have learnt that some enjoy playing retro Pac-man and hate passion fruit because they think it’s slimy like tiny eyeballs and that badgers are brilliant because they walk like old men. I’ve learnt some have a favourite beach on the south coast of Australia and like the smell of lime because it reminds them of a pancake recipe their mum used to make when they were little.

I’ve learnt that some take stairs two at a time and throw their head back when they’re laughing so you can see the secret mole at the base of their throat.

I’ve learnt that in the second before they lean down to kiss you, their bottom lip twitches slightly.

In other words: I’ve learnt a lot about
one
boy
.

The rest are still a great, unsolved mystery to me.

As the blond boy stares at me, I can feel myself getting more and more confused.

I quickly wipe my face and look down, just in case I’ve got blueberry muffin all over my T-shirt or something.

When I look up, he’s still staring.

So I decide to confront the situation the only way I know how.

“Hello again,” I say, holding out my hand as Nancy draws Wilbur aside and starts talking quietly. “My name is Harriet Manners. It’s nice to meet you properly.”

He frowns as he takes my hand. “Have we met before?”

I flush a bit harder.

“I’m the skyscraper-facts girl,” I say, clearing my throat. “From the LA MODE sofa?”

As if LA MODE Sofa is a distant country, like Spare Oom in Narnia, or Argentina.

“Are you sure? Because I don’t think I’d forget a face like yours.”

He must be gripping quite tightly, because it feels like every drop of blood is being squeezed into my cheeks. I suddenly wish I’d eschewed the traditional Western handshake in favour of a Nepalese head-butt.

“You’d be surprised,” I say, trying to tug my hand back as politely as I can.

He finally releases it with a devastating smile. His teeth are blindingly white.

“Sorry,” he says. “Beautiful British girls always make me forget myself. I’m Caleb Davis, but everybody calls me Cal.”

My stomach lurches.
Beautiful?

“I don’t think that’s what everybody calls you, Caleb,” a loud voice says from behind me.

I turn around.

The really tall, bald girl from the LA MODE reception kisses the air a metre from his ear with a loud
mwah
.

“Be nice, K,” Cal says with a frown.

“I’m never nice, babe,” she says, straightening her orange maxi dress. “It’s one of my striking characteristics. Kenderall,” she adds, turning back to me. “K-e-n-d-e-r-a-double-l. You’ve probably never met a Kenderall before, because I invented the name myself.”

Wow. She must have been a really advanced baby.

“Umm.” I blink in shock at the black and pink hairy thing grunting on the floor next to her. I don’t want to state the obvious, but: “Is that a—”

“Pig? Yeah. He’s my pet miniature teacup pig, Sir Francis.”

Without being rude, there is no
way
this pig could get into a teacup or a teapot. It’s enormous.

“He’s another one of Kenderall’s
striking characteristics
,” Cal says as the pig stares into the distance with a glazed expression.

“Nobody forgets the Girl with the Pig,” Kenderall says fiercely. “Although that wannabe Pilot has just gone and got a tiny pink one, and they say she makes it wear wellies. Next time I see her at a casting we’re having words.”

“Sir Francis?” I say, bending down and patting him on the wiry top of his head. This is partly because I’ve never seen a pet pig before, and partly because Cal is studying me intensely and I need to avoid eye contact before my cheeks explode. “As in Sir Francis Bacon, famous philosopher and author?”

Kenderall’s eyes widen. “There’s a man called Sir Francis
Bacon
?”

“Well, not any more there isn’t. He died of pneumonia in 1626 while experimenting with keeping meat fresh by freezing it. Possibly pork.”

I was sort of hoping for a friendly laugh.

I do not get one.

“I named him after Sir Francis Drake. I thought he looked a bit British, no offence. Are you telling me everyone in New York thinks I have a
novelty
pig called
Bacon
?”

“You want to be remembered,” Cal reminds her.

Kenderall looks totally horrified. “Not for being
funny
.”

I stand up swiftly: Francis is starting to pee on the platform floor and I need to move before it hits my foot. “Are we the models for today, then?”

“
I
am,” Kenderall says, pointing at her own face. “This needs recording as often as possible.”

“And I’m the photographer’s assistant,” Cal says, shrugging. “I’m just here to carry things and make tea. It’s not that interesting, but on days like this it’s totally worth it.”

He looks me up and down again.

There are 60,000 miles of blood capillaries in the human body, which is the surface-area equivalent of three tennis courts.

Every centimetre of mine is now on fire.

“There’s another girl waiting for us at the fairground,” Kenderall says, bending down and tying a little orange bandana around the pig’s head. “And
OMG
, she’s so
yawn
. There isn’t a single striking characteristic about her.”

“Not bad looking,” Cal says, shrugging. “If you like pale brunettes. Personally, I prefer perky redheads.”

Which should be a cue for me to get even redder, but I’m not really listening any more. I heard one word, and then everything went very quiet and far away.

“F-fairground?” I stammer. “What do you mean f-f-fairground?”

“It’s, like, this space that hosts fun rides, like a carnival?” Kenderall says, rolling her eyes. “Oh dear. Don’t say that kind of stuff out loud, babe. It gives models a bad name.”

“But …” I look around the station wildly, to where Wilbur is now showing Nancy the sketches in his art-pad. As he flips the pages, I see elaborate and surprisingly beautiful drawings of roller coasters and Ferris wheels and swings. “Wilbur said we were going to the beach.”

“This is Coney Island,” Cal says, stretching his arms out wide. “There
is
a beach, but it’s famous for its fairground.”

OK. This is the second time in a fortnight that someone I trust has taken me somewhere and pretended I’m going somewhere else.

I need to start asking smarter questions.

“B-b-but …” Sunshine. Sea. Sand. Pods of dolphins. They’re all vanishing with little
pops
, like lemmings off the edge of a cliff. “It’s just an elaborate set, right? A backdrop?”

“Nope, my little Chicken-monkey,” Wilbur says, sashaying back towards us. “Isn’t this fun? You won’t even have to queue for rides.”

No.

No no no no no
no.

I start backing away in terror.

“Oopsy,” Wilbur says, grabbing my arm as I manage to get one foot on the train behind me. “The fairground is this way, Bunny-boo.”

In the distance, I can see the top of an enormous, brightly coloured wheel and a sign that says LUNA PARK.

Luna
is the Latin word for
moon
, which is the stem for the word
lunatic
because in the thirteenth century people thought that periodic insanity was caused by changes of the moon. And as they drag me towards the single thing in the world I am most terrified of, all I can think is: