Picture Perfect (40 page)

“One,” Annabel says, putting her hand over her face.

“You have three now.” Bunty swings her bag over her shoulder. “See you at Christmas, lovelies!”

And my grandmother disappears as abruptly as she arrived.

For the first few minutes after opening the front door, our house feels strange.

This is partly because it smells of patchouli and vanilla, partly because there are mirrored, feathered objects hanging from every wall.

And partly because I know every single inch of it.

I know the squeaky sound of the first stair.

I know the bit of flaky paint behind the door where it rebounds when I slam it.

I know how many steps it takes to get from the living room to the kitchen; I know exactly where to angle the shower controls to get the perfect temperature; I know the round greasy stain on the ceiling from where Dad threw a pancake too enthusiastically, five years ago.

I know where the light switches are with my eyes closed, and how the tree outside makes different noises with every month of the year, and just what angle I have to roll out of bed to land on the fluffy rug.

I know the warmth of the beam of light, pouring through the front door. I know the sound of our neighbour’s lawnmower, and the stain on the carpet Annabel still doesn’t know was Nat, laughing Fanta out of her nose four years ago.

Dad puts our suitcases down and I start walking round the house with a lump in my throat.

I touch the walls. I touch the stair banisters. I touch the doorframes and the sofa. I touch the remote control and the kitchen taps.

Dad is doing the same thing.

Except a lot more energetically.

Then he runs back into the driveway, opens the car door and kisses the steering wheel. “It’s on the right side!” he shouts, giving it a hug. “It’s
so good
to be back!”

Finally, I walk in slow steps up to my bedroom.

And then I stop.

Because sitting on the bed, grinning at me, are a boy, a girl and a dog.

suddenly feel even weirder.

As if nothing has changed at all, but at the same time everything has.

Hugo, in the meantime, has leapt off the bed and is running backwards and forwards, his bottom wriggling so hard there’s a strong chance his head is about to rattle off.

I kneel down and he throws himself clumsily on top of me and starts trying to clamber over my head. I have no idea what the odds for Death By Licking are but it looks like my dog is giving it his best shot.

When Hugo’s finally calmed down, I take a deep breath and look up.

“Did you know,” Toby says amicably, “that dogs are capable of understanding up to two hundred and fifty words and have the average intelligence of a two-year-old child? Watch this, Harriet.”

He clicks his fingers. “Two times three, Hugo.”

Hugo wags his tail and then snuggles a bit further into my arms and ignores him completely.

Toby sighs. “It turns out two-year-old children aren’t that smart at all,” he says sadly. “And also that I am not very popular with animals.”

I stand up cautiously and look at my friends.

Nat is in a bright blue dress that seems to be unravelling slightly around the ruffles. Toby is wearing a black and white T-shirt with a little bow tie drawn on it and a ring with a built-in laser which he’s currently shining into the middle of my face.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly, putting my hand up to block it. “How are you?”

“Awesome,” Nat says slightly stiffly. “How was New York? Are you disappointed to be back?”

I clear my throat. “New York was, um. Well … Spectacular. You know, big and … How’s, umm, Jessica?”

“She’s
OK
,” Nat says, biting her lip. “Very … you know … cool and stuff
.
”

We stare at each other uneasily, and it suddenly hits me just how much I haven’t told Nat over the last few weeks.

Like literally anything.

She thinks I’ve been living the New York dream in a huge mahogany skyscraper, with celebrities cluttering up the pavement, and eating hot dogs out of vans with the boyfriend I no longer have in tow.

“Nat,” I say weakly. “The truth is …”

“Harriet!” Nat cries, suddenly jumping off the bed and lobbing herself around my neck. “Oh, Harriet, I’m
so
glad you’re back. I’ve been
trying
to be happy for you in your new glamorous life but it’s been
so hard
. College sucks and I never have time for anything any more and, and Jessica’s a total pain in the backside and she doesn’t have any lists or plans or
anything
and, and …”

Nat squeezes me tighter. “She’s not even a
little
bit like you, Harriet. Even if she
has
got the same hair colour. It’s like …
trickery
or something.”

I blink into her shoulder. “Y-you …” I start, and then swallow. “You missed me?”

Nat pulls away and stares at me. “What are you talking about? Of course I missed you. You’re my best friend.”

I can feel my eyes starting to prickle. “You didn’t want me to go?”

Nat frowns. “Of course I didn’t. I was trying to be excited for
you.
Because you’re my
best friend
.”

My nose is tickling now, as if miniscule spiders are crawling up and down inside it.

“And you’re not planning on replacing me with a college girl who knows all about shoe colours and handbag shapes and doesn’t have any interest in coordinated dances around the living room?”

Nat laughs. “Harriet, if I wanted those things, I’d have made friends with Alexa years ago. I
love
our dances. They’re
ace.
”

Oh my God. For the billionth time in a very short period, I have been very, very stupid.

Nat’s not going anywhere. She’s my white pigeon.

And I, obviously, am her monkey.

I wrap my arms around her and then mumble into her shoulder, “If it helps, I didn’t see any celebrities, Nat. Not one.”

“And if it helps,” she laughs, “it turns out I hate coffee. Like,
really
hate it. It tastes like cat poop.”

I laugh.

“Natalie is right, Harriet,” Toby says, standing up and awkwardly trying to cuddle us both at the same time. “It’s been super-boring without you. We’re so very glad to have you home.”

“Me too,” I say, shutting my eyes and smiling.

Because now I really, really am.

nyway, I have come to a recent conclusion:

If you’re the kind of person who makes plans for anything and everything – and I am – you might as well focus them on the things that really matter.

Things that you can actually do something about, instead of the things you can’t.

So on Friday afternoon after school, that’s exactly what I do.

I meet Nat on our bench at the corner of my road, and together we walk to the school gates and wait for Toby.

Apparently our new form tutor announced my intention to return to school on Monday morning with some scepticism, as if I was a nineties pop star and he wasn’t sure I would make it.

“I feel
immensely
non-conformist,” Toby says proudly as he sneaks out of the school with the sideways step of a ninja, or a crab. “The bell doesn’t ring for another …” He looks at his watch. “Three and a half minutes. The teachers think I’m in the lavatory but I went at 2pm instead.”

“Gross,” Nat says, scowling at him. “
That
goes on the list of things I never, ever want you to talk about in front of me again, Toby. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” Toby says firmly. Then he looks confused. “Do you mean bells? Or non-conformists?”

Nat rolls her eyes and plonks herself down on the wall.

And together, we wait.

Finally, the school bell rings and Alexa walks through the gates exactly when predicted, minions close behind her. Let’s just say that extra-curricular activities have never been high on her list of priorities.

Then she sees me and stops.

“Oh.” Alexa clearly wasn’t expecting to see me for another few days. I’ve surprised her, as was the plan. Then she rallies. “Look who’s back early. How delightful for the whole British population.”

“Hi, Alexa,” I say calmly. “Are you enjoying sixth form? I really hope so.”

She blinks a few times.

“Good to see the New York sense of style hasn’t made a single dent on your appearance,” she snaps, looking me up and down. “Are your shoes made out of rubber?”

I look at my faithful purple flip-flops. “Yes.”

“Shame,” she laughs. “If lightning hits you, you’ll probably be quite safe.”

“
Right
,” Nat says, jumping off the wall with pink cheeks. “I’ve had just about
enough
of—”

I put my hand out to steady my best friend. Alexa is rummaging in her bag, just as I knew she would. With a flourish, she pulls out the purple diary, and – with it – a handful of paper.

She
has
made photocopies, after all.

Hearts and equations and flowers and doodles; badgers I attempted to sketch; facts about stars and manatees and almonds. My biggest secrets, my most precious memories and my silliest ambitions.

All cut out and pasted together, with my face in the middle and the word

GEEK

written across it in thick red marker pen.

By Monday morning, these would have been spread around the common room, for all the new students who don’t know me yet to see.

But she hasn’t got round to it.

“Nice, huh?” she says, handing me a bundle and then distributing a few around. “I also checked out
Nick Hidaka
,” she adds, turning to look at the girls behind her. “Are you kidding me? He’s an actual model. You just got him off Google.”

I touch the planets around my neck. “So?”

Alexa’s eyes widen. “So, it’s
pathetic.
”

“Is it?”

Her eyes are now so big they look like they’re about to pop out. “Whatever. You’re clearly either
insane
or
delusional.
And I’m not giving the diary back, so don’t even ask. It’s nice to have a bit of fantasy bed-time reading.”

For the first time in ten years, it finally hits me how sad it is that Alexa’s life pivots on trying to hurt me.