Geek Girl (15 page)

run all the way home.

OK, that’s not true. I don’t run
all
the way. I just wanted you to think I could if I needed to. Because I probably could
.
I run most of the way and then I Brownie Walk for the rest of it (walk twenty paces, run twenty paces). But I can’t run fast enough to get me away from what it is I’m running from. Which is me, mainly.

What am I doing? I’m about to screw over my Best Friend while she defends me, my stepmother while she protects me and possibly – depending on exactly how bad I am at this modelling thing – Wilbur and the entire fashion industry.

My head feels like it’s starting to rattle with words bouncing around inside it like balls. Every time
Moscow, Nick, Baylee
or
Metamorphosis
hit the side, my entire body jolts with excitement. Every time
Nat
and
Annabel
make contact, I feel like I’m about to implode with guilt and anxiety. And every time the
Alexa
ball bounces, I feel like vomiting.

But it’s too late. I’ve made my choice. So I spend the rest of the evening making an imaginary box in my head. And into this box I put all of the balls. I close the lid. And then I lock it up and temporarily misplace the key.

I’m going to Russia, I’m going to be transformed and there is nothing anybody can do to stop me.

First thing on Monday morning, the lies begin.

Lie No.1

Nat, I have a bad cold. Really do this time. Not coming to school today or tomorrow probably. Hope you’re OK. See you Wednesday xx

Lies No.s 2 and 3

Annabel: “Why are you wearing your Winnie the Pooh jumper, Harriet?”

Me: “…It’s non-uniform day.”

Annabel (
long silence
): “And why haven’t you gone to work already, Richard?”

Dad: “It’s non-uniform… Hang on. No. Late start today. Going in later. Look: I bought some strawberry jam.”

Annabel: “Why? I
hate
strawberry jam.”

Lie No.4

Me: “Annabel, do you know where my passport is?”

Annabel: “Why on earth would you want your passport at 8am on a Monday morning?”

Me: “…International school project?”

Annabel: “Why does that sound like a question? Are you asking me or telling me?”

Lie No.5

Toby, have gone to Amsterdam for a shoot. H

By the time Annabel’s frowned at both of us, checked me for a temperature and gone to work, Dad and I are running late for the airport so packing consists of throwing everything I own into a little suitcase, bouncing on top of it to get it to shut and contemplating just trimming round the edges as if it’s some kind of pie.

I’ve decided if I’m doing this, I have to do it properly, so I’ve made a bubble chart plan on the computer and given a copy to Dad. My lies are pink bubbles, Dad’s lies are blue bubbles and the lies we have to share are – obviously – purple.

In synopsis: Nat thinks I’m at home, sick, Annabel thinks I’m at Nat’s tonight for a sleepover, followed by school, and Annabel also thinks that Dad’s flown to Edinburgh for a late emergency client meeting that will run over until tomorrow evening.

“I can’t believe you made a
bubble chart
,” Dad keeps saying in disbelief as we finally climb into our plane seats.

“It’s the most suitable kind of chart for this kind of plan,” I tell him indignantly. “I made a flow chart and a pie chart, but they didn’t work nearly as well. This one is a lot more sensible.”

Dad looks at me in silence. “That’s not what I meant,” he says eventually.

“I made a timeline graph too,” I tell him as we buckle our seatbelts. “The lies are spread across it on an hourly basis. But if I show it to you, you might get confused. I think it’s best if I simply alert you when you’re supposed to be saying something that isn’t true.”

Dad stares at the bubble chart again. “Harriet, are you sure you’re my kid? I mean, you’re sure that Annabel didn’t bring you with her and swap you in?”

I scowl at him and then wince in pain because the universe has apparently decided to wreak vengeance upon me by making my metaphorical devil horns literal. By the time the air hostesses start pointing to the exits, my entire forehead is hot and throbbing; by the time they bring round the free peanuts, I can’t really frown without it hurting, and by the time we start the descent into Moscow, Dad’s calling my brand-new and massive zit “Bob” and talking to it like a separate entity.

“Would Bob like a drink of orange juice?” he asks every time a flight attendant walks past. “Perhaps a piece of cracker?”

It takes every single bit of patience I have not to ask the pilot if we can just turn round and drop my father back in England because he is
not behaving
. None of this, however, is enough to crush my excitement.

I’m going to Russia.

Land of revolutions and preserved leaders with lightbulbs stuck in the back of their heads. Land of the Kremlin and the Catherine Palace and the lost Amber Room, which was covered in gold and somehow ‘went missing’ during World War Two. Land of big fur hats and little dolls that fit inside each other.

And if I have to model while I’m there, so be it.

“This is it,” Dad says as the plane comes down. He nudges me with his elbow and grins. “Do you know how many teenagers would kill for this, sweetheart?”

I look out of the window. There’s a flurry of soft white snow and everything is covered in white powder, like a postcard. Russia looks exactly as I imagined it would. And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot
.
It’s on my Top Ten List of Countries to Visit. Number Three, actually. After Japan and Myanmar.

I swallow hard. Things are starting to change already. From this point on, everything is going to be different.

“You’re living the dream,” Dad smiles at me, looking back out of the window.

“Yes,” I say, smiling back at him. “I think I just might be.”

he really great thing about Moscow airport is that it’s so
Russian
.

The signs are in Russian. The books are in Russian. The brochures are in Russian. The shops are in Russian. All the things in the shops are Russian. All the people are Russian. OK, maybe all the people aren’t
Russian
– most of them are getting off planes from the UK and America, and if I’m totally honest, everything is also in English – but everyone looks sort of… different. Exotic. Historical. Revolutionary.

Even Dad looks more sophisticated, and he’s still wearing that nasty T-shirt with the robot on the front of it. None of which seems to have made any impression on Wilbur.

“Oh, my Billy Ray Cyrus,” he sighs when we finally find him. He’s sitting on top of a pink suitcase, wearing a silk shirt covered in little pictures of ponies, and the second he gets close to me he puts his hands over his eyes as if I’m about to poke them out with my zit. “Where did
that
come from? What have you been
eating
?”

“Chocolate-chip cereal bars,” Dad informs him helpfully. “She had three for breakfast.”

“You look like a baby unicorn, Twinkletoes. Could you not have held off for another twenty-four hours before you started sprouting horns?”

I scowl in humiliation, wince, and try to push the spot back in again. “It’s only one,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Horn,
singular.”

“Stop trying to
climb
the mountain with your fingers, Cookie-crumble,” Wilbur sighs, gently smacking my hand away. “Unless you’re planning on sticking a flag on top for posterity.”

Dad laughs so I thump his arm. Adults really need to learn to be more sensitive about teenage skin problems. They can be devastating to mental health, and to confidence, and also – I’d imagine – to modelling careers. “It’ll cover up with make-up, though, right?” I ask nervously.

“Treacle-nose, putting make-up on
that
is like sprinkling sugar on the top of Mount Fuji. Thank God for computers, that’s all I’m saying.” Then Wilbur takes a step back and surveys my outfit. “
Luckily
,” he exclaims, “we’ve saved the day with another moment of sheer fashion brilliance. Turn around, my little Rhino.”

I squint at him and then look down. “My Winnie the Pooh jumper?” I say in disbelief. “And my school skirt?”

It was all I had that still fitted and wasn’t a) in the wash, covered in sick, b) a football kit c) a suit or d) designed with an insect as a template.

“Winnie the Pooh Jumper and School Skirt,” Wilbur says, looking at the sky in wonder and slapping himself on the forehead. “You are truly an original, my little Jellyfish.
Anyhoo
, while I could stand here all day and talk about dermatological disasters and your sense of style, sadly I’m being paid to make sure I don’t.”

And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.

“But where are we going first?” I say as Dad and I trot along behind him. I’m so excited now that little insects feel like they’re rocketing around my stomach, the way they rocketed around the jam-jar trap we made at primary school. “The Gulag History Museum? The Tretyakov Gallery? The Novodevichy Convent? The Worker and Kolkhoz Woman is in Moscow, you know. It moved from Paris.”

Not that I’ve spent the entire journey reading a guidebook about Moscow or anything. Or – you know – three. And studying a map.

“Oh, good Lord. They sell lots of vodka here, right?” Dad asks. “I think I might need one.”

“My little Ginger-cakes,” Wilbur says, turning to look at us with his hand on his hip. “We’re not sightseeing
or
drinking vodka. This isn’t a romantic weekend for three, although – ” and he looks at Dad – “Mr Panda Senior over here is definitely a cutey.”

Dad looks momentarily stunned, and then grins and winks at me. “I keep telling Annabel I am, but she never believes me.”

“So where are we going?” I repeat impatiently. I’m going to throttle Dad before this trip is over.

“We’re going straight to set, Sponge-finger,” Wilbur says in a businesslike voice, “and we don’t even have time to drop your bags off at the hotel first. However, we
do
have to find the other model before we go anywhere.”

I stare at Wilbur in shock. He’s started walking towards the taxi rank and is waving his hands around as if his feet are on fire. “Wooohooo?” he adds at the top of his voice. “
Avez-vous
a spare taxi, anyone? Silver plate?”

I continue looking at his back, slightly distracted by the fact that he seems to think we’re in France. “Other model? What other model?”

Another model is
not
on the bubble chart.

“It’s a paired shoot, Puppy-toe,” Wilbur explains, looking at his watch. “I’m certain I explained it all to you, although that could have been a dream. And not one of my most interesting ones either.” He looks at his watch again and sighs. “But he’s predictably late,
as usual
.”

My stomach falls into my knees. “
He?
” I finally stammer.

“That’s the personal pronoun we use when the subject is male, Petal. And, if I remember correctly, you’ve met this one before. You were talking about doves, or was it pigeons? Some sort of bird anyway.”

My stomach drops all the way to the floor. And then my heart and my lungs and my kidneys and my liver all follow it until they’re lying in a smashed-up pile at my feet.

There is
no way
this is happening.

“
Finally
,” Wilbur says, turning round and waving. Because there – leaning against a lamp-post in the snow, wearing a big army jacket and looking impossibly beautiful – is Nick.

Again.