Geek Girl (19 page)

’m holding Nick’s hand.

I’m actually holding Nick’s hand.
And nobody made him do it. He did it for free.

Or, you know. For a modelling fee.
But he didn’t have to.

It was his idea.

Not that this is the only thing going through my head for the rest of the shoot, obviously. I’m a professional. I think about lots of… modelling related things. Like clothes, and make-up, and hair, and sticky eyebrows made out of mice.

And… and… no.

That’s all I think about. The fact that Nick is holding my hand and I’ve never had my hand held by a boy before in my entire life unless you count when I was eight and forced into being Prince Charming’s mother in the school play, and I don’t.

And this time it’s Lion Boy
.

This time it’s Nick.

*

It turns out that when Nick said
jump
, his idea was that he
also
jumped, and so we both leapt into the air at the same time as high as we could. Nick held on to the kitten, I held on to the red shoes and we both jumped together.

And
everyone
loved it. Paul loved it. Wilbur loved it. Dad loved it. The crowd loved it. Even Yuka stopped threatening to sack everyone in a ten-mile radius. Gary wasn’t quite as keen, but you can’t please everyone.

When we’ve finished jumping in the air from a standing position, we throw caution to the wind and try running along from left to right, jumping. And then from right to left, jumping. Eventually I’m so relaxed and having so much fun they actually manage to get me to
not
jump for a few shots, just for variety. They even get close to my face and I don’t flinch or start twitching because I’m too busy thinking about… erm. Make-up. And clothes. And hair. And mice. And so on and so forth.

Before I know it, we’re done.

I’m a
model.

“My little Pea-pod!” Wilbur squeals as soon as Paul shuts down the camera. Nick immediately lets go of my hand, and by the time I turn around he’s gone again.
Poof
. Like the proverbial genie. “Look at you, just bouncing around like a little kangaroo in the snow!”

Dad pushes past him. “All right, kiddo?” he says, and it looks like his face is going to snap in half, he’s smiling so hard. “Chip off the old block, that was. I used to do high jump for the under-sixteens. Won trophies and everything.”

“Dad, you won a bronze medallion on Sports Day once when you were thirteen. It’s still on top of the fireplace.”

“Trophy, medallion, who’s counting? Anyway, I’m very proud.” He gives me a hug. “I thought for a horrible minute there we were going to have to pay for our own flight home. Now did someone say free vodka?” And he scampers off happily in the direction of the hotel.

I look at my empty hand again. I can’t believe Nick’s gone already. I’ve never seen anyone capable of becoming invisible quite so quickly or unexpectedly. And I can’t help wishing he wouldn’t.

“London, Poppet,” Wilbur says kindly, patting my shoulder.

“Hmm?” I’m still gazing in the direction I think Nick went.

“He’s gone back to London. He has another shoot for a different designer in the morning.”

I swallow in embarrassment and quickly look away. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please, Petal-pants. You’re all lit up like Lenin, and you don’t have the excuse of a lightbulb in the back of your head.”

I clear my throat crossly. “Nick and I are just colleagues,” I say with as much indifference as I can muster and an improvised shrug. “We work together.”

“Not any more you don’t,” Wilbur says matter-of-factly, patting me on the head. “His bit’s over. Yuka’s not as bothered about the male fashion end of the spectrum. Not bad money for a four-hour gig, hey?”

A swoop of disappointment hits my stomach and I bite my bottom lip in case it reaches my face. I should have realised. I’ll probably never see Nick again, unless it’s on the pages of a magazine in a doctor’s surgery and half his face will probably be missing from where somebody’s ripped out a coupon from the other side.

I can feel my cheeks tingling. And he didn’t even say goodbye.

“So,” I say as calmly as I can, “is my bit over too then?”

I’ve done a shoot, I’ve got a new haircut, I’m wearing make-up and I’ve held a boy’s hand, but…

I still feel like me. Something’s not working the way it’s supposed to.

Wilbur starts pealing with laughter. “
Is my bit over? Is my bit…
Oh, my little Bookworm,” he sighs eventually, bending over and putting his hand in the crease of his waist. “You
do
crack me right down the middle.”

Honestly, I wish people would just answer questions properly when I ask them.

“It’s not over then?” I reiterate.

“Nope.” Wilbur wipes the tears of laughter out of his eyes. “Now is the
really
fun bit. We’re going to another part of Moscow.”

For some reason, I’m not feeling as excited as I should be. Nick’s gone and I’m on my own this time.

“For dinner?”

Wilbur starts squealing again. “
Dinner?
You’re a model, Sugar-plum: you no longer
do
dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast, actually, unless you plan on regurgitating like a little snake. No, we have a Baylee fashion show to attend.”

“A fashion show? And I’m going too?”

“Well, I hope so, my little Chicken-wing,” Wilbur says, straightening out my fringe affectionately. “Because you’re starring in it.”

K, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on turning into a butterfly when I don’t have a clue what’s going on from one minute to the next?

Although – to be fair – I’m not sure what I’d have done if they’d told me. I am not a big fan of fashion shows. That’s not a gloomy, defeatist attitude either. It’s hard-won knowledge that comes from plenty of experience. I spent a large portion of my ninth summer walking up and down a ‘catwalk’ (the patio at the bottom of Nat’s garden), holding on to a skipping rope pulled in a straight line down the middle.

It was part of a deal Nat and I made: I practised ‘The Walk’ with her, she rehearsed lines from
The Song of Hiawatha
with me and we both pretended to enjoy it. But no matter how hard I tried, or how carefully Nat shaped our ‘couture’ plastic bin-bag dresses or arranged daisies on our heads as accessories, something always went wrong. A stumble. A rip.

A trip over a piece of pavement that resulted in a trip to A&E and seven stitches.

Until Nat decided it was probably less dangerous if I handled half-time refreshments and ‘directed’ the show from the safety of a deckchair on the lawn. And she got on with the modelling.

Nat
.

Ugh. The metaphorical box in my head feels like it’s going to open and the contents are about to burst all over the floor, so I mentally stick an extra nail in each corner.

“Fashion shows are fantabulous,” Wilbur reassures me as he forces me into yet another taxi. “Obviously we’re going to need to work on your walking skills, Chuckle-bean, because I don’t think the wheelchair is going to fit on the catwalk, but we’ve got at least twenty minutes to train you up.”

I feel a bit like vomiting.

I get the Bubble Chart of Lies out of my bag and switch my phone on. “Dad,” I say, turning to him, “You need to send something to Annabel to make her believe you’re in a really boring business meeting that’s running over.”

“Like
what
?” Dad asks in confusion.

“I don’t know,” I snap back irritably. “I can’t do
everything
. Just send whatever you’d normally send.”

Dad frowns. “First of all, if I’m in a meeting, I don’t normally text people under the desk. It’s not school. Second of all, Annabel and I have been married for eight years: we don’t send texts updating each other on our emotions about everything. And third of all, I’m a man. I
never
send texts updating people on my emotions about everything.
Anything
in fact.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I grouch because my head feels like it’s about to explode. “Send a text message, Dad. Just
follow the Bubble Chart
, OK? I don’t have the energy for your maverickness today.”

Dad looks at me, shrugs and gets his phone out. “All right. Don’t blame me if she gets suspicious. This is your adventure: I’m just the sidekick.”

“You’re not the sidekick, Dad.”

“I am. I’m like Robin. Or maybe Dr Watson.”

I scowl at him. “Try Chewbacca,” I mutter under my breath. My phone has been going crazy on my lap. I’m trying to pretend I haven’t heard it because I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with the rocket of guilt and shame I’m about to have launched at me.

“Is this a teenage thing?” Wilbur eventually asks in excitement when it beeps yet again. “It’s been a couple of years since I was a teenager, so maybe I’m out of the loop. Do you have a special ringtone you can’t hear or something?”

Dad coughs. “A couple?” he says, gazing out of the window. “A couple of years?”

Wilbur sticks his nose in the air. “I just have a very carved face,” he says haughtily. “Like Wolverine. It’s always been carved.”

Dad and I both look at him for a few seconds. If Wilbur’s under forty, I’ll eat that gold light reflector.

“No,” I sigh eventually, picking up my phone. “I can hear it. Unfortunately.” And then – extremely reluctantly – I click on the text messages.

H, how are you? Wish you were here. Shall I bring round soup after school? I can pick up some of that green Thai chicken stuff you like Nat x

H, no green stuff. Is red OK? Nat x

Dear Harriet, Toby Pilgrim here. Things are erupting at school. To wit: Alexa’s torturing Nat. Shall I come to Amsterdam and bring you home to avenge her like a flaming angel? Yours truly, Toby Pilgrim

Harriet, don’t forget to floss Annabel

H, is red too spicy? There’s a picture of three chillis. Is that bad? Nat

Nausea rises up my trachea and I stare at my phone, totally frozen.

I’m the devil. I’m actually the devil. Any minute now the horn that matches Bob is going to sprout and my hair is going to catch fire. I’ve been prancing around in the snow like a shoeless idiot, while Nat runs around fighting for me and buying me soup, and Annabel worries about my dental hygiene. And all I can think about is holding a boy’s hand.

I touch the painful spot on my forehead and tap my feet on the floor of the car. They’re starting to sound a little bit like – oh, I don’t know –
cloven hooves.

I quickly type out a reply.

Nat, no soup thanks – am going straight to sleep. Am also contagious so don’t come round. See you soon. H x

I stare at it for a few seconds then press send.

That’s another lie. Two in fact. The balls inside the box in my head are going crazy, so I mentally sit on the lid so they don’t all come bursting out at the same time.

When I glance to the side, Dad looks pretty uncomfortable too. “Hell’s a pretty cosy place, right?” he says, closing his phone. “I mean, it’s probably not as bad as they say, I reckon.”

“Let’s hope not,” I sigh as we draw up outside an astonishing, white, beautiful, huge carved building with a red carpet spread out in front of it.

Because I have quite a strong feeling we’re about to find out.