Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Holly Smale 2016

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com;

Cover typography © Mary Kate McDevitt;

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Holly Smale asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007574629

Ebook Edition © 2015 ISBN: 9780007574643

Version: 2016-06-16

Some glittering reviews for the books:

“Funny, original and this year’s must-read for teenage girls” Sun

“You won’t be going anywhere until this short-and-sweet book is complete and hugged to your chest” Maximum Pop

“A funny, light-hearted read that teenage girls will relate to” Sunday Independent

“Great … One to snuggle up with and enjoy!” Shout

“A funny, feel-good read for the holidays” The Times

“Smart, sassy and very funny” Bookseller

For Louise. Because everybody needs a fairy godmother.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Geek Girl Books

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Read More Geek Girl

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

head over heels: idiom

1 To be excited, and/or turn cartwheels

2 To fall in love

3 To become temporarily the wrong way up

4 To go at top speed

6 To fall over

ORIGIN: an inversion of fourteenth century expression heels over head, to literally turn upside down

y name is Harriet Manners, and I have friends.

I know I have friends because this is by far the busiest I’ve ever been.

Honestly, my calendar is manic.

Between group study sessions and movie nights, pizza-eating competitions and crossword round robins, it’s all I can do to keep my epic new social life in some kind of order.

So now I’ve got two diaries: one to make sure I’m in the right place at the right time, the other for making sure everyone else is.

What can I say?

Winnie-the-Pooh was Friendship Ambassador in 1997: I have an awful lot to live up to.

The other reason I know I have friends is that I have a badge that says this in bright blue ink:

Team JINTH!

“Harriet,” Nat said when I presented her with one. “Is this totally necessary?”

“Yes,” I confirmed, pinning it to my Best Friend’s coat. “We don’t want our brand-new additions to feel left out, do we?”

Then I gave badges to Jasper, India and Toby.

Along with the key-rings and magnets I made on my laminating machine.

That’s right: I am now in an official gang.

A clique, a posse, a fellowship.

A group of five happy kindred spirits, never to be parted. Just like the Famous Five or Scooby Doo, except one of us isn’t a big brown dog.

And it’s literally changed my life.

Studies have shown that people with a large network of friends tend to outlive their peers by up to twenty-two per cent, but I’m having so much fun I expect I’ll last even longer.

It took sixteen years, but I finally found them.

People who genuinely want to know that the average London pigeon has 1.6 feet and the soil in your back garden is two million years old.

People who love discovering that a single sloth can be home to 980 beetles and that Martian sunsets are blue and then maybe trying to Google a picture.

I finally found my people.

Etymologically, the word happy comes from the Old Norse noun happ, which means good luck or fortune, and that’s how I feel: as if everything is finally happening exactly as I’ve always wanted it to.

Because for the first time ever, I’m not on the outside looking in any more: I’m smack bang in the middle.

Part of a team and fitting in perfectly.

And I’m having the time of my life.

o where am I right now, you ask?

That’s what you really want to know, isn’t it: where a gang of this epic coolness – of this rare synergy – could possibly be spending most of their free time together.

Well, it’s not the local launderette.

Those innocent days are behind me, I’m afraid.

I tried to keep them going, obviously.

In fact, for the first few weeks I even set up a circle of chairs next to my favourite drying machine and a tray of snacks on top of the coin dispenser, but India wasn’t having any of it.

“Harriet,” she said after our seventh game of ‘Which Washing Machine Finishes First’. “We’re sixth formers. Don’t you think we should maybe hang out somewhere with … I don’t know, less dirty underwear lying about?”

Honestly, I think she was just upset because her machine always finished last.

Some people are super competitive.

Anyway, after a lot of careful research and analysis I finally picked somewhere new: a cosy little cafe, less than fifteen minutes from my house.

And it’s actually kind of perfect.

There are lanterns everywhere and bright velvet cushions and shelves with interesting books piled high. Little coloured fairy-lights are strung from the ceiling all year round, and newspapers featuring multiple crosswords are strewn across the tables: just begging to be filled en masse.

There’s chocolate cake and ginger biscuits and every kind of coffee you could imagine: espresso and macchiato, cappuccino and mochaccino.

Basically, a lot of drinks with o on the end.

Team JINTH even has its very own special spot: a large blue sofa tucked in the corner with two red leather armchairs and a series of green vintage suitcases turned into a table, where we sit all of the time.

Unless other people are sitting there first, and then we have to sit somewhere else.

In short, the cafe is a strategic success.

Close enough for easy access, far enough to feel like a real escape. Glamorous, intimate, mature: the absolute height of sociable sophistication.

It’s my new happiest place to be.

“The usual?” the barista says as I reach the counter, phone clutched tightly in my hand. “Or are we going to branch out and try something new and dangerous today?”

Without looking up, I type:

I’m here! :) What is your approximate ETA? Hxx

Then I shake my head and press SEND. “Just the same as normal, please.”

There’s a loud buzz.

“So an extra-large and chocolatey hot chocolate with too much foam it is, then.”

“Yes, please. With extra powdered chocolate, in a round cup.” I quickly type out another message. “So it looks like a real cappuccino and nobody can tell it hasn’t got any coffee in it.”

“A Harriet-uccino. Got it.”

I know, I know.

Coffee may statistically be the most popular drink in the world, and in the UK we consume 70 million cups of it every day, but I tried it once and spent four hours talking to a pigeon.

Remember to wear your JINTH T-shirts for photo opportunities! Hxx

There’s another buzz.

Also don’t forget the itineraries for tonight! Hxx

Apparently one in three teenagers send over three thousand text messages a month, and according to my last phone bill I am definitely heading towards that minority. (Although judging by my parents’ reaction, you’d think I was already there.)

Being in a happily organised gang is a surprising amount of work.

There’s another buzz, and the barista pauses from frothing up my milk to grab his phone out of his apron pocket and stare at it with one bright blue eye and one brown.

“You know, Harriet,” Jasper says, “you’re standing right in front of me. You could just say it.”

I glance up in surprise.

His lightly tanned face is flushed by the steam, his dark blond hair has grown into a kind of scruffy mohican and his dark eyebrows are knitted together in their standard frown.

“But what if you forget? You might need it written down for later.”

OK, there might be another, slightly less poetic, reason why we hang out here. Jasper’s family owns this cafe, so he works here most evenings and every weekend and we usually get a discount or an extra sprinkle of chocolate.

If Jasper’s in a good mood, that is. If he’s in a grump, he gives us cinnamon.

“Take your fake-uccino,” he sighs, shaking his head and passing it over the counter. “Burnt biscuit? I’ve screwed up another batch and need to get rid of them before Mum notices.”

I beam at him: I love the burnt ones. “Yes, please.”

“Such a little weirdo,” he says, grabbing two from under the counter. “And what other documentation do I need to bring this evening? A passport? Some kind of visa? Do you have a fingerprinting machine for security purposes?”

Oh my goodness, that would be awesome.

Then I spot his smirk.

“Jasper King,” I tell him airily, “I am very busy so if you’re just going to be sarcastic, I have more important things to do.”

He thinks about that for a few seconds. “I am literally always going to be sarcastic.”

“In that case, I shall be over there, eating my biscuits.” I stick my nose in the air. “Which I appreciate very much, by the way. Please send more over in due course.”

Then, humming to myself, I take my hot chocolate contentedly over to my special section of the corner sofa.

I put little bits of typed-out, laminated paper on the rest of the seats to make sure they’re officially reserved.

I take a huge gulp of my delicious Harriet-uccino.

And I sit down patiently to wait.

nfortunately, we could be here some time.

Regardless of my gentle yet informative lectures about the importance of punctuality – and the street maps I drew for each of them individually – the rest of Team JINTH is almost always late.

Even though every single one of them lives closer to the cafe than I do.

So I may as well use this delay to update you on what else has been going on in the four months since you last saw me. Just try not to imagine me breaking up my biscuit and crumbling it into my hot chocolate at the same time, because that’s not what I’m doing.

I’m not dropping three more sugar cubes in there either: that would be gross.

Or sprinkling extra chocolate on top.

Ahem.

Well, none that I plan on telling you about right now, anyway.

I’m far too traumatised to go into it quite yet. All you need to know is I never want to hear the words “Paris Couture Fashion Week”, “fluorescent swimming pool” or “giant rabbit head” ever again.

The humiliating nightmares are still recurring.

What else?

Nat and Theo broke up and she won a big fashion award at college – consequently she seems to spend even more time there, if that’s possible; India was promoted from new girl to Head Girl – making her simultaneously cool and powerful; Jasper has done a lot of stomping around, covered in paint and scowling at everyone. (Everybody in my gang has a talent and that’s his speciality.)

In fact, every person in my social circle appears to be on a similarly positive trajectory: the only way is up.

Literally, in Toby’s case.

My ex-stalker has managed to grow another three inches over the last two terms, and we’re beginning to worry that – much like Alice in Wonderland – he’s just going to keep eating things and shooting up vertically until he hits the ceiling.

And that’s pretty much everything.

My entire life: neatly summarised in a series of beautifully organised bullet points and decisive sentences.

Except that’s not what you want to know, is it?

You’re sitting there, nodding – yes, Harriet, lovely, Harriet, how interesting, Harriet – but there’s one burning question I haven’t answered and you’re not going to pay any attention until I do.

Trust me, I understand: that’s how I feel about burning questions too.

So here it is.

I’m just sorry if it’s not what you were hoping for, that’s all.

Every time we fall in love, we statistically lose two good friends: reducing our average friendship group from five people to three.

So six months ago, I pushed a wooden box full of memories under my bed.

I opened the big box in my head.

I put love and romance inside and locked it up tightly.

Then I kept moving forward with the things that make me happy: into a neat, tidy and organised world with lots of extra space in my story now for other things. Like learning that polar bears can eat eighty-six penguins in one sitting and if you lift a kangaroo’s tail it can’t hop, or that outer space tastes of raspberries.

For spending time having fun with my gang.

So no, I don’t have a boyfriend.

And no, I definitely don’t want one.

Because there are approximately a hundred thousand billion cells in the human body, and for the first time in over fifteen months every single one of mine belongs to me again.

I think that’s all you really need to know.

nyway.

A lot can happen in fifteen seconds.

In just fifteen seconds, 69,000 tweets are posted and eighteen hours of YouTube videos are uploaded.

Every fifteen seconds, 615,000 Facebook statuses are updated, 51 million emails are written and 600,000 texts are sent.

Basically, a lot of socialising goes on.

Over the next quarter of a minute, I do my best to single-handedly boost those statistics.

With my phone mere centimetres from my face, I type as fast as I can: sending a group message letting everyone know it’s unseasonably warm today so they probably don’t need coats, and another asking if I should get their drinks in for them so they don’t have to wait in line.

A text, asking where everyone is now.

Another, asking if they’d like a biscuit or slice of cake, then another just to let them know that I’m totally fine about the cancelled night-trip to the zoo last weekend.

A funny joke I just remembered about a duck.

Another about a whale.

An observation about an interesting squirrel I saw in a tree on the way here.

In fact, I’m texting so hard the only thing I don’t do over the next fifteen seconds is look up or glance around the room.

Which means I’m just sending everyone an interesting fact about biscuits – it comes from the old French word bescuit which means ‘twice cooked’ – when a laugh comes completely out of nowhere.

And it takes a lot longer than it probably should to realise that although it doesn’t belong to anyone in my friendship group, I still know it very well indeed.

Better than I’d like to.

“Well,” a tall blonde girl says as I glance up, finger still paused on SEND, “if it isn’t Harriet Manners.”

And there – looming over me with an extremely confusing statement – is the one part of my life I failed to update you on: the single bullet point I completely left off.

Alexa.

stare at my arch-nemesis blankly.

Apparently as soon as a young sea-squirt finds a rock to anchor itself to, it will eat its own brain because it doesn’t really need one any more.

I think that’s possibly what’s happened to me.

This place is so safe and so comfortable – such a source of inner strength – I’m not really on my guard any longer.

Now my head is totally empty.

“What a charming surprise,” Alexa continues with another laugh, blowing on her proper, caffeinated coffee. “I didn’t realise you hung out here. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Seriously: again?

Why does she always insist on sitting with me? The surface of the earth is 510 billion square metres. Can’t she just – for once – pick one that isn’t directly adjacent to mine?

I watch as my bully of eleven years flicks the paper that says Natalie Grey on to the floor and sits down, propping her spiky high-heeled boots on the chair that says Toby Pilgrim and flinging her handbag on to India Perez.

So much for reservations.

“You know,” she continues with a little smirk, “I wasn’t sure about this place at first, but I think maybe it’s kind of growing on me.”

I nod vaguely. “Mmm.”

“What are you drinking?” she asks curiously, staring into my cup. “Go tea!”

I blink a few times. My beverage is quite clearly not tea: it has fluffed-up milk on top and a ridiculous amount of chocolate sprinkles.

“Actually,” I say, flushing slightly, “it’s an extremely strong cappuccino. The caffeine molecule mimics the molecule adenosine and binds to natural receptors that would otherwise make you sleepy, thus keeping you – I mean me – super-awake.”

Thanks to Jasper’s drink-making skills, there’s no way she can prove this is actually a kiddy-beverage. Thank goodness this time there are no pink mini-marshmallows floating on top.

“Please,” Alexa takes another delicate sip and wiggles her eyebrows, “do tell me mo’.”

I stare at her a little longer, totally bemused. Why does she sound like an American belle from the Deep South?

Then I decide I don’t really care.

There’s a spider in the United States called the Loxosceles reclusa. Its venom is so powerful it destroys flesh: chewing up cell membranes and cutting off the blood supply. Thousands of people every year used to be badly wounded by it.

They’re not any more.

In 1984, scientists at Vanderbilt University in Nashville found the anti-venom that blocked the spider’s venom and stopped it destroying anything.

There’s a brilliant reason why I left Alexa off my list: she no longer matters. She doesn’t make me cry and she doesn’t make me hide under tables. After eleven years, I finally found the only thing in the world that could stop my bully hurting me.

Myself.

“No, thank you,” I sigh tiredly, grabbing the crossword I left yesterday under the coffee table and studying that instead.

“Maybe we can shave it for later?”

“Sure,” I say in a bored voice, writing EWER in four across: boat or vessel.

“It’s so nice to see you finally manning up.”

I nod and scribble ERINACEOUS in six down: pertaining to a hedgehog. “Uh-huh.”

The door opens with a BANG.

“We’ll really have to— OOMPH.”

I glance up just in time to see a tornado of long black hair, blue coat and grey bag as Nat rips across the cafe with Toby and India close behind her.

And sits directly in Alexa’s lap.

ature is truly incredible.

When a red fire ant is threatened, pheromones are automatically released and every other member of its ant community will come rushing to the rescue.

Team JINTH must have a similar power.

The door is still swinging: that’s how fast my entire battalion of friends has come charging in, swords drawn.

Metaphorically, obviously.

It’s not 1675, and coffee shops are no longer the illegal hub of political uprisings.

“Awwwww,” Nat says with a bright smile, lifting her feet to make herself as heavy as possible, “Alexa Roberts. You kept my seat warm for me. How sweet.”

“It’s warm?” India throws herself casually into the seat next to them and kicks off her purple suede boots. “Weird. I always assumed she’d be cold-blooded.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Toby objects, perching on the coffee table wearing a T-shirt with a tardis drawn on it that says TRUST ME, I’M THE DOCTOR. “All mammals have warm blood. Are we JINTHA now? Because we’re going to need new baseball caps.”

“What the … how the …” Alexa is worming her way out from beneath Nat and struggling to her feet, face purple, smirk completely gone. “GET THE HELL OFF ME, FREAK. You can’t just go around sitting on people!”

“Oops,” Nat shrugs with wide eyes. “The seat usually has my name on it. Or maybe you changed your name by deed poll because you’re so desperate to be me.”

“And Harriet didn’t look like she was loving your company,” India points out, propping her toes on the coffee table while her bright purple hair gleams under the fairy-lights. “It seemed like a good point to interrupt.”

In fairness, I’d have probably been more entertained if I had a single clue what Alexa was talking about.

“This place is pathetically hipster anyway,” Alexa snaps furiously, brushing her jeans down with a disgusted look on her face. “It’s a destination for jokes like you to pretend you have real lives outside of academia. You can so have it.”

HA. Told you it’s super-cool in here.

Alexa sneers at me and I stare calmly back. Captain America has a shield made of vibranium, and it’s completely indestructible. Hulk can smash it, Thor can hammer it, and nothing happens.

It feels like I finally have one too.

Smiling serenely, I lift my chin and give her my most regal expression. She absorbs it for a few seconds, clearly deeply impressed by my incredible majesty.

Then she bursts out laughing again.

“Geek,” she says, shaking her head. “Laters, Manners. I must dash. This place is yours: I wouldn’t want it anyway.”

And – with a final flick of her hand – Alexa walks away.

ome battles in life you win, and some you lose.

I think it’s obvious which one that was.

“Well,” I grin broadly, triumphantly putting my crossword down on the table. “We definitely won that one, huh, guys.”

Then I hold up my hand to high-five them all.

There’s a silence.

“Uh, Harriet,” India says, rubbing her top lip. “What are you drinking?”

Oh my God, why does everyone keep asking me that? “It’s coffee,” I say a little too defensively. “With caffeine molecules in it.”

Then I look to Nat for support, but her head is down, her shiny dark hair has fallen across her face and her shoulders are shaking.

“Did you know, Harriet,” Toby says, putting a finger on his top lip, “that in Mayan times the cocoa bean was used as currency because it was more valuable than gold?”

I blink and look back at Nat. She’s holding a finger up to her top lip now too.

OK: this is amazing.

We’ve obviously got some kind of gang gesture, even better than a high-five. My pals have become so utterly in-sync and synergised, we don’t even need to talk about it first. That’s how in tune we are with each other.

I beam and put my finger on my top lip too.

It seems a little inappropriate – especially in light of the Second World War – but who am I to question our clique motives?

This is what I love so much about us.

We work seamlessly together: like a prickle of porcupines, or a dray of squirrels, a journey of giraffes or a band of mongoo—

“Hey, genius,” Jasper says, suddenly appearing from the kitchen with a tray full of clean mugs, “you’ve got chocolate all over your face.”

Then he puts the tray down on the counter and disappears again.

I blink at the space Jasper was just standing in.

There’s a mushroom called the Omphalotus olearius that gives off a glow so bright it’s possible to read a book at night by its light. My cheeks are suddenly so luminous, I could power an entire nocturnal library.

Growing on me. Goatee. Mo’. Shave it for later. Manning up.

Must dash. Mustdash. Moustache.

Oh my God, Alexa didn’t think my expression was regal and majestic at all.

Unless she assumed I’m Abraham Lincoln.

Still shaking with suppressed giggles, Nat holds a hand-mirror up and sure enough: there’s a thick dark brown line on my upper lip and a large poo-coloured streak on my chin.

Sugar cookies.

“You know,” Toby says loyally as I bury my head in my arms with a humiliated groan, “beards actually make you 63% more likely to win a staring contest. No wonder Alexa left so quickly, Harriet.”

And that does it.

With an explosion of giggles, India and Nat collapse on the sofa and I remember again why I tend to hang out in places away from the public eye.

Maybe I didn’t win that particular battle after all.

tatistically, we each go through 396 friends in a lifetime and only keep 36 of them.

Maybe I should just keep looking.

I bet the other 392 wouldn’t spend eight whole minutes laughing at my foamy facial hair.

By the time everyone has stopped giggling – and I’m wiped clean with a series of damp cloths – normality has finally resumed.

Nat’s sipping her coconut milk latte; India’s sprawled across the sofa with her second espresso and Toby’s ploughing through a glass of hot milk. Jasper pops over occasionally to contribute another burnt biscuit or sardonic comment.

And I’ve spread my documents across the table.

Tonight is the first ever Team JINTH sleepover and I am the inaugural host. And I don’t want to sound vain, but I have arranged everything.

I’ve organised which games we’ll play and which films we’ll watch and what kind of food we’re going to eat. I’ve written a How-Well-Do-We-Know-Each-Other quiz and a Are We Really Having Fun? questionnaire so we’ll know how to improve next time.

I’ve even drawn a diagram of where on the floor we’ll sleep.

It’s going to be amazing.

“He did what?” Nat splutters into her coffee. “No.”

“He did,” India insists, grinning. “Halfway through the date, he put his leg on the table. Plop. Then he said ‘I’ve been told I have very handsome shins’.”

Nat explodes with laughter.

“The tibia is the second longest bone in the body,” Toby says, nodding. “He may have had a point.”

“So …” Nat sits forward. “What did you do?”

“I told him to get his flaming foot out of my dinner before I ate it and then I said I’d call him.”

“Ooooooh. Cold.”

“Cold call him?” Toby says in confusion. “Like a telesales person? Sometimes they ring us about windows even though we clearly have eight already.”

“When somebody says they’ll call you, it means they won’t call you. Or they’d have been more specific.”

“Yup. It’s dating speak for this is over now please go away and never speak to me again.”

“Aaaaah,” Toby nods. “I’m afraid I’ve never been rejected by a girl so I wouldn’t know.”

Nat blinks at him in silence.

“Anyway,” I say, plopping my Filofax on the table. “Gang. About tonight. The itinerary is looking shipshape, but I just need to run through a few extra components. I’ve got Telling Each Other Secrets down at 9pm, is that OK?”

“Umm,” Nat says, putting her coffee down, “actually, Harriet, about that …”

“Secrets at nine?” Toby says, pulling out a TEAM JINTH SLEEPOVER notepad. “Are you sure? I’ve got it down at 10pm. Just after the Pillow-Fight at 9:35.”

I frown and check my notes. “I’ve pencilled it in wrong. Thanks, Tobes.”

It’s been surprisingly useful having Toby as my second-in-command. It’s just too easy to forget what fun you’re supposed to be having and when.

“Harriet?” Nat says. “Hang on …”

“I’ve also bought the snacks already.” I check the list. “We just need to make sure we stick to salted after 11pm or we’re going to crash by midnight.”

“Seriously?” India says, lifting her eyebrows into dark ticks. “Are you regulating our blood sugar levels?”

“Of course not,” I laugh. “Although I think there is a kit you can buy from pharmacies. Maybe I should swing past on my way back h—”

“Harriet,” Nat says, prodding me. “Listen.”

“Natalie,” I grin. “Don’t worry! I looked up beautifying face masks on the internet and made one out of avocado, lemon and olive oil.”

“That’s not …” Nat rubs a hand over her face. “We have a problem.”

“Personalised bedding,” Toby whispers. “I told you we needed monogrammed pillows.”

Nat crosses her eyes at him.

“I can’t make it tonight, H,” she says slowly. “I’m so sorry. I know you’ve organised … everything, but there’s a textiles exam on Monday and I’m just not ready for it.”

“Oh thank God,” India sighs. “I’ve got a Head Girl presentation to prepare for lower school so I can’t come either.”

I stare at Nat and India in shock.

Human brains are 10 per cent smaller than they were 20,000 years ago, and I can actually feel mine reducing.

“But you’re half the sleepover,” I point out stupidly. “I can’t have it without you. It would just be …” I glance pointedly at Toby and Jasper.

Enough said.

“Subtle as always,” Jasper says from where he’s been cleaning the table next to us. “Guess I’d better keep my salsa and cheddar cheese face mask for myself, then.”

Toby turns to me with lit-up, hopeful eyes.

“Not going to happen,” I say quickly. Second-in-command is one thing: sleepover-for-two is quite another.

Then I collapse back into my seat.

I don’t believe this. All that effort for nothing?

Ugh. I really wish people would let me know when they’re editing my plans: this is my life they’re rearranging.

Quickly, I force myself to rally.

“Next weekend?” I say, flicking through my Filofax as Nat drains the last of her coffee and stands up. “The weekend after? Half term? Easter holidays? Bank holiday?”

India opens her mouth and shuts it again.

“Sure,” my best friend says, swinging her handbag over her shoulder and pecking me on the cheek. “We’ll sort something out.”

hey don’t sort something out at all.

It’s now mid-March – two entire weeks later – and between exams and revision, jobs and dates, we’ve only just managed to pin down a time that the five of us can actually do.

And it’s right now.

Frankly, I don’t think people really appreciate how much notice is needed to throw a decent sleepover, because I just received this:

J got night off work last minute and I’m out of college early! Drag out the sleeping bags – it’s on! Meet at cafe! Nat xx

And now I’m having a meltdown.

Biologists recently found 300 different species living among the debris floating in the ocean, including puffins, turtles, seals, whales and penguins: all of which have to wade through mountains of human detritus just to get to bed at night.

I know exactly how they feel, because that’s what my bedroom currently looks like.

Books are leaning in mountains against walls, draft essays are scattered, practice equations are crumpled. Paper is pinned over every wall: Excel sheets, schedules, timetables, Post-its.

My wastepaper basket looks ready to explode.

Ditto my dirty laundry.

A bowl of half-eaten tomato soup sits on my dressing table and I’m pretty sure my dog is in the room somewhere too but I couldn’t swear to it.

Also possibly Annabel’s cat.

The only difference between me and the poor puffins is: this mess is mine, which means it’s my responsibility to tidy it up.

In nine minutes flat.

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I charge across the room, pick up an armful of laundry and throw it into the bottom of my wardrobe. “What on earth are you doing?”

She appears in my doorway with Tabby on her hip just in time to see me ram the wardrobe doors shut with my shoulder and stick a biro through the front handles.

It’s probably a good thing she didn’t catch me using the vacuum cleaner to pick up jumpers.

Or shouting “Scourgify!” at the sock drawer.

“Cleaning my bedroom,” I say, grabbing a handful of textbooks and stuffing them on to an already exploding bookshelf. “Did you know that the average desk has 400 times more bacteria than a toilet seat?”

Then I look cautiously at mine.

I think I’m safe: it’s coming up to exam time and there’s so much paper on it I haven’t actually seen the wood in months.

“You’re cleaning your bedroom?” Annabel lifts one eyebrow. “Goodness. No wonder I was so confused. Tabitha, regard this historic event carefully. It may never happen again.”

My sister laughs and waves Dunky, her favourite grey toy donkey, at me.

So I blow her an affectionate kiss.

The minute she’s old enough, I’m going to have to explain the concept of slander. I’ve tidied my bedroom at least twice this year, so Annabel’s insinuation is very unfair.

“Everything needs to be perfect,” I explain, grabbing Winnie-the-Pooh off my bed. “It’s not every day we have people stay over, is it?”

Then I give Winnie a kiss and put him in the box on top of my wardrobe. I don’t want my friends thinking I still spend every night sleeping with a cuddly bear.

Even though he’s the best and I totally do.

“I’m very impressed,” Annabel smiles. “This is incredibly thoughtful of you, sweetheart.”

I nod, quickly lobbing the ‘WELCOME!!!’ banner across the door. “It’s important to make the people you love feel wanted in your home.”

“It is. I’m so glad you’re being mature about this, Harriet.”

I glow with pride. She’s right: I really am.

“It’s going to be so much fun,” I tell her excitedly, kicking my roller-trainers under the bed. “We’re going to spend the whole night examining my book of Interesting Animal Facts and quizzing each other on them. I’ve made a Q and A especially.”

Annabel frowns. “Well … not the whole night. She’ll need to get some sleep.”

Good point. Nat does get grumpy when she’s tired. “OK, we’ll probably be worn out by the choreographed dance routines anyway.”

“Choreographed dance routines?”

“Don’t worry. If there isn’t space in here we can move the break-dancing to the living room.”

“Break-dancing?” There’s a pause while Annabel shifts Tabs to her other hip. “Sweetheart, it’s very kind of you to arrange everything so carefully, but sixty-eight really isn’t as young as you think it is.”

I pause from randomly flicking a duster at the shelves and quickly do the maths in my head. Jasper and India are seventeen, but Nat and Toby are still sixteen.

So 17 + 17 + 16 + 16 =

“I think it’s sixty-six,” I correct as politely as possible.

“Sixty-eight, sweetheart.”

“Sixty-six. You’ve inaccurately added a couple of birthdays.”

“Harriet,” Annabel laughs, heading back towards the hallway, “I appreciate your enthusiasm for both maths and human development, but I know how old my mother is.”

I turn to stare at her blankly – what has that got to do with anything? – and that’s when I hear it. A familiar chug-chug-chug. A sputter-sputter-sputter. A thud-thud-thud.

The sound of an ancient pink VW Beetle, reversing up the driveway.

Apparently the human brain absorbs eleven million bits of information every second, but we only notice forty of them.

Right now you can make that just one.

There’s a loud crunch.

“Yoooohooooo!” a familiar voice calls as I run to my bedroom window and fling it wide open. “Kittens, I’m here early! Goodness, that’s a funny place to put a hydrangea.”

And there – beaming at us from out of the car window – is my hippy, nomadic grandmother.

Bunty.

o you want to know a fascinating fact about the salamander? It can have its brain removed, cut into slices, shuffled like cards, put back in and yet still function as normal.

The same clearly can’t be said for me.

I didn’t include Bunty in my earlier summary because I had no idea what to tell you. Last time I heard from my step-grandmother, she was camped out in a llama sanctuary in Nepal. Before that, she was trying to break into Tibet without a permit.

A couple of months before that, I got a postcard from Bolivia saying

Either way, she was anywhere but here.

Blinking, I watch my grandma hit the brakes with a loud squeak and then start cheerfully backing into our hedge. My chopped-up brain feels like it’s desperately trying to fit itself back together again.

Oh my God. Annabel wasn’t talking about my Team JINTH sleepover.

She was talking about Bunty.

No wonder there was such alarm about the dancing: it could literally break my grandmother.

“Harriet,” Annabel frowns, pausing in the hallway as she watches me work this all out, “this shouldn’t be a surprise. I’ve been reminding you about this visit for the last two weeks.” She sighs. “I knew I should have made you put that phone down.”

I stare at her, tiny bits of brain slowly dissolving into sludge. “Bunty’s staying with us now?”

“Yes, now, Harriet.” Annabel glances out of the window to where my grandma has begun three-point-turning across the lawn. “Although she wasn’t supposed to be here until later tonight.”

“But … I don’t understand. Where is she going to sleep?”

“You’re giving her your bedroom. I assumed that was what you were tidying up for.”

My eyes shoot wide.

I love my grandmother, but this is my sanctuary. My refuge. She’s going to rearrange all my bookshelves. “But I’m having a massive and seminal sleepover tonight. Where is everyone going to go?”

“You’ll just have to postpone it for a while, Harriet,” Annabel says calmly. “I’m very sorry.”

“But … I can’t postpone again. Everything’s arranged.”

“Then rearrange it.”

There’s the sound of a car door being shut outside, and flip-floppy footsteps crunching up the gravel. Annabel carefully shifts a gurgling Tabby and starts heading down the stairs.

In a panic, I race after them.

Quick, Harriet. Do something. Save the Team JINTH Sleepover Plan. “But can’t she just sleep on the sofa like she did when Tabitha was born?”

“No, Harriet.” There’s a knock on the front door. “She’s staying longer this time. I … don’t know how long for. She needs a real bed.”

“And I don’t? I have important exams coming up, Annabel. Homework. Coursework. Essential biology experiments.”

If in doubt, always fall back on academia.

“Chickens?” a bright voice calls through the letterbox. “You don’t have another birdhouse, do you? I think I’ve broken this one. They may need to temporarily squat in a tree.”

“Just one second, Mum!”

“But …”

“Harriet,” Annabel whispers sharply, spinning round. Her face is so firm and so lawyer-y, my mouth automatically closes with a snap. “Stop saying but. This is not up for discussion, so just try and be a grown-up about it. Please?”

I blink. Nobody wins an argument against Annabel. Ever. I bet she can make grown judges cry.

“Thank you, darling,” she says more gently, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “I truly appreciate it.”

And the front door swings open.

K: try and be a grown-up about it?

What is that supposed to mean?

I’m sixteen and a half years old, thank you very much. If I lived in Cuba, Turkmenistan, Kyrgyzstan or Scotland, I’d be a legal adult already. In fact, in American Samoa I’ve been one for two whole years.

Maybe I should just move there.

I squint at the tanned figure, shining in the doorway. My grandmother is backlit by sunshine, giving her the appearance of a stained-glass window. Her hair is glowing bright pink, blue sequins are glinting all over her floor-length orange dress, a tasselled green pashmina is dangling across her shoulders and there are approximately fifteen daisies wound randomly through her hair.

And at least one caterpillar.

It’s heading quietly but determinedly towards her left ear as if it’s been living on her head for quite some time.

“Darlings!” Bunty beams, holding her shimmering arms out wide. “My three favourite girls in the whole wide world, come and give me your best cuddles.”

I hop forward and give her a hug.

Last time I saw my grandmother was for about five minutes after our return from New York last year, and I’ve genuinely missed her. It’s not Bunty’s fault that we clearly need a bigger house.

Or a more comfortable sofa.

“Harriet, darling, your aura is glorious at the moment,” she says, holding me at arm’s length and assessing me. “It’s the most beautiful shade of yellow, with a few splashes of orange.” She widens her eyes. “And gold. Golly, that’s new. How wonderful.”

She turns to survey my sister.

“Still a gorgeous red with a hint of bright pink,” she says approvingly, touching the end of Tabitha’s nose. “That’s my little maverick.”

Then Bunty puts her hands gently on either side of Annabel’s face and studies her for a few seconds. “Pale blue, darling,” she says. “We’ll need to do something about that.”

Annabel smiles faintly. “We will.”

“Let me see what I’ve got.” Bunty starts rummaging through her patchwork satchel, then pulls out a feather and incense cone. “A Native American smudge kit should do the trick. The cedar smoke will clean any negative energy out in a jiffy.”

“But where will it go?” Dad says, wandering in from the garden shed, where he’s been preparing for his next job interview. “Don’t give it to me, Bunty Brown. I’m already trying to find work in an industry that sells things to people who don’t need them.”

“You’ll definitely want to use a bigger feather in that case, Richard,” she smiles affectionately. “I may need to hunt down an eagle.”

“Or an albatross,” Dad grins.

“Actually,” I interrupt as they hug, “the ostrich is the biggest bird in the world but the Great Argus pheasant has the longest feathers. They’re in its tail.”

They laugh, even though that’s a totally accurate fact that they obviously didn’t know already.

“Chickpeas, I promise I won’t get in the way,” Bunty says, dragging a brightly coloured carpetbag through the door. “I was en route to a Jivamukti yoga retreat in Mongolia and I thought: why not say hello?”

“Give me that.” Annabel picks up the bag. “You’re not in the way, Mum. In fact, Harriet’s tidied her room for you especially. Haven’t you, Harriet?”

She gives me a sharp look that says: haven’t you, Harriet, so I nod as convincingly as I can.

“Don’t be silly billies,” Bunty says breezily. “I’m taking the sofa in the living room as usual and I won’t hear another word about it.”

“But—”

“But is a word, Annabel. Harriet’s sixteen and she needs her own space. Western beds are terribly bad for the spine anyway.”

My stepmother opens her mouth to object again, then shuts it with a snap.

Huh. Maybe she doesn’t win against everybody.

“Plus,” Bunty continues with a little wink at me, “my mystical talents are telling me my beautiful granddaughter has something lovely planned with her friends for this evening. Am I right?”

I stare at her in amazement.

How does she … What did she … How on earth can she possibly …

Oh.

I still have the Team JINTH Sleepover Plan gripped tightly against my chest.

A wave of gratitude washes over me.

“Oh thank you thank you thank you.” I throw my arms around her. She smells of pine needles and blueberries. “You’re the best grandma in the whole world.”

“I’m definitely one of them,” she laughs. “I’ve checked. Now, darling, go and have fun with your friends.”

cientists say that if you added up all the adrenaline inside everyone in England, it would weigh less than three ounces. To put it into perspective, that’s the equivalent of a very small armadillo, an extremely large tarantula or three average house mice.

I’m so excited, I must be using at least half of it.

Buzzing with happiness, I grab my satchel, slam my trainers on and say a brief goodbye to Tabby and Bunty. With a small effort I manage to ignore Annabel’s I’m-Disappointed-In-You expression and the Talk-To-Her eyes she’s subtly making at Dad.

Then I fly out of the house, imaginary wings at my feet.

I know that logically it makes no sense to meet the team at the cafe only to turn around and bring them all straight back here, but that’s what I’m doing so deal with it.

It’s my first ever gang sleepover. Not including the disastrous party I threw last year, it’s the first time I’ve ever hosted anything that isn’t just Nat and me.

Tonight is going to blow everyone away.

Beaming, I skip down the road.

I quickly pick up a few interesting leaves for Jasper’s art assignment, a pretty purple flower for India, a piece of interesting wood for Nat (she’s doing a design project on sustainability) and a small pebble for Toby (no particular reason except I didn’t want him to feel left out).

And I’ve just reached the cafe when my pocket starts vibrating. A millisecond later, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo begins playing loudly.

Sugar cookies.

Hesitating, I peer through the window.

The gang’s in there already, sitting in our normal spot, drinks in front of them. Nat’s looking at the front of an envelope, Toby’s drawing a diagram of something and Indi’s staring at her phone. Her socked feet propped on the table. Thanks to my fight with Annabel, I’m late.

My phone’s still ringing and – when I drag it out reluctantly – FAIRY GODMOTHER is flashing on the screen.

This might be important.

Or it might not be. With Wilbur it’s sometimes difficult to tell.

Quickly, I rap loudly on the cafe window.

I’m here! I mouth as they look up simultaneously. Don’t do anything interesting without me!

My friends stare at me through the glass.

Just like that! I mouth gratefully, giving them a thumbs up. I’ll be just one minute!

Then I turn around to take the call.

onestly, it’s been great having Wilbur back from New York.

Just not necessarily as an agent.

Since the Paris debacle, the phone hasn’t exactly been ringing off the hook for my professional services. In fact, last time Wilbur called me it was four nights ago to give him advice on ordering pizza.

I suggested tuna and pineapple: it was a great success.

“Hello?” I say distractedly. Through the window I can see Nat rubbing her eyes and India shaking her head.

What was that? What did I just miss?

“Happy Friday, baby-baby-buffalo! How are you today, milk-muffin? Are you just bubbling under the unseasonal sun?”

Nat opens the envelope and says something and Jasper emerges from the kitchen, glances momentarily at the group and then narrows his eyes and looks around the cafe.

I rap on the window again and wave.

He gives a rare grin and points at the full brown paper bag in his hand.

Ooh, yay. More burnt biscuits.

“Hello?” Wilbur says, tapping his phone. “Mini butterball? Are you still there or are you focusing on sprouting freckles like a little duck’s egg?”

Whoops. Focus, Harriet.

“Sorry.” I face the other way so I can concentrate properly. “I’m here. What’s up?”

“Speaking of up, have you seen the gif of you doing the rounds on email yet, my little fish flake? You are utterly hilairical.”

An abrupt memory flashes: strobe lights, a moving floor, a sudden splash of water. I clear my throat in embarrassment.

Nope. Still not going to think about it.

“It was six weeks ago,” I say defensively. “The fashion industry needs to get over it already. Have they got nothing better to do?”

“Not really,” Wilbur admits. “There’s a bit of a lull between the spring and summer collections. You’re filling the gap nicely.”

My phone beeps and I glance at the screen.

“Huh. That’s weird. Stephanie is calling me too. She hasn’t spoken to me since Paris.”

“Hmm? Oh, just cancel that, pumpkin. She’s just trying to make people buy her new velvet hairband range.”

Then Wilbur clears his throat loudly.

“Anyway. The reason I’m ringing you today, Harriet, is for a very special, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity …”

I squint a bit harder through the window: India’s started pulling her purple boots back on.

“For a limited time only, you too can be a part of a group of select and elite members of the fashion industry …”

Now Toby’s putting his folder in his backpack.

“… a plethora of talents from every corner of the globe …”

Nat’s getting her coat. Are we leaving already?

“… from Niue to Nauru …”

“Huh? Wilbur, what are you talking about? Niue and Nauru? They’re both islands in the Pacific Ocean. That’s not every corner of the globe. It’s just one corner.”

“Dingo-bats,” he sighs. “Never mind.”

There’s a short silence, then Wilbur coughs. “What I’m trying to say is … Harriet, will you come with me?”

“To the South Pacific?”

“To the new modelling agency I’ve just set up.”

And he’s suddenly got my full attention.

“You’ve left Infinity? But …” Again sounds a bit rude. “Didn’t you just go back to working there?”

“Darling moo, who wants to polish the crown when you can wear the tiara?”

I have no idea what that means.

“Everything’s ready,” he continues quickly. “I have the best contacts, and all my top models and designers are signed so it’s really no big deal if you don’t want to …”

“Wilbur,” I smile, looking back through the window, “of course I want to. I’ll come with you.”

“You will?”

“Yes! You’re my fairy godmother. Where you go, I go.” Also I kind of get the sense that after Paris my time at Infinity Models is as good as over. And I really hate Stephanie, but that’s just an unexpected bonus.

Wilbur lets out an enormous happy sigh. “Harriet Manners, you are the pompom on my jaunty beret. Has anybody ever told you that?”

I laugh. “Probably not. So what’s the plan?”

“I just have a few more duckies to line up and then I’ll give you a tinkle?”

I nod and start heading towards the cafe doors.

“I’m your girl, Wilbur. Just tell me what I have to do.”

ow, I’m not famous for my ability to read people.

In the past, there has certainly been the odd occasion where I’ve possibly missed a hint here or a gesture there or an outright statement kind of everywhere.

But not this time.

As I skip into the cafe, my friends’ urgency is unmistakable. Bags are being slung on, coats grabbed, coffees slurped and cake polished off.

And I think we all know why.

They clearly want to get the party started as quickly as possible.

Wow, these guys are keen.

“Gang!” I smile, taking my normal seat. “Chill out! There’s plenty of time to get to my house. The Sleepover festivities don’t commence for another –” I glance at my watch – “nineteen minutes at least.”

I pick up my slightly cold Harriet-uccino from the table. “Although admittedly a few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I add, gulping some down and standing back up. “We could do with another run-through of the plans.”

Then there’s a silence.

A silence so long you could use it as a tree-swing, should you be capable of swinging from silences.

“Do you want to tell her,” India says to Nat, “or shall I?”

I blink at them. “Tell me what?”

“Umm, Harriet,” Nat says quickly, going pink around the ears and brandishing the paper at me, “I’ve just opened my last essay. I got a C. I’m going to have to put some more work in, like yesterday.”

“And my mum’s texted,” India grimaces, quickly flipping up her phone. “She doesn’t want me staying out so close to exams.”

“I could really use the extra time to get some painting done,” Jasper says, grabbing his big black A Level art folder from behind the counter, “if everyone else is going to be working.”

We automatically turn and look at Toby.

“Has anyone seen my new Dr Who Sonic Screwdriver with LED Flashlight?” he says, holding it up. “It’s really useful for confusing cats.”

“So what are you saying?” A hot fizzing is starting at the base of my stomach, as if somebody’s just combined vinegar with baking soda. “Are you cancelling on me again?”

“Not cancelling,” Nat says, flushing a little harder and fiddling with the paper. “Just … delaying.”

“Again?” I say, stomach still fizzing.

“It’s only the second time.”

“You’re cancelling my sleepover AGAIN?”

“Our sleepover,” India says, frowning. “It’s our sleepover, Harriet.”

“That’s what I said,” I snap, crossing my arms.

I can’t believe this.

Why can’t my friends organise their spare time properly like I have? I’ve got exams coming up too, and you don’t see me panicking and changing plans at the last minute.

Mainly because I’ve been revising in reasonable chunks every single night for the last six months and my carefully calculated schedule is working perfectly.

But still: preparation.

“Harriet,” Nat says tiredly, putting the paper back in her stuffed handbag and rubbing her eyes again. “What do you think I’d rather do? Examine the thread count of different fabrics or watch romcoms with you guys?”

“Wait,” Jasper says in alarm, “we were going to watch romcoms? When was this covered?”

“Oooh!” Toby says, sticking his hand up. “I know this one! Ask me! Ask me!”

And – just like that – my sulkiness pops.

I’m not being very fair, am I?

Everyone’s genuinely busy working and revising and obviously they don’t want to not have fun tonight.

I’m just disappointed, that’s all.

Then I look closer at my normally happy gang and something in my chest twinges. The skin around Nat’s eyes is darker than normal; Jasper’s scowl is deeper and there’s a smudge of orange paint near his ear. India’s got black roots for the first time since I’ve known her.

Toby looks well rested and calm, but I suspect he has a similar schedule to mine.

A group at the University of Virginia studied twenty-two different people who were under threat of receiving an electrical shock to either themselves, a close friend or a stranger.

It turns out the brain activity of a person in danger is indistinguishable from the brain activity of a person when someone they love is in danger instead.

My friends are tired, stressed and anxious.

These are my people and if they’re not happy, I’m not happy either.

Something needs to be done.

“OK,” I say, thinking fast. “How about I sort out a little food fest for when you’ve got half an hour free?”

“That would be great,” India smiles broadly. “Thanks, Harriet.”

“You’re ace,” Nat says, giving me a hug.

“Hang on.” Jasper looks up from his art folder. “You’re not going to turn us into fajitas or burritos, are you, Harriet-uccino? I knew those guacamole face masks you had planned were leading to something.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

“Don’t worry, guys,” I say reassuringly, putting my Team JINTH Sleepover folder away. “I’ve got this.”

After all, isn’t that what friends are for?

ecently, ecologists set up cameras on the Indonesian island of Borneo in order to evaluate the environmental impact of logging in the Wehea Forest.

To their surprise, they found that – rather than swinging from trees – the orang-utans decided to use the felled timber as roads, save energy and just walk to where they were going instead.

The moral of the story is: it’s important to adapt.

And also – let’s be honest – avoid unnecessary exercise at all costs.

By the time I get home, I’ve already started mentally working through a new plan. I can’t let my friends lose their happy glow. So there’s no time for a sleepover any more: that’s OK. I’m flexible. Supple. Capable of changing direction at will; of dipping and swerving through life like a swallow or a swift or a house martin.

Or maybe some kind of nimble pigeon.

I’m going to make my friends the best Team JINTH Picnic of All Time.

It’s going to be a quick, breezy, casual picnic in the park: the kind of picnic that provides physical, mental and spiritual sustenance fast when you need a proper break.

The kind of picnic that screams ‘happiness’ at the top of its lungs. Because, let’s face it, nothing says joy and relaxation like a full stomach and personalised biscuits.

All I need now is a suitable theme.

Maybe a few decent recipes. A couple of drink options. Possibly bunting. It wouldn’t hurt to work out exactly where to position us to maximize sunshine and protection from the wind, either.

I’m pretty sure there’s room for the five of us on the roundabout, but maybe I should measure it first just to—

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I burst through the front door with a bang and start pounding straight up the stairs.

“Can’t stop!” I call cheerfully over my shoulder. “Super busy!”

Taking into account preparation time and the actual picnic itself, I’m going to have to rearrange my week’s revision plan.

This is exactly why it’s so handy to have it saved as a spreadsheet. A few quick presses of a button and a new colour-code, and I’ll have a brand-new, highly flexible schedule with space for spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment activities like picnics.

“Harriet!” Annabel says a lot more loudly. “Just wait a second!”

I pause at the top of the stairs.

Then I glance down and blink: something’s changed. “Is there … How the …” I sniff the air. “What’s that smell?”

Wait: is Annabel wearing an apron? I didn’t even know we had one. Both of my parents think that warming up a stale croissant qualifies them for MasterChef.

“I’m ‘cooking’,” my stepmother confirms, inexplicably making quotation marks with her fingers. “‘Broadening my skill set’, ‘sustaining the family’, ‘providing nutrition, vitamins and minerals for my loved ones’ and so on.”

That’s a lot of air-quotations for statements that probably should be said without irony.

“You’re cooking?” I repeat in amazement. “No wonder I was confused. Tabitha, mark this historic occasion. It may never happen again.”

Then I raise my eyebrows pointedly.

“I probably deserved that,” Annabel smiles. “Even though your father has actually taken Tabitha out for a walk so I’m not entirely sure who you’re talking to.”

There’s a soft jingling sound and Bunty pokes her pink head through the living-room door. “What do you think, darling? Apparently I can fit more souvenirs in my car boot than I thought.”

She waves a ring-clad hand around.

The living room looks like an enormous butterfly just went bang: brightly coloured printed blankets, dream-catchers, crystals, bells and cushions are everywhere. Lamps are switched on in every corner and new plants sit in pots. Crystals are spread on every surface.

Huh. That was fast.

“This is for you,” Bunty says, handing me two small brass cymbals on a long piece of leather. “They’re Buddhist Tingsha Chimes from Tibet. The sound is immediately calming. Try it.”

I obediently hit them together. The air is filled with a sweet, high, long note that fades slowly into nothing.

Nope. Didn’t work: still busy.

“How about we all have a cup of tea?” Annabel says brightly. “The kettle’s just boiled.”

“Yes, please!” I say gratefully, turning round and heading across the hallway. “You can leave it outside my door!”

“Harriet, that’s not what I m—”

“Thank you!” I shout.

And with a firm click I close my bedroom door behind me.

he next few days are manic.

Sitting on my bed, surrounded by bright textbooks like a bird in a shiny and informative nest, I plough through as much schoolwork as possible.

I study compositions of various amino acids: alanine, cysteine and valine. I memorise the tertiary structure of ribonuclease molecules, and precisely how the polypeptide is folded.

Given that y = x5 – 3x2 + x + 5, I find dy/dx and d2y/dx2; I factorise x2 – 4x – 12 and sketch the corresponding graph. I learn the baryon numbers of quarks and antiquarks, and the properties of leptons and antiparticles.

(I finally know what they are, by the way. No thanks to a certain American governess.)

I even discover that there are as many bacteria in two servings of yoghurt as there are people on earth.

Then promptly abandon breakfast.

And – during my breaks – I make a JINTH Picnic Pack. There’s a menu and personalised paper crockery, napkins and music. I’ve even got mini sparklers just in case it gets dark and we want the calming, happiness-inducing party to continue.

This fun is going to be off the chart, while also being very much on it.

Every now and then Annabel and Bunty try to distract me – do I need my chakras cleansing? Why don’t I eat with them for once instead of on the floor of my bedroom? – but I cannot be moved.

Even school can’t divert my focus.

As India, Toby and Jasper disappear to their various billion extra-curricular activities, I hunker down with neat notes in the corner of the common room and study.

By Tuesday afternoon, I’ve completed an entire week’s worth of revision. Which means I’m now available for any kind of spontaneous social occasion that might pop up.

Whenever that might be.

Although it’s been 71 hours and I still haven’t heard anything, so maybe my hints have been too subtle.

Hey team JINTH! Weather forecast for Wednesday is good! ;) Hxx

Partly cloudy with bursts of sunshine on Thursday! Wind only 11mph! ;) Hxx

Humidity on Friday 73% so cover your sandwiches! ;) Hxx

Finally – at 4:30pm, just as I’m arriving home from school – I get a reply.

OK Harriet! Park at 5? Nat x

Quickly, I calculate the timings.

Ten minutes to prepare, five minutes to pack and get dressed, five minutes to run to the park, five minutes to recover from running to the park.

That leaves me a few minutes to set up the picnic and that’s all I really need. Time to officially Get Happy, Team JINTH.

They are going to be blown away.

“Gosh,” Bunty says, appearing in the kitchen doorway as I’m quickly shoving together the JINTH sandwiches. “They look terribly creative, darling.”

Jam, Nutella, Tuna and Ham.

Admittedly I struggled with the I and settled for Iceberg lettuce but they can always pick it out.

“These sandwiches have a very wide range of nutrients,” I inform her, tucking them into a Tupperware box. “Vitamin A, calcium, protein.”

Not to mention saturated fat, but never mind.

“Delicious,” my grandmother beams, leaning against the doorway. “You’re such a busy little bee these days, darling. Buzz buzz buzz.”

I nod, chucking in a large packet of crisps. “There’s just so much to do.”

“I can see that,” Bunty laughs. “Just –” she puts a heavily turquoise-ringed hand on my arm – “leave a little room in the garden for the fairies to dance.”

I blink at her. Oooh. Dancing.

Turning around, I quickly grab the break-dancing manual from the kitchen table. There should be plenty of room for that in the park.

“I’m so glad you seem happier now,” Bunty continues more gently as I swing the enormous basket over one shoulder. “Tell me, after all those letters did you ever decide to get hold of N—”

“Napkins,” I say quickly, grabbing a handful. “Yup, got some. Thank you!”

I kiss her briskly on the cheek.

Then I swing my satchel over the other shoulder and charge towards the front door.

“Harriet?” Annabel appears at the bottom of the stairs with a damp, flushed Tabitha straight out of the bath. “I’m making some kind of Peruvian chicken stew from a recipe Mum brought back. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please!” I call over my shoulder. “Leave some in the fridge and I’ll heat it up later!”

Let the fun times begin.

his is why it always pays to prepare.

With just seventy-three seconds to spare, I quickly spread out my picnic blanket and distribute the JINTH branded plastic cups and paper plates; hang bunting from the overhead tree – one letter on each flag – and slot my iPod with carefully selected playlist into the speakers.

Skilfully, I set out Monopoly and do my best to ignore a young couple wandering past: giggling, holding hands and snuggled up inside the boy’s coat.

It’s not that cold.

By the time I hear footsteps on the path, I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.

Which, for the record, is very ready.

“No way,” Nat’s saying loudly. “Christopher and Ananya are going out?”

“Right?” India’s voice is clear as a bell. “Christopher. The dude still thinks he’s Hamlet, for God’s sake. He turned up to their first date wearing a freaking beret.”

“Ugh. He kissed me once, you know. I nearly removed his lips for him.”

“Connecting at the mouth actually helps humans to exchange unconscious biological information about each other. He was probably just trying to work out if your immune system was different from his.”

I can’t see them yet, but that’s obviously Toby.

“Look at that orange and red sky. It looks like something from a Turner painting.”

And that’s Jasper.

“Well,” Nat continues sharply. Come on come on come on hurry up … “After what happened last year, I think they probably deserve each oth—”

They finally reach the opening to the park. My goodness, they walk slowly.

That took forever.

“Tada!” I shout in excitement, jumping up with my arms spread out and my hands waving. “Welcome to Picnic JINTH, friends! Come over! Settle down! We have everything your hearts could possibly desire!”

There’s a stunned silence.

“Look!” I prompt, dragging India and Nat by the hand towards the blanket. “I made a special Scrabble game! We can only use J, I, N, T, H and the rest of the vowels, but you’d be shocked at how many options there are.”

“AUNTIE and ATONE are just two of them,” Toby says, sitting on the blanket.

“We also have JINTH napkins!” I say, pulling them out in a triumphant fan shape.

“Genius!” Toby shouts, clapping his hands.

“And JINTH biscuits!”

“Visionary!”

OK, I need someone other than Toby to be impressed now: India, Jasper and Nat are still staring at the blanket in silence.

“Sit down!” I say quickly, gesturing. “Make yourselves at home! Eat! Drink! Be Happy!”

I’m starting to sound like a novelty tea towel.

“Blimey, Harriet,” Jasper says, running a hand through his hair and lowering himself on to the floor. “You don’t do things by halves, do you.”

“This is … above and beyond,” India says, pulling out a plastic carrier bag. “I brought … uh. Three quarters of a pack of Jammie Dodgers.”

She slides them on to a plate in obvious embarrassment.

“There was really no need for this, Harriet,” Nat says gently, perching down and offering a small packet of cheese straws.

“Don’t be silly!” I say cheerfully, handing out cups of lemonade. “We can share, that’s what a team does! Now, sit down and relax. What were you just saying about Christopher? Oh my goodness, remember that time we were on stage together and Alexa …”

My pocket suddenly starts vibrating.

A fraction of a second later, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo starts playing.

“Uh,” I continue smoothly when it stops ten seconds later, clearing my throat, “when Alexa started playing animal noises and—”

The Fairy Godmother tune starts again.

Jasper, India and Nat are staring curiously at my pocket. Toby’s blowing on his little Monopoly dog and rubbing it on his jumper sleeve.

“You should answer your phone, Harriet,” India says finally.

“Yup,” Jasper says with arched eyebrows. “It might be a little old lady in a blue hooded cloak with a wand, a pumpkin and a couple of lizards.”

I swallow. Please no.

Not now. Literally any other time you like: just not now.

Raising my eyes to the skies, I send a silent, furtive prayer out into the Universe, grab my phone and turn the other way. “Hello, Wilbur?”

The Universe clearly wasn’t listening.

“Prepare the unicorns, bunny. It’s time.”

ime doesn’t actually exist.

Even a second isn’t what we think it is: it’s officially the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the caesium-133 atom.

And unicorns aren’t exactly roaming the streets either, so technically Wilbur is making no sense whatsoever.

But I know exactly what he means.

I just can’t quite bring myself to believe it.

I stare at my beautiful team picnic, heart sinking. “Th-there’s a job this evening?”

“No, a big casting in London.” I can barely hear Wilbur over the clattering noise in the background. “I only just found out, olive-pip, but if you leave right away you can make it.”

I glance back at my friends, now peeling open the sandwiches and peering curiously at their contents. “And there’s no way we can postpone?”

“I’m afraid not, monkey.” The noise in the background is getting even louder. “They’re sending the details over, so I’ll email them straight through.”

In a panic, I quickly race through my options.

There aren’t any.

I made a promise to Wilbur that I’d help out with his new agency, and I should stick to it: regardless of how little I actually want to. I start dejectedly buckling my satchel back up.

What were the chances of this happening?

One in 228, that’s what.

I’ve been modelling for fifteen months – 547 days –and in that time I’ve done just two official castings. One with Yuka and one with an American magazine. I had a statistically higher chance of winning a cash prize with Premium Bonds than getting this call right now.

Maybe I should think about investing.

“Sure,” I sigh, standing up. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Just remember your book, poppet. That’s super important.”

I nod. “Got it.”

“Fantasmico,” Wilbur breathes. “And baby-baby-panda? Thank you.”

I put the phone down and look sadly at the gloriousness in front of me. My wonderful, carefully planned picnic, completely ruined.

Unless …

“I have to go to London,” I say, looking at my watch. “But I can be here again in … an hour, maximum?”

Then I glance up at them hopefully.

“That’s not a question, Harriet,” Toby points out. “You’ve put a question mark on the end, but it’s actually a statement.”

I look beseechingly at Nat. She understands my subtle rhetoric. “Umm,” she says after a few beats, glancing around the park. “Sure. I guess we can wait.”

“We won’t start playing Scrabble until you return,” Toby agrees.

“And we’ll try as hard as we can not to eat the meat-chocolate-fish-salad sandwiches,” Jasper says, lifting his eyebrows. “But I can’t promise anything: we’re only human.”

India’s jabbing her purple heel into the mud in silence. She’s clearly even more disappointed by this crushing news than I am, poor thing.

The happiness factor is depleting by the second.

“Don’t worry!” I say, patting her arm. “I’ll be back before you know it and then you’ll have so much fun, just wait and see! Team JINTH forever!”

Quickly, I type a quick text to Dad:

Just going to London for Wilbur! Won’t be long! Hxx

And I start running.

n some Micronesian cultures, they believe that sweat is a warrior’s essence.

I won’t go into unnecessary details.

Suffice to say, by the time I reach the address Wilbur texted me, in the middle of Soho, I’ve jogged so enthusiastically there’s Extract of Harriet pouring down the middle of my forehead.

And my back, my knees … the soles of my feet.

I’m basically in the final death throes of the Wicked Witch of the West, and I’m melting all over the reception desk.

Quickly, I wipe it off with my jumper sleeve and try my best to inhale without sounding like a broken vacuum cleaner.

Then I ping the bell and glance around the empty atrium.

This building is utterly enormous.

The furniture’s white leather, the walls are entirely exposed grey brick, and there’s glass, green plants and gravel everywhere, like some kind of giant terrarium made for humans.

“Hello?” I call out urgently, dinging the little bell again. My voice bounces around the room like a ball. “Is anybody there?”

The only sound is another bead of sweat dripping on to the glass desk with a tiny plip.

Oh my God: I must have missed the casting.

Who are we even kidding? The fastest mile ever run by a woman is four minutes, twelve seconds, and I don’t think I’m in danger of beating that record any time soon.

At one point of my journey I ended up air-vomiting against a lamp-post.

I scan the room again: still nothing.

Then I spot a paper sign stuck on a door, with this written on it in black marker:

Heart still hammering, I rip my bulky coat off. I unwind my long, sticky red scarf, throw it over my shoulder and rearrange my sweaty T-shirt.

Then I start trotting down the corridor.

It feels like it goes on for miles – like one of my horrible cross-country nightmares – but with a final burst of exertion I finally reach a door with CASTINGS written on it.

Panting, I stop with a wave of relief.

And also a wave of nausea: I’m really not built for this much physical activity.

“I’m here!” I breathe, rapping sharply on the door and wiping several drips from my forehead. Please. Please don’t have gone already. “Don’t worry, I’m here!”

“Now just hang on a—” somebody says.

But it’s too late: there’s nowhere to hang on to.

With a final wobble my exhausted legs give way: throwing my entire weight against the door.

It opens with a click.

And – with a tiny squeak of horror – I fall face down into the world of fashion.

here are probably better ways to enter a room.

On horseback, for instance.

Riding an enormous motorbike or standing on the gold wings of a flaming chariot. Cartwheeling or back-flipping; balanced precariously on the spine of two dragons, while simultaneously blowing a bugle.

All of which would have been more subtle than shouting OOMPH and smashing out into a star-shape with my face pressed firmly against the floorboards.

The door swings behind me with a bang.

None of an octopus’s limbs know what the others are doing: I think the same can clearly be said for mine.

“S-sorry,” I say, struggling upright with an embarrassed laugh and tucking a strand of soggy hair behind my ear. “Th-there are thirteen muscles in each leg and I think one of mine decided to give u—”

I falter to a stop.

I’ve fallen into yet another big, grey room with huge windows, a long white table and white seats. Colourful prints hang in frames along the walls, the table is covered in little plates and glasses, and there are nine serious-looking people: most of whom are wearing dark suits and ties and smart dresses.

And every single one of them is eating a sandwich.

Or trying to, anyway.

My explosion through the door seems to have interrupted that process somewhat.

“Umm …” I stutter as they pause mid-chew. “Sorry, is this not the modelling audition?”

“It’s going to be,” the only man wearing denim says, putting a ham baguette down. “Right now it’s our late lunch.”

I don’t believe this. Did I just run straight from one picnic to another, like some kind of crazed teddy bear?

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” The man eyes me coldly. “Do you usually come bursting into private meeting rooms without waiting to be invited?”

“N-no.”

“Good to hear. Well, feel free to burst out again. You can return at the allocated time, with the other, less horizontal models.”

Then Denim Man stuffs the baguette in his mouth, rips a bite off and turns towards the lady sitting next to him.

I clear my throat carefully.

“What … time would that be?” I glance quickly at my watch. “More specifically?”

“Do you have somewhere you’d prefer to be?”

My cheeks were already hot enough to generate their own electricity, but it feels like they’re about to vibrate off my face. Some deep survival instinct is telling me to be extremely careful.

Yes. “N-no.”

His frown deepens. “OK, tell you what. As you’re obviously so keen to jump the queue and present yourself before everyone else, why don’t you just go right ahead.”

“E-excuse me?”

Denim Man glances at the rest of the group. They’ve put down their wraps and baguettes and are staring at me the way my class stared at the chimpanzee flinging poop around at the zoo on our biology field trip.

Except with considerably less amusement.

“You have three minutes, whoever you are. This is your big chance to wow us. Starting from –” he looks at his watch – “now.”

he Guinness world record for consecutive push-ups in the precise time I’ve been allocated is four hundred and twenty. There’s something aggressive and army-like about this man’s tone that makes me wonder if I’m expected to drop to the floor and beat it.

Instead, I put my satchel cautiously next to my feet in an attempt to stabilise me and/or anchor me to the ground.

Then I take a deep breath.

You can do this, Harriet. You’re an experienced model now. A paragon of knowledge, a shining example of professionalism and expertise.

“Hello, everyone,” I say, inexplicably curtsying with my fingers holding out the bottom of my T-shirt. “I am Harriet, the fashion model.”

Brilliant. Now I sound like one of those creepy dolls you can make say things by pulling a string at the back of their heads.

“From which agency?”

I stare blankly at the lady who just asked that. Which agency? I never actually thought to ask. “Ah … Baby Baby Panda and … Associates?”

“Ridiculous name,” Denim Man snaps. “Book?”

Quickly, I bend down and grab it out of my satchel, then plop it on the desk in front of them.

They all lean over to look. “What is this?”

“Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky,” I explain politely, even though it’s written right there on the cover. “It’s not as good as Notes From The Underground, but still perfectly captures the human condition at its most raw and vulnerable.”

Denim Man sighs. “Are you trying to be cute?”

Obviously I am. Isn’t that what’s expected at a modelling casting?

“Your book,” the woman explains patiently. “Your modelling portfolio? With modelling photos? So we can see what modelling work you’ve done?”

My cheeks flush even harder. Now I’m not in a distracted rush, I realise that Wilbur didn’t mean bring a translation of a Russian classic with you.

I should at least have brought The Idiot.

It would have been more appropriate.

“My portfolio’s at home,” I confess after a pause. “Under my bed.” Thanks to my fiasco in Paris, it’s been collecting spiderwebs and dust bunnies for quite some time.

“Right.” Denim Man leans back against his chair and folds his arms. “So why do you think you’re right for this particular job? What do you have to offer us that no other model has?”

This feels like my first ever casting with Yuka Ito, over a year ago. Except I’m even less prepared and making even more of a fool of myself, and I didn’t even realise that was possible.

Isn’t it supposed to work the other way round? Shouldn’t I be considerably better at this by now?

Or at least a tiny bit improved?

“Ah …” On the way here I had more than half an hour of sitting on a train, making animal shapes out of clouds. Why didn’t I check my emails? “You’re very good … uh. Fashion people. Your clothes are really …” What? “Sewn … neatly.”

“This isn’t a fashion agency.” My audience looks at each other. “Do you even know where you are?”

Another wave of shame washes over me.

“N-not in detail.” Oh my God, at the very least I could have paused to look at the sign on the outside of the building. What is wrong with me?

Please don’t anybody answer that.

My phone beeps. “Umm,” I say, grabbing for it with a slippery hand and unsuccessfully trying to switch it to silent. “S-sorry.”

It beeps again and I stab at it again. “Sorry.”

A third time: ditto.

Most British people will apologise more than two million times in their lives. I suspect I’m going to run out in the next ten seconds.

In a final act of desperation, I wrap it in my scarf and throw it to the bottom of my bag.

“And is this your best effort?” The casually dressed man has stood up with his arms still folded. “This is you, bringing your A game?”

Step it up quickly, Harriet.

“I’ve done lots of jobs,” I say quickly. “I was the face of Yuka Ito, I shot a big campaign for Baylee, I’ve been to Japan and Russia and Morocco … and …” Don’t mention Paris don’t mention Paris … “And I did a really cool magazine in New York last year.”

“I knew I recognised you!” an American lady cries, throwing her hands up. “You were wearing a sack and covered in mud!”

That is not the image I was trying to prompt.

Mr Denim frowns. “You are familiar, but … there’s something I can’t quite place … about … the … hair …”

He frowns at the top of my head and that’s when it hits me. Like a pile of heavy bricks, slowly tumbling down on top of my head. Clunk. Then another two: clunk clunk.

Clunk, clunk, clunk.

Clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk–

Until it feels like there’s a whole wall of realisation lying on top of me and I have no idea how I’m ever going to get up again.

The brightly coloured prints. The central Soho location. The vast reception. The dark formal suits, and one person inexplicably wearing casual clothes. The exposed grey brick walls.

This isn’t … It can’t be …

Statistically, there’s just no way that this could be …

“Harriet Manners?” the man says, reaching the same realisation at exactly the same time. “As in, daughter of Richard?”

And – with a final clunk – any remaining chance I had of getting this job flies straight out the window.

ere’s an interesting fact about the duck-billed platypus: it doesn’t have a stomach.

I know exactly how it feels.

In case you’ve forgotten: fifteen months ago my life wasn’t the only one that changed for good. On the exact day that I was scouted for modelling, Dad was fired as Head Copywriter for a big London advertising agency for telling an important client to go and French Connection themselves in the middle of their reception.

And that’s where I am now.

Which means – judging by the denim – the angry man is almost definitely Dad’s old boss, Peter Trout: Creative Director and Head Honcho.

Pufferfish look cuddly but their spines contain tetrodotoxin: a poison so deadly it can kill you with a single prick.

I didn’t know trout could too.

“So,” Peter says, folding his arms. “You’re Harriet Manners. That explains a lot.”

I blink. “Does it?”

“Clearly being an uncontrollable maverick with no regard for rules, regulations or general codes of conduct runs in the family.”

OK, that’s really quite rude.

Also, I’m an extremely well-behaved, reliable and law-abiding citizen, so this man clearly doesn’t know me at all.

“Actually, that’s not entirely—”

“Oh!” the American lady exclaims again. “You were the girl who sat down on the catwalk in the middle of a fashion show in Russia last year! I saw that in the paper!”

“And we heard about Yuka’s last model,” the woman next to her adds. “Didn’t you ruin a couture dress with octopus ink? It was the talk of fashion week last year.”

“Don’t you tend to faint on camera?”

I open my mouth to object against these horrible, unkind accusations, then realise they’re completely accurate and promptly shut it again.

The whole group has started loudly whispering at each other. “She’s not the girl in the Paris …”

“You got that email too?”

“It’s hard to tell without the giant ears, obviously.”

In the meantime, Peter Trout is regarding me with a vague air of satisfaction. I hate to admit it, but the evidence is rapidly mounting.

It’s horrifying.

I’d built an entire identity on being the second most sensible Manners after Annabel, but that clearly isn’t the case.

I’m rapidly slipping to less savvy than my dog.

“And now you show up to my agency,” he snaps, “all ‘don’t worry I’m here!’ as if your reputation precedes you. Well, missy: it clearly does. And not in a good way.”

My cheeks are burning. “But—”

“This industry doesn’t need any more special little snowflakes who think the rules don’t apply to them, young lady. As your father proved, we already have enough.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

Every winter in the US alone, at least one septillion ice crystals fall from the sky. There are literally very few things on this planet less special than a snowflake.

Also, I’d like to make the point that he’s the only one in the room not wearing a suit.

His irritation is visibly rising.

“Frankly, your uncontrollable father cost this agency thousands of pounds. And now you have the audacity to break into my company, my lunch, in front of my clients, dripping with sweat, jumping the queue, giggling, phone ringing, wearing whatever that is …”

“A home-made JINTH T-shirt and dungarees.”

“… no portfolio, unregistered agency, no idea what you’re doing or what time you should arrive or why you’re here or what job it is you’re even trying to get.”

His argument is undeniably strong.

“But I—”

“And we’re … what, exactly? Supposed to be won over by your eccentricities? Charmed by your quirks? Besotted with your totally unprofessional attitude and lack of respect for this industry and everybody in it?”

I’m so hot with shame there’s a chance I’ll combust and they’ll have to identify me from the name written on the inside front cover of my Russian literature.

Swallowing, I lift my chin. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean it.”

“From what I can tell, model Harriet Manners, you never seem to mean anything.”

I’m completely speechless.

“So I suggest,” he says, sitting back in his chair and making a triangle with his fingertips, “that you stumble out of the modelling industry and leave room for somebody who actually wants to be there.”

Mr Trout picks up the last mouthful of his baguette and points with it at the door.

“Now you can go.”

xperience is apparently genetic.

Scientists discovered that the knowledge one mouse acquires is passed on to future generations, buried deep in their DNA: which means a lesson learnt by a parent can permanently alter the behaviour of its children.

This clearly doesn’t work for the Manners family.

Neither Dad nor I have learnt anything.

Staring at the floor, I manage to scoot out of the room backwards like a humiliated hummingbird.

I close the door behind me.

Holding a shaking hand over my eyes, I take a deep breath.

Then I look up and try not to notice the dozens of beautiful, glossy, neatly dressed girls lining up quietly along the corridor with shiny portfolios tucked under their arms.

Brushing their hair and checking they look presentable.

Waiting to be called into the casting.

Being professional. Poised. Prepared.

i.e. all the things I failed to be.

Because apparently my surname is ironic.

“How did she get in so early?” someone mutters as I grab my phone and scuttle back down the corridor as invisibly as possible. “I travelled two hours to be here. I will kill my agent if the job’s already gone.”

I think I can say with some certainty it’s not.

Cheeks burning, I retrieve my phone from a tangle of scarf.

Then with a twist of my stomach I click on the email that’s been sitting in my inbox for nearly an hour.

Re: URGENT CASTING

Harriet,

As promised, here are maps, train timetables and suitable connections. Casting starts at 6:30pm sharp, and you’re meeting Peter Trout – Creative Director of DBB. A well-known American brand is launching a new fizzy drink and this will be very competitive so I suggest the close-up snowflake shot goes in the front of your portfolio, followed by the lake shot. We can rearrange properly next time I see you.

FYI my new agency is called PEAK MODELS.

You’ve got this, my girl!

Wilbur

I blink at the screen.

All the words in the message are acknowledged by the Oxford English Dictionary, so I’ll assume this was written by his new secretary.

Then I click on a flurry of texts from Nat that could not have arrived at a worse possible moment.

Are you nearly back yet? We’re almost hungry enough to eat your sandwiches. xx

LOL only joking. The world will end and your sandwiches will remain uneaten. x

TOBY JUST ATE ONE WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM. Where are you? X

I glance at my watch.

It’s been fifty-eight minutes since I left the park. Every single calculation I’ve made this afternoon has been wildly wrong.

Quickly, I type:

So sorry – please wait just a little longer! Hx

Phone still in hand, I head towards the front door, past the two white sofas now filling with yet more girls.

Actually, you know what?

I don’t think I’d really want to promote fizzy drinks anyway. We consume six million litres of them every year in Britain: they don’t really need any more attention.

Plus, they’re bad for us.

In fact, fizzy drinks indirectly kill 184,000 people a year, and have been shown to cause hyperactivity, memory loss and –

And –

And …

I’m tugging on the mirrored front door when my phone starts ringing and ANNABEL appears in a flash across the screen.

With a swooping stomach, I tug on the door again. I know I wrote a text to Dad but did I actually send it?

Still staring at my phone, I tug a bit harder.

Then again.

Finally, I look up at the door with a jolt of surprise.

My reflection has started tugging back.

t least, I assume it’s me.

All I see is bright red hair and pale white skin, a pointy chin and button nose. Lots of freckles, pink cheeks and large far-apart green eyes.

It’s only when I scowl and my reflection doesn’t scowl back that I realise the door’s actually transparent.

Also that my side says PUSH.

Only ten species on the planet are able to self-identify: I’m officially less intelligent than a dolphin.

My double and I stare at each other. No longer distracted by my phone, I can see we’re not actually identical: we’re just similar enough to be disorientating.

Her skin is translucent and spot-free: her eyelashes are long and dark. Her hair is perfectly curled and shiny; her eyebrows tidier, her lips slightly fuller.

She’s smartly dressed in a black dress, black coat and black leather boots, and nothing she’s wearing has been personalised with marker pen.

She’s not sweating or flushed, which indicates she walked here calmly, knowing where she was going.

Basically, she’s me but better.

Harriet Manners 2.0: upgraded with all my bugs fixed and crashes wiped, my best qualities enhanced and my instabilities improved.

And I already know her.

This is the model who replaced me in the Levaire watch advert last year. The girl who wandered the Sahara dunes, looking ethereal, content and super-coordinated.

And who at no stage got attached by the ear to a Moroccan market stall or threw herself into the sand and attempted to dance like a crumpet.

My phone starts ringing once more and I finally snap to my senses and stop battling with the door. My doppelganger pulls it open with a polite smile: one that indicates she sees nothing of herself in me whatsoever.

She flashes two sweet dimples I don’t have.

Then the superior, upgraded version of Harriet Manners glides smoothly into the mess I’ve just left behind me.

Again.

K, I officially give up.

The Whistler Sliding Centre in British Columbia is the steepest and fastest bobsleigh track in the world. It starts off at 938 metres high then hits a 152-metre vertical drop, allowing amateurs to hurtle downhill at 125 kilometres per hour.

Headfirst, without any brakes or control or idea how to stop it.

Pretty much exactly like today.

Breathing out, I blink at the London streets.

In less than fifteen minutes, it’s gone from being dusky to night-time and I have a feeling I’m about to be in a lot of trouble. Annabel didn’t even bother leaving voicemail: that’s how little interest she had in shouting at me indirectly.

I hesitate for a few seconds – maybe she’ll get bored and give up redialling – then I realise the sun will explode before that happens and click the green button.

“Umm, hello?”

“Where are you? It’s dark, Harriet. I know you’re sixteen but you can’t just disappear for hours without telling anyone where you’re going.”

“I’m in the … park,” I edit optimistically. “Just enjoying the wonder of nature, flowers and … whatnot.”

I am walking past a patch of semi-dead grass right now. The fact that it’s in our capital city is neither here nor there.

There’s a tree, a pot plant and a pigeon.

It’s a park.

“Right,” Annabel sighs. “Well, we’ve lined up a documentary about stars and we thought you might like to watch it with us.”

“Ooh yay,” I hear Dad say loudly in the background. “Tell my eldest it just wouldn’t be the same without an elaborate running commentary all the way through.”

I sense sarcasm.

In my defence, I do know nearly as much as the official narration.

“We have popcorn,” Annabel adds cunningly. “And chocolate buttons. Also some kind of chilli-mango worm.”

“Salsagheti,” Bunty says cheerfully into the phone. “I bought them in Mexico and there’s a picture of a duck wearing sunglasses on the box so they should be immense fun.”

“When can we expect you?”

“I’m really sorry, Annabel,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I’ve already got plans.”

I turn down the road towards the tube station. London is glowing and lit from within. Every building I walk past has something exciting happening inside it. Friends huddled in restaurants and coffee shops: eating, laughing, talking.

Having fun in their happy little groups.

All I want is to get back to mine.

“This is important too.” There’s the click of a door being closed quietly. “Harriet, you’re coming home right now. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Oh, what?

Quickly, Harriet. You have an IQ of 143: make up an impressive reason not to. Weighty, unquestionable. Profound in its deep reflection of the human race.

“But I don’t want to,” I hear myself whine. “I want to hang out with my friends.”

“Well,” Annabel says sharply, “sometimes growing up means doing things you don’t want to do, Harriet. I’m sorry that spending a single hour with your family is one of them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You have fifteen minutes and then I expect to see you walking through the front door. Do I make myself clear?”

And the phone goes dead.

pparently the human brain doesn’t stop growing until your early twenties.

I am clearly very advanced.

Given my complete inability to:

My phone beeps.

Scowling, I click on the message.

It’s dark and cold. Went home half an hour ago. India

This day has officially thundered down the slope, crashed through a fence and shot into a snowbank.

Grumbling, I switch my phone off and start scuffing my trainers along the pavement.

Stupid parents. Stupid ruined sandwiches that nobody fully appreciates. Stupid castings and fizzy drinks and men named after fish and unstable door locks and unstable knees and doppelgangers and exams and friends leaving and—

Something in my peripheral brain goes ping.

Huh. That’s weird.

I take a few steps backwards and peer in through the brightly lit window of a small Italian restaurant. There are red-and-white checked tablecloths, almost burnt-out candles and lots of couples ordering spaghetti and pretending to be in Lady and the Tramp.

Making a slight blugh face, I peer a bit closer.

There’s a man sitting in the corner, surrounded by piles of paper. He’s wearing a faded grey suit and a grey tie. He’s peering blearily into a laptop, slumped as if he’s been popped with a pin.

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