All That Glitters

Then I hold out the stupid Big Book of Trivia for the Loo that got me into this mess in the first place. In fairness to the authors, the warning was in the title. I probably should have left it there.

Miss Hammond beams and takes it off me. “That’s so sweet of you, Harriet! How thoughtful! And what a spectacular outfit you’ve chosen for today,” she adds brightly. “You’ve really harnessed your inner rainbow.”

I look down and my cheeks promptly go supernova.

Thanks to getting dressed while reading, I’m apparently wearing a yellow T-shirt, a red jumper featuring a Christmas pudding – in October – a pair of pink pyjama bottoms with blue sheep all over them and the bright purple knee socks Nat bought me “as a joke”, slouched down around my ankles.

On one foot is a green trainer.

On the other is a blue one.

My daughter. Model and style icon. Fashion legend. Sartorial maverick extraordinaire.

Maybe I’m not such a genius after all.

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nyway.

While I’m stuffing my mismatched shoes in my satchel and shuffling home in my not-a-whole-lot-better socks, I may as well update you on what’s been happening since I returned from New York, right?

That’s what you want to know.

Exactly what I’ve been doing with myself since I split up with Nick Hidaka – Lion Boy, ex-supermodel and love of my life – on Brooklyn Bridge just over three weeks ago, and flew home without him.

So here it is:

Nothing.

Not literally, obviously, or I’d be dead.

Over the last three weeks I have breathed approximately 466,662 times and processed 4,200 litres of blood with my kidneys. I have produced thirty-seven litres of saliva and 9,450 litres of carbon dioxide.

I’ve had eighteen showers, four baths, brushed my teeth forty-two times, eaten sixty-seven meals and consumed more chocolate bars than I can be bothered to count (and that’s really saying something).

But that’s about it.

Other than basic survival – and packing up the house in Greenway while we waited two weeks for our flight back to England – almost the only thing I’ve done voluntarily is read. With my curtains shut and my bedroom door closed, I’ve devoured words like never before: buried myself in books and submerged myself in stories.

I’ve read during breakfast and lunch and dinner; until the sun’s come up and gone down and come up again.

And not just fact books.

I’ve fought dragons, attended balls and chased a whale. I’ve won wars, lost court cases, travelled India, ridden broomsticks and stranded myself on numerous islands.

I’ve died a dozen times.

Because here’s the thing about a book: when you pick up a story, you put down your own.

For a few precious moments, you become somebody else. Their memories become your memories; your thoughts turn into theirs. Until, page by page, line by line, you disappear completely.

So until today – until my new beginning – that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Because I thought maybe if I could just bury myself deep enough, for long enough, I could shut the world out and myself out with it.

And then I wouldn’t have to think about how the last time I saw Nick is the last time I’ll see him, and the last time I kissed him is the last time I’ll kiss him. About how life keeps going on as it always has.

Or how my heart can beat 100,000 times a day.

Even when it’s broken.

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nfortunately, vanishing has its side effects.

And – as I quietly turn on to the path leading back up to my house – I can see two of them: standing on my front door step.

Without a sound, I quickly dive into a nearby bush.

Maybe there are advantages to walking around in your bare socks after all.

“Are you sure?” Nat is saying, shifting from one foot to the other. Her dark hair is curly, and hanging down her back like well-behaved snakes. “You’re certain Harriet’s not here?”

“I’m definite,” Annabel confirms gently. “Unless she’s scaled the outside wall and re-entered through her bedroom window, but given Harriet’s inherent fear of PE it seems unlikely.”

That’s putting it mildly. Frankly, there’s more chance of me growing wings and flying back in.

“It’s actually easier than it looks,” Toby says cheerfully.

Even from a few metres behind I can read the orange letters on the back of his T-shirt: VOTED MOST LIKELY TO TRAVEL BACK IN TIME, CLASS OF 2057.

“If you take the first flowerpot on the left there’s a little toe-hole in the wall just above it, and then you can use the ivy trellis as leverage the rest of the way.” He pauses. “You should probably reassess your exterior plant framework, Mrs Manners. It’s not very security-conscious.”

The corner of Annabel’s mouth twitches. “Oh, I’d imagine we will now.”

“If you want, next time I’m up there I’ll stick a little warning note on the outside of the window telling all other stalkers to go away.”

My stepmother laughs because she obviously assumes that Toby is joking.

I, however, know better.

I am literally never opening my bedroom curtains again.

“Focus, Pilgrim,” Nat says crossly, leaning to the side and poking his arm. “What kind of rubbish stalker are you, anyway? You don’t even know where Harriet is.”

“In fairness, my concentration has been a little distracted with an exorbitant level of homework, and also the TARDIS I’ve been building in my garden.”

Toby holds out bright blue fingers as evidence.