Model Misfit (14 page)

Unlike the rest of the flat, it’s not Japanese in style at all. There are no sliding doors and soft rush tatami mats: just a solid grey carpet, one set of bunk beds pushed against the corner and an enormous double bed with a mountain of pillows. In the middle of it is a large black cat, wearing a pink flowery dress, little white socks and a pink toy duck, attached to a sequined collar.

“My cat,” Rin says unnecessarily, pointing proudly. “Kylie Minogue.” The cat assesses me haughtily, licks a sock and goes back to sleep.

“She’s on your bed,” Poppy says, trying unsuccessfully to push her off. Kylie clearly doesn’t agree: she opens one eye, glares at Poppy and tries to dig her claws through the socks into the duvet. “The big one’s yours. Rin and I share the bunks.”

That doesn’t seem fair. I’ve only just got here. “I can move,” I say quickly. “Or we can take turns?”

“No, Harry-chan,” Rin says, shaking her head. “You have big VIP job.” She says VIP as it looks:
vip.
“You stay here. Super cosy.”

Rin picks Kylie up and the cat lets out an enormous disgruntled
squark
.

“I really don’t care either,” Poppy says, shrugging. Then she catches her reflection in the mirror behind me. “Oh my goodness, my hair. I’m going out with my boyfriend tonight, I should go and start getting ready.”

I stare at one maverick gold strand, misbehaving by less than a centimetre, and then at my own rumpled reflection. There are still remnants of aeroplane gravy on my chin.

Poppy starts heading towards the bathroom, and then abruptly turns just in time to catch me surreptitiously trying to reach a splodge with my tongue stretched out.

She grabs my hand. “Harriet?” she says. “I really want to get to know you better.”

I can feel my eyes open even wider. “Really?”

“Yes. You’re … like a little piece of home.”

“
Hai
,” Rin agrees. “Home like hamster.”

“Hampshire,” Poppy corrects.

“Where hamsters come from,” Rin says, smiling.

“Umm …” I stammer. “Th-thank you.”

Poppy says, “I can tell already we’re going to be inseparable.”

And with that beatific smile – the kind that makes princes climb towers and fight dragons – Princess Poppy kisses my cheek and glides into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.

K. Something is wrong.

I blink a few times and sit heavily on my suitcase. I’ve just met two girls, and as of yet they haven’t:

• Looked me up and down and then pretended they can’t see me.
  
• Stood behind me, making faces.
  
• Said something as if they clearly mean the opposite.
  
• Rolled their eyes while I’m talking.
  
• Told me that my hair is “awfully bright for hair, isn’t it?”
  
• Written an offensive yet painfully accurate observation about my personality on my suitcase.
  

They haven’t pointed out sweetly that I’m quite short, for a model, or quite freckly, for a model, or quite weird-looking, for a human being. I quickly check my back with my fingers. There isn’t even a sign attached. Are these girls trying to be
friends
with me?

“I search gift under bed,” Rin says enthusiastically as I desperately try to orientate myself. “You will like very much, Harry-chan. It is to speak welcome to Japan.” She scampers towards the bunks and then stops and turns around. “Harry-chan, where are you come from?”

“England.”

“England!” Rin looks absolutely delighted, as if I’ve just whipped off my T-shirt and revealed multi-coloured wings. “What language is speaken in England, Harry-chan?”

“Umm.” I never, ever thought I would have to answer this question. “English. Just like Poppy.”

“Like in Hamster also!” Rin couldn’t look more astonished. “English everywhere! Super handy!” And then she drops to her knees in her pretty dress and starts trying to fit under the bed with her bottom wagging, like an over-excited puppy.

I can feel a warmth starting in my chest: the kind I haven’t felt since I crawled under the piano ten years ago and found Nat there.

You know what? This is
exactly
what I needed. Adventure. Excitement. New girlfriends, for the first time since I was five years old. A chance to start again without my parents, without Nat, and without Toby. A chance to be me, with a totally clean slate.

Plus I’m in my perfect environment, because every time I turn around there’s something new to learn about. It’s like being in school, except all the time and without Alexa.

I’m going to have the best summer
ever.

There’s a loud knock at the front door, and I stand up and bounce over to answer it. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.

And then I open the door and remember.

Because standing in the hallway is the last thing that made me feel this way.

Nick.

February 13th (132 days ago)

“You know,” I said sleepily. “I’m not a dolphin or a duck, Nick.” I had flu, and was holding the phone away from my face so my nose didn’t leave little slug trails all over the glass.

“You’re not?” I could hear him smiling. “Are you totally sure?”

“Hang on—” I sneezed and reached for a tissue with my eyes still shut. “Yes. And that means I don’t sleep with one half of my brain still awake so that I can surface periodically for air or keep an eye out for predators, so when you ring me at” – I held the phone a little further away – “6.34am on a Saturday, I am one hundred per cent asleep.”

“Gotcha.” Nick laughed. “If only you were a giraffe. They only sleep for about five minutes at a time, so you’d probably be awake.”

Huh. That was totally one of my facts. I couldn’t believe he was stealing them already. Did boys have no shame?

“Actually, giraffes have neither hands nor vocal cords, so I don’t think that would help me much with the whole answering the phone conundrum.” I smiled and sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Have you finished the Dolce & Gabbana shoot? How’s Paris?”

“Cold. But not as cold as here.”

I blinked. “Here? As in England?”

“As in
here
.” Something hit my window.

My stomach flipped, and I bolted out of bed and pulled open the curtains. There he was: lit neon yellow in the early-morning lamplight. The only person on the entire planet who could look beautiful the same colour as a Simpson.

We beamed goofily at each other, and then he flicked his wrist and something else hit my window. “You can stop throwing pebbles, Romeo,” I laughed.

“They’re not pebbles,” he called up. “They’re mints. Something to eat on the train journey and fresh breath all in one go. A multi-purpose tactic. Or a multi-purpose Tic Tac. Catch.” He grinned and lobbed another one.

(It landed in the front garden and would result in an hour of my father wandering around later, saying “Annabel? I think the birds around here have got some
really
regularly shaped constipation.”)

“Wait there,” I said, and then tore around my bedroom, desperately trying to make myself look presentable. My nose was bright red and flaky, there was yellow crust in the corner of my eyes and when I licked my hand and sniffed it, there was the sick, flu-y aroma of damp curtains.

I’d have to start sleeping with a toothbrush and little bowl of rose water next to my bed, or maybe just a pre-emptive paper bag to put over my head for moments like this.

I quickly swilled a bit of cold, sugary tea around my mouth, spat it into a pot plant and sprayed some perfume in my general direction. Then I took a deep breath and flew down the stairs with my dressing gown fluttering like a superhero’s cape.

“Yo,” he grinned as I flung open the door. I was flushed and shaky and hot all over and it had nothing to do with my viral infection.

“Hey,” I mumbled, suddenly shy.

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit snotty and gross, if I’m totally honest.”

His hair was all pointy, his eyelids were sleepy, and he had his big blue army coat on: the one with pockets so big they could fit both our hands in it at the same time. He looked so handsome it took every single bit of energy I had not to dance a smug little MINE-MINE-MINE jig right in front of him on the doorstep.

“You look ridiculously cute,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Have you considered accessorising with a bug more often?” I stuck my tongue out. “On second thoughts, I wouldn’t put that back in if I were you.” He grinned as I play-punched his arm and pulled out a flask from behind his back.

“So, Sick Note, I’ve brought you a honey and lemon and paracetamol drink that shall remain unbranded for the sake of impartiality.” He dipped into his huge pockets and pulled out a little box of tissues. “These, for your runny little nose.” He took his stripy scarf off. “This, for your normal-length, non-giraffe neck.” Then he made a little flourish and pulled out a tiny toy lion.

I went even brighter red. “Umm,” I said, clearing my throat awkwardly. “I have absolutely no idea what this is referring to.”

He leant forward and kissed me gently, like some kind of brave, flu-impervious Arthurian knight. “I’ve seen what’s written all over the history exercise book that you’ve been sadly neglecting of late, Manners. I was going to try and bring a real one for you, but they wouldn’t let both of us out of the zoo.”

I kissed him back, and having the flu was suddenly the best thing that had ever, ever happened to me. I was going to look into having it forever.

“I didn’t think you were in the country until Tuesday,” I said when I finally caught my breath. (And sneezed into my dressing-gown collar.)

“And let you hog all these disgusting germs to yourself?” Nick brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “I needed to talk to you about something.”

I tried to steady myself surreptitiously against the doorframe so my boyfriend wouldn’t see that kissing him had made me dizzy. After two months, I was pretty sure that was supposed to have worn off. If anything, he was getting more and more handsome and it was getting worse. “Talk to me about what?”

“Anything,” Nick grinned, tapping the end of my nose. “I just wanted to talk to you, Harriet. About anything.”

And he kissed me all over again.

cientists say that the earth spins on its axis at nearly 1,000 mph, and if it suddenly stopped everything would be swept away in a moment; torn from the surface and swept into oblivion. Trees. Rocks. Buildings. People.