My stomach abruptly folds in half. Why do people keep trying to sue me?
“A contract?” I finally repeat in disbelief. Was I so blinded by the excitement of my own metamorphosis that I signed a contract without actually reading it first? Without making notes? Without looking at every single word of the small writing and then looking it up in a legal dictionary? I mean, of course Dad did. Dad would sell his soul for a pink marshmallow. But me?
Who have I been this week?
“I know! Isn’t a ‘contract’ just the least fun name for anything in the world ever? Annabel was furious that you did it, but it still stands: just one parental signature needed, my little Squeaky-kettle. So I’ll ring you with details about tomorrow later, OK? Toodle-pip, bella.”
I make a few confused mumbling sounds, say goodbye and hang up. I can’t believe I’m in trouble with the law again. For the second time this week. Doesn’t nine years living with a lawyer rub off at all?
I can’t think about this now. I’ll think about it later. There’s somewhere I need to be and it’s far more important.
And I abruptly click the button on my shoes so that the wheels disappear and start running.
was only here a couple of days ago, yet everything feels so different.
It even looks different. Everything is lit by a bright green light and there’s a little red flask on the ground. Somewhere in the background, I can hear the faint, tinny sound of Swan Lake by Tchaikovsky coming out of a wind-up, hand-held radio. Which was actually performed first at the Bolshoi Theatre in Russia, so everything seems to be fitting into place like a magical puzzle.
Or, you know. A normal one packed simply full of coincidences.
“Toby?” I say, crawling back into the bush outside my house.
He’s sitting inside it, just as I suspected he would be, reading a battered copy of Don Juan. He looks up, sniffs and then lifts the green torch he’s holding so that it shines directly in my face like a sort of Halloween-themed Gestapo. “Harriet!” he says in astonishment. “What an unexpected surprise! I didn’t expect you for – ” and he clicks the red light on his watch – “another twenty-eight minutes. Did you not get any laundry done? Or did I miscalculate the dryer times?”
OK, Toby is much, much better at this stalking malarkey than I thought he was.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask, clambering in next to him.
“Not at all. This flask prevents the energy loss of the vibrating molecules of my soup and thus is still nice and toasty.” Toby sniffs again. “Sadly, I think I may need a flask for my nose, as it is suspiciously icy and may be about to fall off, if that is a physical possibility.”
I laugh. “Not at this temperature.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Toby looks around the inside of the bush with an embarrassed expression. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have tidied up. Honestly, it’s not always like this.”
“It’s OK. Isn’t it my bush anyway?”
“Which makes me your tenant, I suppose.” Toby fiddles with the volume button on the radio, which is now playing Vivaldi. “I shall try and keep it down so as not to disturb the neighbours.”
“I’m your neighbour, Toby.” I laugh again and make myself a little bit more comfortable on the blanket. The entire time I was running/wheeling here, I knew I had to ask him something – something important – but I didn’t know quite what it was.
Suddenly I do.
I look at Toby’s skeleton gloves, and the hat with the little bear ears built into it, and the trainers with the laces that look like piano keys, and the battered copy of a book he’ll never have to read, not even for university. I look at his flask and his blanket and his face, with the slightly shiny, drippy, wet-looking nose. I look at his simple, transparent happiness that I’m here. And then I take a deep breath.
“Toby,” I say, “can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.” Toby thinks about it. “Was that it? Did I just answer it?”
“No.”
“Then sure, go right ahead.”
“OK.” I close my eyes, swirl the question around my mouth a few times, take a deep breath and spit it out. “Toby, do you ever feel like a polar bear, lost in a rainforest?”
Toby narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “What kind of rainforest?”
“Does it matter?”
“Absolutely, Harriet. Different rainforests have totally different vegetation. It will dramatically affect how easy it is to be found again. Some have significantly more ground foliage and then it will be mainly cutting at plants with the paws.” Toby waves his hands in front of his face to illustrate this.
There’s silence again as I stare at him. “It’s a metaphor, Toby. I’m speaking metaphorically.”
“Right. Gotcha.” Toby thinks about it for a few minutes. “In that case, sure I do, Harriet.”
My stomach flips over. He knows? “And then do you ever feel as if…” I pause, trying to think of how to put it. “As if no matter what we do, we’re made of the wrong stuff and everyone can see it?”
Toby nods knowingly. “And we just want to get back again…”
“…to somewhere snowy, where the other polar bears must be…”
“…but we don’t know how to…”
“…so we just wander around on our own.”
Toby and I stare at each other for a few seconds and I can feel my entire body vibrating.
Not with romance. Just to make that clear. It’s not a romantic vibrating. To make the point separately, Toby’s nose chooses that moment to drip on to his scarf. But still: he understands.
“So what do we do?” I finally manage to blurt. “How do we get out, Toby?”
Perhaps there’s a map I don’t know about. Or – at the very least – a signpost.
Toby pulls a face, shrugs and wipes his nose with his finger. “Polar bears are awesome.” He wipes his finger on his coat. “They’re the largest land carnivores in the world, and did you know their skin is actually black and their hair is translucent, but looks white because it reflects light?”
I stare at him and my stomach is sinking already. So close and yet so far. “Metaphorically, Toby,” I sigh. “We’re still talking about metaphorical polar bears.”
“I know. That’s what I’m trying to say. We’re awesome, Harriet.” Toby picks up his flask and unscrews the lid. “We’ve got big paws so we can catch tropical fish out of rivers. And as we’re genetically related to European brown bears, I think with a bit of practice we could climb trees too. Even the really tall ones.”
“But…” And I pause. “We still don’t fit in, Toby. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Nope.” Toby takes a swig of soup.
I can feel myself starting to stammer. Toby knows, but he doesn’t care? “B-b-but what about the others?” I start mumbling in confusion, almost to myself now. “The frogs, the parrots, the… the tigers, the flying squirrels… What about them? They know, they see it, they don’t want anything to do with us, they laugh at us…”
“In fairness, most of them end up getting eaten, Harriet. We’ve all got our bad points. The rainforest is an extremely harsh environment and shrinking in size. Just as the ice caps are. That’s a much bigger issue.”
“But—”
Toby puts the cap back on his flask and straightens out the blanket. “Just enjoy being a polar bear. Appreciate the size of our paws.” He makes his hands into paws and waves them in front of his face again. “Plus,” he adds, “we’re deceptively fluffy and cute.”
I stare at him, too surprised to say anything. Suddenly, cross-legged and bathed in the green light of his pocket torch, Toby looks otherworldly. Mysterious. Knowing. Almost… Yoda-like.
And then he sticks his finger up his nose and goes back to being Toby again.
We sit in silence: Toby fiddling with the channel on the radio and me picking distractedly at a leaf on the bush. There are so many things to think about and yet – somehow – I don’t need to think about them.
They’re presenting themselves to me now, fully formed.
I clear my throat and start crawling out from under the bush. I finally know what it is I have to do. “Right,” I tell Toby over my shoulder in my bossiest voice. “You’re coming with me.”
Toby looks at me with wide and delighted eyes. “I am? With you? When?”
“Now. Bring your green torch, Toby.”
I’m going to need all the additional wisdom I can get.
’d like to say that our ensuing journey is a profound one: filled with adventure and inspiration and self-discovery. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? A little bit like Pilgrim’s Progress, without the overwhelming religious analogy.
It’s not.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to walk ten paces behind you?” Toby asks in consternation as we hurry down the pavement. “Would it make you more comfortable?”
“Toby, when does walking ten paces behind ever make someone more comfortable?”
“It depends on whether they see you or not. Although, I have to say it gets a bit tricky measuring the ten paces. It usually requires running up to them and then pacing away again. Which isn’t as subtle as you might think.”
I decide to ignore this. “Just walk next to me, Toby. Like a non-stalker.”
“Golly.” Toby seems overwhelmed. “This is a break with tradition, I have to say. If you change your mind, Harriet, just say the word and I’ll duck behind a tree and pretend to be reading a newspaper or checking for woodworm, OK?”
“OK.” I smile at him. Why have I always been so mean to Toby? He just wanted another polar bear to play with.
“Would you mind terribly if I attempted to hold your hand?” he adds, skipping next to me. “For just a short time? On this beautiful winter day?”
All right, I’m not feeling that sorry for him.
“Yes,” I snap, stuffing mine in my pocket. “I would mind terribly, Toby.”
Toby starts rummaging in his backpack. “I shall make a note of that,” he tells me earnestly. He scribbles something in his notebook. “Perhaps in six months?”
I think of Nick’s hand, the hand I’ll never hold again. My stomach gives a sad little flip and I shake my head.
“Not a problem,” Toby says cheerfully, making another note and putting his book away. “Seven months it is.”
Nat’s house seems even bigger now, although I’m pretty sure it’s the same size. It’s just my guilt making it loom like something out of a Tim Burton film.
“Stand back,” I tell Toby quietly as we approach her front door. “Nat isn’t happy with me. And, much like an angry Camponotus saundersi…”
“Commonly known as the Malaysian ant,” Toby interjects.
“There’s a good chance that when we get close, her head is going to literally explode.”
Toby obediently stands a few metres back and the door opens. Nat’s mum blinks at us a few times. She’s now entirely pink: pink dressing gown, pink towel round her head, pink face mask. She even has a pink eye mask strapped to her head, like inflatable glasses.
“Harriet!” she says, delighted. “Are you here with gifts again? I finished the chocolates and arranged what I could salvage of the pink roses strewn around the driveway. Although the bits with the teeth marks obviously had to go in the bin.”
Sugar cookies. I knew Nat preferred lilies.
“Is Nat here, please?”
“Still sulking somewhere, I believe, yes.” Nat’s mum glances behind me and waves. “And this must be your little stalker, Toby. I remember you from the school fête a few years ago. You were shuffling around the raffle on your belly with binoculars.”
Toby steps forward, beaming. “That’s me,” he says, puffing out his chest proudly. “Although my Harriet-following skills have improved immeasurably since then. It’s very nice to meet you properly, Mrs Nat’s mum.”
“It is indeed.” She smiles at him, and then smiles at me, and then smiles at Toby again. And then – and I can’t actually believe this – she winks at me. She’d better not be winking for the reason I think she’s winking.
Ugh.
“Ahem.” Nat’s mum clears her throat and then gets a small hand-held microphone out of her pocket. “Excuse me,” she explains to us, “but shouting up the stairs is causing unnecessary wrinkling in my forehead. So I’ve invested in an alternative.” And then she clicks the little red button on the side. “Natalie?” she says into the microphone, and somewhere in the distance her voice starts bouncing around the stairs. “You have a couple of visitors.”
Silence.
Nat’s mum rolls her eyes and fiddles with the volume control. A loud screeching fills the house and she puts her hand over the top. “It’s linked up to a speaker outside her bedroom,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I put one under her bed too, although she hasn’t found that one yet. Natalie? Natalie?” She listens for a few seconds, sighs and holds the microphone up again. “Don’t make me turn it up to ten, young lady.”
“All right, all right,” I hear Nat shout, storming down the stairs.
Nat’s mum turns the microphone off, winks at Toby and me, retreats into the living room and shuts the door. Leaving us to face Nat.
And – from the look on her face – I believe she’s about to give the head-exploding Malaysian ants a run for their money.
ell?” Nat says after a few seconds. “I’m surprised you’re here again, Harriet. I thought you’d be busy auditioning for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
I blink a few times in surprise. “No. I’m not.”
“You should be. I heard they’re looking for an ass.”
Oh.
Now why can’t I think of quips like that when I need them? Does she sit and make them up beforehand or do they just pop out like that, fully formed? If she ever talks to me in a non-violent way again, I must remember to ask her.
Toby holds his head up very high and looks Nat dead in the eye. “Natalie Grey,” he says in a stern voice. “Harriet has come here in great and glorious dignity – and, if I may say so, quite mesmerising beauty – to apologise to you. The very least you can do is stand there and listen politely. Otherwise you’re nothing but a… a… a…” I can see him looking around desperately. His eyes fall on the ground next to the front door. “A flowerpot head,” he finishes triumphantly. “Full of lavender.”
Toby clearly has the same problem I do. Nat lifts an unimpressed eyebrow.
“I don’t want to apologise again,” I say in a rush.
“Then what are you doing here? Are you going to give me more pointless gifts that I can enjoy breaking?”
“No. I just want you to come with me somewhere.”
Nat’s shocked into silence for a few seconds. “And why the hell would I do that?”
“Because neither of us is happy like this.”
Nat makes a hmph sound. “Actually, being without you is extremely liberating, Harriet. I never knew how much time there would be in life when it’s not being filled with documentaries about humpback whales migrating.”
That’s a low blow. She liked the humpback whale documentary. She said they were very “splashy”.
“Please, Nat? Twenty minutes and if you still hate me then you can spend the rest of the night cutting my face out of all our photos.”
“How do you know I haven’t already done that?”
We glare at each other obstinately for a few seconds, neither of us willing to budge.
Toby clears his throat. “If you need somewhere to put all the cut-out Harriet heads,” he interjects, “I’d be happy to take them off your hands.”
We both turn slowly to stare at him, but luckily my response is interrupted by the sound of the invisible Nat’s mum tapping the top of the microphone. “Ahem,” she says, like the disembodied voice of some kind of ancient goddess. “Go with them, Natalie.”
“What?” Nat says to thin air.
“I’m not having you marching around the house with a face like a smacked bottom for the
rest of the week. Go with them.”
“No.”
“All right.” The voice of the goddess clears her throat. “It’s on six, Natalie.” A screech starts filling the house.
“Mum.”
“Seven.” The screech gets louder. Nat starts chewing on her bottom lip.
“At eight, Natalie, your ears are going to start hurting.”
Nat puts her hand over her face. “Please, Mum—”
“Nine. Ringing in your ears for the rest of the day. Don’t make me go to ten. I will.”
“Fine!” Nat shouts, glaring behind her and grabbing her handbag. She violently forces her feet into a pair of shoes next to the door. “Fine, all of you. Happy now? I’m coming.” She stalks out of the door and slams it behind her.
But not before we hear the faint sound of disembodied laughter.
I lead the rest of the way.
I have to: nobody else knows where we’re going. And even if they did know where we were going, they wouldn’t know how to get there. I’m the only one with that magical knowledge, thanks to a party eight years ago that Nat missed because she was having her tonsils out. The first and last party I ever went to without her. Although I haven’t exactly been wading through solo invitations.
“Right,” I say nervously as we get to a large front gate and I click the latch. “Just let me do all the talking.”
“Harriet,” Nat says crossly as we walk up the garden path. “Where the hell are we? And when do you ever not do all the talking?”
I know I’m supposed to be making peace with her, but with comments like that she is making it very difficult.
“You think I don’t know what friendship is, Nat,” I say, lifting up the knocker and letting it fall noisily. “But you’re wrong. And I know how to be honest too.” I lift it again and let it fall. “I just forgot for a little while, that’s all. And now I’m going to prove it to you.”