Forever Geek

  But these are the moments that last forever.

  Twenty minutes and a lot of singing (Nat) and incoherent warbling (me – because I don’t know any words to songs) later, the taxi pulls into a dappled street lined with gnarled trees and bright flowers I don’t recognise.

  There are 24,000 native plants in Australia, and I intend to learn about as many as I can, as fast as physically possible.

  Especially the ten per cent that make cyanide.

  It’s a really good idea to improve your knowledge of botany in an environment where trees and shrubs can literally poison you.

  “Nat,” I say as the car stops next to a high, straggly and knotted wooden fence and we pay and clamber out with our suitcases. “Umm, I think I need to prepare you.”

  Then I pause, reach into my suitcase and give Nat a mosquito spray, a fly net, antibacterial hand wipes, a pack of matches and an inflatable cushion.

  Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

  “Harriet,” Nat laughs as we cautiously approach a rotting door with our rusty key. “Bunty just spent twenty-four hours sleeping or putting half-eaten plane food in her knapsack. I’m fully aware that for the next fortnight we won’t be exactly living in the lap of l—”

  The door swings open with a click and there’s a silence.

  The kind of silence you could surf all the way home on, should you be interested in wave-riding silences.

  “—uxury,” I finish for her.

  Because there’s no other way to put it.

  We’re looking at the most expensive apartment either of us has ever seen in our lives.

  onestly, I have no idea what Bunty does for a living.

  (Or did. She must be retired now.)

  But – as Nat and I stand stock-still like the fauns in Narnia, frozen into stone in the doorway – it occurs to me that at some point I probably should have asked.

  Worldwide, women earn a combined eighteen trillion US dollars a year (approximately 24 per cent less than men), yet – thanks to running most of the world’s households – spend twenty-eight trillion between them.

  My grandmother must be singlehandedly skewing these statistics.

  Gleaming in front of us is a huge, beautiful room. There are polished oak floors and high walls reaching up to a cavernous, cream-painted arched ceiling, and giant windows edged with transparent muslin curtains, glowing with warm yellow sunshine.

  On one side is an enormous, tufted velvet green sofa scattered with silk pillows of every imaginable hue; under it are delicately embroidered rugs; propped around the floor are books and carvings and vivid paintings.

  The air is filled with the intoxicatingly deep fragrance of flowers and incense and potpourri and just-lit candles.

  To the other side is an intricately carved mahogany kitchen, and from the high ceiling hang dozens of tiny crystal lights suspended like stars. Just visible to the left – through an arched door – are two wood-panelled bedrooms with the biggest four-poster beds I’ve ever seen: one hung with pale yellow fabric, the other with green, surrounded by fresh white flowers interwoven with hundreds of tiny sparkling lights.

  Directly in front of us are huge sliding doors, opening on to a sparkling emerald infinity swimming pool dropping into nothing with a musical splash, surrounded by giant beanbags and multicoloured lanterns.

  And behind it all is the Tasman Sea.

  Glittering and immense and throwing prismatic rainbows through the crystals strung from every possible hook.

  I know Annabel has told me that money isn’t important: that there are more precious things in life and that cash can’t buy happiness yada yada yada.

  But it must be able to rent it for a little while.

  “Oh!” Nat whimpers happily, running forward with her hands stretched out like a toddler seeing a Labrador puppy. “Oh. Oh. Oh.”

  She presses a button and a wall panel slides open to reveal a free-standing green marble bath with clawed gold feet and a spectacular view of a huge, rambling garden, complete with cinema screen and miniature teepee.

  “Oh!” Nat opens an enormous walk-in closet.

  “Oh!” Nat claps and every light in the house turns on. “Oh!” she says, clapping again to turn them off. “Oh!”

  I laugh as the house starts flashing with Nat’s joy.

  Then I watch my best friend scamper ecstatically around the apartment, rubbing herself against everything like our cat Victor when he’s expecting food.

  The last place Nat stayed in abroad was a ramshackle farmhouse in the South of France with a boy wearing green Lycra cycling shorts: she really deserves this.

  Finally, she lobs herself on to the bed in a starfish shape – clicking the radio on and off by snapping her fingers – and I wander outside towards the sea.

  There’s a small path winding over a tiny stone bridge to a little wooden hut with a single white bed, a basic table and a large window facing the ocean. Unlit candles and flowers are scattered along the windowsill, and there’s a tiny shelf full of hippy books about rainbows and crystals.

  “Nat!” I yell in excitement, running my hands over a battered copy of The Daisy-Chain Guide To Living Your Most Petal-Filled Life, lying on the middle of the bed. “I found the fairy shed!”

  “I’m afraid Natalie’s discovered the vintage copies of Vogue,” a familiar voice says behind me. “So we may not see her again for quite some time.”

  I spin round. Bunty is standing on the centre of the bridge, shimmering like a female Merlin. And standing next to her – with arms crossed tightly – is a severe-faced woman with a sharp crop, a neat, plain blue T-shirt, black trousers and little black trainers.

  They’re so mismatched it’s a bit like seeing a parrot hanging out with a starling.

  “This is the very special granddaughter I was telling you about,” Bunty says to the stranger as I ogle shamelessly at her. “And this is Moonstone Dream, darling. She’s going to keep me company while you two young whippersnappers live life to the maximum and so on.”

  I blink at the woman again. Moonstone Dream?

  A study of 3,000 parents recently found that one in five parents regret the name they gave their child.

  I’m going to guess that hers are two of them.

  “Indeed,” Moonstone nods curtly: conversation over.

  “But … where are we?” I say, turning to look at the huge villa again. “Whose is this house, Bunty?”

  “I’ve rented it from an old friend,” she beams. “It’s a magical place, where you can bathe in warm rainwater and cook using the heat of the morning rays and grow vegetables out of your own poop.”

  “Really? Is there an instruction manual somewhere?”

  Bunty laughs. “It’s an environmentally friendly, organic, sustainable house, which means we’ll leave no trace, sweetheart. When we go the universe won’t even know we’ve been here.”

  “OH MY GOD, THERE’S A BOWL OF CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES IN THE BATHROOM!” Nat screams.

  “Although it’ll probably guess,” my grandmother smiles.

  With a tinkle of bells, Bunty picks up the Daisy-Chain book, pats it a few times and puts it inside her bag. “This is my room,” she says firmly. “It’s nearer the ocean and I like lots of tidal energy so I can synchronise my body with the moon.”

  Umm, scientifically in what way could you possibly …

  Nope, not even going to ask.

  “Is there Wi-Fi?” I say instead, grabbing my brand-new phone out of my bag. “Or is that … organic and sustainably sourced too?”

  “Exactly, darling. All you have to do is climb to the top of that hill, hold your mobile device up to the moon at high tide and wait for the call of a migrating nightingale.”

  I look up in horror. At the last count there were ten billion Wi-Fi devices shipped worldwide. Is my grandmother actually telling me we don’t have any of them? In which case who is taking ours?

  I bet it’s Toby somehow.

  “Really?”

  “No,
” Bunty laughs, holding out a little bit of crumpled paper with “DREAMCATCHER1234” written on it.

  Within five seconds a message pops up on the screen.

  HARRIET??? ARE YOU THERE? Jxx

  My stomach gives a little swoop of excitement.

  And also guilt: I’m running forty minutes behind schedule, and it’s my schedule.

  Quickly, I type out the promised “immediately on landing” text to my parents.

  The eagle has landed safely on The Other Side! Harriet x

  I get two back straight away:

  Haha, who are you kidding – I’m the eagle, you’re a little fluffy pigeon. Dad x

  And I’m the phoenix so I win. Annabel

  You have to be eighteen to legally divorce your parents in the UK.

  Just over a year to go …

  “Sorry,” I say to my grandmother as my phone abruptly starts ringing and Jasper’s name pops up in a flash of light. “I think I need to take this call.”

  “Go for it, darling,” Bunty beams, waving me away affectionately. “You must always grab your moments.”

  he housefly has one of the fastest wingbeats on the planet.

  It’s so fast that the wings actually produce music: creating the instantly recognisable fly-hum of a middle octave pitch of F. At three hundred and fifty-four beats per second, their wings become totally invisible to the human eye.

  And as I run down polished stone steps towards the beautiful ocean, I think I kind of know how that fly feels. As if my entire body is vibrating and humming and singing all over.

  This is going to be the best two weeks ever.

  I’m so excited, it feels like I’m about to lift off the ground.

  “Hello?” I blurt, hitting the green button. “Hello, Jasper? Are you there?”

  In front of me are countless shimmering blue waves.

  But not quite so many radio ones, judging by the black fuzziness of the phone screen in my hand.

  “Hello?” I give it a shake. “Jasper?”

  Finally the image clears and my Not-Quite Boyfriend appears in profile. All I can see is one bright blue eye, a straight nose with a few freckles scattered across it and a quiff of bronze hair sticking up at the front, like a gold Triceratops horn.

  Unsurprisingly, he’s already scowling.

  It’s a commonly held misconception that it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile, but in fact it’s actually the other way round: looking grumpy actually requires eleven muscles, while an expression of happiness needs twelve.

  I like to think of Jasper as just being facially economical.

  “No!” he’s calling crossly to the side. “Dad, I’m on my break.” He frowns harder as somebody in the background yells back. “Yes, another one.” More yelling. “Fine, take it out of my inheritance.”

  Then he turns to me with an eye-roll.

  “Dad seems to think we’re the Starbucks dynasty or something,” he says flatly. “He actually made me move my portfolio away from the side of the coffee-maker, as if I don’t have exams and university and a life to prepare for.”

  I grin. “Remind your dad that world-famous composer Philip Glass simultaneously worked as a plumber. So it’s perfectly possible to combine skills efficiently.”

  “Bet Philip Glass didn’t have to empty a dishwasher three times every hour,” Jasper grumps. Then he leans forward. “So how was the journey?” He holds up JASPER AND HARRIET’S ROMANTIC COMMUNICATION CHART. “Also, can I just point out that thanks to the delay we’re currently in the pink zone, which I believe is Me Time?”

  My whole face abruptly flushes to match it.

  It seemed like a good idea to allocate “quality moments to ourselves”, as recommended by various online relationship articles. Apparently it strengthens the bond between brand-new couples by protecting our independence at an early stage and making sure we don’t get bored of each other too quickly.

  Although now I’m kind of questioning taking that advice quite so literally.

  It probably didn’t need its own colour code.

  “I’m sorry I’m late. It took a while to get our bags, then we had a long taxi drive, then we got distracted by the pool …”

  “Whoa – you’ve got a pool?”

  “I strongly advise against getting in it,” a voice says from off-screen. “Statistically, seventy per cent of people do not shower before swimming and twenty per cent of adults admit to urinating in public pools.”

  Jasper raises his dark eyebrows, then slowly spins the phone.

  “Hi, Toby.” I smile before it’s even refocused.

  “Good evening, Harriet,” Toby salutes. He’s wearing a bright red T-shirt with a picture of Mr Spock on it. “For you. For us, it’s obviously good morning, thanks to the rotation of the Earth.”

  “Ohayo gozaimasu!” a voice chirps from next to him. “Which is literal meaning it is early but is also super-polite hello in Japan.”

  Jasper turns the phone a little further round.

  Rin is sitting close to Toby, wearing a red vest with a picture of Captain Kirk on it. “Looking at me!” she says triumphantly, pointing to her top. “I am star hiking too!”

  “Trekking,” Toby corrects fondly.

  “Hai,” Rin laughs, nodding. “We are matching perfectly and walking far together in space. Walk walk walk.”

  “It’s more of an orbiting, really,” Toby objects. “But I guess Starfleet Officers on a vessel are simultaneously on foot so that’s an excellent point.”

  The screen subtly tilts so I can see they’re holding hands.

  Cyanoacrylate (aka Super Glue) is unsticky on its own, but as soon as it comes into contact with water ions in the air it undergoes anionic polymerisation: forming polymer chains and creating a mesh that joins surfaces together and becomes almost impossible to remove.

  Something tells me Rin and Toby are stuck for good.

  “Anyway,” Jasper says, turning the screen back to him. “What’s it like Down Under? Have you unleashed your scheduling skills on the unsuspecting Aussies yet?”

  “It’s amazing,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm and holding the phone up so he can see the sea. “Plus Nat and I have the whole day tomorrow to explore Sydney before work starts properly.”

  “Ooh,” Jasper breathes, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Do me a favour – will you go to the Art Gallery of New South Wales? They’ve got some amazing Aboriginal paintings – their use of colour is extraordinary.”

  Well, that does sound intriguing from a historical perspective but … It’s not on the Plan, and while my interest in art has been whetted slightly by Jasper’s enthusiasm, it’s still way down my list of Things I Genuinely Like And Will Make Time For.

  But he probably doesn’t need to know that right now.

  Google says not this soon, anyway.

  “Absolutely.” I nod, making a mental note to download images of the exhibition off the internet. “We’ll head there first thing.”

  “Arigato gozaimasu for the Victor cat!” Rin calls out, poking her rosy face into the screen. “Which is meaning thank you but in literal it is rare and precious. And Victor, he is!”

  “Especially when wearing his tiny tiara,” Jasper says darkly. “He’s as precious as it gets.”

  I laugh, suddenly wishing I could be there in the cafe as well as here.

  As much as I obviously respect scientists, I really wish they’d work faster on time travel and body-cloning: being in one place at a time is so restricting.

  “Jasper!” a voice yells from nearby. “Break’s over! We’ve got customers!”

  “Kill me,” Jasper sighs, standing up.

  “So when’s our next appointment?” I ask, pulling out my laminated chart and scanning it for green blocks. “Tomorrow at one?”

  “I can’t,” Jasper grimaces. “New work shift. Make it nine-thirty?”

  And this kind of required flexibility is exactly why I needed the hand-held printer. “OK, so that’s seven-thirty my time,”
I say, tucking the schedule back into my pocket. “And, umm … Make sure you eat some biscuits for me!”

  “Huh?” Jasper frowns, distracted by more yelling. “They don’t have biscuits Down Under?”

  I flush. That was my code way of alluding to the burnt biscuits he makes me, thus attempting to be subtly romantic as many seemingly reputable dating advice websites would suggest.

  “Ah, yes.” I cough in embarrassment. “Maybe I’ll try a supermarket. So … umm. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Jasper says, tying his stripy apron back on. “I’ll aim for a bit more privacy next time.”

  “Goodbye, Harry-chan!” Rin beams, waving.

  “Sayonara, Harriet!” Toby calls. “Ganbatte!”

  And the phone goes dead.

  o, do you know what I really love about plans?

  Everything.

  Literally everything about plans is awesome. I love coming up with them, and I love writing them down. I love laminating them and hole-punching them and double-underlining them; I love bullet-pointing them and giving them their own little hierarchy.

  I love showing them to other people, so they can fully appreciate their objective beauty, and also – let’s be honest – my subjective organisational skills.

  And I really love ticking them off.

  In fact, I love ticking them off so much I’ve been known to write Tick Off Plans on my lists, just so I can tick that off too.

  Which means – as I get up the next morning, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and (thanks to carefully ensuring that I adjust to the time difference over four days) not even vaguely jet-lagged – all the signs point towards today being brilliant.

  I’ve just got to get Natalie Grey out of bed first.

  “Nat?” I whisper at the corner of the mattress where she’s flung: arms akimbo and pillow-dried hair spread across her face.

  We spent our very first evening in Australia splashing around in the infinity pool and watching Home and Away on the giant outdoor cinema screen. Since then – after she passed out like a damp starfish on the bed – I’ve genuinely seen oak tree trunks with more mobility.

  “Nat!” I shake her right shoulder briskly.