I got another modelling job! :) Please will you keep R happy while I’m gone? Hxx
I send it to everyone on Team JINTH.
Then I open a new text message.
There’s just one complication left: if I’m leaving the country tomorrow, I won’t be able to carry out what needs to be done alone or keep an eye on everything. So I’ll need to outsource: delegate to somebody geographically closer.
Somebody who fully appreciates how important a good itinerary is. Who understands how to follow a set programme properly and accurately.
Who – unlike the stupid Universe – won’t just make it up as they go along.
And I think I know the perfect person.
Toby – be You Know Where at seven pm tonight. TOP SECRET – TELL NOBODY. Hxx
I wait a few seconds until my phone beeps.
Pbcl gung. Neeviny ba qbg. Bire naq bhg. Gbol
That’s Caesar Cipher for: Copy that. Arrival on dot. Over and out. Toby.
I definitely picked the right person.
Then, starting to prickle all over, I make the final call.
Every can of fizzy drink contains an average of 18.9 million bubbles, and – rather fittingly – I’m suddenly so excited I feel like I might too.
“Wilbur?” I grin happily, staring at the bright blue sky. “Prepare the unicorns. I’m in.”
e make it home just in time.
I need to drop by the post office with my passport so my visa can be emergency-processed overnight (it’s a good thing I always keep it on me: you never know when you might have an adventure abroad).
I have to have my little visa pictures taken three times because I blink in two of them.
Apparently Vogue doesn’t train you for photo booths.
By the time the taxi drops off Tabby, Rin and I at the end of our driveway, it’s already getting dark. Thankfully I’ve been getting a countdown from Dad:
The heron and robin land in eight minutes. x
Seven minutes. x
Can I have one of these Jaffa Cakes I just found in the picnic hamper? Six minutes. x
Me versus Jaffas: 9-0. Five minutes. x
And there’s only time to sprint into the house with the buggy, hand a happy and gurgling Tabby to Dad and leg it up the stairs with Rin before the pink VW Beetle pulls into the driveway, Annabel driving.
That was far too close.
I have no idea what terrible excuses my father would have come up with for Tabitha’s absence if left to his own devices, but this is a fully grown adult man who just ate nine biscuits in one minute and considered it a triumph.
I don’t think that’s a risk anyone should take.
With a sleepy smile, Rin grabs an alarmed and now wide-awake Victor from my beanbag and collapses on the bed with him in a puff of denim and subtle kitten-print, spreading out like a baby starfish.
And I run to the bedroom window and watch as Annabel stops the car and sits in it for a few seconds, talking to Bunty. Then she rubs her face, gets out of her side and I scamper to the top of the stairs.
A moment later, the front door opens.
“We’re back,” Annabel calls tiredly, walking straight into Dad’s arms. “Finally,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “I don’t think I can do that again. Worst day ever.”
Dad glances up the stairs to where I’m standing anxiously on one foot, waiting for Annabel to use her spooky Gandalf skills to somehow smell our treachery.
He winks at me over the top of her head.
“What did you expect from fragrant candle shopping?” he says, kissing her forehead. “Silly, silly people.”
I start backing cautiously into the bedroom.
Unbelievably – against logic or expectation or frankly historical precedence – I think we actually got away with it.
For now, anyway.
It looks like Annabel has temporarily handed the reins to my father completely. Which is very fortuitous. Getting him to agree to my trip should be a doddle.
“Rin?” I say, still staring out into the hallway, “there’s just something I’ve got to … do … in … the … shed … for … school.”
My brain is so exhausted I can basically hear it buffering. All I need is to escape for an hour to get things ready. Just one hour, and then I’m good to go.
There’s a silence.
Frowning, I turn round, ready to come up with a different, possibly even more obvious lie.
But there’s no need.
Both Victor and Rin are sprawled out on my bed, fast asleep.
move as fast as I can.
With the speed, accuracy and elegance of a sailfish – the fastest fish in the sea – I grab my heavy binding machine and wrench it off my desk.
Breathing laboriously, I somehow waddle down the stairs, past my parents and grandmother without being asked any questions and into the garden shed.
I hook it up to the electrics.
With absolute focus, I do a little Google research on my phone, write down some neat underlined notes and put together my Top Secret Plan in a beautifully bound black folder.
I add a few relevant stickers I had lying around, because presentation is always important.
And a few badly drawn sketches.
Then I glance at my watch, tuck the folder under my arm and crawl into the space inside the rhododendron bush outside my house.
Toby’s already in there: wearing skin-coloured knitted earmuffs shaped like pointed Star Trek ears.
Seriously: where does he go shopping?
“Reporting for duty and hitting on all eight,” he says, giving a sharp salute. “Took it on the heel and toe and used my noodle. This is going to be duck soup.”
I blink at him for a few seconds. “What?”
“I’m clammed after the dust out, eggs in the coffee. Ready for the flimflam. Grab a little air.”
He holds his hand up.
I stare at it. “Toby, don’t make me regret texting you.”
“It’s Detective Speak,” he says in surprise. “This is how they do it, Harriet. This way nobody but us knows what we’re talking about.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about either.”
“That could be a problem,” he concedes. “So what’s the plan?”
I straighten my shoulders and proudly present the Top Secret folder with both hands.
“This,” I say solemnly. “It is a very important task, Toby Pilgrim.”
He takes it with an expression of reverence. “Have you discovered why tomatoes have more genes than humans, a subject that still baffles scientists to this day?”
“No,” I say with some certainty.
“Do you know where all the missing lithium in the Universe is, given that there’s only a third as much as we would expect there to be?”
“N-no.”
“Is this a folder containing information on why some nutrient-rich areas of the ocean have very little phytoplankton, otherwise known as the Antarctic Paradox, and you would like me to submit it to NATO anonymously?”
OK: he’s totally ruining my moment.
Mine’s not going to sound anywhere near as impressive now.
“No, Toby,” I snap slightly. Then I adopt my mysterious voice again. “Toby Pilgrim: this is your mission, should you choose to accept it. It is of utmost importance, time-sensitive and needs to be carefully handled while I’m in India on a modelling shoot.”
He nods in awe. “Copy that.”
“Follow it exactly,” I say cryptically. “It is delicate. Subtle. The complex intricacies are beyond the understanding of most mere mortals.”
“Will I understand it?”
“Probably not fully,” I admit enigmatically. “Just do what it tells you to and all will be well.”
“Harriet Manners,” Toby says in wonderment, “I am your man.” Then he starts laughing. “Not literally, obviously. Hahahaha. You can’t seduce me.”
I glare at him. “Are you going to take this seriously or not?”
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“I am,” he says, straightening his face. “I will carry this out exactly as laid out in the oracle. I will die to defend it. Nobody will know.”
“Apart from Nat,” I say, thinking about it quickly. “You can tell Nat if you want.”
“Apart from Nat,” he repeats obediently.
“And India.” I think about it a bit more. “You can tell her too if you like.”
“And India,” he agrees.
“And if my dad asks then it’s all right if you want to—”
“Harriet,” Toby interrupts. “I don’t feel like you understand the words ‘Top Secret’.”
I nod: he has a valid point. “Repeat after me: I, Toby Pilgrim, will carry this project out perfectly in preparation for Harriet’s return in three days’ time, at which point she will take over.”
“Two days.”
“Sorry?”
“You come back in two days and three hours. It’s a surprisingly short trip.”
It’s at times like this I remember quite how good at stalking Toby is.
“Just say it, Toby,” I sigh.
He makes the oath, slides the folder with great respect into his rucksack and I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. A weight I didn’t really notice was so considerable until it was gone. I can leave now, knowing that everything is perfectly in place.
“Pipe that,” Toby says, crawling out of the bush with a cautious and unnecessarily elaborate look each way. “All silk so far. Scram out.”
I crawl out too and we high-five each other.
Then I run back to the shed and drag my binding machine out to lug up to my room again.
And by the time Rin wakes up, forty-five minutes later, it’s as if I was never gone.
I am a plan-making ninja.
She will never suspect a thing.
ow, obviously, this trip to India isn’t about me.
This trip is about:
But.
If I happen to get incredibly excited about this new adventure in the process, it’s not really my fault.
And if I manage to tick another fascinating destination off my Countries I Want To Visit list while I’m there, I don’t think I can really be blamed.
If three or four of my best travel guidebooks accidentally slip into my suitcase while I’m packing, it’s not because I’m being unprofessional.
I just like being prepared, that’s all.
Admittedly the scrapbook, notepad and fiction novels set in India are a little less easy to explain away: The Jungle Book is not essential reading for a modelling job.
But it’s handy as a reference anyway.
Just in case I accidentally get abandoned in an Indian village and have to be taken in by a wolf family to protect me from a tiger.
You never know.
I spend the rest of the night packing.
And showing Rin how to forge a fake school-trip letter from a template I find on the internet: I think she finds my skills quite an education.
We’re just trying to force a full-size map of Delhi into the corner of my already stupidly full suitcase when there’s a knock on my door.
Swiftly, I slam the lid shut, hop off the floor and try to ram the entire thing under my bed.
Sugar cookies. It’s not going to fit.
I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but this might be one too many books.
“Just a minute!” I shout urgently, shoving it again. “We’re just …” What? “Practising our synchronised swimming moves. …” Shove. “In front of the mirror.” Shove. “Wearing our swimsuits.”
What is wrong with my lying abilities?
“Goodness. That sounds like my kind of evening, darling. I’ve got my two-piece on right now.”
I stop shoving. Phew: it’s only Bunty.
Standing up, I quickly throw my dressing gown over the rest of my suitcase. “OK, you can come in now!”
The door opens and Bunty’s pink head pokes through. “I thought I’d see if you wanted a green tea, sweeties. It’s jam-packed full of antioxidants and bacteria-killing goodies. And it tastes like drinking summer grass, which is lovely.”
“I love green tea!” Rin says, jumping up enthusiastically. “I make it! Be back in a tickety!”
She hops out of the room, still in her Vogue jeans.
Then I wait anxiously for Bunty to leave, trying to subtly stand in front of the suitcase so she doesn’t realise it’s there.
“Going somewhere exciting?” my grandmother says, lowering herself slowly on to the edge of my bed. “Tell me all about it, darling.”
Sugar cookies.
I forgot my satchel is still propped open on the floor by the wardrobe with my spare pyjamas and Winnie-the-Pooh wedged inside it.
“I’ve … got a three-day biology field trip in Norfolk,” I recite stiffly, trying to make definite eye contact and handing her the piece of paper I’ve prepared on my desk. “Here is the official form. It should be of high coursework value … I look forward to it immensely.”
That’s my lie and I’m sticking to it.
“Lovely,” Bunty says, beaming. “And India?”
The painted turtle can withstand temperatures below zero, and even survive ice formation within their tissues. I’ve frozen so suddenly I’m kind of hoping I can too.
“S-sorry?”
“Your purple-haired friend, India? She does biology too, doesn’t she? I could have sworn you said she did. Is she going to Norfolk as well?”
Oh thank goodness. She meant that India.
“Yes,” I say quickly, nodding. “Absolutely. We are both looking forward to it immensely.”
I’ll text her and let her know that she is.
“It’s a lovely name, India,” Bunty says airily, gazing around the room. “And a very fascinating country too. So dynamic, so rewarding, so interesting. One of my very favourites, in fact. I’ve spent many years living there.”
I take a quick step forward. “I read that in one of its states, police officers are given a pay rise for having a moustache. Is that true?”
“Quite possibly,” Bunty laughs.
“And I also read that it has the world’s lowest meat consumption per person.”
“It is indeed a vegetarian’s dream, darling. Lentil dhal you would chew your own arm off for. So when are you leaving?”
“Tomorr—”
I slap my hand over my mouth.
How did she – What did she –
Oh. A stray India guidebook is sitting on my pillow, and there’s a bright yellow Post-it stuck to it that says:
I am so, so, so bad at this.
Toby’s completely right: I’ve got more chance of getting a Hogwarts letter than one from MI5. Unless it’s one asking me to never even think about working there.
Bunty and I stare at each other for a few seconds.
Then she coughs politely and cups her hands round her mouth.
“ANNABEL?” she calls. “Darling? Can you come here for a second? I think there’s something we need to tell you.”
o. No no.
This can’t be happening.
It can’t be, but somehow it is. No no no no no no no NO NO NO …
All the hard work, the sneaking around, the emotionally traumatic castings and photo shoots and lies and excuses and plans and crying … all of it, wasted.
The second Annabel finds out, this is over.
From top to bottom. Before I’ve actually managed to achieve anything that matters. Before I’ve actually managed to help anyone.
And I was so close.
“No, Bunty,” I beg, hopping towards her with my hands clutched tightly together. “Please. Don’t tell Annabel. I need to do this, she’ll say no, I need to go, I need her not to find—”
“What’s going on?” Annabel says, stepping quickly into my bedroom, face suddenly pale. “Are you all right?”
“I can explain,” I blurt quickly.
“She certainly can,” Bunty says firmly. “Bels, darling, Harrie
t’s just shown me this holistic juice retreat in Turkey.” She pulls a bright pamphlet with a photo of a sunset out of a tie-dyed pocket and holds it out. “It looks just the ticket and I want to go, please.”
Annabel blinks. “You want to—”
“I want to go,” Bunty repeats. “It says they have herbal shots, mountain walks and meditation sessions. That’s just what I’m craving right now. And I want you to come with me.”
“But …” I can basically see Annabel’s brain scrabbling around like a hamster. “I don’t understand. When?”
“I’m thinking first thing in the morning. No time like the present.”
“Tomorrow?” Annabel’s tired shoulders slump. “Mum, that’s just not going to happen. I’ve got work to do. Tabitha. Harriet. Rin. The dog and cat. A house to clean and a husband with no common sense. Maybe in a few weeks, maybe I can get someone to cover …”
“No,” Bunty says firmly. “We’re going tomorrow morning. Early. Until …” She glances at me. “I’ve forgotten the dates, darling. When did I say?”
“Sunday,” I say in bewilderment. “Afternoon.”
“There you go.” Bunty beams. “Come on, Bels. Doesn’t it sound fun? You, me, sunshine, wheatgrass juice and clean intestines. I promise I won’t make you do any yoga, hand on my heart.”
A pink flush is climbing into Annabel’s cheeks. “But the flights …”
“I can sort them out,” Bunty says breezily. “I have a pilot friend who owes me a favour or six. It won’t take thirty seconds.”
“The accommodation?”
“I know tons of people in Turkey. If the retreat can’t fit us in, I’ll just ask one of them to.”
“I suppose it does sound …”
“And I’ve got the kids,” Dad says, appearing from nowhere. “Both ours and the one from Japan, who – by the way – is currently in the kitchen trying to carve out Hello Kitty toast and putting something that smells very odd into our teapot. They’re all in the safest of hands. You’re going.”
Annabel swallows. “But the—”
“You’re going, Annabel.” Dad puts his arm round her. “I know I don’t win arguments often, but I save my Powers up and right now I am Hercules.”
There’s a pause, then my stepmother breathes out in resignation.