Head Over Heels

  It’s the same photo but edited differently: a closer version of my face. Underneath it says:

  KEEP YOUR COLOURS ON THE OUTSIDE

  “That’s even better,” he begrudgingly says. “Better than what we have right now, anyway.”

  “Which is?”

  “Feel Brighter, All Day, Every Day. It’s OK, but it’s not quite right.” Then he frowns. “Where did you say these are coming from?”

  “My dad,” I tell him with a triumphant smile. “Richard Manners.”

  es, I know.

  You can say what you like about my father – I frequently do – but in his defence, he’s kind of a secret creative genius.

  Just never, ever tell him I told you that or he’ll put it on a T-shirt and wear it forever.

  “Richard Manners wrote these?” Peter Trout exclaims. Then he folds his arms crossly. “Oh. I get it. You just tricked me, didn’t you?”

  Yup. I really did.

  “Please, Mr Trout,” I say, leaning forward earnestly. “My dad’s really good at what he does. I know he can be a bit of an –” idiot – “imaginative and free-spirited maverick sometimes, but he’s changed a lot since then.”

  And I suddenly realise how true that is.

  Coming to Russia with me, getting Annabel back, Tabby being born, moving the family to New York, giving up his dream job, taking over the childcare at home so that Annabel could go back to work without a single murmur.

  Writing adverts in the shed and running backwards and forwards to job interview after job interview; and looking after the whole family at the same time.

  All for us.

  And now he’s at home: taking care of a baby, a Japanese teenager and two extremely rambunctious pets so that his wife and mother-in-law can drink green things in a sunny climate and his eldest child can play with an elephant.

  I know he’s a bit of a plonker sometimes.

  But in all the ways that truly matter, my dad is the best.

  “Please,” I say desperately, crossing my fingers. “Just meet with him and you’ll see a difference. I know I screwed up at my audition, but please don’t blame him for my mistakes too.”

  Peter Trout rolls his eyes, then looks at the photos once more. “These are excellent,” he admits reluctantly. “We definitely could do with a bit more of his … pizzazz.”

  And that one would go on a baseball cap.

  “So if he comes into the office next week, you’ll give him another chance?”

  There’s a silence. Please please please please please please …

  “Yes,” he says at last. “OK. Especially if it means we can use these slogans. The client is going to love them.”

  A whoosh of happiness floods through me.

  And sixteen months after this journey began, we’ve come full circle.

  I just got my dad his job back.

  ow I have a few more texts to send.

  These take a little longer: mainly because we’re driving back to Delhi so fast I’m being flung around the back seat of the jeep like a marble in a pinball machine.

  Trying not to be sick, I type:

  Logging on: how goes the Top Secret Plan? Hxx

  Then I press SEND and wait.

  The response arrives with impressive speed.

  QHFGRQ. TEVYYRQ OL GUR FPNEL ZBYY, NYY ORNAF. UBG GB GEBG! GBOL CVYTEVZ

  Frowning, I grab a pen and decode this.

  Dusted. Grilled by the scary moll, all beans. Hot to trot! Toby Pilgrim

  I can’t believe Toby used two codes.

  This might be Top Secret, but it’s not as if we’re trying to blow up parliament.

  Does that mean ready? H

  It means something unexpected happened to the folder and I’ve had to improvise but don’t fret, it’s all in hand. Toby Pilgrim

  Oh God. What happened to my folder?

  More importantly, yes, I’m going to fret: what on earth is Toby going to do?

  Hmm. Maybe he needs a bit of back-up after all.

  Quickly, I type:

  Team JINTH! Help needed! Meet me at library at 7pm tomorrow! Hxx

  I send the final message:

  W, target achieved, your unicorn is now a PEGASUS. ;) Hxx

  Then I slot my phone into my pocket, look out of the window and watch as the roads get crazier and the buildings grow larger and the sky smokier and hazier and deeper blue.

  And we’re back in Delhi again.

  I spend the rest of the night experiencing everything the capital of India has to offer.

  In wonder and amazement, I watch the huge sound and light show held every evening at the Red Fort; wander around Humayun’s Tomb and surrounding gardens; visit the Lotus Temple and the Akshardham Temple and the Kalkaji Mandir Hindu temple.

  I take a metro train to India Gate and look at the 200,000 individual pieces of art in the National Museum; explore the biggest spice market in the whole of Asia.

  I eat every Indian dish I can get my hands on: ploughing through crispy samosas and panipuri, gobbling down dhokla and mawa kachori, aloo gobi and chapathi and madras.

  At least, that’s what I want to do.

  But I don’t do any of it.

  Because the second the taxi drops me off at my hotel, I have just about enough energy left to thank Peter Trout for everything, pick up my keys from the reception desk and crawl upstairs to my room.

  Stuff a tuna sandwich from the mini fridge into my face, empty a tube of Pringles; drink a can of Coke (I know: the irony).

  Set my alarm for tomorrow and snuggle into my pillows with visions of elephants and colours whirling round my head.

  And fall deeply and blissfully asleep.

  y the time I arrive back in England at six pm the next day, I’m so happy, floaty and disorientated by my amazing adventures, I almost forget that according to Annabel I’m not supposed to have been anywhere at all.

  I freeze, one hand rummaging in my satchel for my keys.

  There’s a note stuck to the glass.

  Haha. My father is hilarious.

  Bunty and Annabel must still be on their way home from Turkey – they’re due back in about an hour – so I quickly wheel my suitcase in.

  The house is empty: everything is going perfectly to plan.

  I glance at my watch.

  Right about now, Rin will just be arriving at the library. Jasper should already be there, and Nat and India will be hiding behind a bookshelf, ready for the conclusion of the Top Secret Plan.

  A thrill runs through my whole body.

  I don’t want to sound too vain or arrogant, but there’s a realistic chance that I’m a teenage prodigy and I’ve put every bit of brain power I have into this one: I have truly outdone myself this time.

  Swiftly, I dump everything out of my suitcase and ram it back under my bed.

  Then I grab the duplicate Top Secret folder I oh-so-cleverly made before I left the country, tuck it under one arm and the bunch of flowers I had delivered specially this morning under the other, and run out of the front door, thumbing at my phone.

  Be there in ten minutes! Start 1.a and maybe 3.c! Just make sure they don’t see you! Hxx

  I can’t think of a more beautiful setting for an epic, final love scene than a library. Books, words, poetry: all the stories that have gone before us.

  Even the smell of old paper is romantic.

  Nothing says be still my beating heart like a heady scientific mix of acetic acid, benzaldehyde, butanol, furfural, octanal and methoxyphenyl oxime.

  Shoving my phone into my pocket, I start racing down the road.

  Past the park and postbox; across the pavement.

  Turning just before I reach the train station.

  And I’m scurrying through the centre of town when a bright spark of colour flashes in the corner of my vision.

  I slow down a fraction.

  There’s a chance it’s just a little leftover elephant paint: I may never be completely clean again.

  Blinking, I glance ar
ound and there it is again: a bright flash.

  Except this time I’m close enough to see that it’s deep, dark, shiny purple hair. And there’s only one person I know with the courage to dye a part of themselves that colour all year round.

  “India?” I say as she spins to face me.

  “Oh God,” India says slowly. “Harriet.”

  ow, Oh God, Harriet can mean many things.

  Put an exclamation mark on the end, and it’s excitement and happiness: Oh God, Harriet!

  A question mark makes it sympathetic and concerned: Oh God, Harriet?

  A full stop in the middle could mean fear for my wellbeing or maybe I’ve broken something important and expensive. Oh God. Harriet!

  And obviously it goes without saying that it could just mean that I’ve inadvertently become some kind of deity.

  But this has none of those inflexions.

  It’s a flat Oh God … Harriet.

  And I’m trying to repunctuate it as hard as I can, but it still just sounds tired.

  I swallow. Don’t be neurotic, Harriet.

  “Hi!” I say awkwardly, bouncing towards her. “India! Are you on your way? I’m running late too! Why don’t we walk together?”

  India blinks a few times. “On my way where?”

  “To the … library. I sent a message to everyone in Team JINTH, remember?”

  “Right,” she says vaguely. “Yeah, there’s something wrong with my phone. I don’t think I’m getting those texts any more.”

  The relief is almost overwhelming. No wonder she hasn’t been answering: you can’t reply to messages you haven’t read.

  “So how are you?” I say a lot more chirpily. “Are you still in trouble? How’s the Head Girl Emergency?”

  “The …” India frowns, “… what?”

  “Your Head Girl Emergency. And Nat told us all about how you were suddenly grounded at my house and dragged home. You poor thing.”

  India looks around us.

  “Umm, yeah. It’s been hard. Crazy busy. Go go go.”

  Then there’s a brief silence.

  It’s a silence so long and cold you could skate on it and do a little twirl, should you be interested in skating and twirling on silences.

  India’s always been a little intimidating – even from the start – but I don’t remember it ever being this awkward between us.

  Not even after my In Your Face dance last year when I won Miss Hammond’s riddles quiz.

  And that was pretty bad.

  “So … umm,” I say, glancing at the shopping bags in one of her hands and the coffee in the other, “what’re you up to?”

  Weird that she didn’t pick our coffee shop: this is from the one on the other side of town.

  “Errands.” She looks down at her Topshop bag. “You?”

  “I’m off to the library,” I explain, then brighten. “Oh my gosh, you should come, India! You’ve missed all the drama. My friend Rin turned up from Japan and she’s really hitting it off with Jasper, but they’re both too shy to do anything about it, so I’ve arranged this big, surprise, romantic date for them and now I’m off to make sure it all goes perfectly!”

  Then I stop and take a deep breath.

  Huh. That was easier to sum up than I thought it would be.

  “Right,” she says after a few more beats. “That sounds … fun. Anyway, nice running into you, Harriet. See you again soon.”

  Then India takes a sip from her wrong-brand coffee, gives me a mini finger-wave with the tips of her purple gloves and starts walking the other way.

  I blink at her retreating purple back.

  “But …” That’s the direction she just came from. “Don’t you want to come too? You haven’t seen any of us for ages.”

  “No thanks,” she says without turning round. “But have a good time.”

  I can feel my stomach starting to twist.

  Now I know.

  I’m not being neurotic.

  My initial instincts were right. I just managed to convince myself I was being oversensitive because it was easier than facing the alternative.

  That India was separating herself from the group.

  Head Girl Emergencies? What would they even be anyway? The wrong photo on the cover of the Year 11 yearbook?

  “India,” I say, taking a few steps towards her, “have I done something wrong? Are you angry with me?”

  “Don’t worry about it, Harriet.”

  I blink in confusion as she carries on walking. She didn’t say no. “But … when will I see you again?” I call after her miserably. “How about tomorrow? The day after? Next weekend?”

  And then – just as I’m drowning in a big pit of confusion – she says the one, single thing she can’t take back: three little words that will never be unsaid.

  With a quick glance over her shoulder, India looks me straight in the eye without a flicker.

  “I’ll call you.”

  up: India is going to call me.

  At some undefined, vague point in the distant future, one of my best friends in the world will pick up the phone without urgency or intention or forethought and ring it for no particular reason.

  Not: she’ll call me tomorrow.

  Not: I’ll text you the day after or see you at school.

  Not: she’ll call me on the way to the cafe at the weekend.

  She’ll just call me. Whenever.

  Maybe.

  I blink in shock at her still-retreating purple head as the pieces start fitting together with an unpleasant crunch.

  India’s dumping me.

  Actually, no, she’s not: India has already dumped me, past tense. She left weeks ago, abandoning that purple folder on my doorstep and disappearing without even saying goodbye.

  And – inexplicably – I didn’t even notice: that’s how terrible I am at reading the subtleties of human behaviour.

  I’m even worse than Toby.

  And just like that, another piece slams into place. Nat must have made up the grounding story and the Head-Girl excuse to stop me panicking just before my big day of castings, and I actually bought it. I must be the most naïve, most easily convinced idiot on the planet.

  But I still don’t understand why this is happening.

  And I can’t bear not to know.

  “India!” I shout after a long startled pause, running down the street after her. “What did I do? Maybe we can sit down, talk about it, go through it point by point, write a list of ways to strengthen our relationship …”

  And India cracks.

  “NO,” she says sharply, spinning on her heel with a purple swoosh. “No lists, Harriet. No going through it, point by point. No itineraries, no schedules, no plans, no talking about it, over and over again. No more constant, demanding group text messages. Please, stop trying to control me.”

  Hamsters blink one eye at a time. I’m so surprised, I do too.

  “What?”

  “You micromanage everything, Harriet. You have to be in charge, all the time. Everything has to be as you want it. Your launderette, your sleepover, your picnic, your drink choice, your music, your idea, your plans.”

  I open my mouth and then shut it again.

  “No, I don’t,” I manage in a tiny voice. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “It’s true, Harriet! You even try and steer the conversation. We can’t even talk about a single date without you changing it back again.”

  I swallow. “But that’s not why I—”

  “We can’t speak while you’re out of the room in case you feel like you’re missing something. We’re expected to sit in a cold dark park without eating all evening because you’re not there.”

  My stomach’s starting to hurt.

  “But …” It was a picnic. We had bunting. It was fun. “India, don’t say that! We had a good time.”

  “Did we?” She throws her arms up in the air. “Because all I remember is us asking you for some space and then being dragged about and told what to do and eat and s
ay without you stopping to ask anyone else what they wanted first.”

  I did ask what they wanted. I totally did.

  I did give them space, didn’t I?

  “And then you gave us those dumb-ass folders and I couldn’t handle it any more.”

  Excuse me: dumb-ass folders?

  “India,” I say, now wounded beyond measure, “you don’t understand. I was trying to help you. I rescheduled your revision timetable so it wouldn’t be so hard on you any more. I did it to make you happier.”

  “I don’t want you to reschedule my timetable!” she almost shouts. “I want to live my life according to my plans. Not yours.”

  “But that’s what friends are for!”

  “It isn’t, Harriet! We’re not here to be tugged around like puppets on strings, acting the carefully planned-out performance that is your life!”

  A typical adult human has 206 bones in their body, and it suddenly feels like every one of mine is breaking.

  “That’s not … I don’t …”

  “And now, what?” India runs a hand through her shiny purple hair in irritation. “You’re arranging Jasper’s love life for him? Rin’s having her feelings meddled with because she’s too sweet and easily overpowered by the bulldozer that is Harriet Manners to say no?”

  She has got this so wrong.

  Jasper and Rin are meant for each other: I’m just nudging them in the right direction, that’s all.

  “I’m trying to help,” I say in a suddenly croaky voice. “I want everyone to be happy.”

  “You know what would make everyone happier? If you just stopped suffocating them.”

  The word tear has two very different meanings in English: to cry and to rip apart. But I don’t have to choose between them right now, because I’m about to do both.

  “I don’t suffocate anyone,” I whisper, but judging by the strangled sound of my own voice that’s not quite true.

  India blinks a few times with her dark, close-set eyes fierce, breathing hard.

  Then she pinches her nose and exhales.

  “Look,” she says. “I’m being unfair. You’re a sweet girl, Harriet, and your heart is in the right place. But I … I don’t think I can do this any more. It’s just not working for me.”

  Then India reaches into her purple handbag.