Head Over Heels

  Bunty pokes her head out of the kitchen.

  “Are you looking for your friend with the lovely hair, darling? She left ten minutes ago.”

  I stare at my grandmother blankly.

  “She can’t have,” I say in confusion. “She didn’t say goodbye.”

  But when I run to the front door the purple suede boots have disappeared, the purple car is nowhere to be seen and there’s a big purple folder, lying on the doormat.

  India has gone.

  he next six days are spent in training.

  With the help of a few carefully analysed and highlighted women’s magazines, I do my best to blend my academic school duties with my target of temporary physical and mental perfection, in time for the weekend.

  This includes:

  By Friday, I finally understand why so many models abandon education at a young age: school is not compatible with a healthy-guru lifestyle. My stomach is no more toned at all.

  Luckily, I’ve made up for it with research.

  Thanks to intense lessons every evening with Toby in the cafe, I know everything there is to know about fashion.

  OK, that sounds kind of arrogant. Correction: I know a lot more than before.

  Which was zero, so that’s not difficult.

  And now – after disappearing into a week of solid college classes and lectures – Nat’s turned up at the cafe to give me my final Model exams with a clipboard, a white shirt and a fake pair of diamante glasses.

  She’s possibly taking this a little too seriously.

  “Ready,” I say, putting my mug down. “Go.”

  “Where was Guccio Gucci born?” Nat fires at me, pointing her fountain pen. “And when?”

  “Florence,” I answer promptly. “1881. He was the son of an Italian merchant.”

  “One point,” Nat nods sternly, drawing a little tick. “What is the current value of the fashion industry to the UK?”

  “Twenty-six billion pounds. There has been an increase of twenty-two per cent in nominal terms since Oxford Economics measured it in 2009.”

  “Yes.” She draws another little tick. “Who inspired Louboutin’s red shoe sole?”

  “His assistant. She was painting her nails at the time.”

  “And,” Toby says, leaning back and making his fingers into weird little triangles in a frighteningly sinister echo of Peter Trout, “how do you walk like a cat?”

  “Yes,” Nat snaps, business-like and sharp. “How do you walk like a … wait, what?”

  “Cats are digitigrades,” he explains. “I’ve told Harriet that she needs to walk on her toes and put her front leg and her back leg forward at the same time.”

  Nat rolls her eyes.

  “So close,” she sighs, smacking him gently on the nose with her pen. “Yet so far.”

  “Speaking of far,” Jasper says, putting more cake on the table, “has anyone seen India this week?”

  We look at each other.

  Apart from a brief flash of purple on Monday morning, there have been no sightings at all. In spite of the handwritten letter I slipped in her locker, the note I pinned to the physics door and the email I sent her with an attached document detailing all of the Team JINTH whereabouts this week.

  I’d think she’d fallen off the surface of the planet entirely if I hadn’t set up a Read Receipt.

  My stomach’s starting to go rigid.

  “Oh, umm,” Nat says, clearing her throat, “I totally forgot. I got a text from Indy yesterday. Her parents grounded her while she was at yours, Harriet, and she had to peg it home. She said she’s really sorry but not to take it personally.”

  And I swear it’s like magic.

  With one swoop, my entire body relaxes. There was a tiny part of me that thought we’d done something to upset her.

  In relief, I look at my list. “OK, can anyone take Confidence for her? I don’t mind who fills in.”

  “Sorry, H,” Nat says, standing up and taking her fake glasses back off, “I’ve got more revision to do. Honestly though, there’s nothing left for you to learn. You’re going to be amazing.”

  “Apart from at seduction.” Toby’s chortling. “HAHAHAHA.”

  I must be the only person in the world with an ex-stalker who thinks she’s physically abhorrent.

  Thank goodness Jasper’s gone back to the counter so he can’t add a little dig there too.

  They have not let up about it.

  Still chuckling, Toby hands me a stapled document with Harriet Manners’ VIP Saturday Castings – the Research at the top of the page in marker pen.

  “Nice one, Tobes,” Nat grins, high-fiving him.

  Toby looks genuinely chuffed.

  “It was nothing,” he blushes. “Just a few library sessions here, a few night classes at Central St Martins there.”

  And just like that, I realise Team JINTH Happiness Goal number two is already achieved. All Toby ever really wants – has ever really wanted – is to be included.

  TICK.

  “You’re going to walk this,” Nat says brightly, kissing my cheek. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  A lump rises into my throat.

  In an animal-rescue centre in Orlando a fully grown tiger, lion and a bear share a pen: rescued as cubs together and now totally inseparable.

  That’s what the three of us are.

  The best of friends, even though nature, geography and common interests usually mean we’d never normally meet, and in other circumstances might literally kill each other.

  “Gotta run. Text us later?” Nat calls over her shoulder, grabbing her bag and hurrying towards the exit. “Love you.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” Toby exclaims with an elaborate sigh, standing up and following her. “I just don’t feel the same way, Natalie.”

  “Oh shut up, Toby,” Nat says affectionately.

  And the door swings shut behind them.

  ith a happy grin, I settle into my armchair.

  Now everything’s ready for tomorrow, I can finally start to relax and take stock of my progress.

  Snuggling into a cushion, I take a sip of my healthy, model-approved mint tea and try to pretend it’s delicious and doesn’t taste like the toothpaste melted in hot water I forced my family to drink when I was five years old.

  I try to ignore the fact that my right arm is still aching from all the Bunsen-burner lifting (they’re surprisingly heavy).

  And I watch Jasper over the top of my cup.

  He’s saving for art college next year, so he’s been working every single night this week: striding around in his big black boots, wiping tables, taking orders, counting change, steaming milk. The muscle in his jaw only jumps very slightly when somebody spends a full seven minutes ordering an extra-hot soya macchiato with one-pump-of-syrup-not-two-oh-no-wait-is-it-one-pump-or-two?

  I can’t imagine how much of an effort it is for him: not being sarcastic at all when he’s serving customers.

  It’s like the weirdest form of torture.

  With a cloth in hand, he stomps over to another corner of the busy cafe, picks up a tray and stomps back again, and there’s an abrupt squeal.

  A tiny gang of first years are huddled tightly in the corner, and every time Jasper gets within six metres of their table they erupt into a flurry of giggles.

  Apparently whales make themselves voluntarily deaf when around irritating sounds, and it looks like Jasper does too.

  He doesn’t even blink.

  “OMG,” the brunette girl whispers as he goes behind the counter and starts wiping a plate, “he’s so gorgeous.”

  “Have you seen his eyes? They’re, like, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I wish I was just five years older.”

  “Don’t you think he looks a bit like a wolf?” the littlest redhead says. “Native Americans believe that dogs with different coloured eyes can see heaven and earth at the same time. Shall we ask him if he can too?”

  She starts waving her hand enthusiasti
cally.

  “Lydia.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Why are you always so embarrassing?”

  “What? What did I do?” Then she glances around. “Oooh! Harriet Manners is here, guys! Told you this place was uber-cool! Fact!”

  Clapping her hands, my mini-me jumps up and runs over, followed by Fee, Soph and Kiera.

  I smile at my little gang from last year.

  Every now and then I still see them around lower school and stop to chat, and they were so impressed with Team JINTH accessories I lent them my badge-making machine.

  Although I have to be honest: ‘Team FSLK’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  “Hey, Harriet.”

  “Wow, Harriet, I love your Tintin jumper.”

  “Your hair is so pretty today.”

  “Told you a cup of chino is officially over. Harriet drinks tea.”

  “It’s called a cappuccino,” Lydia sighs, rolling her eyes. “And it comes from the word Capuchin because it’s the same colour. Isn’t that right, Harriet?”

  “Umm.” I literally have no idea. “Sure. Same as the Capuchin monkey.”

  “Not the monkey.” Lydia looks bewildered by my unexpected stupidity. “The habit of the Italian friar.”

  Seriously: when I get home I’m searching the house for adoption papers.

  “So who are you here with, Harriet?” Fee spins round in excitement. “Is Natalie Grey here, or India Perez, or …”

  She ends the sentence with a squeak.

  “Your Majesty,” Jasper says, appearing from behind me, “you appear to have dropped your cloak. Please, continue to hold court while I pick it up for you.”

  Swiftly, he grabs my red duffel coat off the floor and throws it over the back of my chair with a gallant hand flourish and I’m instantly reminded of our epic fight at school last year.

  The one where I ended up on the ground, covered in mud.

  Twice.

  Fee gives another little squeak.

  “Or perhaps this is extra padding?” he says with a small smile. “For when your seduction strategy works and all the boys fall at your feet?”

  I feel myself flush tomato red.

  I’m never going to hear the end of this. I’ll be eighty years old and Toby and Jasper will be wheeling around in their electric space-chairs, sniggering at how bewitching I’m not.

  “Yes,” I snap, folding my arms crossly. “Well, I wouldn’t want them to smash their heads and end up as quick-witted as you.”

  Jasper flashes a rare grin.

  “Says the alluring can of vegetable soup,” he says, lifting an eyebrow and putting Nat and Toby’s empty cups on a tray.

  Then he disappears into the kitchen.

  “Tomato’s a fruit, actually,” I finally manage at the empty swinging door. “It has seeds.”

  Yeah. That should do it. Nothing says in your face like botanical classification.

  When I look back there are eight bright eyes staring at me. “Oh.”

  “Em.”

  “Gee.”

  “Harriet.”

  “What?” I quickly rub my lip on my sleeve. “What did I do this time?”

  “Are you going out with him?” Lydia squeaks, hopping up and down. “Is gorgeous Coffee Boy your boyfriend?”

  “He is.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re so lucky.”

  “I wish I was you.”

  I blink at Team FSLK, then at Jasper: visible through the kitchen door, scowling at the lipstick smeared on a cup.

  Then I burst into laughter.

  I’m so loud a few customers spin round, trying to locate the source of my abrupt hilarity.

  “Are you not?” Fee says in confusion when I’ve slowed to a snigger. “He called you Your Majesty.”

  “He said you were an alluring can of vegetable soup.”

  “He said boys fall at your feet.”

  “Lots of falling goes on in my life,” I chuckle. “But usually because I’ve knocked things over. Jasper’s being sarcastic, guys. From the Greek word sarkos which means to tear the flesh. He’s just winding me up.”

  “Aww.” Team FSLK visibly wilts in disappointment. “I guess the can of soup thing was weird.”

  “That’s so sad, Harriet.”

  “Why are you alone?”

  “Maybe you could make him like you?”

  They look so hopeful and starry-eyed, for a brief second I consider not crushing their innocent romantic dreams.

  Then I change my mind.

  As their experienced elder it’s my responsibility to destroy these ideas as swiftly as possible.

  Before life does it for them.

  “You’d literally have to fly a spaceship from one side of the galaxy to the other 15,000 times before you bumped into anything else,” I say firmly, “and there’s still more chance of two things colliding in space than me and Jasper King getting together.”

  Fee gives another squeak.

  “Thanks very much,” Jasper says from behind me, taking his apron off and looking at his watch. “Have you ever considered writing Valentine’s cards for a living, Harriet? I can really see that written across a pink teddy bear. Maybe spelt out in roses.”

  Then he reaches over, grabs my Modelling folder and heads towards the cafe door with it under his arm.

  I jump up and bolt after him.

  “Wait! Jasper! Where are you going with that? I need it for tomorrow!”

  “I know,” he says over his shoulder, “and it’s not finished. So you’re coming with me.”

  here are 6,909 known languages in the world, and the word huh is understood in all of them.

  Which is lucky because now that’s what I’ve got.

  “You asked each of us to help you,” Jasper says, pounding the pavement ahead of me, “and I’m still the J in JINTH, last time I checked. Unless you replaced me with the Jam from those God-awful sandwiches.”

  Wow, I had no idea he took his coffee-making so seriously; although why we’re leaving the cafe I don’t know.

  The first ever webcam was invented in 1991 by Cambridge University scientists who wanted to stream footage of their coffee pot so they’d know when it was ready: I suppose caffeine can inspire great innovation.

  Although the only reason I gave that brief to Jasper was so that we could keep him company while he worked.

  It was supposed to make him happier.

  “Those sandwiches were delicious,” I lie, racing to catch up. “And where are we going anyway? It’s 4:28pm on Friday afternoon. How do you know I’m not extremely busy with some very important social event?”

  There’s a short pause while we both consider this likelihood, given that the only available person in my social group is now walking next to me.

  “I decided to risk it,” Jasper says. “I’m a bit of a gambler like that.”

  Then he takes a sharp left turn into the station, where a train to London is just starting to approach. I’m not properly prepared, and something painful unexpectedly twinges at the base of my stomach.

  I swear for a second I can almost smell snow.

  Firmly, I push it away.

  “You know,” I say, speeding up, “coffee is the second most traded commodity on earth and has been shown to reduce chances of Alzheimer’s Disease by sixty-five per cent. I know lots about it. You don’t need to worry.”

  Jasper stops and turns to me.

  His jaw is set in its usual line and the splash of brown in his left eye looks darker than normal, but the corners of his mouth are surprisingly soft.

  “Contrary to popular belief, my entire knowledge base isn’t limited to liquids. I’d like to contribute too, if you’ll let me.”

  I square myself for the inevitable mockery.

  Maybe here’s the fiver I usually contribute to charity, to which I’ll snap back with oh really, well with your coffee-making skills best keep it for yourself, you’re going to need it.

  Or something sharper: I haven’t dec
ided yet.

  But Jasper just carries on looking at me earnestly, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with that.

  “Uh,” I say, flushing slightly, “sure. What do you, uh, have in mind?”

  With a screech, the train pulls up.

  “Funnily enough,” Jasper says, handing my folder back to me, “a different kind of paperwork.”

  Trafalgar Square is famous around the world.

  Stretching from Charing Cross to the Haymarket and built on what used to be the Whitehall Palace mews in 1843, it’s busy all year: packed with tourists, couples and fake statues dressed like Yoda.

  In the middle of the enormous rectangle are two large fountains, surrounded by water, and at the centre is Admiral Nelson: standing proudly on a 170-foot column, guarded by four enormous bronze lions with big hair, curved lips and slanted eyes.

  Quickly, I look away from them.

  “Umm, did you know that the Harris hawk isn’t actually a hawk, it’s part of the buzzard family?” I run a bit to catch up again. “And it’s native to Mexico?”

  There’s a short pause while Jasper strides through the bustling crowd.

  Then he says: “Where did that come from?”

  “Wikipedia, I think.” We turn the corner. “Possibly an animal encyclopaedia. Or a documentary about hawks. Honestly, it’s hard to remember all my sources.”

  “Nope. I meant why did that come from.”

  Oh. Sometimes I forget that the connections I make aren’t always as obvious to other people as they are to me.

  Or that Jasper always calls me out on it.

  Truthfully, I don’t want to think about where that connection came from: I think it might be buried a little too deep.

  “The Mayor of London bought a big hawk called Harry to scare off all the pigeons,” I improvise. “He’s still around here somewhere. If we’re going to take pictures outside, I’ll need to keep an eye out.”

  From experience, as soon as I step in front of a camera an animal tries to attack me. All I need now is a large carnivorous bird to complete the set.

  “Take pictures?” Jasper stops in the middle of the pavement. “Now what are you talking about?”