All That Glitters

  Every time I speed up, they speed up.

  Every time I stop, they stop.

  Until my only options appear to be: a) run b) crawl inside a bush or c) curl up on the floor in a ball like a hedgehog until they either lose interest or accidentally stand on one of my fingers.

  Except that’s exactly what the old Harriet Manners would do, so instead I take a deep breath and spin round.

  “Yes?” I say as brightly as I can. “Is there something I can help you with, ladies?”

  Brilliant.

  Now I sound like a Gap assistant after somebody has just tangled up my jumpers.

  “Umm.” The little redhead has started hopping from one foot to the other, glancing at her friends. “Is your name Harriet Manners? Are you really a supermodel? Because my sister’s in your year and she says you’re famous but Fee thinks you’re not pretty enough so we’re not sure.”

  She points at a blonde girl, who immediately goes red.

  “I didn’t say that! Oh my God, Lydia, you’re so embarrassing!” Fee looks at the floor. “I just said you’re quite normal-looking for a model, that’s all.”

  Normal-looking. Honestly, that’s probably the nicest thing anybody at school has ever said about me.

  “Yes, my name is Harriet,” I say as we start walking again. “The rest, I’m afraid, is massively inflated.”

  “Massively inflated,” they breathe to each other. “Cooooool.”

  Then they start skipping down the road next to me.

  “Do you live in a castle?” “Does it have turrets?” “Have you ever been to Jamaica?” “My aunty’s been to Jamaica and it rained.” “I’d rather go to Barbados. It never rains there.” “Don’t be stupid, Lydia, it rains everywhere.”

  “Not in Antarctica it doesn’t,” I interrupt automatically. “The Dry Valleys are the driest spot in the world as winds of speeds up to 200 miles per hour blow there and evaporate all surface water, snow and ice.”

  They stop skipping and stare at me with round eyes until I can feel myself flushing bright red.

  Then they explode again.

  “Oooooh.” “200 miles per hour is so fast.” “That’s faster than a car.” “That’s faster than a speedboat.” “What else do you know, Harriet Manners? Do you know everything?”

  To my surprise, I can feel my chest puffing out like a little pigeon. I’m not used to strangers enjoying my facts quite so enthusiastically. “Not at all. But I have a lot of books like this one which really help.”

  I reach into my satchel and pull out Wise Up In The Bathroom. I really wish publishing companies would stop assuming the only place to learn trivia is on the toilet.

  “Ooooooh.” They crowd around it. “This is so awesome.” “This is, like, the awesomest thing I’ve ever seen.” “My mum says fact books are only for nerds but she’s so wrong.”

  I study their faces carefully, but there isn’t a trace of sarcasm or facetiousness. They’re not mocking me or being ironic. They honestly think my fact book is super cool.

  Even weirder, they appear to think I am too.

  We’re outside the lower building now, and for a few crazy seconds I’m tempted to go in with them so we can discuss interesting facts about bridges. They might actually be my kindred spirits.

  Or – at the very least – my spirit animals.

  Instead I say: “Would you like to borrow my book for the day? There’s a really interesting section about sharks on page 143.”

  They take it as if it’s some kind of holy grail.

  “When I’m grown up, I want to be just like you,” Lydia says, staring at it reverently.

  There’s suddenly a little lump in my throat. I’ve never been considered a goal before.

  Or – who are we kidding – a grown-up.

  “If you like it there’s plenty more where that came from,” I beam at them. “And if you want to meet me before school tomorrow at the bottom of the road I can give you some more.”

  They’re going to adore my humorous potted history about the Tudors.

  “Yay!” they squeak, jumping up and down. “We love you, Harriet Manners!” “You’re the best, Harriet Manners!” “See you tomorrow, Harriet Manners!”

  And – waving shyly – the four girls run through the lower school doors.

  Leaving me lit up with pleasure behind them.

  wait a few minutes until they’ve gone.

  Mainly so I can wipe the stupid grin off my face and compose myself into a more sophisticated sixth form kind of mentality.

  Then I glance down at my outfit.

  Bright purple linen trousers, turquoise kaftan, a yellow shawl, enormous silver earrings with orange stones, three scarves – pink, green and blue – and little red leather slippers. There are sequins on at least four of those items, and tinkling bells on three.

  Yup: nailed it.

  With a satisfied sigh, I get my list out of my pocket and draw little ticks beside the next two items.

  Be Stylish! Shake it up and try something new!

  Inspire! Lead, never follow!

  Then I anxiously contemplate the next goal:

  Don’t try too hard! It just looks desperate!!!!

  Hmm.

  Of everything on this list I’ve attempted over the last few days, this is going to be my biggest challenge yet. In Year Seven, I leapfrogged so hard I flung myself into a wall and dislocated my shoulder; in Year Eight I debated colonialism in history so enthusiastically I started crying; in Year Two I played Mary with such conviction I stole baby Jesus and …

  Well. You get the picture.

  Whichever part of the brain allows you to participate in anything half-heartedly, I just don’t have it.

  I try too hard at everything.

  But there are four exclamation marks, which means this must be pretty important. So I stick my nose in the air as high and nonchalantly as I can physically get it.

  Be confident, Harriet! You are a creature unlike any other! Unique! As special as a snowflake! As exceptional and rare as a …

  A …

  Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat, of which there are only 115 left in the wild.

  Yup: that should do it.

  And I push boldly and carelessly back into my classroom.

  r try to, anyway.

  I’m so careless one of my three scarves gets caught on the classroom door handle and Miss Hammond has to untangle me patiently before I accidentally strangle myself.

  So far not trying hard has nearly killed me.

  “Harriet!” my form teacher says cheerfully, releasing me from the furniture. “You’ve returned yet again! It’s very exciting, wondering if you’ll be at school or not. A veritable Russian roulette of attendance.”

  In the meantime, the entire class has stopped talking and spun round to face me.

  “Harriet! There you are!” “How was your weekend?” “Your earrings are lush!” “Loving this look, Harriet! It’s so quirky!”

  “Retty, you’re back!” Liv squeaks as I blink at them all. She elbows Ananya sharply. “Yay! We were so worried you’d moved back to New York!”

  “Where were you?” Ananya says, politely moving her feet so I don’t have to step over them. “Did you do something exciting, Ret?”

  I make my way shakily to my seat.

  The urge to tell them every single thing I have ever learnt about camels and snakes and how the mortality rate if bitten by a black mamba is over ninety-five per cent is immense.

  But I can’t.

  Don’t be desperate, Harriet.

  “Um.” I sit down as airily as I can. “I was actually in Morocco for a few days, filming a television advertisement for Jacques Levaire.”

  Television advertisement?

  Why couldn’t I say TV ad? I sound like somebody who has never seen a telly before.

  A few of my classmates start dragging their seats closer to me. “Morocco?” “You’re really going to be on telly? No way!” “When does it come out?” “Did you get paid lo
ads?” “What was it like?” “I bet you hung out with loads of stars, right?”

  They’re all talking at once, which makes it really hard to focus. It’s normally me interrogating people relentlessly, not the other way round.

  I’m not really trained for this.

  “Loads of stars,” I agree anxiously. “I’ve actually never seen so many stars in my entire life. Some of them were huge. It was pretty cool.”

  A few more people gravitate towards my desk.

  “Which ones were they?” “Would we know them?” “I bet Harry was there, wasn’t he?” “Do you have lots of celeb mates?” “Do you know any really hot models?”

  As fast as I can, I count them up on my fingers.

  Rin, obviously. Poppy from my flatshare in Tokyo. Fleur and Kenderall from New York. Shola and Rose in Moscow. The two girls who locked me in a cupboard last year just before my audition for Hamlet. An entire room full of models backstage at a fashion show who said I looked like an egg.

  “Maybe eight or nine?” I say, still staring at my hand. “Plus twenty or so Russian supermodels in their underwear.”

  “Oh sweet mother of all that is good and holy,” Eric whimpers, staring at the sky and putting his hands together. “Thank you, Universe.”

  “Everybody!” Miss Hammond calls sweetly, clapping her hands. “Everybody! We’re in the middle of taking the register, remember! Let’s do this thing together!”

  Everybody ignores her and inches a little closer to me instead. I stare at them in amazement.

  Is this … Is this still working?

  “What was Tokyo like?” “Did you really live in a penthouse in Manhattan?” “Is it true you were spotted on a school trip?” “Are there loads of glam parties?”

  I gawp at the chaos.

  “There are parties pretty much every night, I reckon,” I tell them. “Poppy went to all of them.”

  “Poppy? As in Poppy Page? Oh my God – she’s huge.” “You are so lucky.” “Is there champagne?” “Is it true that Yuka Ito has named a handbag after you?”

  “If she has I don’t want to know what it’s called,” I admit doubtfully. “The last word Yuka had for me was pus-filled.”

  To my total astonishment, there’s a loud burst of laughter.

  Real, genuine laughter.

  And – with a whoosh – a warm rush of happiness spreads over me: from my cheeks down into my chest and straight into my arms until I feel like light is about to shoot out of my fingertips, like Beast just after his enchantment was broken.

  I sit for a few blissful seconds, basking in the warm glow of friendly faces. It feels as if I’m bathed in sunshine, steeped in rainbows, cuddled by a billion furry teddies, covered all over in sparkle and—

  A copy of Vogue is pulled out of a bag and opened on the desk in front of me.

  “Do you know him? Because if you do, I officially want to climb into your skin so I can be you forever.”

  And my happiness rushes straight back out again.

  he glittering girl in the photo is back again.

  Except this time, she’s not sitting in a lake. She’s standing in the middle of a huge sumo stage with a sea of bright lights behind her.

  Tiny white lights are flashing from the cameras in the audience, yellow lights are hanging in spots above her head and little cream orbs are reflected from the wooden floor under her bare feet.

  Her head is tilted back, her eyes are painted dark and her bright red hair has been pulled into a tight bun. Her dress is long and dark blue, with slits up the sides and little holes cut in the bottom so that the lights shine through like stars.

  It’s a different kind of sparkling this time – harder, brighter, angrier – but it’s still there: shot through the photo like fine gold thread woven through dense fabric.

  At the bottom of the page is a glass bottle shaped like a light bulb, lit internally from the bottom, and the large silver word:

  And below it are the words

  It’s a beautiful photo, a beautiful dress and it’s a two-page spread in Vogue. But, frankly, I couldn’t care less.

  Because next to the girl is a boy.

  He’s tall and dark: all angles and points. Hips, cheekbones, eyes are slanted in parallel directions like identical flicks of the same God-like pen. His hand is resting gently on her waist, his head is lowered, and his nose is centimetres from the nape of her neck. As if nobody else is watching and it’s just the two of them.

  As if he’s trying to tell her something.

  According to my science books, the atoms that make up human bodies consist of almost entirely empty space. If you took it all out you could compress each of us into a cube 1/500th of a centimetre across.

  Staring at the boy in the photo, it suddenly feels like that’s what somebody’s trying to do to me too.

  I wasn’t prepared to see him again.

  At least, not like this.

  Nick.

  Tokyo – June (4 months ago)

  “Exactly how long do we have?”

  “An hour, darling,” Bunty said, inexplicably looking at the sun even though she had a watch on. “Or sixty-five minutes max, if I pack the lining of my clothes with coins and try to break the airport metal detector. Let’s just say it won’t be my first attempt.”

  I looked at Nick doubtfully as my maverick grandmother started rummaging through her multicoloured woven handbag.

  His skin was darker than normal – deepened by the sun – and his hair was still all ruffled from where we’d kissed each other for twenty straight minutes, sitting on the pavement by an enormous zebra crossing in Shibuya.

  “Make that seventy,” Bunty added triumphantly, pulling out a large bottle of shampoo. “Seventy-five minutes if I can sneak in the bottle opener.”

  “That still isn’t much time,” I said anxiously, peering into my satchel. “We don’t have a proper map. Or a guide. I’ve lost my guidebook and—”

  “It’s long enough,” Lion Boy laughed, putting his arm round me so I was tucked into the ridge of his collarbone. “And you don’t need one any more. You’ve got me.”

  A shock of electricity ran all the way from the back of my shoulders up my neck and into my head, as if I’d accidentally covered myself in warm water and stuck my finger in a socket.

  Except in a beautiful kind of way.

  I did. I had him.

  “So what do you want to do?” he continued, kissing the top of my head. “For the next seventy-five minutes I am utterly at your disposal.”

  “Umm.”

  I pulled out my To Do list and stared at it blankly, brain now pleasantly fried. What did one do with just seventy-five minutes left in Tokyo?

  We could go to the robot restaurant, and watch giant mechazoid robots fight dinosaurs to the bitter death. We could try to find a (very short) tea ceremony, or wander through a Zen garden hand in hand, or visit the Bunny Cafe (like a Cat Cafe but better, because – obviously – no cats).

  We could attempt an hour of karaoke, or eat an hour’s worth of sushi, or visit the Shitamachi Museum to look at miniature reconstructions of buildings from the late Meiji period.

  There were still so many things left in Tokyo I had always wanted to do. So many things I still wanted to cross off my list.

  But – for the first time ever – none of them seemed to matter much any more.

  Because it wasn’t just about me.

  “You used to live here, right?” I said, looking up at him. “In Tokyo?”

  “I did,” Nick grinned. “When I was eleven my parents split up and I came here with my mum and spent three somewhat confusing years not understanding anyone.”

  “Then I want to see your favourite bit.” I put my list back in my bag and flicked a switch that magically turned my watch into a stopwatch. “Show me the bit of Tokyo you love the most.”

  “Are you sure?” he frowned. “That list isn’t going to tick off itself.”

  I loved that Lion Boy knew how much I needed to tic
k things off, and how important my lists were to me.

  But I loved him more than any of them.

  “I’m sure,” I said, clicking on the timer button. “You have 4,500 seconds, Nicholas Hidaka. Think you can manage it?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “Oh,” he said. “I think I probably can.”

  “Ready?”

  “Never readier.”

  “Steady?”

  He laughed. “In my entire life, Harriet Manners, I have literally never been steadier. Especially by comparison.”

  “Show-off.” I stuck my tongue out at him: I hadn’t fallen over in hours. “Now … GO.”

  “Gone,” Nick said, and he grabbed my hand.

  arriet?”

  “Hmm?” The entire class is still staring at me. “Sorry, what was the question again?” I suddenly miss Nick so much it’s like an enormous hand is squeezing me shut.

  Raya taps the photo again and I flinch and focus on a bit of desk slightly to the left.

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “Yes, I know him.”

  “Is he single?” “Is he as hot as he looks in pictures?” “I can’t believe he’s touching you. You actually got to touch him.”

  Quick, Harriet. Change the subject.

  “Umm,” I say faintly, clearing my throat. “Did you know that when you speak your throat’s vocal folds vibrate inside your own skull, which means the voice you hear sounds nothing like you actually do to everyone else?”

  There’s a brief pause.

  “Did she answer the question?” somebody whispers. “Was that it?”

  “I don’t think that was it,” somebody whispers back.

  “Oh my goodness,” Ananya says, suddenly pushing her way to the front of the group with her hands. “Don’t you guys know anything? That is Nicholas Kou Hidaka. Ret’s long-term boyfriend and love of her life.”

  “Yeah,” Liv echoes, shoving forward too, except a little less successfully. “You obviously don’t know our Retty at all.”

  I stare at them both in astonishment.