скачать книгу бесплатно
The local launderette.
It’s about 300 metres away from my house, and I’ve been coming here since I was allowed to leave the house on my own. For some reason it always makes me feel better. I love the soft whirring sounds, I love the soapy smells, I love the bright lights, I love the warmth coming out of the machines. But most of all I love the feeling that nothing could ever be bad or wrong in a place where everything is being cleaned.
I dig fifty pence out of my pocket and put it in one of the tumble dryers. Then – when it’s switched on and hot and vibrating – I lean my head on the concave glass window and shut my eyes.
I don’t know how long I sit with my head on the dryer, but I must nod off because I suddenly jerk awake to the sound of: “Did you know that the average American family does eight to ten loads of laundry each week, and a single load of laundry takes an average of one hour and twenty-seven minutes to complete from wash to dry? That means that the average American family spends approximately 617 hours a year doing laundry. What do you think it is for England? Less, I think. We just seem to be a bit dirtier.”
And there – sitting on top of a washing machine – is Toby.
I stare at him in silence.
“Hey, you’re awake!” he observes. “Look!” And then he points to his T-shirt. It has a picture of drums on it. “It’s interactive! When I press the drums, they make the sound of drums.” Thud, thud.
“Toby. What are you doing here?”
“Did you hear that?” He’s wearing a yellow bobble hat and it’s bobbling in excitement. Thud, thud, thud. “They’re realistic, aren’t they? Do you think if you got one with a guitar on it, we could start a band?”
“No. What are you doing here?”
“Obviously I’m doing laundry, Harriet.”
I raise my eyebrow. He looks completely at ease with this terrible excuse, which – considering the fact that he has no laundry with him – is a little worrying. “Did you just follow me here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You looked sad. And also because it’s dark and it could be dangerous if you wander around on your own.”
I scowl. “Yes, Toby. I might be at risk from stalkers.”
Toby looks around us. “I think it’s just me, Harriet. I’ve not run into any others while on the job. Are you excited about the modelling assignment?”
I stare at him for a few seconds. “How the hell do you know about that?”
How am I supposed to keep it a secret from Nat and Annabel if I can’t even keep it secret from Toby?
“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good stalker if I didn’t, would I?” Toby laughs. “I’d have to hang up my stalker gear in shame.” He thinks about it. “Which would be unfortunate because all I’ve really got is this flask and I’m quite attached to it.” He pulls out a red flask and shows it to me. “Soup,” he explains. “In case I get hungry.”
“Toby, nobody is supposed to know.”
“So that makes this a secret between the two of us, right?” I glare at him. “Which makes us kindred spirits? And – correct me if I’m wrong – soulmates?”
“We’re not soulmates, Toby. You can’t just go round stealing secrets and then forcing people into being your soulmate.”
“OK.” He seems unabashed by the rejection. “But you’re glad I gave that model man your number.”
For a few seconds all I can do is stutter without any noises coming out. “You gave the modelling agency my number?”
“You ran off at The Clothes Show so quickly I think you forgot. Good, huh?” Toby grins at me and the yellow bobble bounces up and down cheerfully. “Now the whole world is going to see you the way I already see you. I’ve always been a little bit ahead of the trends.”
I point to the scraped-up word on my satchel. “And what if they see me the way everyone at school sees me, Toby?”
Toby considers this for a few moments. “Then I think you’re going to need a bigger bag.” And he hits the drum on his T-shirt. Thud, thud.
Suddenly I’m not so sure the launderette was a good idea after all. “I’m going home.”
“OK. Would you like me to follow a few metres behind?” I frown at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “By the way,” he adds, “did Nat tell you what she did yesterday? She was amazing, Harriet. Like Boadicea, except without the chariot. Or the horses, or the swords, but still: it was awesome.”
I stop near the door. “Nat?” I say, totally confused. “What are you talking about?”
“She heard what happened to you in Mr Bott’s English class and she went crazy. She stormed into the changing rooms while Alexa was getting ready for hockey and did a whole world of yelling.” Toby pauses. “I didn’t see this because they wouldn’t let me in. Apparently that room is only for girls and I am not one of those, Harriet. I assure you. Whatever Alexa might say. I am all man.”
My blood is running cold, and not just because Toby just said the phrase all man.
“And you want to know the best bit?” Toby adds, apparently totally unaware that every single muscle in my face is now twitching with guilt and horror. “You want to know what else she did?”
“What?”
“Honestly, you won’t believe it when I tell you.”
I almost snarl at him, I’m so tense. “Tell me,” I pretty much shout across the launderette. “Tell me what she did.”
“She chopped Alexa’s ponytail off. Right off. At the base. With some scissors. And then she said, ‘Now let’s see how you like everyone laughing at you,’ and stormed off.” Toby laughs. “Apparently Alexa looks a bit like she’s all man too now.”
Oh my God. I groan and put my hand over my eyes. This is the school equivalent of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in June 1914, which led to Austria-Hungary declaring war on Serbia, which led to Russian mobilisation, which led to Germany declaring war on Russia. Which led to World War One.
Nat just started a war for me. In defence of me. Because of me.
And I am not worth it.
This is about as horrible as it’s possible to feel. I’ve reached new heights of self-shame (or lows, depending on which way up the scale is). “I…I…” I say faintly, holding on to the door handle. “I really have to go home, Toby.”
And I run out of the door as fast as my legs will carry me.
(#ulink_7d4ed6ac-05e0-54c8-ab5c-c8fc219d61dd)
run all the way home.
OK, that’s not true. I don’t run all the way. I just wanted you to think I could if I needed to. Because I probably could. I run most of the way and then I Brownie Walk for the rest of it (walk twenty paces, run twenty paces). But I can’t run fast enough to get me away from what it is I’m running from. Which is me, mainly.
What am I doing? I’m about to screw over my Best Friend while she defends me, my stepmother while she protects me and possibly – depending on exactly how bad I am at this modelling thing – Wilbur and the entire fashion industry.
My head feels like it’s starting to rattle with words bouncing around inside it like balls. Every time Moscow, Nick, Baylee or Metamorphosis hit the side, my entire body jolts with excitement. Every time Nat and Annabel make contact, I feel like I’m about to implode with guilt and anxiety. And every time the Alexa ball bounces, I feel like vomiting.
But it’s too late. I’ve made my choice. So I spend the rest of the evening making an imaginary box in my head. And into this box I put all of the balls. I close the lid. And then I lock it up and temporarily misplace the key.
I’m going to Russia, I’m going to be transformed and there is nothing anybody can do to stop me.
First thing on Monday morning, the lies begin.
Lie No.1
Nat, I have a bad cold. Really do this time. Not coming to school today or tomorrow probably. Hope you’re OK. See you Wednesday xx
Lies No.s 2 and 3
Annabel: “Why are you wearing your Winnie the Pooh jumper, Harriet?”
Me: “…It’s non-uniform day.”
Annabel (long silence): “And why haven’t you gone to work already, Richard?”
Dad: “It’s non-uniform… Hang on. No. Late start today. Going in later. Look: I bought some strawberry jam.”
Annabel: “Why? I hate strawberry jam.”
Lie No.4
Me: “Annabel, do you know where my passport is?”
Annabel: “Why on earth would you want your passport at 8am on a Monday morning?”
Me: “…International school project?”
Annabel: “Why does that sound like a question? Are you asking me or telling me?”
Lie No.5
Toby, have gone to Amsterdam for a shoot. H
By the time Annabel’s frowned at both of us, checked me for a temperature and gone to work, Dad and I are running late for the airport so packing consists of throwing everything I own into a little suitcase, bouncing on top of it to get it to shut and contemplating just trimming round the edges as if it’s some kind of pie.
I’ve decided if I’m doing this, I have to do it properly, so I’ve made a bubble chart plan on the computer and given a copy to Dad. My lies are pink bubbles, Dad’s lies are blue bubbles and the lies we have to share are – obviously – purple.
In synopsis: Nat thinks I’m at home, sick, Annabel thinks I’m at Nat’s tonight for a sleepover, followed by school, and Annabel also thinks that Dad’s flown to Edinburgh for a late emergency client meeting that will run over until tomorrow evening.
“I can’t believe you made a bubble chart,” Dad keeps saying in disbelief as we finally climb into our plane seats.
“It’s the most suitable kind of chart for this kind of plan,” I tell him indignantly. “I made a flow chart and a pie chart, but they didn’t work nearly as well. This one is a lot more sensible.”
Dad looks at me in silence. “That’s not what I meant,” he says eventually.
“I made a timeline graph too,” I tell him as we buckle our seatbelts. “The lies are spread across it on an hourly basis. But if I show it to you, you might get confused. I think it’s best if I simply alert you when you’re supposed to be saying something that isn’t true.”
Dad stares at the bubble chart again. “Harriet, are you sure you’re my kid? I mean, you’re sure that Annabel didn’t bring you with her and swap you in?”
I scowl at him and then wince in pain because the universe has apparently decided to wreak vengeance upon me by making my metaphorical devil horns literal. By the time the air hostesses start pointing to the exits, my entire forehead is hot and throbbing; by the time they bring round the free peanuts, I can’t really frown without it hurting, and by the time we start the descent into Moscow, Dad’s calling my brand-new and massive zit “Bob” and talking to it like a separate entity.
“Would Bob like a drink of orange juice?” he asks every time a flight attendant walks past. “Perhaps a piece of cracker?”
It takes every single bit of patience I have not to ask the pilot if we can just turn round and drop my father back in England because he is not behaving. None of this, however, is enough to crush my excitement.
I’m going to Russia.
Land of revolutions and preserved leaders with lightbulbs stuck in the back of their heads. Land of the Kremlin and the Catherine Palace and the lost Amber Room, which was covered in gold and somehow ‘went missing’ during World War Two. Land of big fur hats and little dolls that fit inside each other.
And if I have to model while I’m there, so be it.
“This is it,” Dad says as the plane comes down. He nudges me with his elbow and grins. “Do you know how many teenagers would kill for this, sweetheart?”
I look out of the window. There’s a flurry of soft white snow and everything is covered in white powder, like a postcard. Russia looks exactly as I imagined it would. And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot. It’s on my Top Ten List of Countries to Visit. Number Three, actually. After Japan and Myanmar.
I swallow hard. Things are starting to change already. From this point on, everything is going to be different.
“You’re living the dream,” Dad smiles at me, looking back out of the window.
“Yes,” I say, smiling back at him. “I think I just might be.”
(#ulink_04894234-132e-5988-ab75-f76abd491319)
he really great thing about Moscow airport is that it’s so Russian.
The signs are in Russian. The books are in Russian. The brochures are in Russian. The shops are in Russian. All the things in the shops are Russian. All the people are Russian. OK, maybe all the people aren’t Russian – most of them are getting off planes from the UK and America, and if I’m totally honest, everything is also in English – but everyone looks sort of… different. Exotic. Historical. Revolutionary.
Even Dad looks more sophisticated, and he’s still wearing that nasty T-shirt with the robot on the front of it. None of which seems to have made any impression on Wilbur.
“Oh, my Billy Ray Cyrus,” he sighs when we finally find him. He’s sitting on top of a pink suitcase, wearing a silk shirt covered in little pictures of ponies, and the second he gets close to me he puts his hands over his eyes as if I’m about to poke them out with my zit. “Where did that come from? What have you been eating?”
“Chocolate-chip cereal bars,” Dad informs him helpfully. “She had three for breakfast.”
“You look like a baby unicorn, Twinkletoes. Could you not have held off for another twenty-four hours before you started sprouting horns?”
I scowl in humiliation, wince, and try to push the spot back in again. “It’s only one,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Horn, singular.”
“Stop trying to climb the mountain with your fingers, Cookie-crumble,” Wilbur sighs, gently smacking my hand away. “Unless you’re planning on sticking a flag on top for posterity.”
Dad laughs so I thump his arm. Adults really need to learn to be more sensitive about teenage skin problems. They can be devastating to mental health, and to confidence, and also – I’d imagine – to modelling careers. “It’ll cover up with make-up, though, right?” I ask nervously.
“Treacle-nose, putting make-up on that is like sprinkling sugar on the top of Mount Fuji. Thank God for computers, that’s all I’m saying.” Then Wilbur takes a step back and surveys my outfit. “Luckily,” he exclaims, “we’ve saved the day with another moment of sheer fashion brilliance. Turn around, my little Rhino.”
I squint at him and then look down. “My Winnie the Pooh jumper?” I say in disbelief. “And my school skirt?”
It was all I had that still fitted and wasn’t a) in the wash, covered in sick, b) a football kit c) a suit or d) designed with an insect as a template.
“Winnie the Pooh Jumper and School Skirt,” Wilbur says, looking at the sky in wonder and slapping himself on the forehead. “You are truly an original, my little Jellyfish. Anyhoo, while I could stand here all day and talk about dermatological disasters and your sense of style, sadly I’m being paid to make sure I don’t.”
And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.
