Head Over Heels

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I blink at the screen.

All the words in the message are acknowledged by the Oxford English Dictionary, so I’ll assume this was written by his new secretary.

Then I click on a flurry of texts from Nat that could not have arrived at a worse possible moment.

Are you nearly back yet? We’re almost hungry enough to eat your sandwiches. xx

LOL only joking. The world will end and your sandwiches will remain uneaten. x

TOBY JUST ATE ONE WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM. Where are you? X

I glance at my watch.

It’s been fifty-eight minutes since I left the park. Every single calculation I’ve made this afternoon has been wildly wrong.

Quickly, I type:

So sorry – please wait just a little longer! Hx

Phone still in hand, I head towards the front door, past the two white sofas now filling with yet more girls.

Actually, you know what?

I don’t think I’d really want to promote fizzy drinks anyway. We consume six million litres of them every year in Britain: they don’t really need any more attention.

Plus, they’re bad for us.

In fact, fizzy drinks indirectly kill 184,000 people a year, and have been shown to cause hyperactivity, memory loss and –

And –

And …

I’m tugging on the mirrored front door when my phone starts ringing and ANNABEL appears in a flash across the screen.

With a swooping stomach, I tug on the door again. I know I wrote a text to Dad but did I actually send it?

Still staring at my phone,I tug a bit harder.

Then again.

Finally, I look up at the door with a jolt of surprise.

My reflection has started tugging back.

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t least, I assume it’s me.

All I see is bright red hair and pale white skin, a pointy chin and button nose. Lots of freckles, pink cheeks and large far-apart green eyes.

It’s only when I scowl and my reflection doesn’t scowl back that I realise the door’s actually transparent.

Also that my side says PUSH.

Only ten species on the planet are able to self-identify: I’m officially less intelligent than a dolphin.

My double and I stare at each other. No longer distracted by my phone, I can see we’re not actually identical: we’re just similar enough to be disorientating.

Her skin is translucent and spot-free: her eyelashes are long and dark. Her hair is perfectly curled and shiny; her eyebrows tidier, her lips slightly fuller.

She’s smartly dressed in a black dress, black coat and black leather boots, and nothing she’s wearing has been personalised with marker pen.

She’s not sweating or flushed, which indicates she walked here calmly, knowing where she was going.

Basically, she’s me but better.

Harriet Manners 2.0: upgraded with all my bugs fixed and crashes wiped, my best qualities enhanced and my instabilities improved.

And I already know her.

This is the model who replaced me in the Levaire watch advert last year. The girl who wandered the Sahara dunes, looking ethereal, content and super-coordinated.

And who at no stage got attached by the ear to a Moroccan market stall or threw herself into the sand and attempted to dance like a crumpet.

My phone starts ringing once more and I finally snap to my senses and stop battling with the door. My doppelganger pulls it open with a polite smile: one that indicates she sees nothing of herself in me whatsoever.

She flashes two sweet dimples I don’t have.

Then the superior, upgraded version of Harriet Manners glides smoothly into the mess I’ve just left behind me.

Again.

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K, I officially give up.

The Whistler Sliding Centre in British Columbia is the steepest and fastest bobsleigh track in the world. It starts off at 938 metres high then hits a 152-metre vertical drop, allowing amateurs to hurtle downhill at 125 kilometres per hour.

Headfirst, without any brakes or control or idea how to stop it.

Pretty much exactly like today.

Breathing out, I blink at the London streets.

In less than fifteen minutes, it’s gone from being dusky to night-time and I have a feeling I’m about to be in a lot of trouble. Annabel didn’t even bother leaving voicemail: that’s how little interest she had in shouting at me indirectly.

I hesitate for a few seconds – maybe she’ll get bored and give up redialling – then I realise the sun will explode before that happens and click the green button.

“Umm, hello?”

“Where are you? It’s dark, Harriet. I know you’re sixteen but you can’t just disappear for hours without telling anyone where you’re going.”

“I’m in the … park,” I edit optimistically. “Just enjoying the wonder of nature, flowers and … whatnot.”

I am walking past a patch of semi-dead grass right now. The fact that it’s in our capital city is neither here nor there.

There’s a tree, a pot plant and a pigeon.

It’s a park.

“Right,” Annabel sighs. “Well, we’ve lined up a documentary about stars and we thought you might like to watch it with us.”

“Ooh yay,” I hear Dad say loudly in the background. “Tell my eldest it just wouldn’t be the same without an elaborate running commentary all the way through.”

I sense sarcasm.

In my defence, I do know nearly as much as the official narration.

“We have popcorn,” Annabel adds cunningly. “And chocolate buttons. Also some kind of chilli-mango worm.”

“Salsagheti,” Bunty says cheerfully into the phone. “I bought them in Mexico and there’s a picture of a duck wearing sunglasses on the box so they should be immense fun.”

“When can we expect you?”

“I’m really sorry, Annabel,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I’ve already got plans.”

I turn down the road towards the tube station. London is glowing and lit from within. Every building I walk past has something exciting happening inside it. Friends huddled in restaurants and coffee shops: eating, laughing, talking.

Having fun in their happy little groups.

All I want is to get back to mine.

“This is important too.” There’s the click of a door being closed quietly. “Harriet, you’re coming home right now. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

Oh, what?

Quickly, Harriet. You have an IQ of 143: make up an impressive reason not to. Weighty, unquestionable. Profound in its deep reflection of the human race.

“But I don’t want to,” I hear myself whine. “I want to hang out with my friends.”

“Well,” Annabel says sharply, “sometimes growing up means doing things you don’t want to do, Harriet. I’m sorry that spending a single hour with your family is one of them.”

“That’s not what I—”

“You have fifteen minutes and then I expect to see you walking through the front door. Do I make myself clear?”

And the phone goes dead.

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pparently the human brain doesn’t stop growing until your early twenties.

I am clearly very advanced.

Given my complete inability to:

My phone beeps.

Scowling, I click on the message.

It’s dark and cold. Went home half an hour ago. India

This day has officially thundered down the slope, crashed through a fence and shot into a snowbank.

Grumbling, I switch my phone off and start scuffing my trainers along the pavement.

Stupid parents. Stupid ruined sandwiches that nobody fully appreciates. Stupid castings and fizzy drinks and men named after fish and unstable door locks and unstable knees and doppelgangers and exams and friends leaving and—

Something in my peripheral brain goes ping.

Huh. That’s weird.

I take a few steps backwards and peer in through the brightly lit window of a small Italian restaurant. There are red-and-white checked tablecloths, almost burnt-out candles and lots of couples ordering spaghetti and pretending to be in Lady and the Tramp.

Making a slight blugh face, I peer a bit closer.

There’s a man sitting in the corner, surrounded by piles of paper. He’s wearing a faded grey suit and a grey tie. He’s peering blearily into a laptop, slumped as if he’s been popped with a pin.