All That Glitters (3 page)

While I’m stuffing my mismatched shoes in my satchel and shuffling home in my not-a-whole-lot-better socks, I may as well update you on what’s been happening since I returned from New York, right?

That’s what you want to know.

Exactly what I’ve been doing with myself since I split up with Nick Hidaka – Lion Boy, ex-supermodel and love of my life – on Brooklyn Bridge just over three weeks ago, and flew home without him.

So here it is:

Nothing.

Not literally, obviously, or I’d be dead.

Over the last three weeks I have breathed approximately 466,662 times and processed 4,200 litres of blood with my kidneys. I have produced thirty-seven litres of saliva and 9,450 litres of carbon dioxide.

I’ve had eighteen showers, four baths, brushed my teeth forty-two times, eaten sixty-seven meals and consumed more chocolate bars than I can be bothered to count (and that’s really saying something).

But that’s about it.

Other than basic survival – and packing up the house in Greenway while we waited two weeks for our flight back to England – almost the only thing I’ve done voluntarily is read. With my curtains shut and my bedroom door closed, I’ve devoured words like never before: buried myself in books and submerged myself in stories.

I’ve read during breakfast and lunch and dinner; until the sun’s come up and gone down and come up again.

And not just fact books.

I’ve fought dragons, attended balls and chased a whale. I’ve won wars, lost court cases, travelled India, ridden broomsticks and stranded myself on numerous islands.

I’ve died a dozen times.

Because here’s the thing about a book: when you pick up a story, you put down your own.

For a few precious moments, you become somebody else. Their memories become your memories; your thoughts turn into theirs. Until, page by page, line by line, you disappear completely.

So until today – until my new beginning – that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Because I thought maybe if I could just bury myself deep enough, for long enough, I could shut the world out and myself out with it.

And then I wouldn’t have to think about how the last time I saw Nick is the last time I’ll see him, and the last time I kissed him is the last time I’ll kiss him. About how life keeps going on as it always has.

Or how my heart can beat 100,000 times a day.

Even when it’s broken.

nfortunately, vanishing has its side effects.

And – as I quietly turn on to the path leading back up to my house – I can see two of them: standing on my front door step.

Without a sound, I quickly dive into a nearby bush.

Maybe there are advantages to walking around in your bare socks after all.

“Are you
sure
?” Nat is saying, shifting from one foot to the other. Her dark hair is curly, and hanging down her back like well-behaved snakes. “You’re
certain
Harriet’s not here?”

“I’m definite,” Annabel confirms gently. “Unless she’s scaled the outside wall and re-entered through her bedroom window, but given Harriet’s inherent fear of PE it seems unlikely.”

That’s putting it mildly. Frankly, there’s more chance of me growing wings and flying back in.

“It’s actually easier than it looks,” Toby says cheerfully.

Even from a few metres behind I can read the orange letters on the back of his T-shirt: VOTED MOST LIKELY TO TRAVEL BACK IN TIME, CLASS OF 2057.

“If you take the first flowerpot on the left there’s a little toe-hole in the wall just above it, and then you can use the ivy trellis as leverage the rest of the way.” He pauses. “You should probably reassess your exterior plant framework, Mrs Manners. It’s not very security-conscious.”

The corner of Annabel’s mouth twitches. “Oh, I’d imagine we will now.”

“If you want, next time I’m up there I’ll stick a little warning note on the outside of the window telling all other stalkers to go away.”

My stepmother laughs because she obviously assumes that Toby is joking.

I, however, know better.

I am literally never opening my bedroom curtains again.

“
Focus
, Pilgrim,” Nat says crossly, leaning to the side and poking his arm. “What kind of rubbish stalker are you, anyway? You don’t even know where Harriet
is
.”

“In fairness, my concentration has been a little distracted with an exorbitant level of homework, and also the TARDIS I’ve been building in my garden.”

Toby holds out bright blue fingers as evidence.

Nat stares at him for a few seconds in disgust. “What
is
your problem?”

“I’m glad you asked,” Toby says happily. “I’m struggling to make it look as if it has truly travelled through time and space. Any suggestions?”

There’s a silence, then my best friend sighs and turns back to Annabel. “I haven’t seen or heard from Harriet
all weekend
. She’s not picking up calls, she’s not answering texts and she didn’t remind me seven times about the parrot documentary on telly. I really need to talk to her.”

“She’s just jet-lagged, sweetheart. It takes a little while to settle back into a new time zone, that’s all.”

“And you don’t know where I can find her?”

There’s a tiny pause. “I don’t, I’m sorry.”

“Right.” Nat’s shoulders slump slightly. “Well.” She looks sharply up at my bedroom window, and then kicks the front doorstep a couple of times. We’ve been home six days and my best friend is not an idiot: we’re five hours ahead of New York, not in a different solar system. “I have to go to college. Will you tell her I called again?”

“Of course.” Annabel nods and looks at Toby. “And I’ll tell her you popped by too.”

“You don’t need to,” he says proudly. “She’ll know. I’ve left one of my new calling cards.” He points to the wall and there’s a little round, bright green dot stuck there. “It says TPWH™, which stands for Toby Pilgrim Was Here, Trademarked.”

“I’m impressed,” Annabel smiles. “Very organised and efficient.”

Literally nothing fazes her. She’s like Gandalf but less beardy.

Nat glances at my bedroom window again.

She kicks the doorstep a few more times.

Then, with an audible exhalation, my best friend swirls round and stomps back down the garden path in bright silver shoes.

With my stalker trailing after her.

watch Nat leave with a guilty twist of my stomach.

Then I wait as long as I can.

I am invisible. I am undetectable. I am a ninja of imperceptibility, as hidden as a leafy sea dragon, elaborately constructed to blend into my surroundings, and—

“You can come out now, Harriet.”

Oh. So – maybe not.

Slowly, I creep out from inside the bush and brush dried mud and dead leaves off my pyjama bottoms.

“You know,” Annabel says, gently removing a small spider from my eyebrow. Apparently I’m even more camouflaged than I intended to be. “I’m not enjoying all this subterfuge very much, Harriet. It’s much more your father’s style.”

“I know,” I say awkwardly. “Thanks for lying again.”

In Greek and Roman mythology there’s a three-headed dog called Cerberus who guards the entrance of the underworld to prevent the dead from escaping and the living from entering.

For the last few days, that’s exactly what my stepmother has been doing for me.

On cue, my phone beeps three times in quick succession:

When one door of happiness closes, another one opens! :) xx

A break-up is like a broken mirror. It is better to leave it broken than to hurt yourself trying to fix it! :) xx

If you walk away and they don’t follow, keep walking. :) xx

And this is exactly why I’m avoiding Nat.

Ever since I returned from America, it’s been like having my own personal therapist crossed with a woodpecker. What exactly happened?
Peck.
What did Nick say?
Peck.
Do I miss him?
Peck.
Was it definitely the right decision?
Peck peck.
Can’t we make it work? Has he been in contact? How do I
feel
?

Peck peck peck peck
until the tree falls over
.

And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell her I don’t want to talk about it, Nat has decided that we are heartbroken and she’s committed to working through it.

Together.

Incessantly, over and over and over again.

Without a single moment’s peace, and with the help of quite a lot of fridge magnets, motivational T-shirts and quotes off the internet.

Never mind picking the lock: my best friend is trying to smash me open with a sledgehammer.

I take a deep breath and type:

Very wise! Speak soon! :) x

Then I put my phone back in my pocket and glance desperately over Annabel’s shoulder at the house. I’ve got the works of Terry Pratchett waiting on my bedside table. If I take two stairs at a time, I can be balanced on the back of four elephants and a giant turtle within thirty-five seconds
.

I love Nat.

She’s my best friend: the person who knows me inside and out, who can finish my sentences when I don’t even know what it is I want to say yet. But – as a magnet might tell me – I can’t start the next chapter of my life if I keep re-reading the old ones.

I just want a new story, that’s all.

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I start racing desperately towards my next escape.

I turn round blankly. “Hmm?”

“You don’t need to shut us all out, sweetheart. Me, your dad. Natalie. You can talk to us about it.”

“Sure,” I say, and then start heading back to my bedroom.

Because for the first time ever, that’s exactly the problem.

Maybe I don’t want to.