All That Glitters (32 page)

Which, in a way, I kind of am.

Then I stare at the paper inside it.

And my nose abruptly starts to prickle.

Wilbur
.

I feel like I’m splitting in half again: divided between being incredibly touched by this gesture, missing Wilbur so hard it hurts, and hating myself for …

For wishing it was from someone else.

No wonder I never get sent flowers. I’m a horrible, ungrateful hat and I deserve to have things cut out of my body without receiving any floral arrangements at all.

Blinking, I stare at the letter a little longer.

Then I give it a gentle hug, put it on the floor and fiddle with a blue cornflower petal while I wait for the annoying prickle in my nose to go away.

But it doesn’t.

Slowly, it spreads across the bridge of my nose, along my cheeks, into my forehead and creeps between my eyebrows. Like ivy, it tendrils outwards: stinging and bristling and spiking all the way across my face until finally it wraps itself round my throat and crawls into my eyes.

I try to take a deep, calm breath:
It’s OK, Harriet, it’s OK, Harriet, it’s OK it’s OK it’s OK it’s OK …

But it’s no good.

The vines wrap tighter and tighter until I can feel the panic rising: my eyes wobbling, my chin crumpling.

I can’t do this any more.

I need Nick here, right now. I need to put my head on his chest and have his feet on top of mine; I need the smile that goes all the way round; I need his calmness and his kindness. I need his fresh green smell, and the scar he got from a seagull, and the way he brings things down from high shelves in supermarkets for strangers without being asked to.

I need him to tell me things are going to be OK.

That he hasn’t gone for good; that I can do this without him. Because he’s coming back.

But I just don’t know if I believe any of it any more.

So I do the only thing I can to bring him closer. I sit up; I wipe my face and grab a piece of paper and a pen.

And I start writing again.

have never run so fast in my entire life.

With my envelope in my hand, I fly down the stairs, out into the street and towards the postbox as if my feet are on fire.

As if there are tiny wings on my heels and six rocket engines on my back. As if I have a magical cape; as if I’m a paper aeroplane.

As if I’m a comet, or a falling star.

And as I run, I chase Nick.

Tokyo – June (4 months ago)

“3,358 seconds.”

We passed through tiny side streets, past dark wooden houses with white fabric hanging from the doorways like half-open gifts, under little archways and curved roofs, popping out into bustling, noisy roads and then back into the quietness again.

“3,247 seconds.”

We raced past a little train station.

“2,320,” I told him as we ran over a beautiful wooden bridge stretching across a canal, painted red and stuck with long, red flags. “Nick, where on earth are you taking me?”

He laughed and turned round.

“Harriet …”

As he turns, Nick’s face flickers slightly: like a broken projection of an old movie scene. Then it melts, as if I’m passing through it like smoke.

Maybe I’m just not running quickly enough.

So I run faster.

I run until my thighs burn and my eyes blur and the world judders from side to side. Until my breath is coming in high-pitched squeaky noises and all I can hear is thumping under my feet.

Focus, Harriet.

“1,986 seconds.” We jogged breathlessly through grey cement streets as skyscrapers started closing in around us.

“1,653.”

Up some steep stairs. “1,454.”

“Harriet …”

But Nick’s starting to evaporate again.

Now I can’t see the exact shape of his nose, or the precise shade of his eyes, or exactly the position of the mole on his cheek. I can’t remember the angle his mouth turns down in just before he smiles, or the exact tone of his voice when he’s tired.

So I frown and keep running.

Through the park with the roundabout where we spun in circles last summer.

Across the path where we kissed in the rain; down the road where my foot got wet and he gave me his sock.

Past the first postbox, where he posted my first ever letter.

“1,223 seconds,” I said. “I don’t understand where we’re—”

“Harriet …”

Now his chin is gone, the shape of his ears, the colour of his back in the summer, the curl of his lips.

“Harriet.”

I can’t remember what his hand felt like.

“Harriet.”

I can’t remember the expression on his face.

“Harriet.”

And I’m running as fast as I can: as if my legs are the wind-up handle on the old movie projector, and maybe all I have to do is get them moving quickly enough for long enough, and – with a little click – I’ll be able to see him again.

Smiling and waiting for me to catch up.

But it doesn’t work.

Every time Nick turns round, his face flickers and fades a little more.

And as I come to a juddering stop by the second postbox, it finally hits me just how pointless this is. My letters aren’t being read. They’re not being answered. What’s left of Nick is all in my head, and when that goes dark, so will he.

Whether I’m ready or not.

Over the past year, Nick has disappeared so many times.

But this is the first time he’s actually gone.

post the letter anyway.

I’ve run so far and so hard it seems silly not to.

Then I slide breathlessly down the postbox until I’m sitting on the floor with my head in my hands. Nat and Toby don’t want to see me. Rin, Bunty and Wilbur are thousands of miles away.

Nick isn’t here.

And now I have two whole days stretching ahead of me that seem impossibly empty.

Forty-eight hours of homework and documentaries and hiding in stories that aren’t mine again. Two days of rearranging the cans in the kitchen into reverse alphabetical order and trying to wiggle my earlobes when I’m pretty sure I don’t have the necessary muscles.

A full weekend of being the old Harriet Manners.

And something inside me snaps.

I wait until I’ve got my breath back, which – I’ll be honest – takes longer than the NHS says it probably should for a girl of my age and size.

Then I grab my phone out of my pocket.

As fast as I can, I click on every number I’ve carefully collected over the last week at school: Ananya, India, Liv, Chloe, Mia, Raya, Eric, Robert and a plethora of other people whose names I couldn’t quite remember. (They’re A, B, C, D etc. in my phonebook, because it seemed rude to tell them that.)

I grit my teeth together.

Then I write the following text message:

I’m having a big party next Friday and would love you to come! Details on their way.
Harriet Manners xx