by Holly Smale
Eyes still glued to Nick, I nod.
“Drink more tea,” Emily insists again, holding a fresh cup out. Then – whispering – they sidestep away like two anxious crabs.
Nick and I continue to stare at each other.
7,451,276,176 …
6,836,392,019 …
3,283,109,482 …
1,917,201,928 …
99,716,039 …
7,819 …
997 …
82 …
There are billions of people in the world, but it suddenly feels like they’re disappearing.
Until all that’s left in front of me is …
One.
athematics, I love you.
But this time you have let me down badly.
Because I didn’t see this coming, I’m not prepared in the slightest and frankly I may never trust a calculator again.
Coughing, I wobble to my feet.
The only words in my head are it’s you it’s you it’s you you you you you it’s you it’s you I can’t believe it’s you – and I don’t think I should start with that.
After all, I’m standing in front of my ex-boyfriend, wearing a tinfoil cape and a sodden wedding dress.
My outfit’s making me look keen enough already.
“So,” Nick says finally. Behind us, somebody on the green motorboat whistles and beckons but Nick holds a Just A Second finger up high in the air, then turns back to me. “This is … unlikely.”
I nod blankly.
One in three million, eight hundred and twenty-nine thousand, nine hundred and thirty, if we’re going on the likelihood of us standing in the same two metres squared, and that doesn’t include the ocean.
‘Unlikely’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“How … umm … are you?”
It’s not enough – I know it isn’t – but it has to be one of the most common sentences in the English language for a reason.
“I’m good,” Nick says, nodding and glancing at the green boat again.
“And how’s the …”
I stop.
How’s the Everything. How is everything in your life and all that’s happened in the six months since I knew every tiny thing that happened in each day and night and all the thoughts in between.
“Great,” Nick says, scratching his ear. “All of it, yeah, great.” The man on the boat whistles again and Nick mutters, “For the love of …”, then cups two hands round his mouth and yells: “All right, I’ve got it, one minute.”
And I can suddenly feel my old friend panic starting to rise.
I have one minute.
Just one minute to say everything there is to possibly say after six months of saying literally nothing. Mankind has existed for six million years: 2,184,000,000 days or one and a half billion minutes.
I could have started as a tiny legless amoeba and I’m still not sure it would be enough time to say what I need to.
“And you?” Nick says, clearing his throat. “How are you?”
“I’m coolioko,” I nod, coughing once more. Not coolioko again, Harriet. “I mean, I’m … fantastico.” No. “Supastic.” No. “I mean … I’m OK and stuff.”
“Excellent. Toby and Nat?”
“They’re great. Rin’s in England now. She’s going out with Toby.”
“Really? Great.”
Apparently, if you spread the brain out without wrinkles it would be the size of a pillowcase. Someone needs to take a look at mine urgently, because it feels like it’s unfolding into a flat, shiny pulp.
It never used to be like this.
Things between Nick and I were always … easy. Whether I was having a panic attack on the kerb, or being pushed into Red Square in a wheelchair, or live on camera in a television studio, we always knew how to communicate with each other.
As if we were two yoghurt pots with some kind of magic invisible string between us.
But now his face seems sad and distant, and I don’t know how to read it any more.
“Plus Jasper,” I blurt desperately. “He’s my new boyfriend.”
I don’t know why I say it: it’s not even true.
“Oh?” Nick says, smiling rigidly. “That’s great!”
My brain flattens out until it’s duvet-sized.
“Yep,” I continue quickly. “He’s a really talented artist and has heterochromia iridium, which means having two different-coloured eyes. It’s a genetic defect that affects six in a thousand people.”
Shut up, Harriet.
“Great news,” Nick nods, taking a step towards the edge. “About Jasper, not the eye thing. I’m glad you’re happy.”
The horn on his diving boat sounds.
“OK!” he yells. “I’m coming! Jeeeez.”
Then he picks up his oxygen tank and my stomach flops over and my brain starts to whirl harder and all I can think is – don’t go.
Don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t—
“Nick,” I say suddenly, taking a step forward. “Did you try and call me a few days ago? Because I promise I wasn’t ignoring you, I dropped my phone, it smashed, I couldn’t see who it was and I couldn’t hear all of it and then Nat threw it on the—”
“I didn’t try and call you,” he says flatly, sitting on the edge of the boat and swinging his flippers round. “Honestly, I didn’t know you were even in Australia until a few minutes ago.”
“Oh.”
With an abrupt vibration, our boat engine purrs to life and Jack yells, “All aboard for cast off!”
No no no no—
Not yet not yet not yet not yet—
“Anyway,” Nick says, strapping his goggles over his eyes. “I should get going. It’s been nice seeing you again, Harriet.”
It’s been nice seeing me again, Harriet.
As if I’m somebody he once accidentally shared a short car-journey with and never thought about again.
“Y-you too,” I say numbly.
“Bye, Manners,” he says with a tiny sad smile, putting in his mouthpiece.
I stare at him in silence.
The English language has what are called ghost words. Due to printing errors, translation and interpretation mistakes, words like dord, kime and abacot are officially in dictionaries all over the world even though they don’t actually exist.
They’re just the shapes of words: without meaning, without purpose, without intention.
Outlines with nowhere to go.
“Bye,” I finally manage. “Nick?”
And as he splashes into the ocean and disappears, the words I was really looking for go with him.
I missed you: drifting like phantoms across the ocean.
Evaporating into the air.
have no idea what happens after that.
The next thing I know, I’m back on dry land and in my own clothes. Then I’m at the airport, I’m saying goodbye to Jack and Emily; I’m flying back to Sydney with the window blinds tightly closed.
I’m getting out of a taxi outside the apartment.
I’m walking towards the front door.
But I’m not entirely sure how, because something inside me feels like it’s unravelling and I don’t know where it’s trying to go.
Or what it was made of in the first place.
“Hi,” I manage faintly, opening the Kookaburra door. “Is anyone—”
“Harriet!” Nat squeaks, lobbing her arms round me so hard I have to steady myself against the doorframe. “Oh my God, you’re back and you’ll never believe what happened today!”
She’s right: so far, I don’t.
“What?” I say weakly as I untangle her arms. “What’s happened?”
“The girl!” Nat yells, grabbing my shoulders. “The girl at the agency! She’s not a model, she’s a fashion blogger and SHE FOUND ME! She did a Harriet on the internet and somehow found me.”
OK, that’s not called Doing A Harriet.
That’s displaying unbelievably good research skills.
“Amazing!�
�� I mumble. “So you’re … uh …” Focus, Harriet. “Making her a …” What’s it called? “Dress?”
“Yes!” Nat grins, clapping her hands. “I went material shopping this afternoon! It’s going to be pink, with a red lining and a—” She stops. “Harriet – what’s happened? Oh my God, are you OK?”
“Hmm?” I drop my satchel on the floor. “I’m fine.”
Nat puts a concerned hand on my cheek. “You’re not fine, Harriet. You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, turning with a wobble towards the kitchen. “I think I just caught a bit of sun.” But I can still feel Nat frowning behind me, so I add: “Did you know that ten trillionths of a suntan comes from the stars in galaxies beyond the Milky Way?”
She immediately relaxes again.
Ha. Apparently Distraction Facts do work on Natalie Grey after all.
“So – the girl – what happened?” I say, turning on the kettle.
I’ve already decided that this is Nat’s Big Moment and there’s no way I’m ruining it.
Especially when I did so spectacularly last time.
“Well,” Nat says in excitement, following close behind me. “It turns out her name’s Silva, with an a not an er. She remembered what you said about ‘At The Cutting Edge’ and Googled it! Harriet, she has a huge blog and a YouTube channel and she’s already talked about me! Apparently she reckons I’ll be the Next Big Thing! Look!”
Practically skipping on the spot with joy, she grabs her phone and holds it out.
I blink at it.
“You’ve got seven and a half thousand followers?” I scroll through her social media accounts. “Since this morning?”
“Yeah!” Nat says happily. “Pretty good, right?”
Little hearts and stars and bubbles are popping up frantically, and the follower count is rising by the second: 7,549 … 7,553 … 7,576 …
“Nat,” I gasp. “That is amazing.”
“Right?!” she agrees brightly, then frowns. “But you might have to take over again, Harriet, because I’ve got to make the best dress ever and I don’t have time to reply to everyone. Is that OK?”
She’s right: comments are appearing in their hundreds.
Amazeballs! Silva’s so on it! OMG I LOVE that jacket! Omg THIS. Where can I get it? GURRRRL YOU RULE! <3 <3
As yet nobody has asked for more information about the wiring in Sydney Tower.
Sometimes I worry about people on the internet.
“Sure,” I say quietly as Nat runs over to a coffee table strewn with fabric, sits down contentedly and starts happily sifting through it. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
Except I’m not sure I have.
My cheeks are starting to feel like they’re on fire, my stomach hurts, a dull ache is slowly spreading through my arms and legs and I’m starting to feel hot and cold and shaky all over: as if I’ve just been dipped in liquid nitrogen.
I blink at the wall.
No: that analogy doesn’t work. Liquid nitrogen is –321 degrees Fahrenheit: all of the skin would be ripped from my body in seconds. Hmm … something similar but more scientifically accurate.
I can’t think exactly what right now.
“And how did it go?” Nat suddenly remembers, concentrating on her needle as she makes tiny stitches in a piece of lace. “Was it a great shoot? What did you wear?”
“Hmmm?” God, I’m so hot. “Oh, the usual. Dress. Beach. Pose. So on.”
“Amazing,” she sighs, needle flashing in and out of the lace. “We’re so lucky.”
“Mmmm,” I agree weakly, fanning myself. Good old stupid, statistically unlikely luck. “I’m just going to …” Where am I going? “Go do some … social media strategy work in the …” Where? “Bedroom.”
And maybe I’ll have a little nap first.
A welcome few minutes of darkness and silence while my brain stops whirring.
Nat finally looks up. “You sure you’re OK?”
I dredge up a smile. “Fine!”
Shivering, I grab my satchel, shuffle to my bedroom and shut the door.
I’m just crawling into bed when the Brick starts ringing loudly. It takes me six seconds to reach it, seven to decide whether to answer it or not and two to actually press the button.
That’s how exhausted I feel and how little I want to have this conversation.
“Hello?” I say finally, closing my eyes tightly.
“My little bumblebee!” Wilbur trills. “Light of my life, flower of my heart, what the billy-boo have you done this time?”
I had kind of hoped today’s epic screw-up would stay between me, the sky and the sea.
Guess I was wrong.
Again.
ccording to my fact books, the average Briton apologises at least eight times every day.
Watch this, because I’m about to use mine up in one go.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, curling up into a tight ball.
“Baby-bonsai-tree,” Wilbur continues chirpily. “I would have sworn on my shiny green Louboutins that we spoke yesterday about patience and whatnot. But I’ve just had a call from Eva and I must have been imaginifying it, because apparently that did not sink in at all.”
Shivering, I pull the duvet over my head. “I’m so sorry.”
“What happened, Bunnycakes?”
“I …” Didn’t listen to experts, assumed I knew better, refused to wait, made my own plans, forced myself into a situation I didn’t belong in and created total havoc. Again. “I Did a Harriet.”
“You did,” Wilbur agrees gently. “You went Full Harriet. And now I’m being asked why this fandango occurred. Any ideas, my little crinkle-cut-crisp?”
It’s a very, very good question.
Just not one I have an answer for right now.
“I’m really sorry.”
“I did try to remind you of normal agency rules when I called on your first day in Oz, Puddle-bum,” Wilbur sighs. “But I knew it had gone right over your little head. Whoosh, like a sparkly rocket.”
I blink at the wall numbly.
Oh my God: that broken phone call was from Wilbur?
Intense heat is moving from my cheeks, into my chest and wrapping itself round my throat so I can’t breathe.
“Sorry.”
“It’s OK, Muffin-chops. But you know that long, long list of models that you weren’t at the top of? You’re further down it. A lot further down it. Lots and lots and lots further.”
There’s a pause.
“Let’s put it this way,” Wilbur continues thoughtfully. “Now it’s less like Scrabble and more like Snakes and Ladders. And you’ve just hit the big green one that goes back to the beginning and there aren’t really that many ladders.”
“I’m really sorry.”
Wilbur hushes me. “I’m not cross, my little ginger snap. They’ll get over it. In the greater scheme of things, this little disasteroo doesn’t matter in the slightest.”
Except that it does.
I’m slowly beginning to realise how ironic it is that I’m so good at learning lessons inside school, and so terrible at learning any outside it.
And I’m tired of saying sorry.
On the upside, clearly nobody told Eva or Wilbur the whole story, or I suspect this phone call would be from my parents and possibly Annabel’s legal firm.
“Wilbur,” I say dully, curling up even tighter and wrapping my arms round my stomach. “I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.”
My fairy godmother laughs with a tinkle.
“Oh, Bunny,” he says fondly. “I think if there’s one thing we know about Harriet Manners, it’s that something like this will always happen again.”
I’ve got three sorries left to spend.
Saying goodbye to my agent, I get my laptop out and blearily type out an email, apologising profusely to Emily and Jack.
Then another, apologising to Eva.
Finally, I scroll slowly through my texts for the one I got approximately three hours ago and didn’t answer.
Time for another appointment! Want to talk? J
I type:
Sry, not feelng so gd. Spk tmw Hx
Then I turn my phone off.
And close my eyes.
spend the next three days in bed.
By the end of the first evening, it’s become abundantly clear that I’m suffering from some kind of exotic waterborne sickness: probably picked up from an errant stingray or ailing jellyfish.
Maybe Chikungunya or Chagas disease.
Possibly West Nile virus.
None of which are commonly found in Australia and all of which are usually spread by mosquitos and not sea creatures, but facts mean nothing to me any more.
All I know is I hurt all over.
I can’t sleep or eat or talk or read or study.
And I have no interest in getting out of bed again.
Ever.
On the second day, Nat forces Bunty to call a doctor.
“It’s not normal,” I hear my best friend whisper at the door. “She turned down chocolate and banana pancakes with whipped cream and an offer to watch a documentary about locusts.”
I must be really, really ill.
Unfortunately, the doctor doesn’t appear to know what he’s talking about.
“You don’t have guinea worm disease,” he says firmly, pulling the thermometer out of my mouth and staring at it. “Or African trypanosomiasis. And you absolutely certainly don’t have Crimean-Congo fever.”
I gave him a few options, just to speed up the diagnosis.
“Are you sure?” Nat says worriedly from the doorway where she’s been lurking all morning. “How do you know?”
“Because we’re not in the Congo,” the doctor replies. “And her temperature is 37.1 degrees. If she had any of the above, I think it would probably be a bit higher.”
I’m extremely alarmed at how cold I am for a second, and then remember Australia uses Celsius and not Fahrenheit. Although that’s still 0.1 over the average: he’s being very offhand about my wellbeing.
“Have you checked for Naegleria fowleri?” I say weakly. “It’s a brain-eating amoeba that comes from warm lakes, springs and pools. I definitely feel really confused and disorientated.”
