Picture Perfect (Geek Girl, Book 3)

by Holly Smale

  Cal is no longer holding on to my arm: he’s lurking a few metres away, staring at a space across the room.

  “And what,” Wilbur says sharply, “are you doing here?”

  “I’m her guest,” Cal says, shrugging and pointing at me.

  I blink in surprise. Is he? Just how many Plus Ones was I allowed?

  “Are you?” Wilbur echoes with slightly less surprise. “Well, that’s lovely, my little Mould-toes, but why don’t you go somewhere else for a bit?”

  Cal takes a few small steps away.

  “Further,” Wilbur says, gesturing with a hand.

  Cal takes another few steps.

  “Much further.”

  Cal takes six or seven more.

  “Tell you what,” Wilbur says cheerfully, “why don’t you go to the other side of Manhattan and just keep walking until you hit the river and then don’t stop?”

  Cal scowls and walks over to the canapé table. Wilbur looks back at me. “Where’s Prince Charming?” he says sternly. “I sent him an invite two days ago and told him you’d be here. Why aren’t you together?”

  Cows have four stomachs.

  I’m suddenly glad I don’t, because just one spinning over is uncomfortable enough.

  We could have been at a romantic ball together, and Nick still went to the other side of the continent?

  “Oh,” I say as airily as I can, trying to remember the list. Be cool. Be mysterious. Be breezy and happy, all the time. “He’s in California … on a shoot.” I clear my throat. What would Kenderall say? “Couples need to give each other room to breathe, babe.”

  Wilbur stares at me as if I’ve just sprouted feathers and am preparing to lay an egg. “Did you just call me babe, Harriet?”

  I’m saved from the answer by a soft kiss on my cheek.

  “Darling,” Nancy says. “Don’t you look … umm … extraordinary. I so want to introduce you to some people. Can I whisk her away, Wilbur?”

  Wilbur frowns.

  “Certainment,” he says. “Just hang on a tickety-boo.” And he bends down on the floor and – with the speed of a professional chicken plucker – rips all the badly glued feathers off the bottom of my dress, pulls the gold scarf from around his neck, spreads it out into an enormous sheet and wraps it tightly around my shoulders, knotting it at the front like a short kimono. “There,” he says. “Marginally more acceptable.”

  “Thank you,” I say, chewing my lip.

  “And I’ll be having words with you later,” Nancy adds, lifting an eyebrow at him and glancing at Kenderall who is now attempting to stick sequins on the face of a lady with grey hair.

  “Yes, Pumpkin-moo,” Wilbur sighs. “I thought you might.”

  And as we walk away, I can still feel him frowning behind me.

  ll I know is I have half an hour.

  Thirty minutes before I must leave this party and start heading home, or I’ll be grounded for so long in ten or twenty years somebody will have to climb up my hair and let me out of my bedroom again.

  Except it doesn’t work like that.

  After fifteen minutes, I begin to make my excuses.

  “Of course,” Nancy says sweetly, hugging my arm. “Let’s just quickly meet the Fashion Director of Elle? I’ve told her all about you and she’s so interested.”

  After twenty-five minutes, I try again.

  “Absolutely,” Nancy agrees. “But let’s just say a quick hello to the Editor of Cosmo. I think you might be just right for this new shoot they’re doing and …”

  So I try again after forty minutes.

  Then again after an hour.

  Then after two.

  Three hours later, I’m still being led around the party, trying unsuccessfully to remember names and holding conversations I am nowhere near equipped to deal with. And I’m still handing out Kenderall’s cards.

  All of which get thrown straight on the floor: by the end of the third hour it looks like I’m just leaving a trail of orange rectangular breadcrumbs, like a neon-obsessed corporate Hansel and Gretel.

  “Ah,” a woman in a glittery black dress says as Nancy makes the billionth introduction of the evening. “The girl with the red hair. I’ve been waiting to meet you all night.”

  I look down.

  Seriously? I spent nearly two hundred dollars on a pair of shoes that look like dead lobsters and my brand is actually something I had growing out of my head for free?

  “I recognise you from somewhere,” she continues. “But I just can’t put my finger on it.” She tilts her head and gazes at me. “I don’t suppose you’ve been covered in octopus ink at any stage in the last year, have you?”

  Nobody is ever going to let me forget about that, are they? It wasn’t totally my fault. Some of it was definitely Charlie’s. Not that people like it when you blame a totally ruined fashion shoot on an octopus.

  “No-oooo,” I lie in embarrassment, looking desperately at the exit.

  “You have! I knew it! You’re the girl Yuka Ito keeps going on about!”

  “Umm …” I glance anxiously at the clock on the wall in a panic. It’s now past 9pm. “It’s funny you should say that, because in German folklore the paranormal double of a living person is called a doppelganger and there might be one of me wandering ab—”

  Then my eyes land on a girl in the corner.

  I fall totally silent.

  Fleur is in a pale pink beaded dress. Her hair is tied into a side-knot, and she looks amazing.

  Ethereal. Incandescent.

  And also like she wants to rip my face apart with her fingernails.

  “Hi,” I mouth silently, lifting my hand and waving at her.

  Fleur stares at me in disgust, and then turns around and starts picking at one of the canapé trays.

  The woman in black sequins is still talking. “Nancy, we should set up a meeting. Who’s your agent?”

  I force myself to look back at her. “My agent?” I say blankly. “I don’t really have—”

  A hand touches my arm.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Cal says smoothly. “But there’s something really important I have to tell this girl.”

  “But—” the woman in black protests.

  “It can’t wait any longer,” he says, blinding her with his megawatt smile.

  And before I can object, Cal grabs my hand and pulls me into the hallway.

  ’m so grateful, I don’t even ask where we’re going.

  I allow myself to be led through the hallway, and then back round the other side of the party, into a corner behind some blue chiffon.

  Finally.

  Finally I can make my escape.

  I glance at the clock again. 9.25pm. If I go now, I can catch the last train to Greenway.

  The lights of the party are in soft focus behind Cal, flickering behind the curtain. You can still see colourful shapes of people, but they’re softened: blurred by the blue sheet, as if they’re under water.

  “Thank you,” I say as Cal grips my hand. “How did you know? I didn’t know how to get away. Do you think there’s a back door I can slip out of before anyone sees m—”

  And then I stop.

  Not because I’ve forgotten what I’m trying to say, but because just as I shape the final syllable, Cal puts his hands around my face.

  And kisses me.

  ow, I know something about kisses.

  I know that when they’re right, the entire room and everything in it disappears.

  That when they’re right, you can’t put a single thought into coherent order: everything jumbles up, as if your brain has been put in a washing machine set at the highest speed.

  That the inside of you goes warm and starts tingling and vibrating, like an electric toothbrush.

  I know the world stops.

  Thanks to Toby, I also know that when they’re terrible they can be deeply uncomfortable and deeply awkward.

  This is none of the above.

  The harp plays and the candles flicker and the light
s sparkle and the blue chiffon floats prettily around us.

  But it’s wrong.

  I know it’s wrong, because I’m thinking totally clearly. There’s no warmth, no tingling. There’s no happiness or excitement.

  The world just keeps on spinning.

  After two shocked seconds, I manage to put my hand up and push him away.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What did it feel like I was doing?” Cal says, raising his eyebrows.

  “But …” Now my head is starting to tumble. “We’re friends. You don’t kiss friends.

  Not unless you’re Toby but we’ve talked about that.

  “Oh, please. You’ve been wanting me to for days. It’s been written all over your face.”

  “In what language?” I snap crossly. “Because it really, really hasn’t.”

  Then I rub my mouth as a horrible guilty sensation sinks in.

  Sugar cookies.

  This is my fault, though, isn’t it?

  I let Cal show me the stars and hold my hand. I allowed him to catch me when I fainted. I came to a fairy-tale ball on his arm and then ran with him to a candle-lit corner.

  What kind of horrible, selfish idiot am I?

  “I-I didn’t mean to lead you on, Cal,” I stutter. “I really didn’t. You’re so nice, and you’ve been so thoughtful, but …”

  You’re still not Nick. You never will be.

  “Fine,” Cal shrugs. “Whatever.”

  And without another glance he pushes past the blue chiffon, back into the party.

  stare at Cal’s retreating figure.

  Then I try to follow him.

  Except I can’t, because I manage to get tangled up in the blue fabric.

  Obviously.

  I should have seen that coming from the minute I entered the ballroom.

  In a panic I spin myself energetically round like a fly caught in a web, and then start bleating through the chiffon: “Caleb. Wait. I can explain …”

  A small white hand gently reaches down and disentangles me. “Let him go,” Fleur says quietly as I emerge, flushed and puffing. “There’s no point.”

  “But …” I stare at her, and then at Cal. He must have walked fast: he’s already on the other side of the room. “I’ve hurt him. I need to say sorry, I need to—”

  “You don’t need to do anything,” Fleur says. “He’s done, Harriet. Tick.”

  My eyes widen. “What do you mean tick? Like … off a list? Or like a parasitic arachnid that attaches itself to a vertebrate, sucks blood and then leaves a nasty bite?”

  Fleur laughs grimly. “Both, actually. Caleb is an MC.”

  “An MC?”

  “A Model Chaser. He crashes fashion parties and photo shoots so he can get near to as many of us as possible. And now he’s done with you. Tick.”

  I look back across the room to where Cal is now talking to a very pretty girl with long blonde curls.

  With a lurch, I recognise all of it.

  I recognise the focused, piercing expression and the charming smile. I recognise the way he’s grabbing her hand. I recognise the way he’s leaning in, to see if she has a sparkle in her eye when actually it’s astigmatism.

  Then my stomach rolls again.

  Did he ever actually call me Harriet? Does he actually even remember my name?

  “I’m sorry,” Fleur says as I watch him flick a bit of imaginary fluff off the blonde’s shoulder and she goes bright red. “I should have warned you, but you had Nick then. And I thought you were smarter than –” she pauses – “well, me.”

  I look in shock at her ashamed expression, and realise that ever since I saw Fleur in the LA MODE reception it’s been like looking at one of those pictures that can be two things: a candle or two faces, a bunny or a rat.

  Except now I can only see one.

  Fleur’s quietness.

  Her jitteriness in the reception when Cal was on the sofa. The pink flush when Cal put her on the roller coaster. Her eagerness to get away once the shoot was done. Her inability to make eye contact.

  Then I suddenly replay the look she gave me ten minutes ago. When Cal was standing right behind me.

  None of it was about me.

  It was about him.

  “But the planetarium,” I say, still feeling confused. “How did he know I’d like …”

  “Stars?” Fleur raises her eyebrows. “What girl doesn’t?”

  And the final puzzle piece falls into place. I bet there never was a photo shoot planned for this afternoon. I bet he just arranged it all with Kenderall.

  “For me, it was a boat ride at sunset,” Fleur sighs. “For Cassie it was the Statue of Liberty. He took a picnic to Central Park with Lydia, bought Rosie flowers and Rachel got a ride in a horse-drawn carriage.”

  My eyes widen, and I look again at Cal’s back.

  Ugh.

  For the first time possibly ever, the biggest idiot in the room isn’t me.

  “So you don’t hate me?”

  “Why would I hate you?” Fleur says, sounding genuinely surprised. “Of course I don’t hate you, Harriet.” She pauses. “But I do hate New York, and I really, really want to go home. I’ve had three jobs in six months, I live with eight other models in a tiny flat where there’s never any hot water and I’m hungry all the time.”

  I look at Fleur’s tiredness. She looks so much smaller than she used to. In more ways than one.

  “It’ll be OK,” I say, reaching up and putting my arm cautiously around her high shoulder. I feel like Pooh Bear trying to cuddle Christopher Robin. “You can come and stay with us, and … and …”

  Suddenly I can’t breathe properly.

  “Had,” I say, gripping Fleur’s shoulder tightly. “Had.”

  “Huh?” Fleur frowns.

  “You said ‘You had Nick then’. Had. Past tense.”

  “Oh my God, Harriet. I didn’t mean you to find out like … He’d only just got here and … I tried to explain, but he was too far away and he didn’t hear me and …”

  The room disappears.

  And then – bit by bit – I do too.

  First my ears vanish. Then my chin. Then my lips and my shoulders and my arms. Then my fingers and my knees and my feet and my elbows.

  Until I’m nowhere and nothing.

  I look at the blue chiffon curtain. From one side, I could see lights. I could see people.

  Which means they could see me and Caleb.

  No.

  No.

  No no no no no no no no no NO.

  Because all I know now is this:

  cheetah’s heart is capable of jumping from 120 beats per minute to 250 in a matter of seconds.

  Apparently so is mine.

  I spin in wild circles, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of Nick’s curly head amongst the glittering crowd.

  “Hey, babe,” Kenderall says as I start spinning in the opposite direction, just in case that helps. “I finally met Nick. He’s mega hot, babe. Probably doesn’t need a hyphen. You want to hang on to that one.”

  I stare at her, aghast.

  She has got to be kidding me.

  “You saw him?” I nearly shout, hope rising. If I can just talk to him, I can explain everything. “He’s still here?”

  “Oh no,” she says calmly. “He’s long gone. Told you the plan would work. He’s totally crazy about you now. He left this for you on his way out.”

  She hands me a tiny blue box.

  I hold it tightly in my hand. For a second, I am a whisker away from sticking it straight down her stupid long model throat. “This was the plan? Getting someone else to kiss me in front of my boyfriend was the plan?”

  This is why I should always get people to write their plans down for me.

  “Well, I didn’t know he’d see you and Cal, did I? But I was hoping he’d have his suspicions after your little ‘date’. It worked out even better than we could have hoped for.”

  She stretches her arms above her head and yawns h
ugely.

  The strongest organ in our body may be the tongue, but for a few seconds I can’t get mine to say anything constructive at all.

  “How is this better?”

  “Boys don’t know what they’ve got until they’ve lost it to someone else,” Kenderall states. “Everyone knows that. I was helping you.”

  “But I don’t want to lose Nick,” I shout. “THAT WAS THE POINT.”

  Kenderall blinks. “Well it’s not a science, babe. Jeez.”

  I stare at Kenderall. Then I stare down at my stupid dress through my stupid fake eyelashes and the silly orange cards strapped to my arm. I think of all the stupid texts I’ve been sending, and all the forced silences.

  And weirdly enough my anger with her abruptly disappears.

  Kenderall’s not a bad person. She just doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know Nick, and she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about.

  Unfortunately, I obviously know even less.

  I have been such an idiot.

  Trembling, I rip open the little box and pull off the tiny white note attached to it.

  Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, is a silver necklace.

  It has nine brightly coloured beads on it in different sizes. Three blue, two red, one orange, one purple, one yellow and a tiny mottled blue and green one.

  It’s our solar system.

  Nick has given me the planets.

  I didn’t want to lose my boyfriend.

  But it looks like I just did.

  July 21st

  “So,” I said, curling up next to Nick. David Attenborough was talking about sharks ascending from the cold dark depths, and I couldn’t find my slippers.

  “So,” Nick said, wrapping his warm hands around my feet.

  “So,” I said again.

  “So,” he laughed. “Say it, Manners. Whatever it is you’re fretting about and pulling apart like a puppy with a ball of tissues, just say it.”

  I cleared my throat.

  “So, I was just wondering … Because the thing is … I just wanted to know …” I took a deep breath. “Am I your girlfriend yet?”

  “Officially?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write-it-down official? Diary official?”

  I flushed. How did he know that I’d left a space for this express purpose right at the back? “Have you been looking through my personal secrets, Nick Hidaka? That’s not very gallant of you.”