by Holly Smale
“Natalie?” With my middle finger, I tap her forehead.
Then I abruptly pull the pillow out from under her so her head hits the bed with a thud. “Natalie Grey. Wake up now.”
Her eyes flicker, then she starts snoring again.
A wood frog hibernates for the winter by stopping its own heart, freezing its own lungs and allowing ice crystals to form in its blood until it’s essentially deceased.
Right now I’m kind of tempted to put my head on my best friend’s chest and check she hasn’t done the same thing.
Instead I stick one of Bunty’s stray feathers up her nose.
“Mnnneeeurggh,” Nat mumbles aggressively, shoving me away and wrapping an arm tightly over her face. “Leamelonemsleep.”
“But it’s ten am,” I point out patiently. “Ten-fourteen, if you want to be precise. Half the morning is gone already.”
“Dontcare,” she mutters from under her elbow. “Goway.”
“And we’re in Australia,” I remind her, bouncing up and down on her bed encouragingly. “On an adventure. Our Best Friend escapade. A once-in-a-lifetime Kindred Spirits caper.”
“Mmmnneeurgh,” she mumbles, turning over and sticking her head firmly under the duvet. “Canwaitnotherhourgotjetlag. Soannoying.”
Apparently koala bears sleep more than any other animal: twenty-two hours every day, which means 91.7 per cent of their average lifespan. Scientists obviously didn’t include Nat in their studies, because as soon as the holidays hit she can out-snooze any marsupial on the planet.
Destroying other people’s carefully made plans in the process.
And yet I’m the one who’s irritating?
“We’ve got Things to Do,” I say as brightly as I can, sliding my folder of carefully researched plans under the duvet. “If we want to get anything ticked off today, we’ll have to get moving.”
“You do it,” she says in a muffled voice, pushing the folder straight back out again. “Go to bookshops or whatever and come get me after lunch.”
OK: bookshops or whatever? Napoleon’s of Sydney Military Bookshop is entirely military- and history-based and has World War Two action figures: I’d like to see anyone not enjoy that thoroughly.
Maybe it’s time to break out the big guns.
Obviously I had intended for today to be a surprise, but it’s quite difficult to spread joy to other people when they insist on being unconscious.
Leaving Nat snuffling, I run to the walk-in closet and unzip my giant suitcase. Carefully, I pull out some of its many plastic-covered contents: neatly packaged with Rin and Wilbur’s help. As quietly as possible, I unwrap one of them.
Then I tug my pyjamas off, slip it on and sashay up to the bed.
“Maybe we should a dress this situation one more time,” I say, prodding Nat again. “Or it may start to look shift-y.”
She groans loudly. “What?”
“I mean,” I say, grabbing another item from its package, “I wouldn’t want to skirt around the issue or get the cold shoulder. It would be really hard to top this kind of opportunity.”
Another groan.
“You could always tell me to shoo,” I say, starting to grin in anticipation. “Or maybe … shoes. Hahaha.”
There’s a short silence.
And – truthfully – a small chance I may have overegged that particular linguistic pudding.
“Harriet,” Nat says, finally emerging from the duvet with nigh-on vertical hair. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about but you sound bonkers even for y—”
She stops and blinks at me slowly.
“What do you think?” I beam, doing a little ballerina spin and ending in an elaborate curtsy. “Like it?”
“Is that my dress?” Nat looks in shock at the striped, knee-length black and white number. “More specifically, is that my A-level coursework?”
“Yup,” I say, hopping from foot to foot, unable to contain myself any longer. “It certainly is.”
“That’s the jacket I designed for the show last term,” she says blankly, pointing at my embroidered grey top half. “And they’re the shoes I customised.”
“I know.” I beam at my red feet. They’re inherited vintage Prada and to say her mum went bonkers would be the understatement of the century. “They fit me perfectly.”
“But I don’t understand …” Nat sits up with a confused frown, pillow creases on her forehead. “What are they doing in Australia?”
“I brought all of it,” I say triumphantly, grabbing a huge pile of packages from my suitcase and throwing them on to the bed next to her. “Every single thing you’ve ever made. Team JRNTH helped me get it together before we left.”
Then I take a step backwards and gesture at the heap like a magician dramatically revealing a fluffy white rabbit.
My best friend stares mutely: at the beautiful, shiny collection of everything she’s done for the last seven months at college. Red silks and orange cottons and blue velvets; brown leathers and stripy knits. Personally designed, hand-sewn and lovingly, carefully, furiously laboured over.
Everything Nat’s given up her life for this year.
Sacrificing parties and sleepovers and picnics and films and potential boyfriends and properly straightened hair because she’s been working so hard and with such dedication there’s been no time for any of it.
And she thought nobody had noticed, but I did.
“So that’s why your suitcase was so heavy?” Nat says finally, looking at me with wide eyes.
I nod with another grin.
“But …” She looks round the room. “Why?”
“Because this is the primary Australian plan,” I say, pulling out a secret piece of paper, stored in my wallet. “We’re going to get your fashion blog up and running again, Nat. We’re going to launch your social media accounts. And I’m going to model your amazing, wonderful clothes so everybody can see them.”
Then I show her the bullet-point list that is headed with:
MAKE NAT A FASHION ICON
Apparently girls cry on average 5.3 times per month, but to the best of my knowledge Nat has done it three times in eleven years.
It looks like she’s about to up that ratio.
“Harriet,” she says in a quiet voice. “Your plan is me?”
And as she abruptly drags me on to the bed in the hardest cuddle of my life, I can feel myself filling from top to toe with a warm, happy, best-friend glow.
Because that’s the thing I love most about plans.
Now and then, you get to put somebody else at the top of your list.
uffice to say, Nat’s not sleepy any more.
The copepod is a one-millimetre crustacean that lives in the ocean, and is capable of accelerating to five hundred body lengths per second. In fact, it has the strongest legs in the world.
Judging by the speed with which Nat leaps out of bed and runs to the closet, she’s trying to compete this morning.
“I’m going to need the white Mary Janes,” she shouts as she runs back in with her empty suitcase bouncing behind her. “The high-waist cream trousers with black blouse. The blue leather dress with pockets, the striped shirt, the black fedora and the gold necklace and—”
The rest of her demands are lost in the pile as her head disappears. “Belts!” she yells, suddenly popping up like a manic meerkat. “Eyeliner! Bracelets!”
Then she disappears again.
“Give her some food, darling,” Bunty whispers to me as she and Moonstone appear with a tray of toast and eggs and two glasses of orange juice. “Or trust me: she’s going to fall asleep in the rosemary bed of the Royal Botanic Gardens and smell like artisan pizza for a week.”
So I spend the next fifteen minutes perched on the edge of the bed, trying to feed Fashion Cyclone Nat in tiny, encouraging mouthfuls like she’s an over-stimulated hamster.
Finally, she emerges from the chaos: cheeks flushed, hair dishevelled, creative levels dangerously peaking. It’s a good thing she’s
going to be behind the camera today because I don’t think anyone wants to order clothes from a girl with eggshell in her fringe.
“I’m going to need a unique username,” Nat fires out, yanking her overstuffed suitcase towards a taxi waiting outside. “A new website an updated blog a Twitter account Instagram tumblr a new biography isthecameraonmyphonegoodenoughdoyouthink? Haveyou—”
Humans can emit a maximum of fourteen sounds a second but I think my best friend is starting to test that theory.
“Nat,” I say, putting a hand on her arm again. “Breathe.”
Grinning, I tap my phone, hold it up and show her a beautiful silver and white website with NGrey Designs etched on the front in curly writing. Then I open a few apps and show her a brand-new network of social media platforms.
“Toby did it while we were on the plane,” I explain. “Jasper wrote the content and Rin … umm, sent lots of photos of baby goats wearing wigs.”
Nat peers at the screen, then laughs loudly. “Let me guess,” she says, pointing at the image under her name. “That bit was you.”
Underneath NGrey Designs is a silver pair of scissors.
The kind you can make dresses, cut thread or shape fabric with. Or steal from the art room and use to chop off the ponytail of your best friend’s arch-nemesis.
And across the bottom it says in tiny silver writing:
Natalie Grey: Always at the Cutting Edge.
“Obviously,” I grin as we climb into the taxi. “Fame, glory and success, here we come.”
Honestly, my plan for today is not particularly complicated.
It goes like this:
And OK, I’m not totally sure of the social media timeline – I’ve only got four friends so group text does just fine for me – but I’m sure it won’t take long.
I mean, there’s a cat on YouTube with a baseball cap, leaning on a record and pretending to DJ, and that’s got three and a half million views.
History has proven that this plan absolutely works.
Within an hour it’s going perfectly.
Nat has carefully styled my hair in a scruffy, fluffy top-knot, and then applied mascara and hot-pink gloss to my face.
I’ve changed into an elegant blue jacket and trousers covered in white herons taking flight, made out of a silk kimono I brought back for her from Tokyo last year.
And I’m sitting casually on the kerb.
Chilling out in a downbeat, laid-back and Australian kind of way. Easy, informal, imperturbable. Insouciant. Which is kind of ironic, because normally when I sit on the pavement I’m having some kind of panic attack.
“Nice!” Nat says, holding her iPhone up a bit higher. “Can you lean back a bit more, H? On your elbows?” I lean back a bit more. “A bit less?” I lean back a bit less. “Poke your chin forward?” I poke. “Slant your head to one side?” I slant. “The other way.” I slant again. “No, the other other way. More? Even more? Over your shoulder?”
I hold my hand up to block the fiercely hot sunshine beaming down on me.
I’ve been professionally modelling for nearly seventeen months and my jobs have included Vogue, Baylee and Yuka Ito, but apparently Nat Grey is the most demanding client I’ve ever had.
“Owls can rotate their heads by two hundred and seventy degrees,” I say sharply. “Natalie, do I look like an owl to you?”
“Well, you do have unnaturally large, round eyes. And that bird documentary you made me watch last year said they eat whole mice and then barf up the skeleton. I’ve definitely seen you do that with a chocolate wrapper.”
“It was the foil. And it was Christmas. The lighting was insufficient for me to see it in time.”
“With eyes that size I sincerely doubt it.”
We stick our tongues out at each other.
“Just let me make sure the background is visible,” Nat says, bending down and taking another photo. “Or this whole location is kind of pointless.”
We both turn to look at the view behind me.
The huge silver arch of the world’s largest steel bridge: curving delicately over bright blue, shimmering water, filled with busy, graceful boats and yachts.
“Sydney Harbour Bridge contains 52,800 tonnes of steel,” I tell Nat, turning to face her and trying to look casual and laid-back again. “And 79 per cent of that was imported from England.”
“OK,” Nat says as she takes a photo.
“They’ve found 586 species of fish in the harbour itself. That’s more than in the English Channel.”
“Mmmm,” Nat murmurs, taking another one.
“It was tested by ninety-six different locomotives.”
“I’m trying to focus, Harriet, so will you please stop talking?”
Sometimes my best friend totally underestimates the importance of fish, trains and one of the world’s most recyclable metals.
“Now what?” Nat says, glancing up after the final frame. “What’s the next bit of the plan?”
Jumping up, I run over and throw my arm across her shoulder so we can stare at the screen together. I’m not entirely sure what she’s done with the filter but I look kind of green.
Like an alien or an avocado.
Although 95 per cent of avocados on sale today are descended from one tree grown by a Milwaukee postman in 1926, which is a brilliantly unique heritage, so maybe it’s intentional.
“I’m in charge of all your social media,” I say decisively. “Toby and I spent nine hours researching every aspect so I know exactly what I’m doing. You just focus on the creative side of the business.”
Toby and I couldn’t decide if my title should be Social Media Controller, Networking Chief Executive or Communications President. I’ll let Nat know when I’ve made up my mind.
Nat nods in visible relief. “Great, because we haven’t studied online marketing yet: they’re saving it for next term.”
I smile knowingly: I’ve already got her syllabus printed out and stuck on my bedroom wall beside mine.
“This is it,” I say in delight, uploading the first photo and quickly adding a few nuggets of essential information underneath. “We can do this, Nat. Our very first Official NGrey Designs Post. Are you ready?”
“Ready!” she squeaks.
“On your marks!”
“Get set …” she beams happily.
“GO,” I shout, clicking a button.
And – just like that – a brand-new Fashion Icon is born.
e rocket around Sydney for the rest of the day.
Or – if I’m being a little more specific – we walk as fast as physically possible.
After all, official modelling kicks in tomorrow so Nat and I need to squeeze as much productivity and fun out of our special day together as we can.
And also pizza.
Lots and lots and lots of pizza.
“Done!” Nat cries, taking a photo of me wearing green denim shorts, a white ruffled blouse and gold flip-flops: casually standing next to the wooden slatted wharves of Sydney Harbour.
Then she hands the phone over to her social media guru.
Did you know that Sydney Harbour contains over 500 gigalitres of water? WOW! I write in the caption, adding a few heart-eye emojis.
“Done!” Nat says after a short boat trip under the bridge: me, windswept in an embroidered lilac jumpsuit and black sunglasses.
Just one of 20,000 boats in Sydney, which is more than 52 per square kilometre! I add below it, with three little yacht emojis.
“Done!” she declares after we’ve captured me nonchalantly strolling down the streets of The Rocks: a picturesque neighbourhood of red-brick buildings, churches and tree-lined avenues, formed almost immediately after Captain Cook “discovered” Australia in 1770 and claimed it for the British.
Despite this land mass having had its own Aboriginal population for well over 60,000 years.
So I add that into the caption too.
Together, we run up and down the grey granite steps outside Sydney Opera House: me weari
ng a gold skirt and yellow blouse, with the world-famous semicircular white sails of the building soaring into the cobalt sky behind us.
This building is inspired by the peel of an orange :) I write.
Then I Google it, kick myself and edit with Although that is “apocryphal” which means a story with dubious factual sources so don’t quote me on it! Haha. :) :)
“Make sure you put all the relevant information underneath,” Nat reminds me for the fourteenth time.
I mean, as if I hadn’t done that already.
Exhausted by our efforts, we take a quick break to eat pizza and drink lemonade in the Botanic Gardens.
Then we head towards the centre of Sydney, taking photos all the way: past Queen Victoria Building (an 1898 former produce market restored in 1986), through the ornate, balconied and glass-ceilinged Strand Arcade (genuinely Victorian!), and down tree-lined Martin Place (the site of annual Anzac Day war remembrance services).
“Put the guidebook down, Harriet,” Nat says gently as she hands me a flamingo-print dress. “We need to focus.”
Which shows how much she knows.
I’ve memorised most of it anyway, so ha.
Finally we make our way to the top of Sydney Tower: an elegant, thousand-foot spire topped with a shining, round, gold turret. Nat takes a quick photo of me in silver shorts and black jumper and I upload it.
420 windows, 56 cables made of 235 high-tensile wires which, if laid end to end, could stretch from Sydney to New Zealand!!!! NO WAY! :) :) :)
Then – handing Nat’s phone back, workday finally over – I turn to stare at the view. And, slowly, the rest of my extremely relevant information begins draining out of me.
It’s incredibly beautiful.
The air is silent and warm, and three solo clouds hang in a darkening lavender sky: pink and purple in the haze. Below us the waters of Sydney are shimmering like blue ribbons, the jagged parks are deepening to jade and the edge of the horizon is glowing orange.
Below us the lights of Sydney are switching on one by one, and above us stars are popping out.
Around us are views stretching eighty kilometres in every direction. Turning one way, I can see the Blue Mountains just visible in profile like a stegosaurus back; spinning the other, I can follow the Pacific Ocean up the east coast of Australia towards Queensland.