Forever Geek

by Holly Smale

  “Oh my God, a puppy would love that.”

  “It would be adorable,” Nat declares. “We should set up a company called Puppy Protection Ltd.”

  “For All Your Wall-Hitting Needs.”

  We both start sniggering. Space never feels quite so big when there’s somebody floating right next to you: even if she does spend a fair amount of her time shouting.

  “So where are you?” Nat says when we’ve finally stopped giggling and making woof sounds. “Am I too late to help? Have you found him yet?”

  I look over to where Nick is. He hasn’t moved, although he appears to have found an even bigger piece of driftwood from somewhere.

  At this rate, he’s going to be back in England before I am.

  “I’m looking at him right now,” I admit. “I’ve just tracked him down.”

  “Did Toby guide you to your ex-boyfriend like some kind of nerdy Blue Fairy?”

  “Yup.”

  “Thought so. That boy has crazy stalker skills. So what’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to talk to Nick,” I say decisively. “I’m going to tell him I’m sorry that Yuka is so sick. And then I’m going to come back to Sydney tonight.”

  “Wait,” Nat says, breathing in sharply. “Yuka is … what?”

  “She’s really sick,” I say quietly. “I heard Bunty talking about it to Annabel. I couldn’t tell you yesterday because I didn’t want them to know I’d … been eavesdropping. Again.”

  Hamlet’s nosey father-in-law, Polonius, is clearly my kindred spirit.

  With maybe a little bit of Ophelia thrown in for good measure.

  “Oh my God,” Nat exhales. “I’m so sorry, Harriet. Everything makes so much more sense now.”

  “Nick and Yuka might not seem it but they are really close,” I explain, taking another step towards him, “and I just thought that maybe he needed someone to …” I blink. “Hang on, what do you mean everything?”

  There’s a pause.

  “I didn’t know whether to say anything,” Nat says, “given how busy stalking you are and everything.”

  “I’m not—” Oh, I give up. “What’s happened?”

  “You know the dress Silva wanted? Turns out it’s for a VIP fashion show she’s attending. She’s asked me to go with her as a plus one! Front freaking row, Harriet.”

  My entire face breaks into a huge grin: Nat’s Ultimate Fashion Target achieved. “Oh my God, Nat. Front row? That’s ama—”

  “Harriet, it’s Yuka’s show.”

  I blink. “Yuka is having a fashion show? In Sydney?”

  “Yeah. It’s called The Show To End All Shows and apparently it’s some kind of enormous celebration to pay tribute to Yuka’s designs from the last three decades. There was an article about it in the Sydney Post this morning.”

  And I can feel my stomach starting to hurt.

  The Show To End All Shows.

  Yuka’s putting on one gigantic sartorial goodbye, and nobody in the fashion world has worked out why.

  “Sugar cookies,” I whisper, looking back at Nick. “Nat, this is awful. Poor, poor Yuka. When is it happening? Where?”

  “She must be really unwell, Harriet,” Nat says gently. “Because it’s just been moved forward five days.”

  And emotions are starting to hit me like a series of earthquakes: small at first, but getting bigger and bigger by the second.

  I know I promised I’d never gatecrash anything again, but I might have to make an exception.

  “It’s soon, isn’t it,” I say numbly.

  “Yes,” Nat confirms. “It’s tomorrow night.”

  here’s no time to lose.

  As I say goodbye to Nat, shove the Brick back into my satchel and start running haphazardly across the soft sand, I realise procrastinating is a luxury I no longer have.

  Go go go, Harriet.

  “Heeey!” somebody yells as I trip over their beach bag.

  “Ugh,” somebody else grunts as they get a mouthful of sand.

  “Oooooy!” a small child shouts as I accidentally wipe out half their sandcastle.

  “I’m sorry!” I call, turning and jogging backwards. “I’ll come back and help you set it up ag—”

  At which point I slam straight into a volleyball net.

  Unfazed, I stand up and brush myself off.

  Then I just keep running: over feet, round parasols and picnics, through groups of friends.

  Until finally – huffing and puffing through my mouth like a dragon – I reach Nick. He’s been watching me approach, and I’d like to say that it’s because he obviously has a Harriet radar built into his head like I do for him.

  But I don’t think he needs one.

  I’ve seen videos of bulls on the loose in Spain creating less commotion.

  “Nick,” I pant, skidding to an abrupt halt. “I’m here.”

  There were so many more poignant ways to start this conversation, but I don’t have time for any of them, or for embarrassment either.

  Some things are more important.

  “Hi,” Nick says flatly. “That was quite an entrance, Manners. Even for you.”

  Something tells me he knew I was coming.

  Probably thanks to one of the seven people I alerted by doorstepping them on the way here, like some kind of rampant telephone salesman.

  “Nick,” I say quickly, plopping myself down next to him. “I know I’m the last person you want to see. I know we broke up ages ago and this isn’t my place any more. But I’m here, I understand, I can listen if you need me to and I want to say how sorry I am about everything.”

  Lion Boy looks at me carefully.

  His expression is guarded and closed: I can’t see past his beautiful features any more.

  “OK,” he says, nodding.

  “I didn’t … realise,” I continue delicately, randomly tapping a finger on his surfboard. “I didn’t know about … I didn’t guess how much of an impact this would all have on you.”

  Nick frowns. “I’m fine, Harriet. But thanks.”

  “So if you need anything …” I continue. “Or just want to talk. Or maybe if you want to come with me to see Yuka tomorrow …”

  With a swift motion, Nick bounces up and shakes the sand off his legs. “Now what are you talking about?”

  I stare up at him from the ground.

  He’s much browner than I remember: the colour of a roasted chestnut. He must have spent a lot of time on beaches over the last six months, because there’s a thin, pale stripe just above his blue board shorts that I’m trying really, really hard not to look at.

  I’m also going to ignore his use of the word now.

  “To see Yuka,” I repeat in confusion. “She’s in Sydney and—”

  “I haven’t spoken to my aunt since last summer,” Nick interrupts shortly. “We fell out badly when I broke my contract with her. None of my family has spoken to her for nearly a year.”

  “But—” The pathologist who did Einstein’s autopsy stole his brain and kept it in a jar for twenty years. It suddenly feels like somebody’s just done the same to me. “I thought that—”

  Wait.

  If Nick hasn’t spoken to Yuka for a year, if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, if he doesn’t understand why I’m here …

  Does this mean he doesn’t know?

  As I stare at him in blank amazement it suddenly occurs to me that this is exactly the kind of news Yuka Ito would keep to herself.

  “Look,” Nick says, scratching his head and looking blankly past me at the sea. “Harriet, I appreciate you coming hundreds of kilometres to see me …”

  “Seven hundred and seventy-seven,” I say before I can stop myself, “point three.”

  There’s a pause and I swear, for just a second, I see a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes,” he says as it disappears again. “Point three. But you’re right. We broke up and I’ve moved on. I think you need to now as well.”

  Stunned into silenc
e, I stare as he picks up his long board.

  “I’m going for a surf,” Nick states, tucking it comfortably under his arm. “As planned. Then I’m going home.”

  He looks at me with an expression that I don’t know how to read.

  “Maybe, Harriet, you should too.”

  ow, I know quite a lot about surfing.

  I know that Captain James Cook coined the term in 1778, and that it’s one of the oldest sports on Earth: dating back to prehistoric stone carvings that are 5,000 years old.

  I know that the “Father of Modern Surfing” was Duke Kahanamoku who started a surf club in Waikiki Beach, Hawaii, and that traditionally it was considered an elite and sacred activity.

  I know that the first major surf competition took place in 1928 in Corona del Mar, California, and that studies have shown that sixty-six per cent of all surfers think about sharks while riding a wave.

  I even know that it’s a ten-billion-dollar global industry with more than twenty million participants worldwide.

  All of which are facts I learnt while I was dating Nick.

  But, suffice to say, I don’t know how to surf.

  Frankly, having researched it so diligently online I’m pretty sure it requires muscles, strength and coordination that my body doesn’t possess.

  None of which is going to stop me now.

  “Excuse me,” I say quickly, jumping up as my ex-boyfriend literally runs away from me into the ocean. “Are you using that at this precise moment?”

  About twenty metres away, a pretty blonde lady is sitting next to the blue surfboard I’m pointing at, eating a sandwich.

  “Uh,” she says in confusion. “Not right n—”

  “Can I borrow it, please?” I say, bending down and velcroing the plastic rope round my ankle. “I’ll bring it back really soon. There’s just something I have to do.”

  She blinks at me, mouth still full.

  And I can actually see the mental process swirling over her face: If she was stealing my surfboard, would she ask first? Seems unlikely. Also it’s very big and heavy: she won’t get far.

  “Sure,” she says, shrugging. “Knock yourself out. You’re British, right?”

  OK: do Brits have an international reputation for something I’m totally unaware of and yet am repeatedly representing perfectly?

  Also, knock yourself out probably isn’t the safest analogy for a water sport.

  “Yes,” I admit, struggling to pick up the long board that’s surprisingly heavy and doesn’t tuck comfortably anywhere on me. “I’ll be back very shortly. Umm – which way round does it go?”

  The lady blinks again. “You don’t know which way round a surfboard goes?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” I say, starting to waddle with it held out in front of me like a penguin carrying an even bigger, flatter penguin. “I mean, there’s only two options, right? Thanks again!”

  The surfboard owner stares at me in disbelief.

  Then – with a deep breath – I head towards a large body of water.

  As if I’ve learnt nothing, ever, in my entire life.

  here are many different types of waves.

  Capillary waves, wind waves, seiche waves, seismic waves, breaking waves, inshore waves, kelvin waves, refracted waves. And that’s not even including the type you get in A-level physics: transverse, longitudinal, P waves and S waves.

  I have no idea which one I’m heading into now.

  All I know is that they’re bigger than they look from the beach and as I lurch awkwardly into the warm sea I’m not sure identifying them is really going to help very much.

  So I’m just going to copy what everyone else is doing instead.

  Glancing to the side, I wade confidently until I’m waist-deep in clear, turquoise water, throw the surfboard on to the surface and then try to lob myself staunchly on top of it.

  It immediately rolls over and throws me into the ocean.

  Then I try again except a little more carefully: shuffling on to the board on my belly, inch by inch, like a sporty and athletic sea snake.

  Or – you know: that wretched alpaca Bunty told us about.

  “Nick!” I call loudly, kicking furiously with my feet and using my arms like desperate oars on either side. “Wait!”

  In the distance, I can see him gliding away.

  Poised and graceful and strong: ducking his head and disappearing under a wave, then emerging smoothly again like an otter. I’ve never actually seen him in the ocean before, and I hadn’t realised quite how at home he is: as if water is Nick’s natural territory and land is something he tolerates in the gaps between.

  A wave is coming for me, so I try to do the same.

  Holding my breath, I grasp the front of the surfboard, press down and try to swim through the rising shelf of water.

  It’s nowhere near as easy as it looks.

  “Nick!” I call again, spluttering as I burst out the other side with my hair plastered across my eyes and a streaming nose full of seawater. “Hang on a moment!”

  He turns just in time to see another wave crest and smash me straight in the face. There’s a short pause, then he rotates his board and starts paddling swiftly back towards me.

  “Harriet?” he calls across the turquoise water. “What the hell are you doing this time?”

  I mean, I’d have thought that was obvious: stalking, except now by water. Just like a polar bear.

  Toby would be so proud.

  “I’m surfing,” I say as another huge wave comes and my board lifts up dramatically to a forty-five-degree angle, pivots for a brief moment and then plunges me seawards, face down. I come up, spluttering again. “Or … trying to.”

  This time it’s unmistakable: I’m close enough to see his cheek twitch slightly. “Sure,” he says, rapidly paddling closer. “My mistake. You’re Kelly Slater.”

  “Winner of the Banzai Pipeline in 1992, 1994, 1995, 1996 and 1999,” I tell him, rolling with the tide. “By 2011 he’d broken every pro-surfing record on the planet.”

  “Yeah, Slater’s going to need to watch his back.”

  “You never know. I might have a hidden sporting talent nobody saw coming.”

  “Although you can ice-skate,” he says, smiling a tiny bit.

  “Exactly. It’s basically the same recreational activity, except this water has melted.”

  Nick’s board has reached mine now, and as they bump together for a second his hand accidentally touches mine and a bolt of electricity runs straight through it.

  We both pull away at the same time.

  “What’s going on, Harriet?” he says more gently. “I thought I’d made how I’m feeling pretty clear.”

  We’re somehow in a quieter spot: the waves are calmer, and with one smooth movement Nick sits up and swings his legs either side of his board.

  With far less elegance, I scramble to sit on top of my board too.

  And immediately roll over into the ocean again.

  You know what? Maybe I’ll just hang on to it with both arms and thank science and industry for warm water, air bubbles in plastic and proven displacement theory.

  “You did make it clear,” I admit, holding on as tightly as I can while trying to wipe away a dribble of snot without Nick noticing it. “But … there’s something else I have to say.”

  “How unlike you,” Nick sighs, rubbing water droplets off his face. “Also, do you have some kind of death wish, Manners? Because if so, there are easier ways to go than drowning.”

  “Ninety per cent of all drownings happen in fresh water,” I say, ignoring the sarcasm. “It’s more similar in chemical composition to blood, so it passes through the lungs into the veins by osmosis. That causes organ failure within two or three minutes.”

  I bob up and down silently for a few seconds.

  “Ocean water has more salt,” I continue, “which draws blood out of the bloodstream and into the lungs and takes longer. Between eight to ten minutes. That means there’s more time
to get saved.”

  And there it is again: the cheek twitch.

  “As we both know,” Nick says, lifting an eyebrow. “Given that I’ve already done that for you in the last few days. Are you out here so I can save you again?”

  Even soaking wet, I feel myself flush hot. I am not looking to be saved. In fact, it’s supposed to be the other way round.

  And if something happens to Yuka before Nick makes up with her, I’m going to always feel like I could have done something to help.

  However, this is not the kind of news you break to someone while bobbing around in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

  So I’m going to have to go Full Harriet again.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, taking Nat’s advice and looking at him as steadfastly as possible. “I bumped into Yuka yesterday.”

  Nick blinks and shuffles on his board. “Yeah?”

  “Mmm. She was …” What would Yuka have been doing? “Yelling at a model for eating a slice of her own birthday cake.” Good, Harriet. Believable. “But she … mentioned you.”

  He frowns, studying my face. “Did she?”

  “Yes. And Yuka’s truly sorry, Nick. For the fight. She says she wants you to come to her fashion show in Sydney tomorrow. To make things up.” OK, this no longer sounds like Yuka at all. “And also please can you make sure you don’t wear those horrible blue socks because this is fashion, Nicholas, and they’re an embarrassment.”

  That’s better, Harriet. Much more realistic.

  Nick throws back his head, and there it is: the laugh.

  That loud, glorious shout I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear again.

  “Those socks are an embarrassment,” he agrees, visibly relaxing. “Although I’m pretty sure I left them at your house, so she doesn’t need to worry.”

  I flush again. As you and I know, one of them is still in a box under my bed.

  And I will die before I ever tell Nick that.

  “So … will you?” I say tentatively. “Will you … come to Sydney and make things up with Yuka?”

  There’s a silence as we bob up and down together.

  Every few seconds Nick’s surfboard bangs into mine, and I feel a jolt of something.