Forever Geek

by Holly Smale

  And I suddenly remember the day Jasper and I first met.

  Me: trying so desperately to win that stupid toilet-roll competition after moving back from New York so that my brand-new sixth-form class might like me.

  Him: thinking I was a conceited idiot.

  How incapable he was of understanding what I was doing, or why, or how I felt, or who I was, or what I meant, even when I tried so hard to show him.

  How difficult I have always found it to understand him too.

  Because some people just can’t see into you. Or you, them.

  Even if there are beautiful colours and rainbows everywhere and you really, really want to.

  Say it, Harriet.

  “I want to go back to being friends,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry, Jasper, but this isn’t going to work. And if we try, we’re going to lose our friendship too. I don’t want that to happen.”

  And with a whoosh it suddenly feels like I’ve pulled out a splinter that’s been worrying me since that first kiss outside the cafe: lodged in my finger but too tiny to even see without a magnifying glass.

  Because I think I’ve known all along that if I felt the way I should about Jasper, I wouldn’t need schedules and lists and itineraries to remind me of him.

  He’d just be … there.

  “Are you getting back together with Nick?” he asks after a beat. “Tell me the truth, Harriet.”

  I stare at the crystal for a few seconds.

  “I don’t think so,” I say honestly. “I’m pretty sure that’s over. But I just don’t want this to get messy, Jasper. And I think it will.”

  There’s another circular silence.

  Then: “Yeah, you’re right.”

  OK: whoa.

  That’s literally the first time Jasper has ever said that to me or – who are we kidding – possibly anyone. “I am?”

  “I like you, Harriet. You’re smart and funny and cute and a bit bonkers. But you’re also incredibly hard work. Like, seriously high maintenance.”

  And a bubble of laughter abruptly pops out of my mouth.

  I really am.

  “What are you talking about?” I say as indignantly as possible, grinning at the ceiling. “Don’t the girls you normally date give you timetables to romance them to?”

  “There’s generally a lack of schedules of any kind.”

  “Don’t they merge your calendars the day after a first kiss so there’s no availability misunderstandings?”

  “Almost never.”

  “And they don’t draft up a contract for you to sign in preparation for falling in love?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I mean, what kind of crazy, laid-back, go-with-the-flow, organic, just-let-it-happen people are they?”

  We’re both laughing, and I can feel it: our friendship, slotting back into place like a jigsaw puzzle. As if it’s a really important piece of a lovely picture that was never supposed to be pulled out of where it belonged in the first place.

  “So I’ll see you when I get back next week?” I say when we’ve both stopped chuckling. “In the cafe? Usual seat? Harrietuccinos all round?”

  “They’re actually called hot chocolates,” Jasper says drily. “Weirdo.”

  “Grouch. Will you save me a burnt biscuit too?”

  “Of course, although my parents are going to start working out why I burn them every time you’re there.” There’s a tiny pause. “Harriet, Team JRNTH isn’t the same without you.”

  “I know,” I grin at the ceiling. “Because otherwise it’s just Team JRNT and nobody would put that on a T-shirt.”

  Jasper laughs. “See you at home, freakoid.”

  And as I say goodbye, put the phone down and stare at the crystal hanging over my head – throwing reds and greens and blues and yellows around the room in bright rainbows – I realise with a flush of happiness that it’s never too late to rectify the mistakes you might have made.

  It’s never too late to alter the direction of your own story.

  After all, it starts with you.

  he next twenty-four hours are chaos.

  Which is ironic because the origin of that word is Latin, and meant a gaping, wide, empty abyss and only changed to orderless confusion in the 1600s.

  We’re definitely going with the latter version now.

  Every spare moment and millimetre of floor space is filled with activity.

  Whether it’s sewing or cutting or ironing or trying to find skin-coloured underwear or washing my hair and face or just being bossed around furiously by my best friend because she’s in hyper-perfection mode, we barely have time to sit down.

  Although normally it’s me doing the bossing so I’m giving Nat a free pass.

  “Stick this to this,” she says, handing me two bits of fabric and adhesive spray. “Hang that up in the bathroom to steam? Upload that photo. Wait, I’ll dictate what I need you to say underneath.”

  All of which I do, gladly and without additional facts this time.

  In 1896 there was a book called the International Cloud Atlas which defined the ninth cloud – the cumulonimbus – as rising to ten kilometres and therefore the highest a cloud could possibly be: hence the saying On Cloud Nine.

  My best friend has somehow found a tenth cloud of happiness, and I will do whatever it takes to keep her on it. Even if it means abandoning my position as Social Media Chief Controller President™, because Nat appears to be significantly better at it than I was anyway.

  While I was in Byron Bay, she took over all her accounts.

  And within minutes, Nat had worked out what I failed to understand after hours of research and a full week of practice: that the random Hamster Wig company is actually Rin’s real account, she’s got 300k Japanese followers all thoroughly obsessed with her manga costumes and animals-in-cute-outfits photos and she’s been happily sending them over to Nat from the start.

  We now have 15,845 excited followers, all of whom think my best friend’s designs are gorgeous, inspiring and visionary.

  There’s probably a lesson in that somewhere, but I’m not entirely sure what it is.

  By five pm, I’m ticking things off today’s list like nobody’s business. I’ve studied Yuka’s invitation carefully and am clean-faced (tick), hair-washed (tick), wearing denim culottes, my favourite diplodocus T-shirt and underwear that inexplicably makes it look like I’m wearing no underwear when I totally am (tick).

  And Nat’s in a red dress with what she calls a pink “Peter Pan” collar.

  Even though I explained that Peter Pan mostly wore a green tunic made out of leaves so as a description that makes no sense whatsoever.

  “Silva’s here!” Nat whispers frantically as the doorbell pings. “Oh my God, what if she doesn’t like her dress? What if she hates it? What if she throws it in my face and—”

  “Nat,” I say, grabbing her in a hug. “She’s going to love it.”

  And I can feel all of the air whooshing out of Nat like a balloon again: except this time I’m holding her tightly in place.

  “You’re right,” she laughs. “I’m a freaking sartorial mastermind and she is going to be blown away.”

  Doing a mini Excited Dance, we jump around the room quietly, bump hips then open the door.

  “Hey, babes,” Silva says coolly, walking in and looking round. “Nice pad. What’s the skinny?”

  I hold my hand out, even though her opening gambit seems a bit rude.

  “My name’s Harriet,” I answer politely. “Although I’m actually a B cup now: they measured me recently at John Lewis.”

  Nat laughs. “She means what’s going on, H.”

  “Oh,” I flush. “Whoops.”

  Silva, in the meantime, has headed directly for the dress hanging on the wall. She obviously hasn’t been fooled into thinking it’s a piece of art, like I was in Paris.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, nodding. “This is exactly what I wanted, Natalie. You’re so freaking talented, girl.”

  It’s
very pale pink with a square neckline.

  From a distance the dress looks deceptively simple, but up close there’s pale pink embroidery curving up the waist and down the back, and a long, dipped hem with a subtle flash of red in the lining that flickers when you walk.

  And I’ve just realised – with yet another flush of pride – that Nat has coordinated their outfits for the front row. Proving, once again, that not every geek wears glasses, likes trigonometry and uses a calculator.

  My best friend is the coolest geek on the entire planet.

  Delighted, I wink at Nat and she winks back.

  “You might want to put it on slowl—” she starts, but Silva’s already in her bra and knickers.

  “I need to get there asap,” she says briskly, tugging on the dress and zipping it up. “There’s a rumour going round that Yuka’s retiring tonight, and if I break this news on my blog it could be huge.”

  Nat and I glance at each other.

  We both know that Yuka’s doing something that involves a lot less golf, coffee mornings and long Mediterranean cruises.

  “Harriet’s actually in the show,” Nat says, loyally changing the subject. “She’s one of Yuka’s ex-models. In fact, she used to be her ‘Face’.”

  Silva looks at me properly for the first time.

  “Not Yuka’s actual face,” I clarify quickly. “She has her own. I just modelled for her brand.”

  “Yeah?” Silva frowns as Nat laughs again. “Do you know anything?”

  I promised I would never lie ever again: but this is not my truth to tell.

  So I shake my head.

  “Either way it’s going to be mega,” Silva grins, picking up her bag. “Yuka Ito is a legend. She was the one who gave me my first-ever show invite when I had, like, six followers.”

  The more I hear about Yuka, the more I realise maybe she’s not exactly the uncaring Ice Queen she paints herself to be.

  “Puddings!” Bunty calls, swishing into the room in a floaty rainbow dress and a vivid blue wool poncho even though it’s still twenty-five degrees outside. “I found the prettiest flowers in the garden. They’re like happy tears on sticks. Look!”

  She holds out tiny daisies.

  “And it’s a full moon, so I can feel magic in the air tonight,” she beams, tucking one each into our hair. “There’s so much we could practically fly there.”

  “We?” I stare at her in surprise. “Are you coming too?”

  “Of course I am, darling,” she winks. “As if I’d miss my granddaughter doing her swishy pouty thing. Plus there’s an old friend I’d very much like to surprise tonight.”

  It looks like Bunty’s not averse to gatecrashing fashion events she’s not invited to either.

  Maybe some traits aren’t passed on genetically after all.

  A ripple of excitement bursts through me, and I can see it reflected in the three glowing, expectant faces in front of me. Because if I know Yuka Ito, tonight is going to be something really special.

  Magical. Dramatic. Extraordinary.

  It’s going to be an ending worth waiting for.

  ydney Observatory is on top of a hill.

  It’s an early nineteenth-century astronomical viewing point situated in the very middle of the city, converted into a working museum where visitors can see stars through both a modern forty-centimetre Schmidt–Cassegrain telescope and a historic twenty-nine-centimetre refractor telescope.

  And – despite Yuka’s attempt to shroud the location of her show in an air of mystery – I’ve done all my research already.

  Just to minimise my chances of doing something wrong.

  With increasing delight, I searched the address, pored over the website and memorised as much information as I could before we left.

  But I couldn’t have foreseen how beautiful it would be.

  As we slowly climb the steep slope, all of Sydney unfolds around us like a giant street map: opening square by square.

  The air is warm and soft; the light rosy.

  Lit by fading sunlight, the harbour expands slowly: glistening and scattered with tiny, faintly beeping boats. The steel bridge looms, and across the water perch a mass of central skyscrapers sitting quietly on the edge of the river like gigantic herons.

  The gold turret of Sydney Tower gleams and sparkles.

  By the water roost small, quaint orange-and-cream Victorian buildings, and the hill is covered in trees, bright flowers that I still don’t know the names of and winding pathways: framing the picture perfectly.

  Behind it – like a painted backdrop – the sky is a vivid, forget-me-not blue, flecked with streaks of pale pink and orange.

  And I try to breathe it all in happily.

  Yuka couldn’t have picked anywhere more beautiful or atmospheric in the whole of Sydney, and she definitely couldn’t have picked anywhere more educational. In fact, if there’s time maybe I can slip away and have a look at the—

  No, Harriet.

  I am here to model: not to have a look through the oldest functioning telescope in Australia, built in 1874. I’m also not here to enjoy the old time-ball tower, where the ball used to drop at one pm every day to signal to the harbour below.

  Or the digital planetarium and 3D space theatre.

  And I definitely didn’t print out a museum map and stick it in my satchel, just in case.

  Being professional is so hard, sometimes.

  “We must be way too early,” Nat frowns as we reach yet another barrier. “There’s nobody else here but the bouncer.”

  She’s right: the grounds are spookily empty.

  We had to walk round a sign that said CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT at the bottom of the hill, and there are so many ropes wound round the gardens it looks like somebody’s trying to herd humans like obedient sheep.

  Which, I would imagine, is Yuka’s exact plan.

  “Names?” a toweringly tall man in a fluorescent yellow jacket says, standing halfway up the hill with a clipboard held like a bureaucratic Centurion’s shield.

  “Silva Collins,” Silva says, thrusting her invitation at him. “Blogger. Natalie Grey is my guest.”

  “We’re front row!” Nat adds in a burst of unrestrained excitement. “That’s the best seats in the house, just in case you didn’t already know.”

  The man looks at the paper, then nods.

  “Harriet Manners,” I say as stridently as I can, as if any doubt in my voice will render my invitation invalid. “I’m modelling tonight.”

  The security guard scans through a different page, then nods again.

  Then we all turn to Bunty curiously.

  “Jadis,” she says smoothly, straightening her poncho. “Of Narnia, darling. I should be lurking at the bottom somewhere.”

  Nat and I burst out laughing, but the security guard obviously isn’t a C. S. Lewis fan because he doesn’t even blink. “Yep,” he says, drawing a line on the page and unclicking the barrier. “In you go, then.”

  We stop and blink at my grandmother.

  “Yuka always adds the White Witch on every event she does,” she winks. “It’s a little private joke and also means she can get last-minute emergency guests in with a code name.”

  Then she chuckles loudly. “She’s going to be furious it’s me. Although it was my idea in the first place.”

  Silva already has her mobile phone out. “We’ve got two hours before it starts. That should give me time to have a sneak around and see what I can find out. Nat, want to come?”

  “Umm.” Nat glances loyally at me. “I think maybe …”

  “Go,” I say, nudging her forward. “You won’t be allowed backstage anyway. I’ll see what I can find out too.”

  Which – frankly – will be nothing that I don’t know already.

  Because for the first time ever, apparently I know exactly what is happening before everyone else does.

  I just wish I could enjoy this rare situation more.

  “OK,” Nat grins. “See you after the show?”
>
  “Let’s hunt down the vol-au-vents,” Silva says, linking arms with her. “Yuka’s catering is the best, although she never eats any of it.”

  “I freaking love vol-au-vents,” Nat laughs. “Did you know it’s actually French for flight in the wind because they’re supposed to be tiny and light?”

  “No way! That’s so cute. How did you know that?!”

  Nat winks at me over her shoulder and then they both wander off round the side of the hill.

  I turn to Bunty. “Do you want to come with me?”

  “Hmmm?” Bunty’s rummaging through her fringed handbag. “Oh, that’s OK, darling. I’m going to sit on this bench and watch the sun go down. We only get one sunset a day, after all.”

  For a second, I deliberate staying with her.

  Then I glance at my watch and decide that ON THE DOT – in capitals – is probably not a euphemism for “watch the sunset with your grandma and then just rock up whenever you feel like it”.

  And it’s 6:38, which means I’m eight minutes late already.

  Plus it’s quite a big hill and I’m not exactly renowned for my speedy hill-climbing prowess.

  “I’ll see you when the show’s over, then?” The sky behind us is turning candy-floss pink and matches Bunty’s hair perfectly. “Or will you be in the audience?”

  “I’ll be there, my sweet girl,” Bunty says with a smile, sitting down on the bench and spreading her huge rainbow skirt out. “I promise. Even if you can’t see me.”

  “Great,” I say, although that’s highly doubtful: there are infinite colours in the universe, and Bunty appears to be wearing all of them. “Although did you know that by the time you see the sun set, it’ll actually have already gone?”

  Bunty beams at me. “Is that true, darling?”

  “Yes, because light takes so long to travel and Earth’s atmosphere is so dense it bends the rays, which means by the time the sun hits the horizon we’re seeing something that isn’t there any more.”

  I glance at my watch again: 6:41.