Head Over Heels

by Holly Smale

  I stare at the single remaining cup.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  Sketched in the Harriet-uccino foam in dark cocoa is a blob with eight arms, two eyes and a domed head.

  There’s no doubt about it: it’s an octopus.

  “Haha,” I say flatly. “Hilarious.”

  “Sounds like it really was.” Jasper sits next to me. “Maybe you wanted to practise your seduction strategy with Charlie first, or were you just going in for a cuddle?”

  I flush bright pink.

  Yup: this is exactly why I didn’t tell him about Octo-gate. Or any of my other modelling experiences.

  He finds my embarrassment way too amusing.

  “Anyway –” change the subject before he asks about Paris – “guys, I have a favour to ask. My Vogue shoot is tomorrow, and I think I’m going to need a back-up model in case anything goes wrong. Rin, would you be able to come with me?”

  Nat frowns. “I don’t think you get to pick your own …” I kick her under the table and glance pointedly at Rin then Jasper. “Oh. Got it. Err … bench-subbing yourself is totally standard procedure in the British fashion world.”

  “Of course,” Rin says brightly. “I am happy to do it.”

  Tick.

  “I’ll come along t—” Nat begins before I give her another swift boot to the shins and a no, you will not expression, “—or I would, but … Vogue is so over right now.” Nat shrugs whilst going a little pink around the ears. “I mean, yawn. Boring. Whatevs.”

  I literally have the best friend in the world.

  “I’ve got quadruple physics,” Toby says, rubbing a dusting of cocoa off the end of his nose. “It’s actually my double physics lesson and then another one I go to that isn’t mine.”

  “But …” Nat says, frowning, “aren’t you …”

  “Such a shame,” I interrupt smoothly, then turn to Jasper. “Please can you come too? Tabitha’s going to need an extra pair of hands and she likes you.”

  His eyebrows lift. “Really?”

  “Well, she’s too young to know any better.”

  “Touché.” Jasper throws a napkin at me. “I’ve got a class first thing but I can try and make it afterwards. Can’t miss seeing you in action, can I?”

  Tick.

  Delighted, I grin and resist the urge to rub my hands together and burst into loud Mad Genius laughter.

  Everything’s lining up, just as I hoped.

  A few more strategic but subtle nudges here and there and I think my job is done.

  “Gah,” Nat says, glancing at her watch, grabbing her handbag and standing up. “I’m late for a night class again. Have fun tomorrow, OK guys?”

  Then she gives me eloquent Best Friend eyes.

  Harriet, they say, what exactly are you planning on doing?

  I grin at her triumphantly.

  Oh, nothing, I wink back. Just a little bit of chemistry.

  ith one plan completely under control, it’s time to focus on a few of the others.

  Like stealing my sister.

  By first thing the next morning, I’ve packed a bag full of baby stuff, sent Toby off with a forged sick note for school and worked up a series of elaborate ruses for Tabitha: ranging from pretending Rin’s taken her on an incredibly long walk (simple), to rigging up an electronically motored balloon underneath a pile of clothes with a doll’s head on top and putting it in her cot (much more difficult and potentially the beginning of a really bad film).

  After much deliberation, I opt for National Bring Your Pre-School Sibling to School Day.

  It’s a brand-new holiday – according to the newsletter I’ve just made on my computer – designed to foster a love of education and knowledge among relatives.

  Especially babies.

  It says that very clearly on the form.

  Unfortunately, it’s taken me so long to make this fake government-approved initiative that by the time it’s ready I’m getting texts from Wilbur telling me that the taxi to the Vogue shoot is already on its way.

  Rin is still making herself look kawaii yet professional.

  And I haven’t even started on my verbal excuses yet. At this rate, I’ll have to shove Tabby under my coat, run as fast as I can and hope for the best.

  “Go ask all the Starbucks lovers,” Rin’s warbling sweetly from the bathroom, “they’ll tell you I’m in Spain …”

  “Rin!” I shout, rapping on the door. “You’ve got five minutes and then we have to leave whether you’re ready or not!”

  She’s been in there an hour and I’m concerned she’s going to set fire to the shower curtain with her Hello Kitty hair-irons.

  As of last night, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “OK, Harry-chan!” she calls chirpily. “I am just varnishing my toes! I be out in a tickity!”

  Then I run back to Annabel and Dad’s room and take a deep breath.

  OK: my best lie is locked and loaded.

  Ready, aim …

  “Annabel?” I call, knocking on the door. Fire. “So there’s this thing at school I totally forgot about. You won’t believe what the government has decided to—”

  The door swings open.

  “Good morning, Batman,” Dad says, Tabitha dangling from one of his arms.

  I blink and look down at my outfit. Black leggings, black T-shirt, black shoes, black cardigan, black coat, black woolly hat.

  Fudge nuggets: he’s right.

  All I need is a black mask and Vogue are going to think they accidentally shone the bat signal.

  “Where’s Annabel?” I say, peering round him. “Because there’s this important thing that I have to …” I stop. “Dad, are you doing laundry?”

  “No,” he says, putting a red jumper in a conspicuously white pile. “I’m doing pre-laundry. It’s even worse.”

  He’s obviously in big trouble for something.

  “And I’m afraid your stepmother has gone out for the day,” he adds, putting something else that clearly isn’t white on top of the pile. “She went shopping with Bunty. There was apparently a last-minute urge for a fragranced candle.”

  “Oh.” I look flatly at the complicated form in my hand: now completely unnecessary. That’s another bit of wasted forestry. “Dad, can I take Tabitha to school with me today?”

  “Go for it.” He immediately bundles her into my arms, and she gurgles happily.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  Then I turn to go. OK: kidnapping my sister was significantly easier than I thought it would be.

  A little too easy, in fact.

  I pause in the hallway. “And you honestly don’t mind that I’m taking a baby to a building filled with sharp pencils, stairs and hormonal teenagers?”

  “In fairness, we’ve got all of them here too,” Dad points out reasonably.

  “It doesn’t bother you that she’s probably going to get passed around a class like some kind of netball and possibly dropped at some stage?”

  “She’s surprisingly bouncy.”

  “And you think this is a reasonable request? You don’t even need to see a form or a typed-out newsletter confirming this idea or anything?”

  “Not particularly.”

  I stare at him. “Dad, I say this with a lot of love and affection, but what the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Well, in my humble opinion,” he says calmly, grabbing another armful of laundry out of the basket, “I’m a misunderstood genius and it’s the greatest sadness of our time.”

  My stomach twists in sympathy. “You didn’t get the Manchester job, did you?”

  That’s the fourth interview this month alone.

  “I did not,” he confirms. “And, dearest elder daughter, I know you’re taking Tabitha to your shoot this morning.”

  I freeze. What?

  Then I look down at Tabitha. How? How did she tell him? Though I wouldn’t be surprised if her first word turned out to be Vogue.

  “I …” I swallow. “I don’t know what you�
�re—”

  “Harriet, did you really think Wilbur wouldn’t check with me or Annabel before signing both our children to a modelling agency?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Obviously.”

  Wilbur once accidentally sent me to his dental appointment instead of a photo shoot.

  “So …” I’m still trying to work out what the sugar cookies is going on. “If you know, does this mean it’s OK? We’re allowed to go?”

  “Are you kidding?” Dad grins. “This means I have two supermodel daughters instead of one. I’m the common denominator which means I am officially genetically perfect. Me-five.”

  He holds a hand up and high-fives himself.

  “But Annabel …”

  “Annabel doesn’t know,” he says in a weirdly firm voice. “And she doesn’t need to right now. We’ve got two guests and the house is chaotic enough already. It can wait.”

  I blink at him in amazement.

  “You want me to lie to Annabel?” I check. “To her face?” I mean, that’s what I was going to do anyway, but I didn’t think I’d get parental approval for it.

  “Nope,” Dad says, picking up another sock. “Just be selective about what exactly you tell her. It’s surprisingly easy to miss the things right under your nose.”

  He grins, pinches my nose and then Tabby’s. “Now, go get ’em, my baby tigers.”

  “I think we’re a panther and a leopard, actually,” I grin, pointing at Tabby’s spotty onesie.

  And as I give the bathroom a final loud knock and carry my sister downstairs, I realise that it just goes to show.

  I was so focused on Annabel not finding out, it never occurred to me that this time the savvy parent would be my father.

  Or that he’d be on my side.

  ow, I love knowing things.

  I love knowing that a mantis shrimp can swing a claw so fast it boils the water around it, and that we swap our main breathing nostril every fifteen minutes. I’m transfixed by the knowledge that there are more possible iterations of a single game of chess than there are atoms in the Universe, and that all the clocks in the film Pulp Fiction read 4:20.

  And I haven’t even seen that movie yet.

  But of all the things I love knowing, exactly where I’m going is right at the top of that list.

  Which means that, as Rin and I climb into the back of the taxi three minutes later with a bundled-up Tabby safely tucked into her car seat and start the unbelievably short drive towards today’s shoot, I can feel myself starting to fizz with excitement.

  The body produces 25 million new cells every second, and I swear I can feel mine: snapping and crackling all over me.

  I know every inch of this journey.

  “Take a left here, please,” I tell the taxi driver, wiggling my fingers in front of Tabby’s face. “Then a right.”

  “Third exit and then a sharp right again,” I say a few minutes later as we head towards a roundabout. “Don’t miss the turning.”

  “You might want to indicate,” I remind him after thirty seconds. “It’s a busy road.”

  “Do you want to drive, miss?”

  “I’d love to,” I say sadly, “but unfortunately I’m still five months too young. Thanks for asking, though.”

  Then I point out the window so Tabby looks as we slowly make our way up a huge gravel driveway and the fizz inside me gets cracklier and sparklier.

  And there it is.

  A magnificent red-brick building with intricate lead windows. A grand, circular lawn and enormous fountain; ivy-covered walls and white pointed turrets. One of the most historically important buildings in England, and the destination of so many of my rainy Saturdays I’ve actually lost count.

  Although Nat hasn’t: we’re currently at eighteen.

  I just can’t believe that of all the possible locations to do this shoot, Vogue chose one less than ten minutes from where I live.

  That’s serendipity for you. Or just really good planning.

  “Oh Harry-chan,” Rin breathes as the car stops, her entire face lighting up like a glowstick, “it is castle. We are in real England castle, like fairytale.”

  “Nope,” I beam as the doors swing open. “Better than a fairytale, Rin. This is real, living history.”

  This is Hatfield House.

  Some places just feel steeped in time. Like tea leaves that have been left in hot water for centuries, so there’s no part of the water that hasn’t changed colour as a consequence.

  That’s what this place is like.

  And as Rin, Tabby and I crunch up the gravel path towards the enormous wooden studded doors, for just a second I can see it all. Over four hundred years swirling around us: of soldiers and kings and queens, princesses and warriors and clergymen, horses and bright gowns and banquets.

  It’s like being dipped in the past: submerged in the stories of the people who came here before us.

  I just can’t see the Vogue team anywhere.

  Which – given that we’re technically not here for an extra-curricular tour of Tudor England – is a little bit disconcerting.

  I spin back towards our taxi, but it’s already driving away. Bat poop. It’s only a ten-minute car journey, but quite a long walk along either fields or a dual carriage motorway.

  Especially wheeling a buggy.

  “Umm,” I say anxiously, as Tabby grabs my thumb. Wilbur’s done it again. “There’s quite a good chance we’ve been sent to the wrong place and the shoot’s happening in another place entirely. Possibly another country.”

  At which point the huge wooden, studded door at the front of the building suddenly swings open with a creak.

  A boy steps out.

  Broad shoulders, bronze hair, six freckles on his nose and bright, disorientating eyes. Tabby immediately squeaks and holds her arms up.

  “Jasper!” Rin cries happily, skipping steps towards him. “You are here already! I am so glad of it!”

  “My class was cancelled last minute,” he smiles, taking Tabby off me. “So I decided to walk.”

  I look down: there’s yellow and purple paint and mud all over his black trousers and a little dark splash on one cheek, a little green one on the other.

  “Through a rainbow swamp?”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Not so many of those in Hertfordshire, Harriet-uccino. Or on Earth. But let me know if you find any.”

  “Harriet?” The blonde lady from Vogue pokes her head out from the door. “Oh, you’re both here! Wonderful! We’re ready if you are! I’m Charlotte, by the way. It was such chaos the other day, I don’t think I properly introduced myself.”

  A wave of relief rushes over me.

  And guilt. Wilbur wouldn’t get this one wrong: it is far too important.

  “Please,” Jasper says, bending gently with Tabitha and lifting one eyebrow, “you go first, Your Majesty.”

  I glare at him, flushing.

  It’s one thing mocking me in the private sanctuary of our friendship group, but not in front of Vogue. I’m a professional. This is my job.

  “If you’re going to be like that,” I hiss, “then you can just swim straight back through the rainbow swamps to where you …”

  The door finally swings open completely.

  “… came from,” I finish limply.

  Because standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase is something that immediately makes my argument void.

  A real, live queen.

  verybody needs a hero.

  Someone to look up to: to remind us of the kind of person we would be if we were the very best version of ourselves.

  Of what real people can actually achieve.

  For Annabel, it’s Marie Curie: the only woman to ever win two Nobel Prizes in two different fields. For Dad, it’s Einstein (a “maverick with great hair, just like me”) and for Toby it’s Galileo: the father of observational astronomy.

  Bunty loves American pioneer Amelia Earhart, Nat worships Alexander McQueen, India adores feminist icon Fri
da Kahlo and Jasper is a big fan of French artist Henri Matisse.

  For Tabitha it’s currently me, but we’ll see what happens when she knows more than three people.

  I’ve had the same hero since I was six.

  She was my chosen class project in Year Two, my voluntary class project in Year Three, my debate club subject in Year Four and by Year Six I was asked to pick someone else because I was getting “a little obsessive”.

  So I picked her older sister instead.

  Now – as I stand in the doorway of Hatfield House and stare at the fascinating face of its most famous resident – I can feel something in my throat start to tighten.

  This woman is still everything I want to be.

  Elegant and dignified, with pure white skin, green eyes and bright red hair, piled high on her head.

  A long, structured black dress: tied at the waist and puffed out four metres, covered elaborately in white buttons and a big, spiky lace collar.

  The wise, calm face of somebody fearless and independent, courageous and strong.

  I love her.

  And not just because she’s the most famous ginger person in the history of the world, although – I’m not going to lie – it’s nice to have somebody representing us other than Prince Harry.

  “Hello,” the queen says warmly, holding out her hand. “I’m Sophia, and I’m guessing you must be the baby versions of me.”

  I look back at Tabitha and Jasper.

  And with a BANG, it suddenly makes sense: why everyone at the casting had red hair, why Vogue wanted my sister to come too, why we’re in one of the most famous Tudor houses in the whole world.

  Why Jasper looks so pleased with himself and is trying quite hard not to laugh.

  Finally, after a decade, my most obsessive dreams have come true.

  I am Queen Elizabeth the First.

  n 1990, Steve Woodmore broke the world record for fastest speaker of all time: reciting Hamlet at 637 words per minute.

  I hope somebody’s recording me, because I’m so excited I think he has some fierce competition on his hands.

  Finally, what I already know is relevant.

  “Did you know,” I tell the stylist as Charlotte takes Tabby to get her ready, “that paleness was so popular in Elizabethan times that the women used to physically bleed themselves to look whiter?”