All That Glitters

by Holly Smale

  Oh my God.

  I’ve done it again, haven’t I.

  This is just like the dinosaur biscuits, except I’ve somehow managed to turn a horrible misunderstanding into an entire evening’s entertainment.

  With a sickening jolt, my brain is starting to replay conversations from school all week.

  Oh yes, lots of the stars are single! Most of them in fact!

  Actually most stars are pretty much the same, believe it or not: some are just much bigger than others.

  Of course I know the really massive ones!

  I think I might vomit. I knew my love of astronomy would get me into trouble one day.

  Quick, Harriet. Be bold.

  “I’ve got a quiz for us,” I say desperately, rushing over to the microphone and grabbing it in my sweaty hand. “There’s a handmade cake for the winning team! Umm.” My knees are literally starting to tremble. “First question – what are stars primarily made of?” I clear my throat. “Anyone? Anyone at all?”

  Nobody answers.

  “It’s hydrogen and helium!” I squeak. My voice is so high now I think I may have eaten one. “Second question – which of the following is not a star: a) a red giant, b) a white dwarf …”

  “Oh my God,” somebody says flatly. “She means stars. Actual stars. It’s not a pun.”

  “This is it. This is the party. It’s just us.”

  “With jelly.” “With a caretaker.” “And hymns.” “And first years.” “And a baby’s night-light.”

  “Such a geek.”

  “It’s a green dwarf!” I say loudly, except the microphone is starting to make little thd thd thd noises from where my hand is shaking. “Next question – what category does our sun fall int—”

  “Hang on.” Ananya walks forward and takes the microphone off me. “Harriet, are you saying that none of your celebrity friends are coming this evening? Like at all? Why the hell not?”

  OK: firstly, it looks like I’m back to being Harriet again. Secondly, I can’t believe I’ve got myself into a situation where this is even a question I’m actually being asked.

  “Because I don’t have any.”

  There’s a short silence, then several people pipe up. “What do you mean you …” “But you said…” “We asked and you told us …” “You lied to us.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I say in bewilderment. “You asked if I knew any models and I said yes because I do. I’ve met lots. But they’re not my friends.”

  “But what about Poppy Page?”

  “She hates me,” I admit. The last time I saw Princess Poppy she literally asked me to leave the country. “Passionately. Like, I’m her least favourite person in the world.”

  “Yuka Ito?”

  “The last time I was in the same place as her she fired me. So probably not.” I glance around at my bits of black crepe paper. “Honestly, I’m not sure she’d have come to this even if she hadn’t.”

  “What about the Russian supermodels, where are the Russian supermodels, I want to meet the Russian supermodels.”

  That’s Eric. Obviously.

  “They’re not coming.” My cheeks are now bright red. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise you thought … I didn’t know … They don’t like me either.”

  There’s a long silence.

  Then the students clustered closest to Ananya and Liv erupt into disappointed cries. “But she said she went to all the parties.” “Oh my God, I broke up with my boyfriend for this?” “Isn’t she supposed to be loaded?” “Why are we eating home-made biscuits again?”

  “But at least Nick’s coming, right?” Liv says, frowning. “I mean your famous supermodel boyfriend will be here, won’t he? With his face and his hair and his hip bones and all his beautiful supermodel single friends?”

  And this is exactly what happens when you don’t tell the truth, even to yourself.

  Everything starts to fall apart.

  That’s what they’re all here for, isn’t it.

  Ananya, Liv, India, the others … They’re here for Nick and beautiful Russian supermodels. For Nick’s non-existent identical twin brother and famous designers and celebrities and clothes and all the glamour and glitz they think go with being a successful model.

  I’ve been such an idiot.

  They didn’t look at the Tokyo photos and see a confident, inspiring girl they wanted to get to know better. They didn’t see another, less geeky side to me: a brave, starry version I so badly wanted to live up to in real life.

  They just saw the glittery lifestyle they thought the girl in the lake had, and they wanted a piece of it.

  Which means Nat was right.

  And so was Alexa.

  I can see my entire new life at school teetering precariously on the edge, about to fall over with an almighty crash. For just a brief second I almost lie to keep it hanging there for a few more precious moments. Oh, how funny! My supermodel boyfriend is just busy right now! He’ll totally come to the next one!

  But I still want to believe in myself: even if nobody else does too.

  Or, you know. To.

  “No,” I say as firmly as I can, lifting my chin and meeting their eyes without a flicker. “Nick is not coming to this party. He won’t be coming to any of them. We’ve broken up.”

  My insides are shutting down, piece by piece.

  I can feel the room slowly changing. All the warmth is gradually seeping out, along with all the laughter. They think I lied to impress them. I’m not funny any more. I’m not adorable, or cute, or interesting. I’m just back to being what I always was.

  A geek who got really, really lucky.

  “Well, I don’t care,” a little voice says from the back. “Harriet’s still amazing and you’re all horrible.” Lydia comes charging through the crowd with her elbows out, cheeks pink. “And look. I just found the new Jacques Levaire watch advert on YouTube so you can bite me, sixth formers. Harriet Manners is more successful than you will ever be.”

  And she holds her phone high in the air.

  am graceful. I am elegant.

  I am fluid and flowing and supple: moving with the grace of a ballet dancer, the poise of a gazelle, the lightness of a gentle Diplulmaris antarctica jellyfish gliding through the icy water.

  Effortlessly, I move through the orange sands of the Sahara with total composure and confidence. As piano music plays, the wind catches my red hair and clothes and flings them gently around me: the light glows warm on my cheeks and my eyes are full of emotion, of hope, of joy.

  Frankly, I have never been more beautiful in my life.

  Or glittered so hard.

  “That’s not Harriet,” somebody says, grabbing the phone and peering at it. “That’s not Harriet at all.”

  The screen gets handed to me.

  The perfect red-haired girl spins again towards the camera and grins. Her make-up is almost completely imperceptible. Her bright green eyes are framed with pale lashes and she’s flushed and natural, her freckles visible even on this tiny screen. Her dress is simple white cotton and knee length: as she laughs her hand comes up to cover her mouth and you see a bright, momentary flash of a gold watch.

  It’s fresh. It’s modern. It’s captivating.

  There’s no dancing. No monkeys or snakes; no camels or running or chasing. No krumping.

  And it’s not me at all. Not even vaguely.

  No wonder it’s so good.

  JACQUES LEVAIRE CLASSIC TIMEPIECES flashes up at the end, and then a make-up blogger’s pretty face pops up as she starts talking about how she does her hair when she’s in a hurry.

  “You lied again?” somebody says as Lydia’s phone gets passed around the room and the advert plays repeatedly. “Why on earth would you pretend you got a modelling job you didn’t get?”

  “I didn’t pretend,” I say, blinking at them all. “I went to Morocco. I got the Levaire campaign. I promise I did.”

  Except now I’m even starting to question that myself. Did I? Where was I last week?
What was the shoot for?

  “That’s kind of lame, Harriet.” “Seriously, who does that? Are you that desperate for attention?” “Oh my God, where did you get those Moroccan clothes from? I am so confused right now.”

  “I …” My mouth is opening and shutting. “I don’t know what to …”

  “And I just googled Nick Hidaka and found a recent interview,” somebody says, holding their phone in the air too. “I bet she lied about going out with him as well.”

  A human body has enough iron in it to make a metal nail three inches long.

  It feels like mine has just done exactly that.

  “Please,” I say quickly, leaping forward. “Don’t. Don’t play it. Please don’t play the—”

  “Funny you should say that,” a familiar, twangy voice jokes and I freeze where I am: every cell in my brain suddenly turning to ice. “Dozens of dolphins follow me everywhere I go, actually. It’s a bit of a problem. They’re such creepers.”

  A faceless girl gives a little besotted laugh.

  I have no idea what the question was – I’m guessing Have You Ever Swum With Dolphins – but at the sound of Nick’s voice it suddenly feels like I’m holding the nail at arm’s length and an incredibly strong magnet is starting to draw it back towards me again, point first.

  “And what’s Australia’s favourite male model doing now he’s taking a break from the cameras? We’ve heard you’ve voluntarily gone back to full-time education. We have just one question for you: why?”

  “Because over the last year I’ve been reminded repeatedly just how much of a thicky I am,” Nick says with a small laugh. “Seriously, though, a very special English girl inspired me. I realised how much of the world there is I still want to know about. How much I still want to do.”

  A huge lump suddenly rises up my throat.

  “You’re a mad person. Who gives up a successful career as a supermodel to go back to school?”

  “I do,” Nick says calmly. “And I am honestly loving it.”

  “So how’s the romantic situation?” I can literally hear the optimism in the girl’s voice. “Is this very special English girl still on the scene? Or should we all start sending you our CVs?”

  Oh my God. No. No no no. No no no no nonononononononono … For just a fraction of a second the iron nail quivers, then it starts speeding towards me.

  Turn it off. Turn it off turn it off turn it off turn it off turn it off turn it—

  “Please,” I whisper, holding my hand out towards the sound. “I don’t want to hear this …”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it,” Nick says after a short pause. “But no, we broke up. I’m just focusing on the future now.”

  “Awwwww,” the interviewer says insincerely. “Well I’m sure there are lots of girls out there who would happily take her place.”

  “I don’t want them to,” he says simply. “She kind of broke my heart.”

  With a final shudder the nail I made completely out of myself glints slightly in the light.

  And plunges straight into my chest.

  here’s a long silence.

  The video’s finally been turned off, but it doesn’t really matter: I’ll be hearing it for the rest of my life anyway.

  She kind of broke my heart.

  My brain is starting to switch off, but on the edges of my vision I can see everybody in the room now whispering at each other uncomfortably. “English girl …” “It was her”, “Harriet dumped him? I did not see that coming.”

  Then they turn self-consciously to face me.

  Another deep silence.

  “Well,” a voice finally says from the back of the room. “This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

  With one blink I refocus my eyes just enough to see Alexa, sitting at the back in one of the little plastic seats I carefully put out, wearing black jeans, a plain grey T-shirt and enormous black heels. She’s the only thing in this room that isn’t bouncing rays of light in every direction.

  I don’t know when she arrived or how long she’s been sitting there.

  Frankly, I no longer care.

  “I think that’s enough drama for me,” Alexa says, standing up. “Girls, my parents are away for the weekend, the home cinema is set up and I’ve got an unlimited supply of pizza. Coming?”

  There’s a short pause while Ananya assesses Alexa.

  Something unspoken is passing between them.

  It’s not friendship, exactly – or not my definition of the word – but it’s similar. Understanding. Respect. Eleven years of shared history and experiences that aren’t going anywhere.

  “Yes,” Ananya says finally, looking me up and down. “What a total waste of time. You were right, Lexi: Harriet’s not who we thought she was. What a geek. Let’s go.”

  Ananya’s not a minion, I realise dully as she gives me one more icy assessment: she’s Alexa’s equal and always has been.

  “OhmyGodthisissuchareliefI’msohungrywhatfilmare wegoingtowatchanddoyouthinkwecangetpepperoni because …”

  Olivia, maybe not so much.

  I look at Alexa emptily for a few seconds. There’s a snake found in Mexico and Central America called the Cantil. It has deadly venom, but instead of chasing prey it simply stays where it is and wiggles the yellow end of its tail. Birds, frogs, little mammals and lizards assume it’s a worm and approach enthusiastically.

  They never even see it coming.

  Alexa didn’t need to destroy me this time. She just had to sit back quietly and watch me destroy myself.

  My nemesis gives me a little told you so shrug.

  Then – without another word – she and the two girls I thought were my friends walk out of the room without so much as a glance over their shoulders, taking five or six other girls with them.

  I look vaguely at the only one of my ‘gang’ left.

  India’s face is twisted in disgust, her top lip is curled and disdain is pretty much dripping from the tips of her fingers. “So disappointing,” she agrees coldly, narrowing her eyes at the room.

  Then she grabs a sandwich off the table, pulls the door open, shouts “ANANYA, WAIT!” at the top of her voice and slams it behind her.

  I turn slowly towards the rest of the party.

  They’re now shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to work out where to look. Frankly, I’m not surprised they’re so uncomfortable. In 44 BC Roman conspirators threw a big gathering for Julius Caesar and then stabbed him to death.

  This party is even worse than that one.

  “I think maybe you should all go too,” I say blankly. “Please.”

  I just want them out of here now.

  They’re not my friends, and I’m not theirs. Honestly, I don’t even blame them. It’s starting to hit me that I was using them just as much as they were using me. I still can’t remember most of their names: I was so busy trying to fill my life with as many people as possible, I didn’t really care who they all were.

  And it looks like they didn’t care who I was either.

  There are a few guilty nods, even sympathetic glances.

  But then one by one the rest of my classmates filter out of the room and into the dark.

  “We’re not going,” Lydia says, staunchly folding her arms in the doorway. “We love you, Harriet. You’ve still got us.”

  “Yeah,” Fee adds. “We still think you’re awesome.”

  But it’s too late.

  “Thank you,” I say, gently spinning them towards the exit. “But the party’s over now.”

  I usher them out of the door.

  Then I walk back into the darkness I made, covered in stars, and sit in the middle of the empty dance floor.

  You actually think that everything will be different now?

  She’s still Harriet Manners.

  There are many survival strategies in nature.

  The tortoise draws its head and limbs up inside a hard outer shell, rendering it completely protected from predators. The hedgehog has da
maging prickles; the skunk ejects sulphuric compounds from its bottom. When threatened, the mother-of-pearl caterpillar launches itself backwards at thirty-nine times its walking speed, somersaulting the entire way.

  But all I’m thinking about now is a sea snail.

  When I was three years old, scientists discovered a Crysomallon Squamiferum at the bottom of the ocean: the only creature in the known world to literally build metal into its coat of armour. They found that its thick shell is made from layers of metallic sulphides, including iron pyrite.

  Otherwise known as fool’s gold.

  I tried so hard.

  I wanted so badly to be the glittering girl: confident, stylish, brave, inspiring. I so wanted to protect myself from my normal life. But all I was doing was covering myself in a layer of fake gold and I couldn’t deceive anyone for long: just one little hole, and the world could see the real me again.

  And I was pulled out and torn to pieces.

  I look down at my shiny outfit, and then up at the cutout stars. Then at the sparkle I threw all over the floor.

  It was right there in the theme: I wrote it myself.

  All that glitters … is not gold.

  I don’t have an Inner Star at all. I was the glitter and the fool, and now I’m right back to the beginning again.

  Except worse, because Nat and Toby have gone too.

  This time I’ve lost everything.

  Tokyo – June (4 months ago)

  “3,358 seconds.”

  We passed through tiny side streets of Tokyo, past dark wooden houses with white fabric hanging from the doorways like half-open gifts, under little archways and blue curved roofs, popping out into bustling, noisy roads and then back into the quietness again.

  “3,247 seconds.”

  We raced past a little train station.

  “2,320,” I told him, as we ran over a beautiful wooden bridge stretching across a canal, painted red and stuck with long, red flags. “Nick, where on earth are you taking me?”

  He laughed and turned round.

  “Harriet, do you have some kind of exploding watch you haven’t told me about? Because if you have, I think it’s only fair I know about it. It is seriously going to affect my schedule.”