All Wrapped Up, Page 3

  I’m not going anywhere.

  OK, Nat and I may need to work on our telepathy skills. That mind-reading board game I forced her to play all summer clearly didn’t work.

  Annabel looks at the list we wrote.

  She looks at us both, sitting on the floor surrounded by an emergency explosion of almost every possession I own (I dragged a few history and geography books down as well, just for good measure).

  Then she hands the list to my father. “What do you make of this?”

  Dad stares at the piece of paper with his forehead furrowed. He has sugar in his eyebrows too, and he didn’t even make the biscuits.

  I think it goes without saying I ticked one of those off some time ago. The rest were going to be a challenge, given that this is me we’re talking about, but I was prepared to give it my very best shot.

  “Where did you get this from?” Dad says, looking back at us. “Annabel, what kind of books do we keep in this house?”

  My stepmother raises her eyebrows. “Oh, that must be an extract from the 1950s manual I follow on How To Be A Good Woman.”

  They stare at each other for a few seconds.

  Then they both crease up in hysterical laughter and do a little fist bump.

  “Excuse me,” I say indignantly, standing up and putting my hands on my hips, “this is a legitimate and accurate list we have selected, edited and compiled from various women’s sites on the internet. You are just too old to understand how modern dating works.”

  “This is probably true,” Annabel agrees, nostrils still flaring. “When we dated, the excitement mainly came from running away from all the dinosaurs.”

  “That brontosaurus was such a pain, wasn’t he?” Dad sighs, shaking his head. “Always getting in front of us with his big old spikes while we were trying to watch a film.”

  “Couldn’t eat a romantic spaghetti dinner without a pterodactyl swooping down to take a meatball.”

  “And just try climbing a balcony to serenade without a diplodocus licking your ear.”

  “Times have indeed changed.”

  I stare at both of them. I know enough about the timeline of earth’s history to realise they’re joking, but I’m pretty sure humour’s supposed to be funny.

  One day somebody needs to tell them that.

  “Firstly,” I say indignantly, “brontosauruses didn’t have spikes. You’re thinking of a stegosaurus. Secondly, pterodactyls were not actually dinosaurs. And thirdly, you’re lucky you found each other because frankly I’m not sure anyone else would take you.”

  “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?” Annabel laughs as Dad flies around the room, making a noise that presumably is supposed to resemble the prehistoric ancestor of the chicken.

  Then she scrunches the list into a tight paper ball.

  Nat and I look at each other in horror.

  “Harriet,” Annabel says firmly. “It is not your job to wear the right thing, or say the right thing, or do the right thing to make a boy like you. It is not your job to be pretty or make a boy feel good about himself.”

  She throws the paper into the bin.

  “It is your job,” she continues, “to be yourself, and if he likes that then maybe – just maybe, if you decide you like him too – he can stick around. Am I making myself perfectly, abundantly and permanently clear?”

  Nat is staring at Annabel as if she’s shining with a bright white, omniscient light, and I can kind of see why. It’s a bit like having Merlin for a stepmother.

  If Merlin was wearing a pinstripe suit with white fluffy snowman slippers.

  “Yes,” I say in awe. “Super clear.”

  “You were so worth fighting a triceratops for,” Dad says proudly, putting his arm round her. Then he wrinkles his nose at me. “Although the bath advice was valid. Harriet, I love you, but when was the last time you showered?”

  I glance down. There’s an oat stuck to one of the penguins on my PJs.

  Then I glance back up in surprise.

  “Wait …” Something else has just clicked. “Does that mean …? Are you saying I can go?”

  Annabel and Dad glance at each other.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s Christmas,” Dad says thoughtfully. “I think it’s the season of romance. I think Nick’s very dashing and if we try to stop her she’s going to climb out of her bedroom window.”

  I can feel myself flushing bright red.

  I may not be the most athletic girl in the world, but for once they might have a point: I am quite obviously very keen.

  They just don’t need to point it out in front of me.

  “Fine,” Annabel nods. “You’ll have your phone on you at all times. You’ll text when you arrive safely and when you’re about to leave, and you’ll be home by eight on the dot or there will be a world of trouble. Deal?”

  I nearly crush both her and my unborn sibling with the force of my grateful hug.

  I really love this time of year.

  “Deal.”

  Apparently, the destination of my first ever date is supposed to be a big and super-romantic surprise.

  Nick was very specific about that.

  “I’m not telling you where we’re going, Harriet,” he said when I tried to find out more. “Just remember to bring gloves, OK?”

  “OK,” I agreed, and didn’t ask any more insightful questions. Mainly because I didn’t need to: we’re going to the Science Museum.

  How do I know this?

  Because we’re meeting at the underground exit of South Kensington tube station in London, and I’ve been travelling to and from there with my dad for the last ten years. When I was eight, I sent the museum so many challenging letters about steam engines they offered me a lifetime membership just to reward my enthusiasm.

  And also possibly to save on postage.

  Plus the gloves are a total giveaway. Over eighty per cent of infectious diseases are transmitted through touch, and interactive exhibitions are extremely popular with small children. I have a stretchy blue rubber pair I borrowed from the Science department at school especially.

  And I don’t enjoy surprises.

  Nick clearly still has a lot to learn about me.

  Knowing precisely what the romantic plans are, however, hasn’t helped my nerves. By the time I’ve walked to the train station, I’m shaking so hard I’m basically vibrating.

  On the upside, at least it’s warmed me up.

  I’m in cosy winter clothes, but at 3:30pm it’s already starting to get dark, and it’s absolutely freezing. After much deliberation, Nat and I settled on my favourite big Christmas jumper (red with an enormous green sequined holly stitched to the front), thick black leggings lined with fluff, boots, red socks and a red woolly bobble hat and mittens.

  “Hey,” my best friend pointed out sympathetically when I tugged my red hooded duffle coat on over the top, “if Nick wanted glamour, he’d probably have asked out somebody else, right?”

  I’m pretty sure she meant it in a nice way.

  The only problem now is that – thanks to a combination of cold, nerves, excitement, clothes, hair and the unexpected warmth of the London Underground – I’m essentially scarlet all over.

  And as I start jittering in terror off the Underground train on to the platform of South Kensington station, I think I might be slowly turning green as well. Scholars at Cambridge University believe the traditional Christmas colours of green and red originated from Celt stories told many centuries ago.

  Theologians disagree.

  Either way, thanks to overheating and nearly vomiting on the escalators, I’m about as festive as a human gets.

  Still shaking, I emerge anxiously from the tube gates a full fifteen minutes early, turn right and start the familiar long walk down the underground tunnel towards the museum exits.

  I know every tiny detail of this journey.

  I know the exposed, grey-yellow brickwork and the bright butterfly posters and the curving overhead ar
ches. I’m familiar with the sharp swerves of the cement path and the line of bright lights running down the middle.

  I know it was built in 1883 after the success of a Fisheries exhibition and a toll of one old penny was charged to walk down it.

  None of which is the slightest use to me right now.

  All I can see is Nick.

  As I walk slowly forward, I see the first time I met him by crawling under a table at the Clothes Show Live, and how my first ever words to him were about the illegality of chewing gum in Singapore.

  I see the afternoon I sat on the pavement outside the modelling agency, hyperventilating into my hands.

  I see when I asked him to sniff them.

  I see rolling on to the fashion shoot in Red Square in a wheelchair and starting a fight with him about Pooh Bear on national television.

  I see our phone conversation three hours ago.

  In short, the closer I get to Nick, the harder it hits me just how much of an idiot I always am in front of him, every single time.

  Literally. Without exception.

  Despite how statistically unlikely that is, or the fact that you’d think I’d learn from at least some of my mistakes.

  And with every step my idiocy just keeps hitting me over and over again, until it takes every bit of courage I have not to pull my red bobble hat over my face and run back to the safety of a family-sized tin of chocolates I have absolutely no intention of sharing with my family.

  Instead, I take the deepest breath I can find.

  I blow it out shakily and watch it hang in the cold air in front of me.

  I remind myself that we’ve already kissed, so the chances of him screaming out loud in horror when he sees me must be at least slightly reduced.

  Then I stand in front of a busker with my sweaty hands clenched tightly into fists inside my mittens. The busker’s sitting on the floor of the tunnel surrounded by a large crowd, blowing ‘White Christmas’ into an orange traffic cone as if it’s a trumpet, and it’s surprisingly calming.

  All I need is a little time to collect my thoughts.

  Just a few extra moments to dry my palms, adjust my breathing and maybe check the internet for How To Run Away From A Date At The Last Minute.

  But the problem is: I can still see Nick.

  I can still see big, unruly black curls and almond-shaped eyes, brown skin and a mole on the upper left cheekbone. I can still see a ski-slope nose and pointed leonine teeth, and a too-wide mouth that breaks his face in half when he smiles.

  And as a tall boy wearing a big grey army coat at the front of the crowd turns and grins straight at me, I now mean that literally.

  Nick holds his hand up and smiles a bit harder.

  My head immediately empties.

  I guess I’m not collecting any thoughts today after all.

  Slowly, Lion Boy makes his way through the crowd towards me.

  He’s grinning so hard now his eyes are crinkled up and glowing. Which is somewhat fitting, because something very similar is now happening to the contents of my ribcage.

  “Hey,” he says as soon as he can be heard over the trumpeting busker, smiling even wider. “Great minds.”

  My hands are sweating, my stomach is spinning a bit like a roasting pig’s head, and I can feel overwhelming panic starting to climb up my throat. I’d forgotten quite how beautiful this boy is, and exactly what he does to my heartbeat.

  Last time Nick and I were together, we were kissing.

  So what happens now? Do we kiss again straight away? Fist-bump? Hug? Bow? Stick our tongues out at each other like they do in Tibet or sniff each other like on the Polynesian island of Tuvalu?

  He leans forward to kiss my cheek at the exact moment I go to politely shake his hand, which means I accidentally stab him hard in the stomach with my fingers.

  Nice one, Harriet. The Heimlich manoeuvre. A traditional romantic greeting.

  “Mmmm,” I mumble nervously. “I’ve really only considered traffic cones useful for redirecting cars.”

  Nick looks confused, then glances behind him and laughs. “I meant us both getting here early. But you’re right, the busker’s a genius. Apparently he calls himself Big Jam.”

  I nod nervously. “C-cool. I really like jam too. Strawberry’s my favourite, although in the United States it’s second in popularity to grape but one place above raspberry.”

  Then I blink. Where did that come from?

  Nowhere at any point did a woman’s magazine suggest opening with statistics about American preserves.

  “I assumed it was a pun,” Nick laughs again. “Traffic jam, music jam?”

  Sugar cookies. Obviously it is.

  I’m just way too anxious to appreciate cunning roadwork wordplay right now. Instead I clear my throat and stare awkwardly at the floor while my brain scrambles around in a panic for something to save it.

  Quickly, Harriet. You’re failing already.

  Forget Annabel: this is no time to start free styling. Revert to Plan A before you ruin everything.

  Trembling, I take a deep breath, mentally grab the list out of the bin and desperately try to remember what I can. Then I obediently throw my head back and giggle as ferociously as I can.

  “Jam!” I exclaim as loudly as possible, fluttering my eyelashes so quickly my eyes start to water. “Goodness me, Nicholas Hidaka, you are uproarious.”

  Then I mentally tick a few points off.

  Laugh at all his jokes ✓

  Use his full name ✓

  Find an excuse to touch him ✓

  Luckily I got the last point out of the way a few minutes ago, thanks to trying to dislodge his stomach with my fingers.

  “Umm.” Nick blinks. “It’s not my joke, but thank you?”

  “You’re welcome,” I say stiffly, then swallow hard. “Also … I’d like you to know that I find your bicep muscles very …” Striated with myofilaments? Attached to bone with tendons? Biologically necessary for arm movement? “Bicep-y.”

  Nick’s eyebrows shoot upwards. Bicepy. That would make a good name for a baby bison.

  Then I quickly count one elephant, two elephants, look away, and glance back and upwards at approximately a thirty-degree angle.

  4. Compliment him ✓

  5. Steal his heart with a two-second glance away ✓

  “… Thanks again,” Nick says as we start walking down the familiar tunnel. “I was … umm … born with muscles in the top of my arms. Like most humans.”

  Thank goodness I’m already wearing red.

  Nat and I found scientific evidence that wearing red makes people more attractive. OK, it said little red dress and all I had was a big red jumper and a bobble hat, but it’s pretty much the same thing.

  Combined with the colour of my cheeks, that’s one less thing to worry about.

  “And,” I say, grabbing a strand of hair before realising it’s not long enough to twiddle coyly, “you come from Australia and are 187.96 centimetres tall. Which do you think is better? Madrid Fashion Week or Paris Fashion Week?”

  6. Charm him with information about himself ✓

  7. Find something you have in common ✓

  All I could think of was modelling.

  Let’s hope he takes the conversation over from here because that is the sum total of my entire fashion knowledge.

  “Harriet,” Nick frowns as we begin climbing the steps towards the Science Museum, “are you OK? You’re being a bit …”

  Attractive? Seductive? Irresistible in a powerful yet subtle and sophisticated way?

  “…un-Harriet,” he finishes.

  Oh my God. I must have remembered the list wrong. Maybe it needs to be in the correct order to work.

  “I’m fine!” I squeak. If in doubt, always turn to science. “In fact, have you noticed that my pupils are probably fully dilated? Also, I’m pretty sure my white-blood-cell count is really high too.”

  Both of which are indisputable biological signs that I’m flirting as hard as I possi
bly can.

  We’ve reached the top of the exit stairs.

  The air is so cold I can see both our breaths wafting like dragon puffs in front of us. I’m staring hard at the floor, and every part of my face and ears is starting to tingle and burn.

  I don’t think it’s because of the weather.

  Never mind a disaster: this is rapidly turning into the dating equivalent of the bubonic plague, which wiped out sixty per cent of Europe in the fourteenth century: i.e. one of the most destructive catastrophes the world has ever witnessed.

  I’ve never seen the normally laid-back Nick look so confused before, or like maybe he wants to be somewhere else.

  Like, literally anywhere.

  “Harriet,” Nick says slowly, frowning and bending down slightly so he can see my face. “What’s going on? Don’t you want to be here?”

  “N-n-no,” I stammer in horror. He thinks I’m sabotaging this date on purpose? “I mean y-yes. I mean of course I—”

  Then I abruptly stop talking.

  And it’s not because I’m worried I’m about to say something else stupid, or do something even more ridiculous, or screw this situation up more horribly. It’s not because I’m concerned I could take a magical romantic connection and destroy it even more thoroughly than I have already.

  It’s not even because I think this terrible, humiliating date could possibly go any worse.

  Nope.

  It’s because I just heard a loud burst of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ playing fifteen feet to my right.

  Which means it already has.

  I don’t believe it.

  Which is kind of the problem.

  I should have seen this dating disaster coming a mile off. Something is starting to tell me I may have been focusing on the wrong things.

  “What’s going on?” Nick says as I spin round just in time to see a blue trainer with a piano lace disappear behind a stone pillar. “Who’s that?”

  And I officially give up.

  It was nice, having a love life for about three and a half minutes. I’m going to miss it.