Читать книгу Head Over Heels - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 22

ecently, ecologists set up cameras on the Indonesian island of Borneo in order to evaluate the environmental impact of logging in the Wehea Forest.

To their surprise, they found that – rather than swinging from trees – the orang-utans decided to use the felled timber as roads, save energy and just walk to where they were going instead.

The moral of the story is: it’s important to adapt.

And also – let’s be honest – avoid unnecessary exercise at all costs.

By the time I get home, I’ve already started mentally working through a new plan. I can’t let my friends lose their happy glow. So there’s no time for a sleepover any more: that’s OK. I’m flexible. Supple. Capable of changing direction at will; of dipping and swerving through life like a swallow or a swift or a house martin.

Or maybe some kind of nimble pigeon.

I’m going to make my friends the best Team JINTH Picnic of All Time.

It’s going to be a quick, breezy, casual picnic in the park: the kind of picnic that provides physical, mental and spiritual sustenance fast when you need a proper break.

The kind of picnic that screams ‘happiness’ at the top of its lungs. Because, let’s face it, nothing says joy and relaxation like a full stomach and personalised biscuits.

All I need now is a suitable theme.

Maybe a few decent recipes. A couple of drink options. Possibly bunting. It wouldn’t hurt to work out exactly where to position us to maximize sunshine and protection from the wind, either.

I’m pretty sure there’s room for the five of us on the roundabout, but maybe I should measure it first just to—

“Harriet?” Annabel says as I burst through the front door with a bang and start pounding straight up the stairs.

“Can’t stop!” I call cheerfully over my shoulder. “Super busy!”

Taking into account preparation time and the actual picnic itself, I’m going to have to rearrange my week’s revision plan.

This is exactly why it’s so handy to have it saved as a spreadsheet. A few quick presses of a button and a new colour-code, and I’ll have a brand-new, highly flexible schedule with space for spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment activities like picnics.

“Harriet!” Annabel says a lot more loudly. “Just wait a second!”

I pause at the top of the stairs.

Then I glance down and blink: something’s changed. “Is there … How the …” I sniff the air. “What’s that smell?”

Wait: is Annabel wearing an apron? I didn’t even know we had one. Both of my parents think that warming up a stale croissant qualifies them for MasterChef.

“I’m ‘cooking’,” my stepmother confirms, inexplicably making quotation marks with her fingers. “‘Broadening my skill set’, ‘sustaining the family’, ‘providing nutrition, vitamins and minerals for my loved ones’ and so on.”

That’s a lot of air-quotations for statements that probably should be said without irony.

“You’re cooking?” I repeat in amazement. “No wonder I was confused. Tabitha, mark this historic occasion. It may never happen again.”

Then I raise my eyebrows pointedly.

“I probably deserved that,” Annabel smiles. “Even though your father has actually taken Tabitha out for a walk so I’m not entirely sure who you’re talking to.”

There’s a soft jingling sound and Bunty pokes her pink head through the living-room door. “What do you think, darling? Apparently I can fit more souvenirs in my car boot than I thought.”

She waves a ring-clad hand around.

The living room looks like an enormous butterfly just went bang: brightly coloured printed blankets, dream-catchers, crystals, bells and cushions are everywhere. Lamps are switched on in every corner and new plants sit in pots. Crystals are spread on every surface.

Huh. That was fast.

“This is for you,” Bunty says, handing me two small brass cymbals on a long piece of leather. “They’re Buddhist Tingsha Chimes from Tibet. The sound is immediately calming. Try it.”

I obediently hit them together. The air is filled with a sweet, high, long note that fades slowly into nothing.

Nope. Didn’t work: still busy.

“How about we all have a cup of tea?” Annabel says brightly. “The kettle’s just boiled.”

“Yes, please!” I say gratefully, turning round and heading across the hallway. “You can leave it outside my door!”

“Harriet, that’s not what I m—”

“Thank you!” I shout.

And with a firm click I close my bedroom door behind me.