Читать книгу Model Misfit - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 25

cientists say that music can literally change the speed of a heartbeat. They failed to add:

So can a text message.

It’s as if Nick is suddenly in the room with me.

I drop the phone.

“Harriet? What’s going on?”

Humans are supposed to have 70,000 thoughts a day; I’m about to hit my limit in four and a half seconds.

“It’s Nick,” I summarise.

“Seriously?” Nat grabs the phone off me and reads the message. Then she chucks it back to me, jumps off the bed and starts folding a jumper messily.

I’m breathing too fast and my heart is starting to skitter around like Bambi on a frozen lake. My entire body is suddenly full of a triumphant, almost painful buzzing sensation. What did I tell you? It wasn’t a matter of if he was going to change his mind. It was just a matter of when.

Although I’m going to be honest: he really took his time. We’re not Jane Eyre and Mr Rochester, for goodness’ sake. I could have set up an entire school since we last spoke.

I jump off the bed, spin around the room and start hugging my phone to my chest. “Should I ring him now, Nat?” I say breathlessly, breaking off just long enough to kiss my phone and start hugging it again. “Or should I text? What do you think he wants me to do? Do you think he’s coming straight here from Australia?” My eyes widen and I fly to the window. “Oh my God, Nat. What if he’s already here?”

I push the window open and then remember that I’m at Nat’s house. He’s very unlikely to come here first. I need to go home and get ready right now. I need to wash my hair. I need to clear away my chemistry kit.

I start putting my shoes on.

“How long should I wait until I reply to look cool?” I continue breathlessly. “Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?”

I’m so excited I can’t get my shoelaces to tie up properly. “Or should I just ring now? I don’t want him to get the wrong impression.”

I look at the text again. The answer to these questions must be in here somewhere. Maybe it’s in code. Maybe it’s a haiku. Allegory? For goodness’ sake, I’ve studied English literature for five whole years. I can analyse the imagery in Macbeth and the symbolism in Hamlet. I should be able to work this out.

“You know what?” I decide. “I think I’ll just ring him straight away. I can’t wait any longer.”

My phone abruptly disappears.

“Like hell you will,” Nat snaps, and before I know it she’s standing on her bed, violently waving my mobile in the air like some kind of rectangular hand grenade. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

I stare at my best friend. It’s only now that I notice her cheeks are bright pink, and her hands are shaking. Her angry rash is starting to climb up her chest. And it’s only now that I notice she’s folded and unfolded the same jumper five times. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“You’re not contacting Nick,” she says loudly. “I’ll eat this phone if I have to. And the charger.”

I’m not sure that’s even physically possible. “What? Why?”

“Because you need to wake up, Harriet.”

I blink and then look down at myself. “I’m pretty sure I’m awake, Nat.”

“This isn’t an epic romance. It’s just a boy who used you. A boy who made you forget about everything that was important to you before he came along. You’ve read so many books you can’t even tell the difference between fiction and reality any more.”

I flinch. Just because I sometimes use the words ‘thou’ and ‘mayst’ for fun does not mean I think I’m in an Austen novel. Not all the time, anyway.

“I can,” I say indignantly. “I am well aware of the difference between what’s real and what isn’t.” I’d be prettier in a book, for starters. “Give me my phone right now.”

I jump for her, like some kind of killer whale trying to get a particularly nice seal.

“Harriet,” Nat says urgently, moving a little further away. “Nick hasn’t contacted you for two months. He dumped you weeks before the most important exams of your life and ran away. That’s not what somebody who cares about you does. You have to believe me. I understand boys better than you do.”

I flinch again and something in me pinches slightly. “You might know boys in general,” I say defiantly. “But you don’t know Nick. He cares about me. I know he does.”

I jump for her again and miss.

“He doesn’t,” Nat says, moving until she’s pressed against the wall and holding me back with a foot. “He’s an idiot and I’m not letting him suck you back in with his pointy cheekbones and his pointy hipbones and his stupid pointy hair. No.”

Fury suddenly surges through me. My best friend is acting like some kind of crazy, masterminding puppeteer. She’s calling my Lion Boy an idiot. She’s just reminded me about his lovely hipbones.

And – most of all – I’m furious that a very tiny part of me suspects she might be right.

“Natalie!” I yell. “Nat! Give me my phone NOW!”

“Don’t make me do this,” Nat shouts, and her cheeks get even pinker. “For once in your life just listen to me, Harriet.”

“Give me my phone!” I shout again, and – with a lurch of my stomach – I suddenly know what Nat’s going to do.

If she gets rid of that text, I will have no way of contacting him. I deleted Nick’s number so I wouldn’t be tempted to text him after he left. He doesn’t ‘do’ social media. And I can’t remember his email address.

He’ll give up on me.

And if that happens, I’m not sure our ten-year friendship will survive. More importantly, I’m not sure Nat will. There’s a really good chance I’ll just kill my best friend on the spot.

There’s a red dot in the centre of each of Nat’s cheeks. “I’m doing this for you,” she announces, tapping the screen. “I honestly am.”

“No!” I yell, and bundle myself at her legs in an attempt to desperately wrestle my phone out of her hands. Nat scrabbles away while I hold on to her feet, and the next thing I know she’s only wearing one sock and there’s yet another rip in my bridesmaid’s dress.

By the time I’ve finally managed to claw my phone back, we’re huffing and puffing and scratched and bright red all over and it’s too late.

The message has gone.

My last chance with Nick has gone with it.

You really don’t want to know what I say next.

Let’s just put it this way: in no way do I leave my feelings about the situation open to interpretation. I am very clear about every single one of them.

I end the conversation by telling Nat I hope she doesn’t get eaten by French chickens in a way that very much intimates the opposite, and then storm out of the house.

“Harriet?” Nat yells out of the window as I stomp down the road, silk dress rippling after me. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper! I shouldn’t have done that!”

“No,” I yell back, without turning round, “you shouldn’t!”

Then I keep stomping. What kind of friend does that?

Who the sugar cookies does Nat think she is?