Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(33)

And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.

“But where are we going first?” I say as Dad and I trot along behind him. I’m so excited now that little insects feel like they’re rocketing around my stomach, the way they rocketed around the jam-jar trap we made at primary school. “The Gulag History Museum? The Tretyakov Gallery? The Novodevichy Convent? The Worker and Kolkhoz Woman is in Moscow, you know. It moved from Paris.”

Not that I’ve spent the entire journey reading a guidebook about Moscow or anything. Or – you know – three. And studying a map.

“Oh, good Lord. They sell lots of vodka here, right?” Dad asks. “I think I might need one.”

“My little Ginger-cakes,” Wilbur says, turning to look at us with his hand on his hip. “We’re not sightseeing or drinking vodka. This isn’t a romantic weekend for three, although – ” and he looks at Dad – “Mr Panda Senior over here is definitely a cutey.”

Dad looks momentarily stunned, and then grins and winks at me. “I keep telling Annabel I am, but she never believes me.”

“So where are we going?” I repeat impatiently. I’m going to throttle Dad before this trip is over.

“We’re going straight to set, Sponge-finger,” Wilbur says in a businesslike voice, “and we don’t even have time to drop your bags off at the hotel first. However, we do have to find the other model before we go anywhere.”

I stare at Wilbur in shock. He’s started walking towards the taxi rank and is waving his hands around as if his feet are on fire. “Wooohooo?” he adds at the top of his voice. “Avez-vous a spare taxi, anyone? Silver plate?”

I continue looking at his back, slightly distracted by the fact that he seems to think we’re in France. “Other model? What other model?”

Another model is not on the bubble chart.

“It’s a paired shoot, Puppy-toe,” Wilbur explains, looking at his watch. “I’m certain I explained it all to you, although that could have been a dream. And not one of my most interesting ones either.” He looks at his watch again and sighs. “But he’s predictably late, as usual.”

My stomach falls into my knees. “He?” I finally stammer.

“That’s the personal pronoun we use when the subject is male, Petal. And, if I remember correctly, you’ve met this one before. You were talking about doves, or was it pigeons? Some sort of bird anyway.”

My stomach drops all the way to the floor. And then my heart and my lungs and my kidneys and my liver all follow it until they’re lying in a smashed-up pile at my feet.

There is no way this is happening.

“Finally,” Wilbur says, turning round and waving. Because there – leaning against a lamp-post in the snow, wearing a big army jacket and looking impossibly beautiful – is Nick.

Again.





hat were the chances?

I’ll tell you what the chances were. Approximately 673 to one. And that’s if Yuka Ito was only casting male models who were based in London. If you count the rest of the globe – which is equally full of beautiful people – then the statistics get even more improbable. Thousands to one. Thousands and thousands to one little tiny one.

And how have I worked this out so quickly? That’s not important. But if, say, I happened to stumble upon all the main modelling agency websites while I was bored last night, and I happened to count up all the male models, and I happened to calculate the chances of seeing Nick again soon, then that would be my prognosis. If I had.

As I said, it’s not important.

Approximately 673 to 1 and yet here he is, climbing into a taxi next to me. And my dad. Which is mind-boggling because I sort of assumed that if my planet and Nick’s planet weren’t supposed to collide then his planet and my dad’s planet were probably on different orbits, in different solar systems, in totally different universes.

Dad takes one look at Nick, sitting on the backseat next to me with his hair covered in snowflakes, and coughs. “I think I’m starting to understand why you were so keen to be a model, Harriet,” he says in the most unsubtle voice I’ve ever heard. I kick him on the ankle.

“What?!” Dad pretends to look innocent and offended. “I’m just saying, from a fifteen-year-old girl’s perspective, things are making a lot more sense all of a sudden.” And then he grins at me.

It’s not possible to be this embarrassed. If I open the taxi door while it’s moving and physically push my dad out, will I get arrested for murder? It might be worth it.

“Dad,” I whimper and stare out of the window as hard as I can. Moscow is zooming past – all snow and big buildings – but I can barely focus on it. Not only is Nick here when he’s not supposed to be, he’s even more handsome than last time I saw him. He gets better looking every day, as if he’s taking some kind of magic beautifying potion made from the tongue of a unicorn and the hair of a dragon or something.

Perhaps I should ask if he has any spare.

“You met under the table at The Clothes Show, do you remember?” Wilbur says innocently, waving his hand between us.

Dad’s all-knowing expression has deepened. “Is that so?”

Nick half smiles at me and puts his feet up on the seat in front of us. “Harriet Manners,” he says in his slow, lazy voice. “Dedicated to law enforcement.”