Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(37)

Julien stares at my hand in shock. “Mon Dieu,” he says, appalled. “I am French. We do not touch ’ands. It is un’igienic.”

“Sorry,” I say, pulling it back as quickly as possible and wiping it on my trousers.

“Non, instead we do a little kissin’. Like zis.” And he leans forward and kisses Wilbur three times on the cheeks and then once lingeringly on the lips.

Wilbur giggles. “Best bit of my trip,” he whispers to me behind his hand. “I do love Frenchmen.”

“Ze lip bit was just for Wilbur,” Julien explains. “We don’t do zat in France. Alors.” He grabs my face and stands behind me, looking into the mirror. Then Wilbur’s face pokes up to the right, and Dad’s face pokes up to the left until all three are staring at me like a bad eighties album cover.

“Zis ’air,” Julien continues. “It iz big.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“It iz too big. It iz… ’ow you say… flooding you.”

“Drowning?” Dad offers helpfully.

“Mais oui. You are nuthin’ but a little wave in an ocean of ’air. We cannot see your features. It iz all lost.” Julien looks at Wilbur and then looks back at me. “Yuka iz right,” he says finally, and Wilbur gives a little squeal as if somebody just trod on his toe and he’s happy about it. I’m not feeling as comfortable with this conversation as I should be.

“Your ’air,” Julien explains in a nonchalant voice, “iz too big for your ’ead.”

“It’s supposed to be,” I explain. “More room to hide.”

“Non.” Julien pushes me back down again. “A little ’ead needs little ’air.”

“And a little ego needs lots,” I argue, but it’s too late. Julien has put a thick lock of my hair between his scissors and he’s moving them closer and closer to my head. “Dad!” I yell. “Do something!”

“Touch a hair on my daughter’s head,” Dad says firmly, standing up, “and my wife will sue you all.”

“OK,” Julien shrugs.

And then he lops the whole lot off.





y dad is having a breakdown.

He keeps looking at my head and then murmuring, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, and putting his hands over his eyes. “I think Annabel is going to notice this one,” he says eventually.

I touch the hair clutched between my fingers. An hour ago it was waist-length and now it’s bobbed to just below my ears. I also have a short spiky fringe which is going to be standing vertically for the rest of my teens.

Julien is calling this look “La Jeanne d’Arc for the New Decade”. I think it means that I’m going to be sent to the wrong toilet in restaurants until it grows back again.

“Darling,” the stylist says, patting me on the shoulder, “I know you must be gutted: the loss of your femininity and so on. But we don’t really have time for this. We need to get you ready.”

I nod, and then pull myself together and get off the bed. I can’t complain just because my idea of a transformation apparently isn’t the same as anyone else’s, i.e. to make me look better.

“OK,” I say bravely, getting into the make-up chair. I’m going to just let them do whatever it is these people want to do.

Which is, apparently, bore me to death.

Being transformed is incredibly dull. It’s like watching somebody you don’t know paint by numbers. They inexplicably paint my face with something the same colour as my face, then put pink stuff where I was blushing before they covered it up, and then give me lots of black mascara that goes into my eyes, and then bright pink lips.

Then they put shimmery stuff on my shoulders, and shimmery stuff in my hair, and then they hand me my ‘outfit’. I’ve used quotation marks, for the record, because it’s not an outfit. It’s a short fake fur coat and a pair of the highest red heels I have ever seen. And that’s it.

No, sorry. I’ve also got a pair of big black knickers you just can’t see under the coat and a sheer pair of tights that are totally transparent and do nothing apart from make my legs look weird and shiny, like the legs of a Barbie.

I stare at it all for a few seconds in disbelief and then take it into the bathroom to maintain my modesty, which for some unknown reason everybody seems to think is really funny. Then I sit on the seat of the toilet to put ‘the outfit’ on.

Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there.

“Harriet?” a concerned voice eventually says, accompanied by a knocking on the door. “It’s Dad. Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“She’s probably so mesmerised by her own beauty she can’t move away from the mirror,” I hear Wilbur stage-whisper. “It’s why I’m always late.” Then he knocks on the door as well. “Look away from the reflection, baby,” he shouts through the wood. “Just look away and the spell will be broken.”

“Dad? Can you come in here? I’m on the toilet.”

There’s a pause. “Darling, I love you very much. You’re my only child and the apple of my eye and whatnot. But I’m not coming in there if you’re on the toilet.”

I sigh in frustration. “With the seat down, Dad. I’m sitting on the toilet. As a chair.”