Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(41)

I clear my throat crossly. “Nick and I are just colleagues,” I say with as much indifference as I can muster and an improvised shrug. “We work together.”

“Not any more you don’t,” Wilbur says matter-of-factly, patting me on the head. “His bit’s over. Yuka’s not as bothered about the male fashion end of the spectrum. Not bad money for a four-hour gig, hey?”

A swoop of disappointment hits my stomach and I bite my bottom lip in case it reaches my face. I should have realised. I’ll probably never see Nick again, unless it’s on the pages of a magazine in a doctor’s surgery and half his face will probably be missing from where somebody’s ripped out a coupon from the other side.

I can feel my cheeks tingling. And he didn’t even say goodbye.

“So,” I say as calmly as I can, “is my bit over too then?”

I’ve done a shoot, I’ve got a new haircut, I’m wearing make-up and I’ve held a boy’s hand, but…

I still feel like me. Something’s not working the way it’s supposed to.

Wilbur starts pealing with laughter. “Is my bit over? Is my bit… Oh, my little Bookworm,” he sighs eventually, bending over and putting his hand in the crease of his waist. “You do crack me right down the middle.”

Honestly, I wish people would just answer questions properly when I ask them.

“It’s not over then?” I reiterate.

“Nope.” Wilbur wipes the tears of laughter out of his eyes. “Now is the really fun bit. We’re going to another part of Moscow.”

For some reason, I’m not feeling as excited as I should be. Nick’s gone and I’m on my own this time.

“For dinner?”

Wilbur starts squealing again. “Dinner? You’re a model, Sugar-plum: you no longer do dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast, actually, unless you plan on regurgitating like a little snake. No, we have a Baylee fashion show to attend.”

“A fashion show? And I’m going too?”

“Well, I hope so, my little Chicken-wing,” Wilbur says, straightening out my fringe affectionately. “Because you’re starring in it.”





K, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on turning into a butterfly when I don’t have a clue what’s going on from one minute to the next?

Although – to be fair – I’m not sure what I’d have done if they’d told me. I am not a big fan of fashion shows. That’s not a gloomy, defeatist attitude either. It’s hard-won knowledge that comes from plenty of experience. I spent a large portion of my ninth summer walking up and down a ‘catwalk’ (the patio at the bottom of Nat’s garden), holding on to a skipping rope pulled in a straight line down the middle.

It was part of a deal Nat and I made: I practised ‘The Walk’ with her, she rehearsed lines from The Song of Hiawatha with me and we both pretended to enjoy it. But no matter how hard I tried, or how carefully Nat shaped our ‘couture’ plastic bin-bag dresses or arranged daisies on our heads as accessories, something always went wrong. A stumble. A rip.

A trip over a piece of pavement that resulted in a trip to A&E and seven stitches.

Until Nat decided it was probably less dangerous if I handled half-time refreshments and ‘directed’ the show from the safety of a deckchair on the lawn. And she got on with the modelling.

Nat.

Ugh. The metaphorical box in my head feels like it’s going to open and the contents are about to burst all over the floor, so I mentally stick an extra nail in each corner.

“Fashion shows are fantabulous,” Wilbur reassures me as he forces me into yet another taxi. “Obviously we’re going to need to work on your walking skills, Chuckle-bean, because I don’t think the wheelchair is going to fit on the catwalk, but we’ve got at least twenty minutes to train you up.”

I feel a bit like vomiting.

I get the Bubble Chart of Lies out of my bag and switch my phone on. “Dad,” I say, turning to him, “You need to send something to Annabel to make her believe you’re in a really boring business meeting that’s running over.”

“Like what?” Dad asks in confusion.

“I don’t know,” I snap back irritably. “I can’t do everything. Just send whatever you’d normally send.”

Dad frowns. “First of all, if I’m in a meeting, I don’t normally text people under the desk. It’s not school. Second of all, Annabel and I have been married for eight years: we don’t send texts updating each other on our emotions about everything. And third of all, I’m a man. I never send texts updating people on my emotions about everything. Anything in fact.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I grouch because my head feels like it’s about to explode. “Send a text message, Dad. Just follow the Bubble Chart, OK? I don’t have the energy for your maverickness today.”

Dad looks at me, shrugs and gets his phone out. “All right. Don’t blame me if she gets suspicious. This is your adventure: I’m just the sidekick.”

“You’re not the sidekick, Dad.”

“I am. I’m like Robin. Or maybe Dr Watson.”

I scowl at him. “Try Chewbacca,” I mutter under my breath. My phone has been going crazy on my lap. I’m trying to pretend I haven’t heard it because I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with the rocket of guilt and shame I’m about to have launched at me.