Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(42)

“Is this a teenage thing?” Wilbur eventually asks in excitement when it beeps yet again. “It’s been a couple of years since I was a teenager, so maybe I’m out of the loop. Do you have a special ringtone you can’t hear or something?”

Dad coughs. “A couple?” he says, gazing out of the window. “A couple of years?”

Wilbur sticks his nose in the air. “I just have a very carved face,” he says haughtily. “Like Wolverine. It’s always been carved.”

Dad and I both look at him for a few seconds. If Wilbur’s under forty, I’ll eat that gold light reflector.

“No,” I sigh eventually, picking up my phone. “I can hear it. Unfortunately.” And then – extremely reluctantly – I click on the text messages.



H, how are you? Wish you were here. Shall I bring round soup after school? I can pick up some of that green Thai chicken stuff you like Nat x



H, no green stuff. Is red OK? Nat x



Dear Harriet, Toby Pilgrim here. Things are erupting at school. To wit: Alexa’s torturing Nat. Shall I come to Amsterdam and bring you home to avenge her like a flaming angel? Yours truly, Toby Pilgrim



Harriet, don’t forget to floss Annabel



H, is red too spicy? There’s a picture of three chillis. Is that bad? Nat



Nausea rises up my trachea and I stare at my phone, totally frozen.

I’m the devil. I’m actually the devil. Any minute now the horn that matches Bob is going to sprout and my hair is going to catch fire. I’ve been prancing around in the snow like a shoeless idiot, while Nat runs around fighting for me and buying me soup, and Annabel worries about my dental hygiene. And all I can think about is holding a boy’s hand.

I touch the painful spot on my forehead and tap my feet on the floor of the car. They’re starting to sound a little bit like – oh, I don’t know – cloven hooves.

I quickly type out a reply.



Nat, no soup thanks – am going straight to sleep. Am also contagious so don’t come round. See you soon. H x



I stare at it for a few seconds then press send.

That’s another lie. Two in fact. The balls inside the box in my head are going crazy, so I mentally sit on the lid so they don’t all come bursting out at the same time.

When I glance to the side, Dad looks pretty uncomfortable too. “Hell’s a pretty cosy place, right?” he says, closing his phone. “I mean, it’s probably not as bad as they say, I reckon.”

“Let’s hope not,” I sigh as we draw up outside an astonishing, white, beautiful, huge carved building with a red carpet spread out in front of it.

Because I have quite a strong feeling we’re about to find out.





he Baylee fashion show is being held in a proper red-velvet-seated Russian theatre. A runway has been built down the middle of the room, in the bit where I’d imagine they normally sell ice cream, and there are chandeliers hanging low over the centre of it. Russian architecture isn’t exactly known for minimalism: true to form, the entire room is gold and gilt and carved and embroidered and mirrored.

“Oh, my heavenly mango juice,” Wilbur says when we walk in, putting his hand over his eyes and making a loud retching sound. “It’s like the Sugar Plum Fairy exploded in here.”

“If you don’t like it, William,” Yuka says, stalking past in her heels, “I can send you somewhere a lot less fancy.” She walks up to the front of the stage.

Wilbur looks at me in shock. “Where did she come from?” he whispers, placing a hand over his heart. “Am I right in thinking that was a physical threat?” He looks resentfully at Yuka, who’s now checking the runway. “And it’s bur not iam,” he points out loudly.

“I can’t begin to tell you how little I care,” Yuka snaps and beckons me over to where she’s standing. “Harriet Manners,” she continues seamlessly. “Everyone’s getting ready backstage. Please go and join them. Important people are going to start arriving imminently and I can’t have the face of my new campaign standing here in a hamster and horse jumper.”

I look down, momentarily stunned. “He’s not a hamster. He’s Winnie the Pooh. A bear.” And then I turn round and point to my back. “Eeyore’s a donkey.”

Yuka studies me for a few seconds. “I don’t like donkeys,” she decides eventually. “Or bears. Please go away and get into the outfit I’ve chosen for you, which features neither. Your name is on the tag.”

I nod meekly. I’m not sure what to say to a woman who doesn’t recognise Winnie the Pooh.

“And Harriet?”

I turn round on the stage, where I’m trying to find my way behind the curtains. My foot is caught in one of them. “Yes?” I say, trying to extricate it as subtly as possible.

Yuka’s eyes slide down until she’s staring at it. “If somebody offers to shave your legs,” she snaps, “let them.”

*

Well, I’ve found all of the Russian people.

All of the really good-looking female ones anyway. They’re tucked into a little room behind the stage, crammed together like beautiful, thin, blonde sardines. I’ve never been so uncomfortable. There is skin everywhere. It’s not flashes of puppy fat and training bras either. Really tall, toned girls are wandering around, laughing and almost naked, as if it’s the most natural state in the world.