Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(55)

“A…” Annabel squints slightly. “CE-H? What’s a Ceh?”

“A geek. It says Geek. Or, at least, it used to.”

“Oh.” Annabel shrugs. “So? Some of the best people are. And – for the record – I didn’t want you to model precisely because I didn’t want you to become someone else.” She picks up the newspaper and points at the article of me. “But I was wrong. You’ve stayed you and I’m so proud. What you did was kind. It was courageous. It was strangely inspired. It was everything I love best about you. It came from a good place.”

“Russia?”

Annabel gives me a long look. “No, Harriet. Not Russia. You.” She lifts an eyebrow and then looks back at the paper. “Take yourself off the list and you’ll find that the rest start to disappear as well.”

And she draws the final line.

I can feel my head starting to go swirly again. Annabel looks at me in silence and then she hands me the paper.





“There’s still one on there,” I point out sadly.

“What did I tell you about putting people who love you very much on this list, Harriet?”

“Nat doesn’t—”

“Don’t be daft – she’s just hurt and angry. Nobody likes being lied to by somebody they trust. When you’ve worked out what it is Nat needs from you, you’ll be able to cross her off too.”

“Is it…”

“No, it’s not personalised flapjacks, Harriet.”

I nod and tuck the list in my back pocket. I don’t know why I didn’t come here first of all: Annabel always knows how to organise the world for me so it makes sense again. Just as she does when she tidies my room. “Are you coming home, Annabel? Ever?”

Annabel sighs and looks back at her report. “I don’t know. Your dad has his own list to think about. And unlike you, he’s old enough to do it on his own.”

Her phone beeps.

“Annabel? Roberta Adams says if she doesn’t get back soon, Fred is going to start getting anxious.”

“God forbid I should make a guinea pig feel unloved. Send her up, Audrey.” Annabel looks at me. “Now go home and study that list,” she adds in her normal sharp voice. “You know where I am if you need me. My bed is in the cupboard.”

And as I turn round and walk back out of the office with the paper in my hand, I realise how happy I am that Annabel knew about everything the whole time. It reminds me of that famous fridge magnet: the one about footprints in the sand.

I wasn’t as on my own as I thought I was.





o I no longer have a plan.

The universe has shown me, repeatedly, that it has no respect at all for bullet points or pointers or lists or charts. Plans don’t work and even when they might work and should work, people ignore them. So I’m going to try a brand-new strategy: not having a plan.

For the first time in my life, I’m just going to attempt to bumble through from one moment to the next and see where I end up. Just like a normal human being.

Or, you know. A bee.



“Are you kidding me?” I say as I open the front door. Dad’s still in his dressing gown from yesterday, and the only difference is that he now has a family-size packet of gummy sweets nestled in the crook of his arm. I read somewhere that in an average lifetime we each use 272 cans of deodorant, 276 tubes of toothpaste and 656 bars of soap, and it is quite clear that since Annabel left, Dad hasn’t touched one of them.

“Look how depressed I am,” he says as soon as I walk into the room. He holds up a sweet, looks at it sadly and then puts it in his mouth. “I’m even eating the green ones. I have nothing to get up for any more. Nothing. I think I’m just going to stay here until I grow into the sofa and they have to winch me out of the window every time I need the toilet.”

“Dad,” I say, sitting next to him. The situation is clearly critical. Dad is starting to sound like he thinks he’s in some kind of made-for-TV film. I have to do something. “Dad, does Annabel like strawberry jam?”

Dad frowns and puts another sweet in his mouth even though he hasn’t swallowed the one he’s chewing yet. “What are you talking about?”

“Does she like strawberry jam?”

“No. She’s always hated it.”

“So why is she eating strawberry jam, Dad?” Then I look at him with the most obvious meaningful expression I can get on my face. I promised Annabel I wouldn’t tell him, but I never told her he wouldn’t work it out for himself.

Although frankly, at the rate my dad’s brain works, there’s a really good chance the baby will be in school by the time that happens.

“Do werewolves eat jam?” Dad asks in surprise.

I roll my eyes. “No. They eat people.”

“So does Annabel. Do you think maybe she’s trying to scramble my brain up and trick me into divorcing her by accident?”

“No.” God, this is like pulling teeth. “Is Annabel any plumper than normal?”

Dad nods knowingly. “It’s all the strawberry jam. Or people.”

I look at him so hard it feels like my eyes are going to pop out. “Yes,” I say meaningfully. “Or people.”