Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(58)

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “But maybe,” he says more loudly, holding his hands together, “it’s not too late. Maybe we can make everything lovely again.”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing at Annabel again and moving into the middle of the room to support him.

“I hope so. I’ll do anything it takes because I really don’t want to screw these up too.” Dad promptly pulls the clean baby socks out of his pocket and dangles them in the air.

And then – I’m going to assume this is the final scene of the final act – he closes the lid of the washing machine and stands there like a wally, holding the baby socks and staring at Annabel with the expression Hugo makes when he pees on the carpet.

There’s a long, long silence, broken only by the comforting sound of a tumble dryer going round and round.

Finally Annabel sits up and rubs her eyes. “You know what gets things clean?” she says, yawning.

“What?” Dad says eagerly. He takes a few excited, dripping steps towards her.

“Turning the washing machine on.” Annabel looks at it pointedly.

“Oh.”

“And you know what else gets things clean?”

“Saying sorry again?”

“Washing powder.”

Dad and I both stare at the washing machine. We’ve piled all the clothes into it and then just left them there. Presumably to clean themselves.

“Now just wait a minute,” Dad says in a horrified voice. “I actually have to wash the clothes? I mean, actually wash them?”

Annabel glances at the ceiling. “Yes, Richard. You have to actually wash them. They’re covered in mud and dripping wet.”

“But they’re a metaphor,” Dad explains. “They’re supposed to symbolise our relationship, Annabel. Are you telling me I have to wash the metaphor?”

“Yes, you have to wash the metaphor. You can’t just leave them in the washing machine like that. It’s a public washing machine.”

“Can I take them out and throw them away?”

“No. We’ll wash them and take them to a charity shop.”

Dad looks shell-shocked and then visibly rallies himself. “Am I forgiven, though? Will you take me back, with all of my adorable foibles and charming idiosyncrasies?” He thinks about it. “And handsome quirks?” he adds with round eyes.

Annabel’s mouth twitches, but I don’t think Dad sees it. He looks really anxious, although this might be partly because he really doesn’t like doing laundry. “We’ll discuss it while you’re doing the washing. And the drying. That should take a good couple of hours at least.”

Dad sighs and looks at the washing machine. “I guess this is fitting punishment,” he says in a humble voice.

“Oh, no,” Annabel says, winking at me so that Dad can’t see it. “This isn’t the punishment, Richard. This is the metaphor for the punishment.”

Dad looks terrified, and then sighs and takes her hands. “No matter what you do to me,” he says, slipping effortlessly back into B-movie mode, “no matter how hard you try, I’ll always be glad I knew where to find you.”

“Me too,” Annabel says and then she flicks his nose hard with her thumb and middle finger. There’s a pause while they both look at each other and something unspoken passes between them, something I don’t really understand. Which is good because I don’t think I’m supposed to.

“High five for Medical Miracle Baby?” Dad finally says, holding up his hand and grinning at her. Annabel bites her bottom lip, and then laughs and hits it twice.

“High ten,” she corrects. “Although we’re going to have to work on a better name than that.”

Which must mean Annabel’s coming home again.





ow I don’t want to be smug or anything, but not having a plan seems to be working miraculously well. In fact, you could say that the plan of not having a plan – because that’s how I’m now thinking of it – is working a treat. I’ve fixed Dad and Annabel pretty much single-handedly and left them in the launderette. And next on my not-plan plan is Nat.

My phone rings again.

“Pamplemousse?” Wilbur says as soon as I pick it up. It’s been vibrating in my pocket at three-minute intervals for the last four hours and I can’t ignore it any more. There’s a really fine line between playing it cool and just being rude, and I think any more than four hours is pushing it. “Is that you, my little Pamplemousse?”

“It’s still me, Wilbur.”

“Oh, thank holy chicken monkeys. Where have you been?”

“The launderette.”

“I can’t help but feel your priorities are a little out of whack, my Chestnut-bean. But if clean clothes are what you need to be a star, who am I to argue?”

I sigh. I couldn’t feel less like a star now if I tried. I’m covered in splashes of mud and I smell vaguely of washing powder and socks. “Did you want something, Wilbur?”

“Banana-muffin, I need to talk to you about an opportunity that’s come up, but they need to see you tomorrow mor—”

“I can’t do it.” I look at my watch and immediately pick up speed: I need to get where I’m going faster. I frown, and then bend down in a moment of pure inspiration and click the little button on the side of my trainers so that the little inbuilt secret wheels pop out. And no, I am not of an age group too old to be wearing these. No matter what Nat says. Just in case you were wondering. They wouldn’t make them in this size if I was.