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Head Over Heels. Holly Smale
Читать онлайн.Название Head Over Heels
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007574643
Автор произведения Holly Smale
Издательство HarperCollins
Unless …
“I have to go to London,” I say, looking at my watch. “But I can be here again in … an hour, maximum?”
Then I glance up at them hopefully.
“That’s not a question, Harriet,” Toby points out. “You’ve put a question mark on the end, but it’s actually a statement.”
I look beseechingly at Nat. She understands my subtle rhetoric. “Umm,” she says after a few beats, glancing around the park. “Sure. I guess we can wait.”
“We won’t start playing Scrabble until you return,” Toby agrees.
“And we’ll try as hard as we can not to eat the meat-chocolate-fish-salad sandwiches,” Jasper says, lifting his eyebrows. “But I can’t promise anything: we’re only human.”
India’s jabbing her purple heel into the mud in silence. She’s clearly even more disappointed by this crushing news than I am, poor thing.
The happiness factor is depleting by the second.
“Don’t worry!” I say, patting her arm. “I’ll be back before you know it and then you’ll have so much fun, just wait and see! Team JINTH forever!”
Quickly, I type a quick text to Dad:
Just going to London for Wilbur! Won’t be long! Hxx
And I start running.
I won’t go into unnecessary details.
Suffice to say, by the time I reach the address Wilbur texted me, in the middle of Soho, I’ve jogged so enthusiastically there’s Extract of Harriet pouring down the middle of my forehead.
And my back, my knees … the soles of my feet.
I’m basically in the final death throes of the Wicked Witch of the West, and I’m melting all over the reception desk.
Quickly, I wipe it off with my jumper sleeve and try my best to inhale without sounding like a broken vacuum cleaner.
Then I ping the bell and glance around the empty atrium.
This building is utterly enormous.
The furniture’s white leather, the walls are entirely exposed grey brick, and there’s glass, green plants and gravel everywhere, like some kind of giant terrarium made for humans.
“Hello?” I call out urgently, dinging the little bell again. My voice bounces around the room like a ball. “Is anybody there?”
The only sound is another bead of sweat dripping on to the glass desk with a tiny plip.
Oh my God: I must have missed the casting.
Who are we even kidding? The fastest mile ever run by a woman is four minutes, twelve seconds, and I don’t think I’m in danger of beating that record any time soon.
At one point of my journey I ended up air-vomiting against a lamp-post.
I scan the room again: still nothing.
Then I spot a paper sign stuck on a door, with this written on it in black marker:
Heart still hammering, I rip my bulky coat off. I unwind my long, sticky red scarf, throw it over my shoulder and rearrange my sweaty T-shirt.
Then I start trotting down the corridor.
It feels like it goes on for miles – like one of my horrible cross-country nightmares – but with a final burst of exertion I finally reach a door with CASTINGS written on it.
Panting, I stop with a wave of relief.
And also a wave of nausea: I’m really not built for this much physical activity.
“I’m here!” I breathe, rapping sharply on the door and wiping several drips from my forehead. Please. Please don’t have gone already. “Don’t worry, I’m here!”
“Now just hang on a—” somebody says.
But it’s too late: there’s nowhere to hang on to.
With a final wobble my exhausted legs give way: throwing my entire weight against the door.
It opens with a click.
And – with a tiny squeak of horror – I fall face down into the world of fashion.
On horseback, for instance.
Riding an enormous motorbike or standing on the gold wings of a flaming chariot. Cartwheeling or back-flipping; balanced precariously on the spine of two dragons, while simultaneously blowing a bugle.
All of which would have been more subtle than shouting OOMPH and smashing out into a star-shape with my face pressed firmly against the floorboards.
The door swings behind me with a bang.
None of an octopus’s limbs know what the others are doing: I think the same can clearly be said for mine.
“S-sorry,” I say, struggling upright with an embarrassed laugh and tucking a strand of soggy hair behind my ear. “Th-there are thirteen muscles in each leg and I think one of mine decided to give u—”
I falter to a stop.
I’ve fallen into yet another big, grey room with huge windows, a long white table and white seats. Colourful prints hang in frames along the walls, the table is covered in little plates and glasses, and there are nine serious-looking people: most of whom are wearing dark suits and ties and smart dresses.
And every single one of them is eating a sandwich.
Or trying to, anyway.
My explosion through the door seems to have interrupted that process somewhat.
“Umm …” I stutter as they pause mid-chew. “Sorry, is this not the modelling audition?”
“It’s going to be,” the only man wearing denim says, putting a ham baguette down. “Right now it’s our late lunch.”
I don’t believe this. Did I just run straight from one picnic to another, like some kind of crazed teddy bear?
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh.” The man eyes me coldly. “Do you usually come bursting into private meeting rooms without waiting to be invited?”
“N-no.”
“Good to hear. Well, feel free to burst out again. You can return at the allocated time, with the other, less horizontal models.”
Then Denim Man stuffs the baguette in his mouth, rips a bite off and turns towards the lady sitting next to him.