LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

did what?” Nat splutters into her coffee. “No.”

      “He did,” India insists, grinning. “Halfway through the date, he put his leg on the table. Plop. Then he said ‘I’ve been told I have very handsome shins’.”

      Nat explodes with laughter.

      “The tibia is the second longest bone in the body,” Toby says, nodding. “He may have had a point.”

      “So …” Nat sits forward. “What did you do?”

      “I told him to get his flaming foot out of my dinner before I ate it and then I said I’d call him.”

      “Ooooooh. Cold.”

      “Cold call him?” Toby says in confusion. “Like a telesales person? Sometimes they ring us about windows even though we clearly have eight already.”

      “When somebody says they’ll call you, it means they won’t call you. Or they’d have been more specific.”

      “Yup. It’s dating speak for this is over now please go away and never speak to me again.”

      “Aaaaah,” Toby nods. “I’m afraid I’ve never been rejected by a girl so I wouldn’t know.”

      Nat blinks at him in silence.

      “Anyway,” I say, plopping my Filofax on the table. “Gang. About tonight. The itinerary is looking shipshape, but I just need to run through a few extra components. I’ve got Telling Each Other Secrets down at 9pm, is that OK?”

      “Umm,” Nat says, putting her coffee down, “actually, Harriet, about that …”

      “Secrets at nine?” Toby says, pulling out a TEAM JINTH SLEEPOVER notepad. “Are you sure? I’ve got it down at 10pm. Just after the Pillow-Fight at 9:35.”

      I frown and check my notes. “I’ve pencilled it in wrong. Thanks, Tobes.”

      It’s been surprisingly useful having Toby as my second-in-command. It’s just too easy to forget what fun you’re supposed to be having and when.

      “Harriet?” Nat says. “Hang on …”

      “I’ve also bought the snacks already.” I check the list. “We just need to make sure we stick to salted after 11pm or we’re going to crash by midnight.”

      “Seriously?” India says, lifting her eyebrows into dark ticks. “Are you regulating our blood sugar levels?”

      “Of course not,” I laugh. “Although I think there is a kit you can buy from pharmacies. Maybe I should swing past on my way back h—”

      “Harriet,” Nat says, prodding me. “Listen.”

      “Natalie,” I grin. “Don’t worry! I looked up beautifying face masks on the internet and made one out of avocado, lemon and olive oil.”

      “That’s not …” Nat rubs a hand over her face. “We have a problem.”

      “Personalised bedding,” Toby whispers. “I told you we needed monogrammed pillows.”

      Nat crosses her eyes at him.

      “I can’t make it tonight, H,” she says slowly. “I’m so sorry. I know you’ve organised … everything, but there’s a textiles exam on Monday and I’m just not ready for it.”

      “Oh thank God,” India sighs. “I’ve got a Head Girl presentation to prepare for lower school so I can’t come either.”

      I stare at Nat and India in shock.

      Human brains are 10 per cent smaller than they were 20,000 years ago, and I can actually feel mine reducing.

      “But you’re half the sleepover,” I point out stupidly. “I can’t have it without you. It would just be …” I glance pointedly at Toby and Jasper.

      Enough said.

      “Subtle as always,” Jasper says from where he’s been cleaning the table next to us. “Guess I’d better keep my salsa and cheddar cheese face mask for myself, then.”

      Toby turns to me with lit-up, hopeful eyes.

      “Not going to happen,” I say quickly. Second-in-command is one thing: sleepover-for-two is quite another.

      Then I collapse back into my seat.

      I don’t believe this. All that effort for nothing?

      Ugh. I really wish people would let me know when they’re editing my plans: this is my life they’re rearranging.

      Quickly, I force myself to rally.

      “Next weekend?” I say, flicking through my Filofax as Nat drains the last of her coffee and stands up. “The weekend after? Half term? Easter holidays? Bank holiday?”

      India opens her mouth and shuts it again.

      “Sure,” my best friend says, swinging her handbag over her shoulder and pecking me on the cheek. “We’ll sort something out.”

      

      hey don’t sort something out at all.

      It’s now mid-March – two entire weeks later – and between exams and revision, jobs and dates, we’ve only just managed to pin down a time that the five of us can actually do.

      And it’s right now.

      Frankly, I don’t think people really appreciate how much notice is needed to throw a decent sleepover, because I just received this:

       J got night off work last minute and I’m out of college early! Drag out the sleeping bags – it’s on! Meet at cafe! Nat xx

      And now I’m having a meltdown.

      Biologists recently found 300 different species living among the debris floating in the ocean, including puffins, turtles, seals, whales and penguins: all of which have to wade through mountains of human detritus just to get to bed at night.

      I know exactly how they feel, because that’s what my bedroom currently looks like.

      Books are leaning in mountains against walls, draft essays are scattered, practice equations are crumpled. Paper is pinned over every wall: Excel sheets, schedules, timetables, Post-its.

      My wastepaper basket looks ready to explode.

      Ditto my dirty laundry.

      A bowl of half-eaten tomato soup sits on my dressing table and I’m pretty sure my dog is in the room somewhere too but I couldn’t swear to it.

      Also possibly Annabel’s cat.

      The only difference between me and the poor puffins is: this mess is mine, which means it’s my responsibility to tidy it up.

      In nine minutes flat.

      “Harriet?” Annabel says as I charge across the room, pick up an armful of laundry and throw it into the bottom of my wardrobe. “What on earth are you doing?”

      She appears in my doorway with Tabby on her hip just in time to see me ram the wardrobe doors shut with my shoulder and stick a biro through the front handles.

      It’s probably a good thing she didn’t catch me using the vacuum cleaner to pick up jumpers.

      Or shouting “Scourgify!” at the sock drawer.

      “Cleaning my bedroom,” I

Скачать книгу