LITMIR.BIZ

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“Five minutes? Ten minutes? An hour?”

      I’m so excited I can’t get my shoelaces to tie up properly. “Or should I just ring now? I don’t want him to get the wrong impression.”

      I look at the text again. The answer to these questions must be in here somewhere. Maybe it’s in code. Maybe it’s a haiku. Allegory? For goodness’ sake, I’ve studied English literature for five whole years. I can analyse the imagery in Macbeth and the symbolism in Hamlet. I should be able to work this out.

      “You know what?” I decide. “I think I’ll just ring him straight away. I can’t wait any longer.”

      My phone abruptly disappears.

      “Like hell you will,” Nat snaps, and before I know it she’s standing on her bed, violently waving my mobile in the air like some kind of rectangular hand grenade. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

      I stare at my best friend. It’s only now that I notice her cheeks are bright pink, and her hands are shaking. Her angry rash is starting to climb up her chest. And it’s only now that I notice she’s folded and unfolded the same jumper five times. “What on earth are you talking about?”

      “You’re not contacting Nick,” she says loudly. “I’ll eat this phone if I have to. And the charger.”

      I’m not sure that’s even physically possible. “What? Why?”

      “Because you need to wake up, Harriet.”

      I blink and then look down at myself. “I’m pretty sure I’m awake, Nat.”

      “This isn’t an epic romance. It’s just a boy who used you. A boy who made you forget about everything that was important to you before he came along. You’ve read so many books you can’t even tell the difference between fiction and reality any more.”

      I flinch. Just because I sometimes use the words ‘thou’ and ‘mayst’ for fun does not mean I think I’m in an Austen novel. Not all the time, anyway.

      “I can,” I say indignantly. “I am well aware of the difference between what’s real and what isn’t.” I’d be prettier in a book, for starters. “Give me my phone right now.”

      I jump for her, like some kind of killer whale trying to get a particularly nice seal.

      “Harriet,” Nat says urgently, moving a little further away. “Nick hasn’t contacted you for two months. He dumped you weeks before the most important exams of your life and ran away. That’s not what somebody who cares about you does. You have to believe me. I understand boys better than you do.”

      I flinch again and something in me pinches slightly. “You might know boys in general,” I say defiantly. “But you don’t know Nick. He cares about me. I know he does.”

      I jump for her again and miss.

      “He doesn’t,” Nat says, moving until she’s pressed against the wall and holding me back with a foot. “He’s an idiot and I’m not letting him suck you back in with his pointy cheekbones and his pointy hipbones and his stupid pointy hair. No.”

      Fury suddenly surges through me. My best friend is acting like some kind of crazy, masterminding puppeteer. She’s calling my Lion Boy an idiot. She’s just reminded me about his lovely hipbones.

      And – most of all – I’m furious that a very tiny part of me suspects she might be right.

      “Natalie!” I yell. “Nat! Give me my phone NOW!”

      “Don’t make me do this,” Nat shouts, and her cheeks get even pinker. “For once in your life just listen to me, Harriet.”

      “Give me my phone!” I shout again, and – with a lurch of my stomach – I suddenly know what Nat’s going to do.

      If she gets rid of that text, I will have no way of contacting him. I deleted Nick’s number so I wouldn’t be tempted to text him after he left. He doesn’t ‘do’ social media. And I can’t remember his email address.

      He’ll give up on me.

      And if that happens, I’m not sure our ten-year friendship will survive. More importantly, I’m not sure Nat will. There’s a really good chance I’ll just kill my best friend on the spot.

      There’s a red dot in the centre of each of Nat’s cheeks. “I’m doing this for you,” she announces, tapping the screen. “I honestly am.”

      “No!” I yell, and bundle myself at her legs in an attempt to desperately wrestle my phone out of her hands. Nat scrabbles away while I hold on to her feet, and the next thing I know she’s only wearing one sock and there’s yet another rip in my bridesmaid’s dress.

      By the time I’ve finally managed to claw my phone back, we’re huffing and puffing and scratched and bright red all over and it’s too late.

      The message has gone.

      My last chance with Nick has gone with it.

      You really don’t want to know what I say next.

      Let’s just put it this way: in no way do I leave my feelings about the situation open to interpretation. I am very clear about every single one of them.

      I end the conversation by telling Nat I hope she doesn’t get eaten by French chickens in a way that very much intimates the opposite, and then storm out of the house.

      “Harriet?” Nat yells out of the window as I stomp down the road, silk dress rippling after me. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper! I shouldn’t have done that!”

      “No,” I yell back, without turning round, “you shouldn’t!”

      Then I keep stomping. What kind of friend does that?

      Who the sugar cookies does Nat think she is?

      

      or the next couple of days, I simply refuse to leave my room.

      There’s no point. The alternative is to watch my parents take all my impeccably arranged books out of the study and pile them in a not-even-vaguely alphabetical order outside my door.

      By the time it gets to Friday afternoon, I’m so sick of hearing Dad say “another book of random quotations? Seriously?” I decide to go for a long, cathartic walk. My ex-best friend will be in France by now, getting chased about by Mr Green Lycra Cycling Shorts.

      Good. Serves her right.

      I hope he doesn’t even use proper virgin olive oil, and opts for low-grade cooking oil instead.

      Unfortunately my stress-reducing exercise efforts are ruined within two minutes by a small, fluffy-headed figure creeping from tree to tree in front of me. I have to keep looking in the opposite direction so I don’t hurt his feelings.

      “Toby,” I finally say as I turn back on to my road. He flattens himself behind a lamp-post considerably thinner than he is. “I can see you.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Pretty sure, yes.”

      “Oh dear,” he says sadly. “My homemade camouflage stalker kit may need some more work.” He points at his grey T-shirt and grey trousers. They have faint black lines drawn on them in criss-crosses.

      I stare at him, and then totally give up. “What on earth are you camouflaged as?”

      “Pavement.” Toby lies down on the floor and holds himself very

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