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Picture Perfect. Holly Smale
Читать онлайн.Название Picture Perfect
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780007489497
Автор произведения Holly Smale
Издательство HarperCollins
“You rang me from the back of an elephant?”
“Yeah. I suddenly got reception and I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
We beam at each other in silence. I don’t know how I know he’s beaming, but I just do.
“Nick,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I l—”
“Got to go. I’ll see you in New York, Freckles.”
And the phone goes dead.
And yes, there’s quite a lot of kissing, but I just quite like it, OK?
By the next morning I am desperate to leave.
In fact I’m so keen to get to New York I’ve asked my parents if I can go ahead without them.
“Do you think we’re insane?” Dad replies.
“Yes,” I tell him promptly and focus on packing with renewed enthusiasm.
Everything is ready. The house is clean. The electrics are off. The last of our belongings are being lobbed into a large van by a man who is tutting about our ‘ineffective boxing skills’.
A note has been left for Bunty saying DO NOT TRY TO DYE, BURN OR REUPHOLSTER ANYTHING. PLEASE FEED THE CAT ON A DAILY BASIS. Hugo has been sent to live temporarily with a delighted Toby while we get his American passport sorted.
And I’ve spent the evening putting together my own little box of home souvenirs to take with me. A 1,000-yen note with a picture of Mount Fuji on it. A T-shirt with a photo on the front of Rin and me riding a computer-generated unicorn. An American-English dictionary from Toby. An envelope containing a newspaper cutting of me sat with Fleur on the catwalk in Moscow, and a photo I took of Wilbur in Tokyo wearing wing-shaped sunglasses. A photo of me and Nat in cowboy hats and moustaches.
Finally, I get out a brand-new scrapbook, write
There are going to be so many things to stick in it.
Museum tickets and love letters and pressed flowers picked on our moonlit strolls in Central Park. The wrapper from a chocolate he unexpectedly pulls out of his pocket. A photo of us, playing with perspective so it looks like the Statue of Liberty is in our hands.
I’m just contentedly tucking the toy lion he bought me into the corner when my phone beeps.
H, I can’t make it to the airport! I forgot we have initiation day at college. I’M SO SORRY. Skype me when you get there! Love you so much. Nat xxx
I look blankly at the message, then text back:
No probs! Goodbyes are rubbish anyway, aren’t they? Speak soon! Love you too! H xxx
“Ready?” Annabel says as I pop my little shoebox of memories into my backpack, zip it all up and sling it over my shoulders.
“Ready,” I say quietly.
America, here I come.
I have a lot of things to do.
Documentaries about turbulence to watch, crosswords to complete, key landmarks to look for out of the window, a long and confusing list of American spellings to learn.
Unfortunately, Tabitha has other plans.
I’d never realised she liked England so much, but she’s obviously quite attached. As soon as the air steward starts showing us the emergency exits, she starts yelling and doesn’t draw breath for the rest of the journey.
Apparently women in Ancient Greece made blusher from a mixture of crushed mulberries and strawberries. By the time we land, seven hours later, Annabel is so flushed it looks like she’s made a bath of it and jumped straight in.
“Tabitha,” she says firmly as we collect our bags from the overhead lockers. She wipes her forehead with her jumper sleeve. “I love you more than life itself, but if you scream again like that on public transport I will leave you in the hold, OK?”
Tabby blinks at her with wide eyes, hissy-fit over.
“Don’t give me that look, missy,” Annabel sighs. “I’ve had eleven years of practice with your father.”
Dad leans over Tabitha. “She’s nailing it,” he says approvingly, tickling her tummy. “That’s my girl. Work that twinkle.”
My sister squeaks and kicks her little legs like a frog attempting the high jump. An air steward stops by us in the aisle.
“Oh ma Gahd,” she says, putting a hand on her chest. “Your baby is the cutest. Isn’t she just adorable? I could eat her up.”
We look at Tabitha with narrow, exhausted eyes.
Dad put her in a Union Jack onesie especially for the journey. Her red hair is all curly and fluffy, her cheeks are all pink, the toy rabbit I bought her is propped on her shoulder and she’s blowing enthusiastic bubbles like a tiny goldfish.
Tabby does, indeed, look adorable.
They were obviously working in a different part of the plane twenty minutes ago. There was an entirely different word for her then.
“Please go for it,” Annabel says drily. “She goes well with ketchup and a bit of oregano.”
The air steward’s eyes get very round. “Ha,” she says awkwardly. “Hahaha. You Brits are hilarious.”
And then she hurries away as fast as possible.
This is it, I realise as we push ourselves through the enormous, shiny JFK airport.
It’s like we’ve just hit the restart button.
It feels like London, except bigger. Glossier. Cleaner. The floors are sparkly and everything is ordered and in neat lines. There’s a twang in the air, and the biggest American flag I have seen in my life is hanging from the ceiling.
We all stand and stare at it in silence.
“Well,” Annabel says finally, “at least we don’t need to check that we’re in the right country.”
“Unless it’s a trick,” Dad shrugs. “That would be pretty funny, right? Welcome to Australia! Hahaha GOTCHA!”
“You have a nice day, now!” a lady in an airport outfit says chirpily as she walks past.