LITMIR.BIZ

      he rest of the day is spent:

      When I was in Japan I learnt that Buddhist monks in training must eat every single grain of rice in their bowl or it represents ingratitude towards the universe.

      I’m pretty sure the same thing applies to chocolate cake.

      The next thing I know, it’s 7am and the doorbell is ringing.

      I sit up groggily and rub my eyes.

      I’m still in my Spider-Man T-shirt, and there is a melted chocolate button stuck to my forehead. My phone is still in my hand, from where I fell asleep gripping it like a small, hard and square stress-ball.

      “Annabel?” I shout. “Dad?” The doorbell rings again.

      There’s a silence so – grumbling slightly – I grab my dressing gown off the back of the door and start plodding down the stairs: heavily, so my parents know that on the Day After My Big Day I cannot believe I am expected to get out of bed and operate as some kind of family doorman.

      Then I swing the door open and stop scowling.

      I knew Nick hadn’t forgotten about me. I knew the big romantic gesture was coming: I just had to be patient and wait for it.

      I beam at the postman, and at the huge package he’s holding. Maybe it’s exotic flowers. Maybe it’s a carved African mask with a fascinating history, or indigenous jewellery with our names carved into a heart and—

      “Are you going to take it or what?”

      “Sorry?”

      “I’ve got a lot of things to deliver, missy. Please sign here and let me get on with it.”

      I don’t think this postman appreciates the level of grand romance he’s participating in.

      “Approximately 360 million items are sent by post every year,” I say sympathetically, scribbling my name. “You must be very tired.”

      The postman lifts his eyebrows. “I don’t deliver them all, love. I’m not Santa Claus.”

      Then he marches off down the pavement without even looking back to appreciate the joy on my face.

      The stamp is beautiful and exotic, and on the front is written in large, curly writing:

      Which is a bit weird.

      Nick gets on really well with my parents, but I think this might be taking integration a little too far.

      I rip open the package, and pull out a small piece of yellow fabric that says:

      A string of red beads that say:

      A tiny pair of silver cymbals, engraved with a dragon.

      Which sounds a bit dangerous. I’m not sure my father needs any help in that area.

      Finally, I pull out a beautiful little engraved golden bowl with a cloth-covered stick.

      This is the most inappropriate gift a boyfriend has ever sent anyone.

      What on earth was Nick thinking?

      Then I tip the package upside down and a card falls out.

      

      erve impulses bring information to the average brain with the same speed as a high-powered luxury sports car.

      Right now, mine feels like a milk float.

      I turn the card over four times, just in case I’ve missed a pivotal piece of information. A code or perhaps a translator.

      I’m just turning it over for the fifth time when there’s a heavy shuffling sound behind me.

      Annabel pauses in dragging another suitcase down the stairs and flushes slightly. “Harriet, I didn’t expect you to be awake so early.”

      I look at the suitcase, and then at the hallway. There are even more boxes everywhere; the bookshelves have been cleared; the taps in the kitchen are shiny. Dad’s loudly singing the wrong lyrics to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen, which is what he always does when he’s cleaning the oven.

      “What’s going on?” I say, thrusting Bunty’s card at her. “Why is Grandma coming back? What adventure? And what does she mean by next year?”

      Annabel goes a darker shade of pink and mutters, “Oh, God. Nice timing, Mum.” Then she clears her throat.

      “Well, we were going to tell you yesterday, Harriet, but it was your big day – it’s all been very last minute – and …” She pauses. “Richard? Can you get out here, please?”

      My eyes widen. Annabel never asks for Dad’s help in anything. Ever.

      Through the kitchen door I see Dad use the cooker to pull himself up.

      “Ouch,” he says, staggering into the hallway. “Maybe I should start doing yoga. Or pilates. Which is the most manly, do you think? Which would Batman do?”

      “Can somebody please just tell me what’s going on?”

      “Well,” Annabel says, going even more red. “There’s this thing … The fact is … Actually, you wouldn’t believe what’s … We were just thinking that …”

      I’ve never seen Annabel unsure how

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