LITMIR.BIZ

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She doesn’t frighten me.” He thinks about this. “OK, she frightens me. But I’ll just frighten her back.”

      I try to swallow, but I can’t. The door has just been thrown wide open when I thought it was locked. This is the forked road that the poem talks about. I can take my old life back. I can be Harriet Manners: Best Friend to Nat, Prey to Alexa, Stepdaughter to Annabel, Stalkeree to Toby. Stranger and total Hand-sniffing Weirdo to Nick. Geek.

      Or I can try to become something else entirely.

      Something inside me breaks. “I want to do it,” I hear myself saying. “I want to try and be a model.”

      “Well, duh,” Wilbur says happily.

      “But what happens now?” Dad asks, taking hold of my hand and squeezing it. I squeeze it back. My whole body is trembling.

      “Now?” Wilbur says, laughing and leaning back in his chair. “Well. Let’s just say that Harriet Manners is about to become very fashionable.” And he laughs again. “Very fashionable indeed.”

      o Dad and I have worked out a cunning plan. It’s not particularly complicated and it consists of one simple step: lie. And that’s it.

      We debate the telling-the-truth option for about thirty seconds, and then decide that it’s probably much better all round if we just… don’t. Because we’re scared mainly. As Dad says, “Annabel is absolutely bonkers at the moment, Harriet. Do you really want to awaken the Kraken?”

      So we’re going to lie to Annabel. And – I add this silently in my head – Nat. We’re obviously not going to lie to them forever. That would be ridiculous. We’re just going to keep the truth from them until the timing is right. And it feels like a suitable moment.

      And we have absolutely no other alternative. Which makes me feel no better about anything at all, so as soon as we’re home from the agency, I make my excuses and go straight to the only place in the world I go when I need to run away.

      The local launderette.

      It’s about 300 metres away from my house, and I’ve been coming here since I was allowed to leave the house on my own. For some reason it always makes me feel better. I love the soft whirring sounds, I love the soapy smells, I love the bright lights, I love the warmth coming out of the machines. But most of all I love the feeling that nothing could ever be bad or wrong in a place where everything is being cleaned.

      I dig fifty pence out of my pocket and put it in one of the tumble dryers. Then – when it’s switched on and hot and vibrating – I lean my head on the concave glass window and shut my eyes.

      I don’t know how long I sit with my head on the dryer, but I must nod off because I suddenly jerk awake to the sound of: “Did you know that the average American family does eight to ten loads of laundry each week, and a single load of laundry takes an average of one hour and twenty-seven minutes to complete from wash to dry? That means that the average American family spends approximately 617 hours a year doing laundry. What do you think it is for England? Less, I think. We just seem to be a bit dirtier.”

      And there – sitting on top of a washing machine – is Toby.

      I stare at him in silence.

      “Hey, you’re awake!” he observes. “Look!” And then he points to his T-shirt. It has a picture of drums on it. “It’s interactive! When I press the drums, they make the sound of drums.” Thud, thud.

      “Toby. What are you doing here?”

      “Did you hear that?” He’s wearing a yellow bobble hat and it’s bobbling in excitement. Thud, thud, thud. “They’re realistic, aren’t they? Do you think if you got one with a guitar on it, we could start a band?”

      “No. What are you doing here?”

      “Obviously I’m doing laundry, Harriet.”

      I raise my eyebrow. He looks completely at ease with this terrible excuse, which – considering the fact that he has no laundry with him – is a little worrying. “Did you just follow me here?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why?”

      “You looked sad. And also because it’s dark and it could be dangerous if you wander around on your own.”

      I scowl. “Yes, Toby. I might be at risk from stalkers.”

      Toby looks around us. “I think it’s just me, Harriet. I’ve not run into any others while on the job. Are you excited about the modelling assignment?”

      I stare at him for a few seconds. “How the hell do you know about that?”

      How am I supposed to keep it a secret from Nat and Annabel if I can’t even keep it secret from Toby?

      “Well, I wouldn’t be a very good stalker if I didn’t, would I?” Toby laughs. “I’d have to hang up my stalker gear in shame.” He thinks about it. “Which would be unfortunate because all I’ve really got is this flask and I’m quite attached to it.” He pulls out a red flask and shows it to me. “Soup,” he explains. “In case I get hungry.”

      “Toby, nobody is supposed to know.”

      “So that makes this a secret between the two of us, right?” I glare at him. “Which makes us kindred spirits? And – correct me if I’m wrong – soulmates?”

      “We’re not soulmates, Toby. You can’t just go round stealing secrets and then forcing people into being your soulmate.”

      “OK.” He seems unabashed by the rejection. “But you’re glad I gave that model man your number.”

      For a few seconds all I can do is stutter without any noises coming out. “You gave the modelling agency my number?”

      “You ran off at The Clothes Show so quickly I think you forgot. Good, huh?” Toby grins at me and the yellow bobble bounces up and down cheerfully. “Now the whole world is going to see you the way I already see you. I’ve always been a little bit ahead of the trends.”

      I point to the scraped-up word on my satchel. “And what if they see me the way everyone at school sees me, Toby?”

      Toby considers this for a few moments. “Then I think you’re going to need a bigger bag.” And he hits the drum on his T-shirt. Thud, thud.

      Suddenly I’m not so sure the launderette was a good idea after all. “I’m going home.”

      “OK. Would you like me to follow a few metres behind?” I frown at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “By the way,” he adds, “did Nat tell you what she did yesterday? She was amazing, Harriet. Like Boadicea, except without the chariot. Or the horses, or the swords, but still: it was awesome.”

      I stop near the door. “Nat?” I say, totally confused. “What are you talking about?”

      “She heard what happened to you in Mr Bott’s English class and she went crazy. She stormed into the changing rooms while Alexa was getting ready for hockey and did a whole world of yelling.” Toby pauses. “I didn’t see this because they wouldn’t let me in. Apparently that room is only for girls and I am not one of those, Harriet. I assure you. Whatever Alexa might say. I am all man.”

      My blood is running cold, and not just because Toby just said the phrase all man.

      “And you want to know the best bit?” Toby adds, apparently totally unaware that every single muscle in my face is now twitching with guilt and horror. “You want to know what else she did?”

      “What?”

      “Honestly,

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