“It’s not over then?” I reiterate.
“Nope.” Wilbur wipes the tears of laughter out of his eyes. “Now is the really fun bit. We’re going to another part of Moscow.”
For some reason, I’m not feeling as excited as I should be. Nick’s gone and I’m on my own this time.
“For dinner?”
Wilbur starts squealing again. “Dinner? You’re a model, Sugar-plum: you no longer do dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast, actually, unless you plan on regurgitating like a little snake. No, we have a Baylee fashion show to attend.”
“A fashion show? And I’m going too?”
“Well, I hope so, my little Chicken-wing,” Wilbur says, straightening out my fringe affectionately. “Because you’re starring in it.”
K, how the hell am I supposed to concentrate on turning into a butterfly when I don’t have a clue what’s going on from one minute to the next?
Although – to be fair – I’m not sure what I’d have done if they’d told me. I am not a big fan of fashion shows. That’s not a gloomy, defeatist attitude either. It’s hard-won knowledge that comes from plenty of experience. I spent a large portion of my ninth summer walking up and down a ‘catwalk’ (the patio at the bottom of Nat’s garden), holding on to a skipping rope pulled in a straight line down the middle.
It was part of a deal Nat and I made: I practised ‘The Walk’ with her, she rehearsed lines from The Song of Hiawatha with me and we both pretended to enjoy it. But no matter how hard I tried, or how carefully Nat shaped our ‘couture’ plastic bin-bag dresses or arranged daisies on our heads as accessories, something always went wrong. A stumble. A rip.
A trip over a piece of pavement that resulted in a trip to A&E and seven stitches.
Until Nat decided it was probably less dangerous if I handled half-time refreshments and ‘directed’ the show from the safety of a deckchair on the lawn. And she got on with the modelling.
Nat.
Ugh. The metaphorical box in my head feels like it’s going to open and the contents are about to burst all over the floor, so I mentally stick an extra nail in each corner.
“Fashion shows are fantabulous,” Wilbur reassures me as he forces me into yet another taxi. “Obviously we’re going to need to work on your walking skills, Chuckle-bean, because I don’t think the wheelchair is going to fit on the catwalk, but we’ve got at least twenty minutes to train you up.”
I feel a bit like vomiting.
I get the Bubble Chart of Lies out of my bag and switch my phone on. “Dad,” I say, turning to him, “You need to send something to Annabel to make her believe you’re in a really boring business meeting that’s running over.”
“Like what?” Dad asks in confusion.
“I don’t know,” I snap back irritably. “I can’t do everything. Just send whatever you’d normally send.”
Dad frowns. “First of all, if I’m in a meeting, I don’t normally text people under the desk. It’s not school. Second of all, Annabel and I have been married for eight years: we don’t send texts updating each other on our emotions about everything. And third of all, I’m a man. I never send texts updating people on my emotions about everything. Anything in fact.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I grouch because my head feels like it’s about to explode. “Send a text message, Dad. Just follow the Bubble Chart, OK? I don’t have the energy for your maverickness today.”
Dad looks at me, shrugs and gets his phone out. “All right. Don’t blame me if she gets suspicious. This is your adventure: I’m just the sidekick.”
“You’re not the sidekick, Dad.”
“I am. I’m like Robin. Or maybe Dr Watson.”
I scowl at him. “Try Chewbacca,” I mutter under my breath. My phone has been going crazy on my lap. I’m trying to pretend I haven’t heard it because I’m not sure I’m ready to deal with the rocket of guilt and shame I’m about to have launched at me.
“Is this a teenage thing?” Wilbur eventually asks in excitement when it beeps yet again. “It’s been a couple of years since I was a teenager, so maybe I’m out of the loop. Do you have a special ringtone you can’t hear or something?”
Dad coughs. “A couple?” he says, gazing out of the window. “A couple of years?”
Wilbur sticks his nose in the air. “I just have a very carved face,” he says haughtily. “Like Wolverine. It’s always been carved.”
Dad and I both look at him for a few seconds. If Wilbur’s under forty, I’ll eat that gold light reflector.
“No,” I sigh eventually, picking up my phone. “I can hear it. Unfortunately.” And then – extremely reluctantly – I click on the text messages.
H, how are you? Wish you were here. Shall I bring round soup after school? I can pick up some of that green Thai chicken stuff you like Nat x
H, no green stuff. Is red OK? Nat x
Dear Harriet, Toby Pilgrim here. Things are erupting at school. To wit: Alexa’s torturing Nat. Shall I come to Amsterdam and bring you home to avenge her like a flaming angel? Yours truly, Toby Pilgrim
Harriet, don’t forget to floss Annabel