“Via national newspaper?”
I stare at her in confusion and then the penny drops. I look at the envelope. On the front is printed in familiar red capital letters: NAT, IT WAS THE EASIEST WAY TO TELL YOU.
Alexa really is a piece of work.
“No,” I gasp. “You weren’t supposed to know for months.” Then I flinch. I’m not sure that’s the best thing I could have said.
Nat’s eyes widen. “You were going to keep lying for months?”
“Well, no… you know… just… a few more days,” but I’m not even sure what the truth is any more. Was I ever going to be honest, unless I was caught? Have I been lying to myself as well as everyone else?
Nat’s cheeks are getting pinker and pinker. “Why?”
“Because… Because…” It all made so much sense at the time, but it suddenly doesn’t any more. “You were so angry at The Clothes Show…”
“Because you lied, not because you were spotted. I told you that.”
“It would have hurt you.”
“More than this?”
I lick my lips. “I thought you would ruin it for me.”
“You thought I would ruin it for you?” she repeats, amazed. “I’m your best friend, Harriet. Why would I ruin anything for you?”
“You wouldn’t understand and… and… you wouldn’t want to be my friend any more.”
The excuses are coming thick and fast. But the truth that I can’t even admit to my best friend is that I lied because it was easier.
Because I’m a coward.
Because I clearly don’t think very much of the people I love.
Because all I was thinking about was me.
Nat stands up and the hurt five-year-old suddenly disappears. “No,” she says abruptly. “Now I don’t want to be your friend any more. Get out of my bedroom.”
“But…” I start. I open my mouth and promptly shut it again. All I’ve done is think about myself and lie compulsively. I don’t have a leg to stand on.
“Now,” she yells, totally furious, and she starts rummaging in a plastic bag at the foot of her bed.
“Nat, I’m sorry.”
“Out,” she screams and I’ve never seen her so angry. “What are you waiting for, Manners? Soup? You still want soup?” And she pulls something out of her bag and throws it. A carton of green Thai soup hits the wall behind me and explodes. “There’s your bloody soup.” She rummages in her bag again, and before I know it for the second time this afternoon food is hitting my head. “And there’s the bread. I hope you feel better soon. NOW GET THE HELL OUT!”
And – just as I think things can’t get any worse – Nat puts her hand in the air and looks at it. My chin starts to wobble: of all the hands in the air this week, I think this might finally be the hand I actually deserve.
Then, because I’m frozen to the spot, Nat pushes me across the room and into the hallway.
And slams the door behind me.
ll I want to do is crawl into bed and cry, but I can’t. The minute I open the front door I know things are about to get even worse.
Hugo’s lying in his basket with his chin on the edge. His eyebrows twitch unhappily and he immediately looks at the wall as if he’s blanking me. According to scientists, dogs can make approximately 100 facial expressions and it’s quite clear which one Hugo is using right now.
“Annabel?” I whisper. “Dad?”
There’s a long silence, so I put my bag down and tiptoe into the living room. Then I tiptoe into the kitchen, and the bathroom, and the garage, and the laundry room, and Annabel and Dad’s bedroom. It’s only when there’s nowhere else to tiptoe that I go into my own bedroom and find Dad sitting on the floor with his back against my chest of drawers.
He looks at me desolately. “You know,” he says, “for somebody so organised, you’re incredibly untidy.”
There are clothes everywhere: books strewn all over the floor, sweet wrappers across the bottom of the bed, teddybears stuck halfway behind the wardrobe, clothes scattered. He has a point. I’m just not sure it’s the most important one right now.
“Dad, where’s Annabel?”
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“She’s gone, is what I mean. She’d gone by the time I got your message and managed to get back to the house. She took her bags with her and the cat.”
“But why?”
Dad shrugs. “It was her cat.”
“No, why did she leave?”
Dad reaches into his pocket. “She wrote this.” And he hands me a yellow Post-it.
Then he pulls out the article from the newspaper. “This was next to it.”
I stare at it, my heart making little sputtering sounds. “This is all my fault.”
“Not really.”
“Of course it is, Dad. What else would she be talking about?”
“A couple of things maybe.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out another piece of paper. “This was on the kitchen table too.”
It’s a letter from The Clothes Show lawyers, addressed to my parents.
“Dad, I…”And my voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”