Picture Perfect (Geek Girl, Book 3) Read online

  For my dad.

  My rock. My hero. My Richard.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  model [mod-l] noun, adjective, verb

  1 A standard or example for imitation or comparison

  2 A representation, generally in miniature

  3 An image to be reproduced

  4 A person whose profession is posing for artists or photographers

  5 To fashion something to be like something else.

  ORIGIN from the Latin modulus: ‘absolute value’

  y name is Harriet Manners, and I am a girlfriend.

  I know I’m a girlfriend because I can’t stop beaming. Apparently the average girl smiles sixty-two times a day, so I must be statistically stealing somebody else’s happiness. I’m grinning every thirty or forty seconds, minimum.

  I know I’m a girlfriend because I’m giggling at my own jokes, singing songs I don’t know the words to, hugging any animal within a hundred-metre radius and twirling round in circles with my hands stretched out every time I see a small patch of sunshine. Thanks to my brain drowning in the love chemicals phenylethylamine, dopamine and oxytocin, I’ve basically morphed into a cartoon princess.

  Except one with an astronomically high phone bill and a tendency to look up ‘symptoms of being in love’ online when her boyfriend isn’t looking.

  Anyway, the final reason I know I’m a girlfriend is this, written on the inside back page of my new bright purple diary:

  I did it, obviously. It would be a really weird thing to doodle on someone else’s private stationery. There’s a sketch of me and it’s timed and dated to commemorate the precise moment – four weeks and two days ago – that Lion Boy and I became an official item.

  That’s right: Nick and I are finally a proper duo.

  A couplet. A twosome never to be divided, like salt and pepper or cheese and tomato. We are the human versions of seahorses, who swim snout to snout and change colour to demonstrate how much they like each other, or Great Hornbills, who sing in duets together to show the world how utterly in tune they are.

  And it’s changed everything.

  After the Most Romantic Summer Ever together (MRSE™), all that’s left are rainbows and sunsets and good-morning texts and good-night phone calls and somebody to tell me when I’ve got chewing gum stuck to the back of my hair and I’m gummed to the bus seat behind me.

  For the first time in my entire life, I wouldn’t change a single thing. There are 170 billion galaxies in the observable universe, and I wouldn’t alter a jot of any of them. My life is exactly as I want it to be.

  Everything is perfect.

  nyway, the truly great thing about being so chipper all the time is that nothing can really upset you. Not an early-morning start when you’re used to a summer of lie-ins. Not your dog, Hugo, moulting all over your brand-new Special Outfit. Not the prospect of seeing your nemesis again after ten blissful weeks without her.

  Not even the fact that it’s the single most important day of your life and nobody has remembered.

  Nope. I am a paradigm of calmness and maturity.

  Like Gandalf. Or Father Christmas.

  “Good morning,” I say as I float into the kitchen. That’s how I travel these days, by the way: in a magical, joy-filled bubble. “What an auspiciously lovely day, don’t you think? Almost propitiously sunny, you could say. A day for great things to happen.”

  Then I stare optimistically at my snoring parents.

  It looks like somebody tried to destroy the house overnight and then gave up and filled it with sleeping gas instead. The room is dark except for the glow from the open fridge door, and cups and plates are everywhere. Dad’s leaning back in a chair with a tea towel over his head, and my stepmother Annabel is slumped over the breakfast table with her cheek resting gently on a piece of buttered toast.

  Tabitha is lying in her cot, making cute snuffling sounds as if she’s not the bomb that keeps going off.

  I clear my throat.

  “Did you know that it’s actually called August after the first Emperor of Rome, Augustus? It was his most successful month. How significant is that?”

  Silence.

  It’s a good thing I am newly shiny and happy on a permanent basis, or I’d be throwing a hissy-fit round about now. Instead, I abruptly pull the curtains open so my parents can see the epic day in its full glory.

  “FIRE!” Dad yells, whipping the tea towel off his head and peering at me through his fingers. “Ugh, worse. What have we told you about daylight, sweetheart?”

  “It’s 9.21am,” I point out. “You’re not vampires.”

  I don’t say that with a lot of conviction. My parents have grey skin and red eyes, they’re up all night, rarely eat and seem to communicate without actually talking. The signs aren’t looking good.

  “Mnneurgh,” Annabel mumbles, propping herself up slightly. The toast is still stuck to her face. “How long were we asleep?”

  Dad sticks a finger in the cup in front of him. “Not long enough –” he sighs and waves a hand in front of his face – “nope, Elizabeth Hurley is gone.”

  “Oh, God,” Annabel sighs and squints slightly. Her normally perfect fringe is sticking up like
the crest of a blonde cockatoo, and there are crumbs stuck in her eyebrow. “I need to get the laundry on, the bathroom cleaned …” She slumps down again. “This toast is surprisingly comfortable.”

  Yup.

  It’s been exactly seven weeks since you last saw us, and anything resembling domestic order has totally disappeared.

  At an average of 125 decibels, it turns out my new sibling is slightly louder than a rock concert (120dB) and only very slightly less loud – and painful – than being shot repeatedly by a machine gun at point-blank range (130dB). Apparently the word ‘infant’ comes from the Latin word infans, which means ‘unable to speak’, but all I can say is: the Ancient Romans obviously never met Tabitha Manners.

  Much like somebody with a fully automated firearm, my tiny sister is capable of expressing exactly how she feels.

  I pick Tabby out of her cot and she opens her eyes and beams back at me. That’s just one of the plethora of things I love about my sister: we’re like peas in a pod. Except luckily her pod is in my parents’ room, on the other side of the house.

  Plus I have very high quality ear-plugs.

  “Does anyone happen to remember what day it is?” I prompt. Maybe I should show them today’s pie chart. I can’t stop the anxious butterflies, but I can at least put them in the right ten-minute time slot.

  “Tuesday?” Dad attempts. “Friday? 1967? Could you give us a ball-park figure?”

  “Lift the green towel on your right, Harriet,” Annabel murmurs, eyes still shut. “And the dishcloth next to it. We’ll be awake in a second.”

  I step over a couple of large boxes and suitcases lying open on the kitchen floor.

  Then I tentatively move the towel with my fingers. Underneath is a brand-new red leather satchel with a sale sticker still attached and the letters HM engraved on the flap. When I open it, it’s packed to the brim with new pencils and pens and rulers and books.

  Under the dishcloth is a home-made chocolate cake shaped vaguely like a robot that reads ‘GOOD LUCK HARRIET’ in white buttons down the front, and ‘(NOT THAT WE BELIEVE IN LUCK – YOU ARE THE MASTER OF YOUR DESTINY)’ in almost illegible blue icing on the feet.

  I beam at them.

  See what I mean? My life is going exactly to plan. Even my parents are following my cake-and-gift related schedule, despite being asleep when I told them about it.

  “Awww,” I say happily, zooming Tabby over as if she’s a wriggly aeroplane and giving them both a kiss. “Thank you so much, sleepyheads. You’re the best.”

  “I’m just going to go tell Liz Hurley that,” Dad murmurs, closing his eyes. “Be back in a minute.”

  “Say hi to her from me,” Annabel says, yawning and rubbing a bit of butter off her face. “If she wants to come over and do some washing-up, tell her to knock herself out.”

  And my parents go straight back to sleep.

  Right.

  According to today’s schedule, I now have six and a half minutes left. Just six and a half minutes to put my purple flip-flops on, pick a couple of chocolate buttons off the cake, smudge the icing so my parents don’t notice and get to the bench on the corner of the road where my best friend will be waiting for me: eager, bright-eyed and ready to confront our mutual destinies.

  I have it timed to absolute perfection.

  Unfortunately, I obviously forgot to show the plan to my little sister. Because as I kiss her tiny nose she gives me one bright, adorable smile.

  And vomits all over my head.

  eriously.

  Just once I’d like to start an important day without being covered in the partially digested contents of somebody else’s stomach.

  This was so not on the pie chart.

  Anyway, while I’m scrubbing baby sick out of my hair I may as well update you on what else has happened in the last seven weeks:

  I still haven’t turned sixteen. My birthday is the last possible day of the academic year, which according to recent newspaper reports means I am statistically likelier to fail in life.

  I’ve had quite a lengthy go at my father for making me statistically likelier to fail in life.

  My Best Friend Nat and I have spent plenty of time together, despite me being in my First Ever Relationship. This is because friends should always come first.

  And also because my model boyfriend spends quite a lot of time working abroad and isn’t around very much.

  Toby has spent a lot of time with us too. Despite not always being invited. Or encouraged.

  Or actually seen for big chunks of it. His stalking skills are really improving.

  Dad is still out of work. Unless you count playing ‘Galloping Major’ with a baby as employment.

  My grandmother, Bunty, left. She managed five days of Tabitha screaming, and then found a Buddhist retreat in Nepal and decided she might be more ‘useful’ in a ‘country very far away’.

  Which surprised nobody, least of all Annabel.

  I haven’t done any modelling.

  Since quitting my job with fashion designer Yuka Ito, I’ve done nothing even vaguely related. Nada. Zilch. Zip.

  It turns out Yuka and my flamboyant agent Wilbur were single-handedly keeping my career alive between them, like two Emperor Penguins raising their runty, dependent chick. Without them there to feed it every few hours and protect it from Giant Petrels, it couldn’t survive.

  Except in this situation the Giant Petrel is less an enormous arctic bird of the Procellariidae family, and more an agent called Stephanie who replaced Wilbur at Infinity Models six weeks ago. She’s very stern, very professional and she doesn’t remember who I am.

  I know this because she rarely answers any of my calls and the one time she did I heard her say “Who?”.

  I haven’t heard from the agency since.

  Honestly, I hadn’t realised quite how much I enjoyed getting painted gold, or wrestling octopuses, or jumping around in the snow, or pretending to be the world’s most elegant Sumo wrestler until it was taken away from me.

  Literally.

  Infinity Models told me to send back by FedEx the gold shoes Yuka had let me keep.

  But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve got other things to focus on. Sixth form starts in ten days and I am so ready for it.

  I have a brand-new red satchel.

  I have an expensive calculator that does graphs and integration and quadratics and natural logarithms, whatever they all are.

  I have a set of non-uniform clothes bought to be worn to my new classes. Almost none of which have cartoon animals on them.

  I’ve stalked all of my new teachers on the internet and created a bullet-point summary for each of them, so I can win them over and/or force them to like me.

  And – most importantly – I have a brilliantly conceived and carefully structured plan.

  I have four A levels to ace, and a boyfriend and Best Friend to juggle properly for a healthy and balanced lifestyle. I have a stalker to keep away from bushes with thorns in them. I have my one and only sixteenth birthday to organise. I’m going to be the busiest I’ve ever been, so I’ve planned it all in minute detail.

  The only problem is: every single bit of it depends on how I’ve done in my exams.

  Which is exactly what I’m about to find out.

  recently read an interesting article about a twelve-week-old abandoned monkey in China who was taken to a sanctuary where it formed a strong and intense friendship with a white pigeon. Despite having nothing at all in common, they immediately became inseparable.

  Sometimes I wonder if my Best Friend Nat and I look as ridiculous together as they do.

  Now is one of those moments.

  By the time I’ve hastily pawed at myself with a damp cloth and kissed my comatose family goodbye, I’m more than fifteen minutes off schedule and hyperventilating with panic.

  And Nat looks like she couldn’t be less bothered.

  She’s sitting on the bench at the junction. Her new fringe is perfectly straight, black eyeliner is
identical on both eyes and a stripy dress is hanging off one shoulder as if she totally means it to.

  François may be long gone, but something about her French exchange must have stuck.

  Nat looks like she should have English subtitles.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I say breathlessly, handing her a chocolate button and then realising I’ve smudged brown icing all over my T-shirt and it looks disturbingly like something else. “Do you think the results are out yet? Do you think we’ve both passed?”

  “This is an awful way to start a day,” Nat says, looking up from a copy of Vogue. “Harriet, what are we going to do?”

  I smile at her in relief.

  Obviously I totally misjudged my Best Friend. We will navigate these terrifying academic waters together.

  “Don’t worry,” I say in my most reassuring voice as I start tugging her towards school. “I’m sure it’s not going to be as bad as you think.”

  “No, it’s worse,” Nat says. “Harriet, what does this look like to you?”

  She yanks at her dress.

  I think it might be a trick question.

  “Umm. That’s a …” Shift. Robe. “Frock, isn’t it?” Then inspiration hits me. “A gown?”

  “It’s stripes, Harriet. I’ve gone and worn stripes. But Vogue says the hottest trend this season is miniature prints and florals. I wish they’d give me a bit of warning.”

  This is what it’s been like ever since Nat got her official welcome letter from the Design College down the road. I haven’t seen her this focused since the blue-glitter frenzy of Year Two. For a few epic weeks, we both looked like Christmas tree decorations.

  In a moment of inspiration, I grab a floral elastic band off my wrist and hand it over.

  “Oh my God, how did you know?” Nat says, throwing her arms around my neck.

  “I am very up to date on sartorial trends,” I say, nodding wisely. Plus a stylist left it in my hair once and I’ve been using it to keep my pencils together ever since.

  My phone beeps, and I whip it out of my pocket with the speed of a technological ninja.