All That Glitters (19 page)

ad sulks for the rest of the evening.

“You went to Russia with Harriet,” Annabel explains as she retrieves our summer clothes from under her bed. “It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

“Well, if I’d known it was a
choice
, I’d have picked this trip,” Dad complains. “It was
really
cold out there, and there was nothing but cabbage to eat
.
Plus none of the Russian supermodels would talk to me. This is
so unfair.
”

This is so unfair
is then repeated for the rest of the evening.

It’s so unfair as we pack our suitcases, and so unfair as we fold up our maps and get out our guidebooks. It’s unfair as we pull the suncream out of the cupboard, and
really really really
unfair when we look at the temperatures and discover it’s twenty-six degrees in Morocco and climbing. It’s unfair as we put our suitcases in the car the next morning, and unfair as Dad drives us to the airport.

But by the time my father leaves us at the security gates, he appears to have finally made peace with the decision.

“On the bright side,” he says cheerfully, kissing us both goodbye, “when Harriet goes to the Maldives, I’m first in line, right?”

“Absolutely,” Annabel says, kissing him back and snuggling the top of Tabitha’s head. I give my sister a little kiss as well and she squeaks so adorably I’m temporarily tempted to put her in my bag and take her with us.

“Take care of my baby, OK?”

Although – frankly – by this point it’s not really clear which one of the two she’s referring to.

In the meantime, my excitement levels are rising rapidly and exponentially. With the help of my guidebooks, my fact books, my translation books and my detailed maps of Marrakech, I’ve spent pretty much the entire last fifteen hours studying.

I know about the prehistoric rock engravings of the Figuig region. I know about the 50,000-year-old remains of a sixteen-year-old Neanderthal boy discovered in a cave near Rabat, and the magical city of Chefchaouen: painted entirely blue to symbolise the skies and the heavens.

I also know that nobody else wants to know these things: the old man next to me pretends to fall asleep halfway through me reading him the Moroccan Political History Chart on page four of my chunkiest guidebook.

But as the plane climbs through the grey clouds over London and pops into a bright blue, shiny sky, it feels like the excited bubbles inside me are multiplying by the second: not unlike the experiment we did in biology last year with micro-organisms in a Petri dish.

Except hopefully slightly more glamorously.

And with slightly less fuzzy green mould.

“Ssalamu lekum,” I say experimentally to the air hostess as she brings us round peanuts. (This means
hello
in Arabic.) “Sbah el kheyr,” I say cheerfully as she gives me a wet towel. (
Good morning.
) “Me ssalami,” I chirp as she offers us breakfast.

“We don’t have salami,” she frowns. “It’s a cheese or beef sandwich.”

“I was trying to say
goodbye
in Arabic,” I explain.

“Then that’s m’a ssalama.”

I quickly scan my translation book for
thank you.
“
Shukrun bezzef
,” I attempt.

“Beef it is,” she says, plonking it in front of me.

By the time large, dusty expanses of land outside the plane window start to speckle with exotic peach and orange buildings, I’m so high on adrenaline I’m tempted to run up and down the aisles of the plane, clapping my hands together and screaming.

Except there’s already a four-year-old doing that, and it’s not making her very popular.

So I probably won’t.

Finally, the plane makes a smooth landing and the two of us – both child and I – break into uproarious applause. Then Annabel and I tug our suitcases through a white, delicately carved airport that looks exactly like an ornate wedding cake, towards a man holding a sign that says
.

I’m way too thrilled to correct him.

According to my research, there are three Harriet Manners in the world, and for the next half-hour I am more than happy to no longer be one of them.

The driver leads us in silence out of enormous, glass airport doors into hot, dense, fragrant air. Then I hesitate for a few seconds and fiddle anxiously with a piece of paper in my pocket.

Annabel looks at me steadily.

She’s let me chatter in excitement the entire way here: for six solid hours. In fact, when the lady sitting in front of us turned round and glared at me with a loud, pointed sigh, Annabel took her glasses off and stared until the lady went pink and disappeared again.

Now it feels like my stepmother’s reading me as carefully as I’ve been reading any of my guidebooks. I just don’t know quite what she’s looking for, that’s all.

“Umm.” I clear my throat. “Annabel, will you give me a few seconds? There’s just something quick I have to do before we get there.”

My stepmother studies my face a little longer.

Then she puts her sunglasses on.

“Absolutely. Take your time. I’ll be in the car, making sure your father hasn’t already exchanged our youngest for a PlayStation.”

She winks at me and I wink back.

Then I walk across a bright, sunlit pavement into the shade of an enormous palm tree, feeling more full of hope than I have in weeks.

Maybe this time I don’t need Wilbur after all.

autiously, I move around the side of the tree until Annabel can’t see me. Then I open the scrumpled piece of paper that has been clutched tightly in my hand ever since I printed it out this morning: the online research I did while sitting on the bench last night.

The bit of truth I kept from my parents.

How To Find Your Inner Star!!!

1.
Be Confident!
You are a creature unlike any other!

2.
Take Risks, Be Brave!
There is no limit to what you can do!

3.
Be Stylish!
Shake it up and try something new!

4.
Inspire!
Lead, never follow!

5.
Don’t try too hard!
It just looks desperate!!!!

6.
Believe in yourself!
Soon everyone else will to!

I’ve been surreptitiously reading and memorising it since I found it.

I
didn’t write it, obviously.

If I
had
, I’d have corrected
to
to
too
and held back on quite a few of the exclamation marks. That much punctuation is basically the grammatical equivalent of grabbing somebody by the collar and shaking them while screaming right into their face.

Which is exactly why I screenshot the list directly off the internet and left them all there. This is incredibly important, and I don’t want to get anything wrong because I’ve gone and corrected some grammar.

Also, maybe this kind of aggressive positive energy is
exactly
what I need in my life right now. Something to get me moving in the right direction, when I’m not sure quite how to do it by myself. It’s like having my very own perky, bouncy life coach in my pocket, or maybe some kind of tiny sergeant major.

Jubilantly, I kiss the list that’s going to alter my life.

I put the paper in my pocket, walk to the car and climb into the back with the most confident swish of my head I can possibly manage.

Then – just for added impact – I put my sunglasses on.

They’re bright red and they’ve got glitter all over them. I got them in the airport and they remind me of Dorothy’s magic slippers.

Except I didn’t have to kill anyone to get them.

Obviously.

“Ready?” Annabel says as the car pulls away from the airport and begins its dusty, winding journey into the centre of Marrakech.

“I am.” I smile brightly at her. “I’m ready.”

Because if you do the same thing over and over again, you can’t expect different results.

If I really want
things to change …

They have to start with me.

hen I was ten years old, I had my tonsils out.