Geek Girl (27 page)

ad looks at the sleeping Annabel with a silly expression on his face and then opens the door as quietly as he can.

“Annabel—” I begin, inexplicably wanting to climb back into her lap, but Dad motions for quiet. She hasn’t opened her eyes yet and I’m guessing from this gesture that he doesn’t want her to.

Dad opens the bag of wet, muddy clothes and dumps the contents on the table. Then he opens a washing machine and starts putting each item in, very slowly. My pocket has started vibrating again, but I studiously ignore it.

“The thing is, Harriet,” Dad says loudly, “I’ve made a real mess of things.” I look at Annabel; her eyes are still shut. “You see this shirt, Harriet? I really mucked it up. It was lovely, and now it’s not, and it’s my fault.”

I glance at Annabel again. She hasn’t moved, but one eye has opened a little bit.

“And do you see this jumper?” Dad continues, holding up a green one. A big dollop of mud falls off the sleeve on to the floor. “It was beautiful and now it’s ruined.”

“Mmm,” I say and peek at Annabel again.

“I can’t help it,” Dad continues, picking up a skirt and putting it in the washing machine. “I’m an idiot and sometimes I don’t even know I’m mucking things up until they look like this.” He holds up a pair of dripping brown trousers. “And I’m so angry with myself because they were such an awesome
pair
.” He pauses for a few seconds and then adds, “Of trousers.”

Annabel has both eyes open now and is quietly watching Dad fill the washing machine. Dad is pretending he can’t see her. “And it’s so sad,” he says, picking up some gloves, “because they made such an amazing
couple
.” He pauses again. “Of gloves. What do you think, Harriet?”

I clear my throat. “I think I messed things up too,” I say, pulling out the hotpants and holding them up. “And I’m so sorry because I really love them.”

I don’t, just to make that clear. I don’t love the hotpants. But I love Annabel and that’s what the hotpants stand for. At least, I think that’s what the hotpants stand for.

“Exactly.” Dad continues to fill the washing machine. “And you should always look after what you love properly and keep it safe.” He pauses. “And not jump up and down on it in the mud.” Then he makes a large sweeping gesture with his hand and moves into the centre of the room.

“You’ve gone too far,” I whisper to him under my breath. “Rein it in, Dad.”

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “But maybe,” he says more loudly, holding his hands together, “it’s not too late. Maybe we can make everything lovely again.”

“Maybe,” I say, glancing at Annabel again and moving into the middle of the room to support him.

“I hope so. I’ll do anything it takes because I really don’t want to screw these up too.” Dad promptly pulls the clean baby socks out of his pocket and dangles them in the air.

And then – I’m going to assume this is the final scene of the final act – he closes the lid of the washing machine and stands there like a wally, holding the baby socks and staring at Annabel with the expression Hugo makes when he pees on the carpet.

There’s a long, long silence, broken only by the comforting sound of a tumble dryer going round and round.

Finally Annabel sits up and rubs her eyes. “You know what gets things clean?” she says, yawning.

“What?” Dad says eagerly. He takes a few excited, dripping steps towards her.

“Turning the washing machine on.” Annabel looks at it pointedly.

“Oh.”

“And you know what else gets things clean?”

“Saying sorry again?”

“Washing powder.”

Dad and I both stare at the washing machine. We’ve piled all the clothes into it and then just left them there. Presumably to clean themselves.

“Now just wait a minute,” Dad says in a horrified voice. “I actually have to wash the clothes? I mean,
actually
wash them?”

Annabel glances at the ceiling. “Yes, Richard. You have to actually wash them. They’re covered in mud and dripping wet.”

“But they’re a
metaphor
,” Dad explains. “They’re supposed to symbolise our relationship, Annabel. Are you telling me I have to wash the metaphor?”

“Yes, you have to wash the metaphor. You can’t just leave them in the washing machine like that. It’s a public washing machine.”

“Can I take them out and throw them away?”

“No. We’ll wash them and take them to a charity shop.”

Dad looks shell-shocked and then visibly rallies himself. “Am I forgiven, though? Will you take me back, with all of my adorable foibles and charming idiosyncrasies?” He thinks about it. “And handsome quirks?” he adds with round eyes.

Annabel’s mouth twitches, but I don’t think Dad sees it. He looks really anxious, although this might be partly because he really doesn’t like doing laundry. “We’ll discuss it while you’re doing the washing. And the drying. That should take a good couple of hours at least.”

Dad sighs and looks at the washing machine. “I guess this is fitting punishment,” he says in a humble voice.

“Oh, no,” Annabel says, winking at me so that Dad can’t see it. “This isn’t the punishment, Richard. This is the metaphor for the punishment.”

Dad looks terrified, and then sighs and takes her hands. “No matter what you do to me,” he says, slipping effortlessly back into B-movie mode, “no matter how hard you try, I’ll always be glad I knew where to find you.”

“Me too,” Annabel says and then she flicks his nose hard with her thumb and middle finger. There’s a pause while they both look at each other and something unspoken passes between them, something I don’t really understand. Which is good because I don’t think I’m supposed to.

“High five for Medical Miracle Baby?” Dad finally says, holding up his hand and grinning at her. Annabel bites her bottom lip, and then laughs and hits it twice.

“High ten,” she corrects. “Although we’re going to have to work on a better name than that.”

Which must mean Annabel’s coming home again.

ow I don’t want to be smug or anything, but not having a plan seems to be working miraculously well. In fact, you could say that the plan of not having a plan – because that’s how I’m now thinking of it – is working a treat. I’ve fixed Dad and Annabel pretty much single-handedly and left them in the launderette. And next on my not-plan plan is Nat.

My phone rings again.

“
Pamplemousse
?” Wilbur says as soon as I pick it up. It’s been vibrating in my pocket at three-minute intervals for the last four hours and I can’t ignore it any more. There’s a really fine line between playing it cool and just being rude, and I think any more than four hours is pushing it. “Is that you, my little
Pamplemousse
?”

“It’s still me, Wilbur.”

“Oh, thank holy chicken monkeys. Where have you been?”

“The launderette.”

“I can’t help but feel your priorities are a little out of whack, my Chestnut-bean. But if clean clothes are what you need to be a star, who am I to argue?”

I sigh. I couldn’t feel less like a star now if I tried. I’m covered in splashes of mud and I smell vaguely of washing powder and socks. “Did you want something, Wilbur?”

“Banana-muffin, I need to talk to you about an opportunity that’s come up, but they need to see you tomorrow mor—”

“I can’t do it.” I look at my watch and immediately pick up speed: I need to get where I’m going faster. I frown, and then bend down in a moment of pure inspiration and click the little button on the side of my trainers so that the little inbuilt secret wheels pop out. And
no
, I am not of an age group too old to be wearing these. No matter what Nat says. Just in case you were wondering. They wouldn’t make them in this size if I was.

Anyway.

“You
can
do it,” Wilbur protests.

“No,” I say again as I start wheeling down the pavement. “Whatever it is, I can’t do it, Wilbur.”

“But you don’t underst—”

“I’m sure it’s great, I’m sure it’s amazing, I’m sure that every girl in the world wishes she had the same opportunity.” I wheel-hop over a double drain. “But I don’t, OK? This isn’t me, Wilbur. None of this is me. I’m not the swan. I’m the duckling. No, I’m the
duck
. I just want things to go back to how they were before I met you.”

Wilbur laughs. “You really
do
make me giggle, my little Darling-pudding,” he titters. “As if that makes any difference!”

I’m so busy calculating if I’ll get where I’m going faster if I start running rather than wheeling, but have to stop again in a few minutes – average speed versus immediate speed – that I’m hardly listening to him.

“Difference?” I say distractedly, skipping over a crack in the pavement.

“Kitten-ears, you’re under contract.”

I slam the stopper on the toes down and abruptly stop in the middle of the road, with the sound of the wheels still whizzing behind me. “I’m under
what
?”

“Contract, Sweet-bean. You know the pieces of paper you signed? That’s what they call them in the legal industry apparently. Visa-vee: Yuka owns you. Plumptious, she wants you to do this so you
have
to do it. Or she’ll just go right ahead and sue you.”

My stomach abruptly folds in half.
Why do people keep trying to sue me?

“A contract?” I finally repeat in disbelief. Was I so blinded by the excitement of my own metamorphosis that I signed a contract without actually reading it first? Without making notes? Without looking at every single word of the small writing and then looking it up in a legal dictionary? I mean, of course
Dad
did. Dad would sell his soul for a pink marshmallow. But me
?

Who have I
been
this week?

“I know! Isn’t a ‘contract’ just the least fun name for anything in the world ever? Annabel was
furious
that you did it, but it still stands: just one parental signature needed, my little Squeaky-kettle. So I’ll ring you with details about tomorrow later, OK? Toodle-pip,
bella
.”

I make a few confused mumbling sounds, say goodbye and hang up. I can’t believe I’m in trouble with the law again. For the second time this week. Doesn’t nine years living with a lawyer rub off at all?

I can’t think about this now. I’ll think about it later. There’s somewhere I need to be and it’s far more important.

And I abruptly click the button on my shoes so that the wheels disappear and start running.