Picture Perfect (22 page)

Finally, we look at the wooden slats under our feet and the enormous river running beneath us.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“This is Brooklyn Bridge.”

I look through the silver webbing of wires holding it together, as if it’s been built by a giant spider. To either side of us are millions of lights: Brooklyn on one side, and Manhattan on the other.

It’s a glittering, hovering mass of white, yellow, green, red, blue: all shooting into the sky and mixing into the water. There are lights above us, linking the two sides: at the top of the Empire State Building, in the curves of the Chrysler.

It’s like looking at the world’s biggest Christmas decoration.

I take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds.

“Nice, huh,” Nick grins.

“It’s …” I search my internal thesaurus.
Beguiling
.
Resplendent. Pulchritudinous.
“Perfect.”

Nick stands behind me, puts his arms around my waist and tucks his chin into my neck.

“This is my favourite bit of New York. You can be part of the city but not part of it at the same time. It kind of gives everything perspective.”

I nod. “I read that in 1884 a circus entertainer walked twenty-one elephants across Brooklyn Bridge to prove how strong it was.”

Nick laughs, kisses my neck and looks up. “See up there?”

I follow his gaze to the top of the stone arches and nod.

“Peregrine falcons nest in the eaves. They fly all over the world, but they always come back here.”

“The word
peregrine
actually comes from the Latin
peregrinus
which means
wanderer
, you know.”

Nick suddenly goes very quiet so I lean my head backwards until it’s resting on his collarbone.

We stand like that for a few minutes. And I appreciate the unspoken moment that hangs between us.

“Nick,” I say tentatively: “I lo—”

“Shoot,” Nick sighs.

OK, maybe not.

“Harriet, I left your birthday present at the model flat. I didn’t know I was seeing you.”

I shrug. “It’s OK. You can give it to me some other time.”

“Sorry.” Nick squeezes my shoulder and grazes his nose against my ear. “It’s getting late. Text Annabel and tell her I’ll walk you to the station.”

“Mmmm,” I say, turning so he can’t see my face as I stare out at the water. “Did you know that the Statue of Liberty wears a size 879 shoe?”

There’s a long pause, and then Nick says, “Did you catch the train this morning with your dad?”

I clear my throat and squint at a tiny light in the distance. “Did you know there are seven spikes on the crown of the Statue of Liberty, representing the seven oceans and seven continents of the world?”

Then I hold on to Nick’s arms really tightly and pretend to really
invest
in the importance of this hug.

“Harriet,” he says calmly, prising himself away from me. “Tell me your parents know where you are.”

I sniff. “They’ve probably worked it out by now, yes.”

“
What?
”

“Well, telling them where I am kind of defeats the point of running away, doesn’t it?”

Nick’s eyes widen, and then he takes a few steps back.

“What the
hell
, Harriet? You can’t just run away to New York without telling anyone!”

“You’re only a year older than me,” I point out. “And you’re here alone too.”

“That’s totally different,” he snaps. “My parents know where I am, for starters. You’re in a foreign country. It’s dark. You’ve been missing all day. Your parents are going to be
out of their minds
.”

“Well,” I shrug, “that’s what they get for—”

“No. That’s not what they get for anything. I’m taking you home. Now.” Nick turns round and starts marching back across the bridge.

I blink, and then run after him. “Wait …”

“Give me your phone.”

He’s so angry I hand it to him without another word. He presses a few buttons and then starts talking almost immediately. “Annabel? It’s Nick. Harriet’s in New York, but she’s on her way home.”

There are a few high mouse squeaks on the other end and then Nick puts his hand over his face and adds, “I know. I’m so sorry.”

There are a few more squeaks and then silence.

I can feel myself starting to get angry.

“You had no right to do that,” I say when he hangs up. My cheeks are burning and I feel about five years old. How
dare
he? “This is between me and my parents. It has nothing to do with you.”

“When you spend the day with me, it absolutely does.”

Without another word Nick turns around.

And marches me all the way back to Grand Central station in total silence.

am forced to sit with the ticket inspector the whole way home.

Nick tells her that I’m foreign and lost, and I have to sit right next to her and then follow her up and down the carriage while she checks people’s tickets.

It is totally humiliating.

And also a little bit fun: she lets me punch holes into them with a tiny metal clipper.

Now, I know a lot of things:

I know an ant can lift fifty times its own weight, which is like a human lifting a really big car. I know that snails can sleep for three years, and sharks lose 30,000 teeth in a lifetime. I know an iPhone has 240,000 times the power and memory of the Voyager spacecraft and that a gorilla once ripped a sink out of a wall and blamed it on its pet kitten.

I know in Wyoming it is illegal to take a photo of a rabbit in the month of June, and Disneyland uses 5,000 gallons of paint every year to keep it looking new.

And I know very little about being a girlfriend.

But there are some basic
rules
for us all to stick to.

I’ve read the books and seen the films and heard the songs, and the conclusion is always that a boyfriend is supposed to be on your side. Fighting for you, protecting you, defending you, against all odds. No matter what you’ve done.

Laughing at your foibles and eccentricities and finding your weird bits adorable, whatever happens.

They’re supposed to be on your
team.

I don’t remember Romeo yelling at Juliet. I don’t recall any chapter where Darcy rang Mrs Bennett and dropped Lizzie in it. Rochester didn’t march Jane Eyre all the way through New York without even pausing or turning around to talk to her. Heathcliff never put Cathy on a train and told her to stop being such a brat.

Frankly, I don’t think Nick is reading the right books. When he’s talking to me again I shall have to give him a list.

I grumble all the way to Greenway, then stomp and grumble all the way down the road, and then all the way up the garden path. Then – just for good measure – I add under my breath: What kind of boyfriend
does
that? Whose side is he on? How
dare
he?

Who does Nick think he is:
my parents
?

At which point I open the front door and am forced to reassess that last question.

Because Annabel and Dad are both standing silently in the hallway: feet apart, arms crossed, jaws set. Their faces are white, their lips are thin, and there isn’t a smidgen of humour on their faces.

If I thought Nick was angry, I might have to think again.

My parents aren’t cross.

They are
livid.

’m not going to detail the following conversation in full.

This is because:

1. it is not a conversation
   
2. it’s so loud everyone in a four-million-mile radius heard it anyway
   
3. you already know exactly what was said.
   

As soon as the door shuts behind me, my parents go absolutely berserk.

They didn’t know where I was. Miss Hall had to be sent home. They nearly called the police.
New York?
Dad had to leave work early. They spent hours wandering the streets, trying to find me.
It’s midnight.
Do I have no consideration for anyone else?
NEW YORK?
I could have been murdered, or mugged or kidnapped.

Anything
could have happened.

“Except it didn’t,” I point out when Annabel finally draws a breath and Dad sits down on the bottom stair because he’s worn himself out. “I’m OK.”

A little wave of guilt is rolling around the bottom of my stomach. I knew they’d be worried, but I had no idea they’d be
this
upset.

“That is
not the point
,” Annabel shouts, and Tabitha starts crying via the baby monitor.

“Well,” Dad says more cautiously. “It is
kind
of the point, isn’t it?”

Annabel opens her mouth in fury, and then pinches the bridge of her nose tightly.

“Look, I understand you’re angry with us, Harriet,” she says more gently. “But this is
not
the mature way to deal with it. You can’t just
go.
It’s
dangerous.
”

I kick the edge of a stair a few times with my toe. “I just wanted to see New York and …”

Some basic survival instinct kicks in just in time to stop me mentioning Wilbur, magazines or modelling. The pulsing of the vein in Annabel’s forehead has just started slowing down: I don’t want it to explode and kill us all.

“Nick,” I finish.

“Then just
tell
us that. Your dad could at least have gone with you.” Annabel sighs and sits down on the stairs.

“So what did you do?” Dad asks. “Because I walked up and down Fifth Avenue about six times, asking anyone if they’d seen you, and frankly I’m keen to see how I should have spent that three hours.”

I open my mouth, and then shut it again.
Agreed to a modelling job and kissed my boyfriend a lot.
“Oh, you know,” I say as sensibly as I can. “Museums. Galleries. Interactive exhibitions.”

“Yes?” Annabel narrows her eyes. “Like what?”

“Umm, well.” I swallow. “I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which spans 5,000 years of culture, and the Guggenheim Museum, which is housed in the Frank Lloyd Wright building and is a work of art in itself, and the Museum of Modern Art, which has one of the world’s most comprehensive collections including Picasso and Warhol.”