just sit around, waiting for Bingley to call her? No. She went to his house, uninvited, and pretended it was to see his sisters and got the flu and stayed there for weeks, remember?”
Nat frowns. “That’s the example you’re using? Seriously?”
I clear my throat: OK, point made.
“How about Lizzy Bennet?” I say, quickly tapping open my messages. “Did she just sit around, waiting for Darcy to make the move?”
“Nope,” Nat says, taking another step. “She got on with her own life and started making out with Wickham instead.”
Sugar cookies. Thanks to a plethora of well-made and accurate Hollywood adaptations, she’s right again.
“Cinderella?” I say desperately, stabbing at the number Wilbur has sent me. “She went to the ball without being invited, right? Breaking the rules worked for her just fine.”
“Harriet,” Nat says, holding her hands out. “Firstly, Cinderella’s the least cool fairy-tale heroine ever invented. Secondly, you are not a rule breaker. And thirdly, do you really want to talk to someone who doesn’t want to talk to you?”
I stare at her in amazement.
Of course I do. I want to talk to people who don’t want to talk to me all the time.
My best friend clearly doesn’t know me at all.
Besides …
“But you’re wrong,” I say in confusion. “He’s been waiting for the right moment. And that moment is right now. Just watch.”
With a final burst of confidence, I hit call number and beam smugly at Nat as it rings twice.
There’s a tiny click.
“Hello?” a familiar, warm, twangy Australian voice says. “Nick speaking.”
And it’s like magic.
With just three words, every gorgeous romantic moment from the last couple of weeks comes racing straight back.
“Hey, Nick,” I say brightly as something in the middle of me starts spinning happily like a Christmas bauble, glittering all over. “It’s me.”
Then there’s a pause long enough for me to fully register the significance of what I’ve just done.
“Sorry,” Lion Boy says eventually, “who?”
There are 1,025,109.8 known words currently in the English language.
‘Who’ was the only one I wasn’t prepared for.
I put my name and number into Nick’s phone myself, with my own fingers. Which means that he didn’t just fail to use my details in the last four days …
He actually deleted them?
“It’s Harriet,” I say stupidly as Nat puts her hands over her mouth in horror. “Harriet Manners.”
Norwegian scientists have hypothesised that Rudolph’s red nose is probably the result of a parasitic infection of the respiratory system.
Judging by my current glow and sudden inability to breathe, I should be able to lead Santa through the night quite safely for some years to come.
“We kissed a few days ago,” I clarify into the aching silence, and then add in a panic: “Speaking of kissing, did you know that the word mistletoe comes from the Old English word mistletan, which means poo twig, because it spreads itself through seeds in bird droppings that land on tree branches?”
Nat’s eyes are now so round they look like they’re about to pop out and roll under a table.
Poo twig? she mouths at me.
“And,” I continue with a wince, turning round to rest my hot forehead on the wall, “don’t you think it’s strange that an entire romantic tradition is based around a parasitic plant that takes nutrients from another? What does that say about love, do you think?”
Oh my God. I can’t stop talking.
I’m going to just keep talking, and when the heat from my cheeks causes the whole house to explode into flames and crumble around me, I’ll be there: still inexplicably yabbering about parasites.
Frankly, I’ve read a lot of romantic speeches in my life, and absolutely none of them started with faeces.
“Although,” I add in a desperate, horrified rush, “apparently mistletoe actually comes from a Norse legend and the white berries are—”
“Stop, Harriet,” Nick laughs. “I believe it’s you. No further evidence is necessary. Where on earth are you calling from?”
“England. My living room.”
I’m pretty much part of the wall now, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Very literal.” He laughs again. There’s a crispy chomping sound. “I’m in the kitchen, eating cereal for lunch because apparently I don’t know how to fend for myself.” There’s the crunchy sound of a cornflake box being shaken. “So … is there a problem?”
I blink, smacking my head gently on the wall. “Umm, sorry?”
“You called me.” A second shake. “Is something wrong?”
Oh my God. This is getting worse by the minute. Apparently my call is so unwelcome and so unexpected it’s actually a sign that the universe has gone awry.
“No-o-o. I just …” I clear my throat. “I wanted to say hello, that’s all. Thomas Edison chose it as the word to use when greeting people on the phone. So … hello.”
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