Head Over Heels

I blink at the space Jasper was just standing in.

There’s a mushroom called the Omphalotus olearius that gives off a glow so bright it’s possible to read a book at night by its light. My cheeks are suddenly so luminous, I could power an entire nocturnal library.

Growing on me. Goatee. Mo’. Shave it for later. Manning up.

Must dash. Mustdash. Moustache.

Oh my God, Alexa didn’t think my expression was regal and majestic at all.

Unless she assumed I’m Abraham Lincoln.

Still shaking with suppressed giggles, Nat holds a hand-mirror up and sure enough: there’s a thick dark brown line on my upper lip and a large poo-coloured streak on my chin.

Sugar cookies.

“You know,” Toby says loyally as I bury my head in my arms with a humiliated groan, “beards actually make you 63% more likely to win a staring contest. No wonder Alexa left so quickly, Harriet.”

And that does it.

With an explosion of giggles, India and Nat collapse on the sofa and I remember again why I tend to hang out in places away from the public eye.

Maybe I didn’t win that particular battle after all.

(#ulink_44dd8079-3cda-53fa-8704-a9d47b1796eb)

tatistically, we each go through 396 friends in a lifetime and only keep 36 of them.

Maybe I should just keep looking.

I bet the other 392 wouldn’t spend eight whole minutes laughing at my foamy facial hair.

By the time everyone has stopped giggling – and I’m wiped clean with a series of damp cloths – normality has finally resumed.

Nat’s sipping her coconut milk latte; India’s sprawled across the sofa with her second espresso and Toby’s ploughing through a glass of hot milk. Jasper pops over occasionally to contribute another burnt biscuit or sardonic comment.

And I’ve spread my documents across the table.

Tonight is the first ever Team JINTH sleepover and I am the inaugural host. And I don’t want to sound vain, but I have arranged everything.

I’ve organised which games we’ll play and which films we’ll watch and what kind of food we’re going to eat. I’ve written a How-Well-Do-We-Know-Each-Other quiz and a Are We Really Having Fun? questionnaire so we’ll know how to improve next time.

I’ve even drawn a diagram of where on the floor we’ll sleep.

It’s going to be amazing.

“He did what?” Nat splutters into her coffee. “No.”

“He did,” India insists, grinning. “Halfway through the date, he put his leg on the table. Plop. Then he said ‘I’ve been told I have very handsome shins’.”

Nat explodes with laughter.

“The tibia is the second longest bone in the body,” Toby says, nodding. “He may have had a point.”

“So …” Nat sits forward. “What did you do?”

“I told him to get his flaming foot out of my dinner before I ate it and then I said I’d call him.”

“Ooooooh. Cold.”

“Cold call him?” Toby says in confusion. “Like a telesales person? Sometimes they ring us about windows even though we clearly have eight already.”

“When somebody says they’ll call you, it means they won’t call you. Or they’d have been more specific.”

“Yup. It’s dating speak for this is over now please go away and never speak to me again.”

“Aaaaah,” Toby nods. “I’m afraid I’ve never been rejected by a girl so I wouldn’t know.”

Nat blinks at him in silence.

“Anyway,” I say, plopping my Filofax on the table. “Gang. About tonight. The itinerary is looking shipshape, but I just need to run through a few extra components. I’ve got Telling Each Other Secrets down at 9pm, is that OK?”

“Umm,” Nat says, putting her coffee down, “actually, Harriet, about that …”

“Secrets at nine?” Toby says, pulling out a TEAM JINTH SLEEPOVER notepad. “Are you sure? I’ve got it down at 10pm. Just after the Pillow-Fight at 9:35.”

I frown and check my notes. “I’ve pencilled it in wrong. Thanks, Tobes.”

It’s been surprisingly useful having Toby as my second-in-command. It’s just too easy to forget what fun you’re supposed to be having and when.

“Harriet?” Nat says. “Hang on …”

“I’ve also bought the snacks already.” I check the list. “We just need to make sure we stick to salted after 11pm or we’re going to crash by midnight.”

“Seriously?” India says, lifting her eyebrows into dark ticks. “Are you regulating our blood sugar levels?”

“Of course not,” I laugh. “Although I think there is a kit you can buy from pharmacies. Maybe I should swing past on my way back h—”

“Harriet,” Nat says, prodding me. “Listen.”

“Natalie,” I grin. “Don’t worry! I looked up beautifying face masks on the internet and made one out of avocado, lemon and olive oil.”

“That’s not …” Nat rubs a hand over her face. “We have a problem.”

“Personalised bedding,” Toby whispers. “I told you we needed monogrammed pillows.”

Nat crosses her eyes at him.

“I can’t make it tonight, H,” she says slowly. “I’m so sorry. I know you’ve organised … everything, but there’s a textiles exam on Monday and I’m just not ready for it.”