Picture Perfect

“Briefs?”

‘No.”

“Swimming shorts?”

“Why would you be wearing swimming shorts when you’re not even swimming, you weirdo?”

I’m subtly edging away from my best friends in a little sideways crab shuffle.

“Shopping sounds great, Nat,” I lie again as cheerfully as possible. “Maybe another time?”

“Sure. I mean, I’m going to have lots on with college and stuff. But we’ve still got weekends, right?”

“Right,” I say in a tiny voice.

And I spin round and run home as fast as my legs will carry me.

(#ulink_08bc840c-1c51-5376-b818-7a4a9a4c5b9a)

hich is faster than it used to be.

Nothing makes you take up jogging quite like a brand-new baby and nowhere to escape to apart from the garden shed.

“Annabel?” I say as I open the front door and Hugo barrels towards me, tail wagging. I bend down and give him a cuddle. “Dad? I thought you might like to know what I—”

And then I stop.

In the last hour and a half, the house has totally transformed.

The curtains are wide open, the kitchen is almost clean, and there are half-filled cardboard boxes lying at random points around the hallway. Piles of shiny plates and saucers are in stacks on the table, and the mugs are out in neat, organised lines as if they’re getting ready to break into an impromptu can-can.

The air smells of air freshener, and sunshine is pouring in through the window on to the huge suitcases still lying on the kitchen floor.

This is more like it.

My parents have finally decided to give my special day the respect it deserves and spring clean in my honour.

Although they could have just used drawers and cupboards like normal people. Lining everything up on the table seems a bit excessive.

“Harriet?” Annabel yells down the stairs. Tabitha has decided to recommence screaming. It only takes 100dB at the right pitch to break glass, and for once the windows in our house aren’t just in danger from my door slammings. “Is that you?”

“Who else is it going to be?” Dad says, wandering in from the laundry room. “If only strangers would consider politely breaking in with keys. Maybe they’d dust while they took our valuables.”

His arms are full of tiny pink things: little towels, trousers, onesies, cardigans, socks, bibs. It takes another glance to realise that they aren’t supposed to be pink. There’s a lone red sock on top of the pile.

Dad gives me a look that indicates he knows just how much trouble he’s about to be in.

“Harriet?” The screaming goes up a notch. “How did you do?” Annabel appears at the top of the stairs and Dad quickly lobs everything into a cardboard box and closes the lid.

“It went really well,” I say as the screeches get louder.

“What?” Annabel transfers Tabitha to a different arm and jiggles her up and down. “Say it again, Harriet.”

“My exams went really well,” I say, holding my thumbs up in the air. “Better than expected, actually.”

Dad climbs the stairs two at a time and takes Tabitha out of Annabel’s arms. “Pipe down, junior,” he says firmly, and my sister immediately goes silent.

Annabel crumples against the wall as if she’s just been popped.

“You’re like some kind of Baby Whisperer, Richard.”

“Albert Einstein, Isaac Newton and Charles Darwin were all premature babies like Tabby,” Dad explains. “Genius recognises genius.”

I hand Annabel my results and she looks at them and then beams at me. “Brilliant. Well done, sweetheart. You worked incredibly hard for them.”

“Hard schmard,” Dad says, fondly scruffing up my hair. “Both my daughters are geniuses. I genetically gave them my fierce intellect, fantastic cheekbones and the ability to make great spaghetti bolognese.”

“Marmite,” he adds, turning to the side and sucking his cheeks in. “The secret is Marmite.”

“Did you genetically give them your laundry skills too?”

There’s a long silence. Then Annabel lifts an eyebrow and looks at the tiny pink sock stuck with static to the side of Dad’s trousers.

He coughs.

“Maybe,” he admits. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

I look around briefly at the tidiness of the house.

It’s a lovely gesture of support and encouragement, but I think they’re overestimating how much I value seeing carpet. I haven’t seen the rug in my bedroom for weeks.

“There’s quite a lot of extra space in my wardrobe,” I say, tucking my results back in my satchel. “If you need it.”

Dad and Annabel look at each other.

“Huh?”

“I’ve got a spare drawer too, if you want it for some of Tabitha’s stuff. There’s no point boxing it while you clean.”

“Umm, Harriet …” Dad starts, clearing his throat.

“Thank you, darling,” Annabel says, raising her eyebrows at him whilst putting her arm around me. “It’s your big day. How would you like to celebrate?”

I think about it.

Starting the day again and making sure I do my satchel up properly doesn’t seem appropriately upbeat.

“I’m going to go upstairs and speak to my boyfriend,” I say instead. “I bet he’s been trying to call me all morning.”