omehow, I manage to get a full ten hours of sleep. Despite Dad doing everything he possibly can to sabotage this. I’ve been given the queen-size bed and he has the sofa on the other side of the room “as befits a sidekick”.

“You know,” he says as I’m brushing my teeth, “if I were to wake up in the middle of the night, say, and find you putting your make-up back on, I would assume it was a mirage and go back to sleep.”

I nod sleepily.

Ten minutes later, as I’m crawling under the duvet in my penguin pyjamas and yawning, Dad coughs. “And if I were to wake up in the middle of the night and see that your bed was empty, I would presume I was dreaming and put it down to an overactive imagination.”

“OK, Dad.” I close my eyes and snuggle into the pillows.

“And if you were to come back in, smelling of – say – celebrity party, I would say nothing of it the next day. To anyone.”

“OK,” I murmur, starting to drift off. Suddenly the bedroom lights snap on.

“Are you seriously telling me you’re not going to this celebrity party?” Dad says in loud disbelief. “You’re not going to sneak out for even a little bit?”

“You can go if you want,” I mumble with my eyes shut. “I’m going to be asleep.”

“Oh, great, just guilt trip away, why don’t you, Harriet? No, it’s fine. I don’t need to meet Liz Hurley. I’ll just sit here on the sofa and eat pickled cabbage.”

I yawn again. What is this obsession with pickled cabbage? “OK, Dad. You do that.”

“I will,” Dad says, turning off the light again. “Who needs a celebrity fashion party? I mean, who needs to meet Liz Hurley and drink Martinis and eat little olives and bits of cheese on sticks when you can just sit, wide awake, on a spare… sofa… and… eat… pickled…”And the word cabbage is replaced by the sound of Dad snoring so loudly it sounds like somebody is drilling through the wall next to my head.

I open my eyes and look at the ceiling. Somewhere, floors and floors above us, a party is going on. A party full of beautiful people and important people and famous people: laughing, drinking, kissing the air, sparkling, having their photos taken. Wearing beautiful clothes and eating beautiful food – or pretending to. And I really couldn’t care less.

I listen to Dad snoring his head off for a few minutes and then I close my eyes and join him.

 

We have the entire following morning to look around Moscow. Yuka has told us that we’re “free to do whatever it is ordinary people do during daylight hours”.

So we go to the Kremlin and look around the Cathedral of the Archangel where the Romanov tsars are buried, and the Ivan the Great Bell Tower which is covered in beautiful gold leaf and is thought to be the very centre point of Moscow. Then we go to the Peter the Great Monument and the Bolshoi, and a huge park where the lake is covered in ice and peeved-looking ducks. The amazing morning is only ruined by the fact that I keep having to lie to Nat by text and Annabel keeps ringing Dad up and crying.

Which is disconcerting because Annabel never cries. Ever. This is the woman who watches gazelles get mauled by tigers on television and gives them marks out of ten for tidiness.

“Sweetheart,” Dad says into the handset as we pay for some authentic Russian merchandise (I’ve got some hand-painted Russian dolls and a teddy bear that says I RUSHED THROUGH RUSSIA, and Dad has a T-shirt that says RUSSIA HOUR). “You’re wrong. I do understand.”

There’s some squeaking on the other end of the phone. From a distance it sounds a bit like Dad is talking to a mouse.

“But darling, it’s just milk. You can clean it up.” There’s more squeaking. “And we can buy you some more cornflakes.” More squeaking. “And a new bowl.”Squeak, squeak. “Yes, exactly the same shade of white, sweetheart. Now stop crying.”

The Russian merchandise seller loudly asks Dad in broken English if he wants his ONLY FOOLS RUSSIA IN baseball cap gift-wrapped. There are a few more squeaks on the phone. “Hmm? Wrapped?” Dad says anxiously. “No, Annabel. That’s just the… coffee lady. She wants to know if I want my coffee… flapped.” Squeak, squeak. “It’s street talk for… cooled down.”

Eventually, Dad puts the phone down, wipes his hand over his face and looks at me.

“Phew. That was close,” he says after a long, strained pause. “Luckily I’m an excellent liar. Annabel’s gone all Sylvia Plath on us. What are we going to do?”

I swallow guiltily and tug at my shorn hair. “Not show her this?” I suggest.

Dad nods. “We need to wait out werewolf season.” And then he thinks about it. “But Harriet… What if she’s just… crazy?”

We both look at Dad’s phone, which has started ringing again. And then Dad looks at the stall in front of us, covered in huge furry Russian hats. “Let’s get you one of these,” he sighs eventually. “I’ll turn off the central heating and we’ll tell Annabel you have a cold head.”

“Do you think she’ll buy that?”

“No.” Dad looks at his phone again. “Take a good long look at my face, Harriet, because by tomorrow it’ll be chewed right off.” He opens his phone. “Darling?” Squeak, squeak. “Then throw the burnt bits away, sweetheart. And get some more bread.” Squeak. “I know it’s not the same.” And then he looks at me, puts his finger up to his forehead and twirls it. Bonkers, he mouths to me.

And I swallow nervously and buy as many Russian hats as I can fit into my bag.

 

By the time we get back to England, though, everything is starting to feel a lot more promising. My hair is covered with a nice big Russian hat – it’s very cosy and goes well with my orange snowflake jumper – and the world is looking brighter already.

In fact, as we get off the train from London and start walking home – and I say goodbye to Dad and veer off to the shops to buy myself a Welcome Home Harriet chocolate bar – it feels like things are starting to go the right way finally.

I’ve been to Moscow, I’ve had an adventure and I appear to have got away with it. OK, I haven’t really changed at all, except I’m now considerably less hairy and the owner of a Russian teddy bear. But it feels like life might be getting ready to improve. I mean, even caterpillars spend between four and nine days inside a cocoon before anything happens. And I do know some things I didn’t know a few days ago. Like, for instance, if you put primer on your eyelids, it helps eyeshadow last longer. And pink lipstick has a tendency to get on everything.

Maybe it’s just a matter of thinking positively. Believing that we can all change, if we try hard enough. Which is when it hits me. Because just as I’m reaching a point where the world is starting to make sense and happy thoughts are making me feel all sort of glowy on the inside, a yellow banana sweet comes flying through the air.

And whacks me straight on the head.