The Manifesto on How to be Interesting by Holly Bourne Page A

idea just yet. She needed to iron out the kinks first. Bree had once read that the most successful people don’t tell others about their projects until after they’re finished. Apparently, if you boast about something you’re doing, or planning to do, people go “ Oh wow, that’s amazing ”. Then you get all the self-worth and congratulations too soon and have no motivation to actually get stuff done. But successful people – like, the really-made-it ones – stay quiet until it’s finished. Bree didn’t do failure, not well anyway. Therefore she was keeping quiet until she knew for sure that her plan was foolproof.
    â€œYou gonna join me then?” She only asked because he would say no.
    Sure enough: “I’d rather go to an eighties-themed disco with pins sticking out of my eyes.”
    Bree headed up her driveway. Her dad’s BMW convertible wasn’t there. He was still at work then.
    â€œSuit yourself. The offer’s there.”
    â€œI think I’ll work on coding my game today, and wait for your identity crisis to pass.”
    â€œYou do that then.”
    â€œI will.”
    â€œWell, have fun.”
    â€œYou too. If it’s possible.”
    â€œOh it’s possible.”
    And Bree hung up.

chapter nine
    The rest of the day was spent in a media-induced coma. Bree sat in bed, with her legs snuggled under the duvet and her notepad perched on her lap. She watched one film after the other after the other, obsessively making notes and adding to her list of rules, until her eyes hurt. By dinner time she had a checklist and possibly square-shaped eyeballs.
    â€œDinner,” her mum called up the stairs.
    â€œComing.”
    Bree turned off the screen and John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John’s flying car disappeared with a zap. She pulled on a grey hoodie and made her way down to a torturous hour of awkward conversation.
    Her parents sat in silence at one end of their huge dining table, chewing their roast beef. Bree’s dad, as always, looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his suit crumpled. Bree sat next to him and added roast potatoes and green beans to the Quorn fillet on her plate.
    They all chewed in silence and it was Bree, unusually, who broke it.
    â€œMum, what are you doing tomorrow?”
    Her mum’s forkful of beef stopped on its journey to her mouth. Out of shock maybe, or suspicion that the question was somehow a joke.
    â€œUmm. I’m going to my body combat class in the morning.”
    â€œCan I come?”
    Her mum put her fork down. “Of course you can, sweetheart.”
    Bree’s dad looked from one to the other with bloodshot eyes – bewildered as to why his eating had been interrupted. They never normally spoke to each other at dinner.
    â€œWhat the hell is body combat?” he asked. “You learning how to beat people up, huh, Paula?” He snorted at his own joke, then stopped quickly, looking knackered, like his terrible attempt at humour had sapped any remaining energy out of him.
    â€œIt’s non-contact. It’s just a cardio class. You sure you want to come, Bree?”
    Bree nodded, ignoring her dad. “And, er, I was wondering if we could go shopping or something afterwards? Maybe go to the hairdresser as well? If any are open.”
    Her mum’s mouth flopped open. “Seriously?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShopping where? A bookshop or something?”
    â€œNo, like a clothes shop. Maybe that nice place in town?”
    â€œYou’re honestly telling me you want to go to body combat, get a haircut, and come clothes shopping with me?”
    Bree nodded again. “Is that so hard to believe?”
    Bree’s mum smiled. It was just a little one, so small you would barely notice it. She picked up her fork, took a mouthful of beef and leaned back in her chair. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”
    Silence returned to the table, with only the sounds of