by Holly Smale
“How funalicious!” Wilbur cries. Annabel writes one word down, but I can’t see what it is. “Now,” he continues, “are we definitely set on the name Harriet?”
We all look at him in shock because… well, it’s my name. I’ve been sort of set on it for the last fifteen years.
“My name,” I tell Wilbur in the most dignified voice I can find, “was inspired by Harriet Quimby, the first female American pilot and the first woman ever to cross the Channel in an aeroplane. My mother chose it to represent freedom and bravery and independence, and she gave it to me just before she died.”
There’s a short pause while Wilbur looks appropriately moved. Then Dad says, “Who told you that?”
“Annabel did.”
“Well, it’s not true at all. You were named after Harriet the tortoise, the second longest living tortoise in the world.”
There’s a silence while I stare at Dad, and Annabel puts her head in her hands so abruptly that the pen starts to leak into her collar. “Richard,” she moans quietly.
“A tortoise?” I repeat in dismay. “I’m named after a tortoise? What the hell is a tortoise supposed to represent?”
“Longevity?”
I stare at Dad with my mouth open. I don’t believe this. Fifteen years of the worst name ever and I can’t even blame my dead mother for it?
“We could try Frankie?” Wilbur suggests helpfully. “I don’t believe there were any famous reptiles, but I’m sure there must have been a cat or two.”
“She stays Harriet,” Annabel says in a strained voice.
“You have to admit it was worth a punt,” Wilbur whispers to me, but I’m too busy giving my father the evil eye to say anything back.
“Now,” Annabel continues. I can see that she has a list in front of her. “Wilbur. You’re aware that Harriet’s still at school?”
“Of course she is, Fluff-pot; the others are decidedly too old.”
Annabel glowers at him. “I see I need to rephrase that. What happens with Harriet’s school work?”
“We work around it. Education is so very important, isn’t it? Especially when you stop being beautiful and perhaps get a little fat.”
Annabel’s eyes narrow a bit more. “How much is this going to cost?”
“Gosh, she’s to the point, isn’t she?” Wilbur says approvingly, winking at Dad. “If it’s a testshot, everyone works for free and it costs nothing. If it’s a job, Harriet gets paid and the agency gets a cut of that. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it? I’m not here just for the free dinners.” Wilbur pauses thoughtfully. “I’m a little bit here for the free dinners,” he corrects. “But not entirely.”
“And who looks after her? She’s only fifteen.”
“You do, poppet. Or Panda Senior over there. At fifteen she has to have a chaperone at all times, and I’m going to suggest that it’s one of you two because the total strangers we drag off the streets just don’t seem to care as much.”
I glance quickly at Dad and note that his excitement levels are getting dangerously high. Annabel scowls at him. “And who was that crying earlier?” she hisses. “Why were they crying?”
Wilbur sighs. “We had to turn a girl away, Darling-cherub. If we made everyone who wanted to be a model a model, we’d just be an agency for human beings, wouldn’t we? Fashion’s exclusive, my little Butternut-squash. That means excluding people.”
“That was a child,” Annabel says in an angry voice.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Wilbur shrugs. “It’s hard to tell: sometimes they just don’t eat very much. Confuses the growth hormones, you know? Either way, we sent them packing.” And then he beams at us all. “I won’t be sending you packing, though, because you’re here by special invitation of moi.” And he throws the Polaroids from The Clothes Show on the table. “Your daughter is adorable. I’ve never seen such an alien duck in my entire life.”
“A what?”
“Frankie here looks just like the ginger child of an alien and duck union, and that is so fresh right now.”
“Her name is not Frankie,” Annabel hisses in barely contained frustration. “It’s Harriet.”
“Could you not at least have smiled, Frankie?” Dad sighs as he studies the photos. “Why do you always sulk?” He looks apologetically at Wilbur. “She ruined eighty per cent of our photos when we were in France last summer.”
“Her name is Harriet!” Annabel almost shrieks at Dad.
“Oh, no,” Wilbur says earnestly. “That works for me. People like their high-fashion models to look as deeply unhappy as physically possible. You can’t have beauty and contentment: it would just be unfair.” He looks at the photos again with a satisfied expression. “Harriet looks thoroughly miserable: she’s perfect. Once we’ve straightened out that lazy eye, obviously.”
“What are you talking about?” Annabel shouts and her voice is getting higher with every sentence, as if she’s singing it. “Harriet does not have a lazy eye.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Wilbur says, waving his hands around in an attempt to calm her down. “What’s a more politically acceptable way of putting it? Directionally challenged?”
Annabel looks like she’s about to bite him.
“Are you sure,” I finally manage to interrupt before Annabel rips the entire room to shreds, “that I’m what you’re looking for? That there isn’t some kind of mistake?”
Because with all of the nerves and the tension and the shouting, I haven’t been able to get a word – or a thought – in edgeways, but some of the things I’ve heard have kind of stuck. Words like: ginger, tortoise, alien, duck, lazy and eye. This isn’t quite the magical metamorphosis moment I was looking for. I don’t feel very beautiful at all. In fact, I think I feel worse than I did before I came in here.
“My little Tortoise,” Wilbur says, reaching out to grab my hand as my squinty, directionally challenged, short-lashed alien eyes start welling up. “Cross-eyed or not, there’s no mistake. You’re perfect just the way you are. And it’s not just me that thinks so.”
“No, your daddy does too,” Dad says, leaning over and ruffling my hair in an attempt to make peace with me. I growl and bat his hand away crossly.
Wilbur smiles. “Actually, I’m rather enigmatically referring to an enormously important fashion designer who saw the Polaroids and wants to meet Harriet asap.” He pauses and looks at his watch. “Asap is an abbreviation of as soon as possible,” he adds.
There’s a long silence while Annabel, Dad and I stare at Wilbur with blank expressions. After twenty seconds of nothing, Annabel finally snaps. “What the hell are you talking about, you strange little man? When?”
Wilbur’s watch starts beeping. “Now,” he says, grinning and standing up. “It’s the other engagement I was talking about.”
“Now?”
“Yes.” And then Wilbur looks directly at me. “She’s sitting next door.”
ow I know many things.
I know that the word ‘mummy’ comes from the Egyptian word for ‘black gooey stuff’. I know that every year the moon steals some of the Earth’s energy and moves 3.8cm further away from us. I know that when you sneeze, all bodily functions stop, including the heart.
And I know nothing about modelling.
However, I’m pretty sure that this is not how the story is supposed to go. The agency are supposed to assess me and then think about it, we’re supposed to assess them and think about it, and then we’re all supposed to make lots of careful decisions and go through lots of boring waiting time before anything interesting happens. If anything interesting happens.
They’re not just supposed to lob a fashion designer at me the way Alexa lobs a netball at my head before the game has even started. What’s more, I haven’t been transformed at all yet. I’m not ready. I’m still a caterpillar.
“What?” Annabel finally stammers in total disbelief. “She’s what?”
In the meantime, Wilbur has manually picked me out of my chair and is pushing me towards the door
on wobbly Bambi legs. “She’s next door,” he repeats. “You know, they sell the most fabulous little ear syringes in chemists that will clear these hearing problems right up for you.”
“I don’t think so,” Annabel hisses, starting to get out of her chair too.
“Oh, they do,” Wilbur insists. “It’s like pop, and suddenly you can hear again.”
Annabel clicks her tongue in frustration. “I mean, Harriet’s going nowhere.”
Wilbur looks at Annabel in confusion. “But it’s a super important designer, my little Door-frame. I don’t think you quite understand. Frankie’s a very lucky little girl to even get a chance to meet them.”
“I don’t give a flying duck if they’re Queen of the World,” Annabel snaps. “Harriet’s not just being thrown into it like that.”
Wilbur sighs. “Let’s be rational about this, non? You haven’t signed anything and you haven’t decided anything. You can still say no. But isn’t it best to know what you’re saying no to? That’s just basic maths.”
“It’s not maths,” Annabel sighs. And then her head furrows in the middle. I can see the logic has started worming its way in.
“Plus, Annabel,” Dad says anxiously. “What if it’s the Queen of the World?”
“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Annabel says after staring at Dad for a few seconds, and then she turns to me. (“Are you Pete?” I hear Wilbur whisper to Dad.) “Do you want to meet this person?”
“Uh,” I say because everything has suddenly gone very far away and quiet, and my whole body is shaking – even my thumbs.
This cannot be happening. This is not on the plan. This is not on any of the plans.
They want me to go in without a plan?
Yes. Apparently that’s exactly what they want me to do.
“Perfectomondo!” Wilbur cries and – before I can work out what my next thought is going to be – he pushes me out of the door and closes it behind us.
ow,” Wilbur says as we stand alone in the hallway and I start hyperventilating again. I knew I should have bought the crisp packet with me. “There’s nothing to worry about, Plum-cake. This woman can’t hurt you.” He thinks about this statement for a few seconds. “Actually, that’s not totally true. She can and she might. But try and forget about that because if she smells fear on you, it’ll make her worse. She’s like a vicious Rottweiler, except with less muscle mass and much better table manners.”
“B-b-but who is it?” I stammer.
“If I tell you, you’ll panic,” he says, frowning at me.
I’m already panicking. I’m not sure he can say anything that’s going to make it worse. “I won’t,” I lie.
“You will. You’ll panic, and then I’ll panic, and then you’ll panic again, and she’ll be able to tell we’re weak and she’ll eat both of us.”
“Wilbur, I promise I won’t panic. Just tell me who it is.”
Wilbur takes a deep breath and grabs my arms. “Darling Strawberry-mush,” he says in a reverential voice. “It’s Yuka Ito.”
And then he waits for my reaction. Which is obviously extremely disappointing for him because, after a short silence, he shakes me gently and taps my head. “Are you still in there? Has the shock killed you?”
“Who?”
“Yuka Ito.” Wilbur waits a little longer for the penny to drop and then sighs because the penny is clearly going nowhere at all. “Legendary designer, personally discovered at least five supermodels? Best friends with eight Vogue editors around the world? Has her own personalised seat at New York Fashion Week? Current Creative Director of Baylee?” Wilbur pauses and then sighs again. “Bunny-button, this woman doesn’t work in fashion, she is fashion. She is the beginning of it and she is the end of it. A bit more panic might be appropriate.”
According to scientists, the slowest that information travels between neurons in the brain is 260mph. I don’t believe them because my brain is working nowhere near that fast.
My mouth has gone suddenly dry. I haven’t heard of Yuka Ito, but I have heard of Baylee. People at school buy the fake version handbags at the local market. And they’re just going to send me in like this? In a suit? Without any preparation at all? Where the hell is my metamorphosis?
“B-b-but w-w-what do I d-d-do?”I start stuttering because my ears have done what they always do when I’m extremely frightened: they’ve gone totally numb. “W-w-w-what do I s-s-say?”
Wilbur sighs in relief. “That’s better. Total breakdown. A much more respectable reaction.” He pats me and pushes me towards the second glass cubicle. “You don’t do anything, Doughnut-face. Yuka Ito does. Trust me, she’ll know straight away if you’re what she’s looking for. And if you’re not… Well. She’ll probably just bite you.”
“B-b-b-but…”
“It’s OK, she’s totally sterile. This is the moment when the rest of your life takes shape, Harriet,” Wilbur says, putting his hand reassuringly on my shoulder. And then he considers this statement. “Or fails completely,” he amends. He opens the door. “No pressure,” he adds.
And pushes me forward.
K.
Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. But keep them subtle: I don’t want Yuka Ito to think I’m going into labour.
Everything is dark, except I don’t know whether it’s just my brain closing down in shock or my eyes adjusting to the light. The whole room is pitch-black, and there’s just a small lamp in the corner. And right in the middle, sitting in a chair, is a very small woman.
She’s very still, and very silent, and she’s wearing black from head to toe. Everything is black: her long hair is black, her minuscule hat is black and the lace hanging over one eye is black. Her dress is black and her shoes are black and her tights are black. The only thing on her that isn’t black is her lips, and they’re bright purple. Her hands are folded very neatly in her lap, and the only other way I can think of to describe her is that she’s everything that Wilbur isn’t: quiet, controlled and absolutely rigid. She looks exactly like a fashionable spider.
I knew I should have stuck to my first outfit choice.
As if on cue, Wilbur cries, ‘Sweetheart!’ and flounces across the room to greet her. ‘It’s been tooooo long!’
She looks at Wilbur without a flicker of expression on her perfect, pale face. “I saw you eight minutes ago. Which I believe is two minutes longer than we agreed.”
“Precisely! Tooooooo long!” Wilbur runs back to me, totally unfazed, and pushes me forward. “I had difficulty retrieving this one,” he explains happily, as if he’s Hugo and I’m some kind of really nice stick. “But retrieve her I finally did.”
He gives me another nudge with his fingertips until I’m standing awkwardly in front of Yuka. There is something so queenly about her that I find myself suddenly dropping into a curtsy, the way I was taught to in ballet class before the teacher asked Annabel not to bring me back because it was “impossible to teach me grace”.
Yuka Ito looks at me with a stony face and then – almost without moving – touches a little button on a remote control on her lap. A bright spotlight fades in dramatically, almost directly above me, and I jump a little bit. Seriously. What kind of room is this?
“Harriet,” she says as I squint upwards. There’s no inflection to her voice, so I’m not sure whether it’s a question or a statement or whether she’s just practising saying my name.
“Harriet Manners,” I correct automatically.
“Harriet Manners.” She looks me up and down slowly. “How old are you, Harriet Manners?”
“I’m fifteen years, three months and eight days old.”
“Is that your natural hair?”
I pause briefly. Why would anyone dye their hair this colour? “…Yes.”
Yuka raises an eyebrow. “And you’ve never modelled before?”
“No.”
“Do you know anything about clothes?”
I look down at my grey pinstripe suit. It must be a trick question. “No.”
“An
d do you know who I am?”
“You’re Yuka Ito, Creative Director of Baylee.”
“Did you know who I was before Wilbur told you thirty seconds ago?”
I glance at Wilbur. “No.”
“But she’s very bright,” Wilbur bursts enthusiastically, clearly no longer able to contain himself. “She picks things up ever so quickly, don’t you, my little Bumblebee? Once I told her who you were she didn’t forget straight away at all.”
Yuka slowly slides her gaze over to him. “At what point exactly,” she says in an icy voice, “did it seem as if I was attempting to engage you in conversation, Wilbur?”
“None at all,” Wilbur agrees and takes a few steps back. He starts gesturing at me to get behind him.
“And,” she continues, looking at me, “how do you feel about fashion?”
I think really hard for a few seconds. “It’s just clothes,” I say eventually. Then I close my mouth as tightly as possible and mentally flick myself with my thumb and middle finger. It’s just clothes? What’s wrong with me? Telling the fashion industry’s most powerful woman that It’s Just Clothes is like telling Michelangelo, It’s Just A Drawing. Or Mozart, It’s Just A Bit Of Music. Why is there no kind of net between my brain and my mouth to catch sentences like that, like the one we have in the kitchen sink to catch vegetable peel?
“Would you mind explaining why you want to be a model in that case?”
“I guess…” I swallow uncertainly. “I want things to change.”
“And by things she means,” Wilbur interrupts, stepping forward, “famine. Poverty. Global warming.”
“Actually, I mean me mainly,” I clarify uncomfortably. “I’m not sure fashion is going to help with anything else.”
Yuka stares at me for what feels like twenty years, but is actually about ten seconds with a totally blank expression on her face. “Turn around,” she says eventually in a dry voice.
So I turn around. And then – because I’m not sure what else to do – I keep turning. And turning. Until I start to worry that I’m going to be sick on the floor.