by Holly Smale
“Now then, my little Squabbling-beans,” Wilbur interrupts. He pushes a little bit of plastic in my ear, pulls the wire under my collar and pops another bit of plastic in a pocket at the back of my dress. “We don’t have time for all this adorable Darcy and Lizzie tension, Kitten-cheeks. Let’s get you on air so that your stepmother can stop texting me at three-minute intervals, Harriet. She’s extremely anxious that we get you to school on time today.”
I nod. I am too, actually. I don’t want something to go horribly wrong later in life because I’m supposed to know about metaphysical poets and don’t.
I notice that the little green light on my hearing aid has been switched on. I look at Nick. “Do you have one too?”
Nick and Wilbur both laugh.
“Harriet,” a cold voice in my ear says. “This is Yuka Ito.”
I look around, trying to locate her. “Don’t look around trying to locate me,” she snaps. “I’m in the production-control room.”
“Can you see me?”
“No. I just know that’s what you’re doing. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” I say as clearly as I can. Nick is standing just behind me, yawning and rubbing his face with the sleeve of his grey jumper. How come Yuka Ito isn’t shouting in his ear like the little caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland?
“Just say what I tell you to,” Yuka says, “and everything will go as planned. And please, Harriet…”
“Yes?”
“Try and behave yourself this time.”
’d always assumed that on TV, when it looks like the presenters are in a living room, they’re actually, you know, in a living room. With a nice painting, a fireplace and maybe a few bookshelves for perusing while the cameras weren’t rolling.
But it’s just a stage with a few sofas, and a big open black space full of wires and intense-looking people. Frankly, I can’t help but feel a little cheated.
“Good morning, sweetie,” the chirpy blonde presenter says as I perch nervously on the edge of one of the sofas. “I’m Jane. I bet this is early for you, isn’t it?”
I nod, even though I’m not quite sure what Jane’s talking about. It’s 7.30am – precisely the time I’m normally shouting at Dad to get out of the shower.
“And I’m Patrick,” a slightly older man says, leaning forward to shake my hand, and then leaning a little further to do the same to Nick. “Don’t be nervous, guys. This is just a bit of fun, right?”
“You know,” Nick says in his slow drawl, “I just can’t remember when I’ve had more.” Patrick nods enthusiastically.
Yuka clears her throat in my ear. “Tell Nick that if he doesn’t stop being facetious, he’s doing his next show in a dress.”
I lean forward and pass the message on.
“Awesome,” Nick says, laughing. “Tell her to make sure it has sequins on it this time.”
I keep looking anxiously into the dark space, but I can’t see Nat, or Dad, or Annabel, Wilbur or even Toby. What was the point in stuffing themselves into that taxi if nobody’s here now? Where’s my stalker when I need him?
I look at Nick with my eyes wide. “Remember,” he whispers under his breath. “No biggy.”
I breathe out and can feel the panic starting to leave again. It’s only six minutes. Just six minutes of saying whatever Yuka wants me to say, and then I can go to school and be normal again.
“Getting ready to go live,” one of the cameramen shouts. “In ten, nine, eight…”
I look around the dark again.
“Seven, six, five…”
Where are they?
“Four, three, two…”
And suddenly – with the softest of shuffles – the five of them scoot into the room at the back. My entire body relaxes as if somebody’s just cut all of the cords holding me upright. Nat holds her thumbs up and Dad points dramatically to Annabel’s lower stomach, mimes going to the toilet and shrugs. Wilbur gives a little dancing move and then shoots me with the imaginary gun of his fingers. Toby simply stands there and grins at me.
“One,” Jane says. And I’m live on air.
jump a little bit and then – to cover it up – cunningly pretend I’m checking out the bounciness of the sofa.
“As part of our fashion special,” Jane continues as if she hasn’t noticed that I’m bouncing up and down on national television, “we have with us this morning Harriet Manners, the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl who made headlines across the world as the newest face of fashion powerhouse Baylee. How are you, Harriet?”
“I’m fantastic, thanks, Jane,” Yuka says in my ear.
“I’m fantastic, thanks, Jane,” I repeat like a robot.
“And we also have Nick Hidaka, the sixteen-year-old male face of the brand. How are you, Nick?”
“I’m barely awake, thanks, Jane.” And then he grins at her so that his dimples pop in and out. “But I’ll do my very best.”
Are you kidding me? And I’m the one being spoon-fed lines?
Jane blinks a few times. “Amazing. Now, Nick, am I right in thinking that this wouldn’t be your first big campaign? You’ve done Armani, Gucci, Hilfiger…”
“Apparently so.”
“…And now Baylee. I remember there was a bit of controversy when you were first cast. Tell me, what’s it like to work with your Aunty Yuka? Extra pressure or is it nice keeping it in the family?”
Nick laughs. “Well, let’s just say if I screw it up, it’s going to make for an uncomfortable Christmas dinner.”
What?
My whole head has gone numb. Yuka is Nick’s aunt? Nick is Yuka’s nephew? They’re related? They’re family? The same blood runs through their… well, you get the picture.
And nobody told me?
“…you’ve caused a bit of a commotion yourself already, Harriet.” Patrick’s leaning forward and I suddenly realise that while I’m silently freaking out, he’s trying to engage me in conversation.
“Listen, Harriet,” Yuka hisses in my ear. “Or at least pretend to.”
“Ahmmm,” I mumble, smiling at as many people as possible.
“Fifteen years old, plucked from obscurity less than a week ago.” Jane looks at her notes. “You caught legendary designer Yuka Ito’s eye straight away, I hear. Gosh. That doesn’t happen that often, does it? Isn’t that just a fairytale?”
I look at her blankly.
“Yes, Jane,” Yuka whispers. “It’s a fairytale come true for any girl.”
“Yes, Jane,” I say obediently. “It’s a fairytale come true for any girl.”
“And Yuka’s even designing a special outfit for you in her next show.”
This is news to me. I stare at Jane.
“She is,” Yuka says and I repeat. “I’m extremely lucky.”
“Truly amazing.” Jane shakes her head as if she wants to jump across the sofa and slap me jealously across the face. “Who wouldn’t want that at fifteen?” She laughs gaily. “Who am I kidding: who wouldn’t want that at any age? And it says here you’re her new muse. Wow. Tell me, Harriet, have you always wanted to model?”
“Ever since I was a child,” Yuka says clearly in my ear. “I used to dress up in my mother’s clothes and twirl around my bedroom in front of the mirror. I have always been captivated by fashion.”
“Ever since I was a child,” I say dutifully. “I used to dress up… in… my… m-m-m—” I swallow. Dad gave all my mum’s clothes to the charity shop when she died. There was nothing to dress up in. And when Annabel came along, the only thing available would have been a suit.
I briefly imagine a skinny little red-headed girl twirling around in a huge pinstripe suit complete with tie and clunky office shoes and have to stifle a giggle.
“Harriet,” Yuka snaps. “Say it.”
“…in my mother’s clothes and twirl around the bedroom in front of the mirror,” I continue, trying to straighten my face out and not cry at the same time. “I have always been captivated by fashion.”
“And how have you
managed to balance it with your schoolwork so far?” Jane asks. “It must be hard, combining the two?”
“Baylee always puts my schoolwork first,” I chime after Yuka has spoken. “It’s of key importance to them.”
Apart from – you know – the bit where they made me take two days off to go to Russia. And this morning.
“And your favourite school subjects?” Patrick winks at the camera. “I think we can guess what they’d be!”
Maths. Physics. Chemistry.
“Textiles and art, of course,” I say diligently after waiting a nanosecond for my cue.
“And what about your school friends? You must be a very popular girl now.”
I think of Alexa’s scowling face and the shouts of Geek. I think of thirty hands in the air. “Uh-huh,” I say.
“Uh-huh was not what I just said,” Yuka snaps.
“As the new muse of one of fashion’s biggest players,” Jane says in excitement, “is the fashion life everything you thought it would be?”
Yuka clears her throat and I wince slightly: it’s really unpleasant having that sound shot straight into your head.
“Modelling is everything I dreamed it would be…” I repeat. “And I love fashion because it’s really about individuality, and creativity… and… and self-belief… and self-exp…” I trail off into silence.
Jane leans forward. “Self-exp?” she prompts.
“Self-expression,” I say in a small voice. Then I stare into the black space where my family are sitting. There’s a commotion behind the camera and somewhere in my ear I can hear Yuka starting to panic.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m sitting here, in front of five million people, repeating someone else’s lines about self-expression. I’m harping on about individuality in a dress somebody else put me in, with a haircut somebody else gave me, wearing make-up somebody else did. I’m talking about self-belief when I became a model because I didn’t have any.
Have I learnt nothing?
I take the microphone out of my ear and abruptly sit on it. Underneath my bottom, I can hear the tinny sound of Yuka yelling.
“It’s not true,” I say, taking a deep breath.
Jane flinches and I can see Patrick furiously reading the autocue.
“I didn’t dream about being a model,” I say firmly, refusing to look at Nick. “I dreamed of being a palaeontologist. I didn’t do any twirling when I was a child, my favourite subjects are maths and physics, nobody at school has ever liked me and I don’t think this is going to help much.”
“Well,” Jane says, laughing nervously, “isn’t that just…”
“And I don’t love fashion,” I say because I can’t stop now; this suddenly feels like the most important thing I’ll ever say. “It’s just clothes.”
There’s a gasp from around the studio and even the microphone under my bottom has stopped vibrating.
“And self-belief and self-expression and individuality are really important,” I continue, looking into the dark and talking too fast, “but if you’re wearing what everyone tells you to wear and saying what everyone tells you to say and thinking the way everyone tells you to think then – well… you don’t have any of those things, do you?”
Patrick is starting to look frightened and there’s a pink patch forming on Jane’s cheeks. “You don’t like it?” she says, her forehead creasing in the middle. “You don’t like modelling?”
I think about going to Russia, and jumping around in the snow, and walking down that catwalk, and the butterfly girls. I think about how much fun it can be and how I feel when I’m doing it. I think about Dad’s excitement, Annabel’s pride and Nat’s selflessness. “Actually, I do like modelling,” I say in surprise. “But I don’t want to be somebody else to do it. I still want to be me, and if that means wearing a suit and doing my trigonometry homework ten days before it’s due then that should be OK.”
“But if you hate fashion—”
I shake my head because I’ve suddenly realised that’s not true either. “You know, Jane, cavemen used to wear different skins and bones to differentiate themselves from each other and from other tribes.”
“Erm…”
“So if fashion’s a creative way of showing the world who you are and where you belong, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? But if who I am is a Winnie the Pooh jumper then I should be allowed to wear it.” I pause and look into the dark where Toby is standing. “Or a T-shirt with electronic drums.” I look at Dad and Annabel. “Or a robot T-shirt or a pinstripe suit.” And then I look at Wilbur. “Or a pink top hat for no reason at all.”
“But—”
“But they’re still just clothes. They can’t make you something you’re not. They can only help to say who you are.”
Stop talking, Harriet. Stop talking right now.
I think I’ve sort of forgotten I’m on television. I’m having my little epiphany on air, in front of five million people. But at least I’m not lying any more.
Patrick is sweating and one of the cameramen is making a winding motion with his finger. Nick leans forward. “I disagree,” he says and I flinch. Of course he does. He’s Yuka’s nephew.
Jane smiles at him. “You do?”
“Piglet is far superior. Harriet’s made quite an error of judgement.”
I gape at him. What is he talking about?
“Piglet?” I snap. “What has Piglet ever done of any importance?”
“Helped to pull Winnie out of Rabbit’s door, for one thing.”
Nick and I look at each other for a few seconds and something passes between us. Except – yet again – I’m not quite sure what that thing is.
“Well,” Jane says finally, breaking the silence. “That was a very interesting insight into…” she thinks about it, “something, wasn’t it?” She glances at Patrick and puts her finger to her ear. Does she have a microphone as well? Is anybody round here just saying what’s in their own heads? “Sadly, that’s all we have time for. Coming up after the break, how to compost the hair from your pet brush.” Jane grins at the camera and picks up her script again.
“And cut,” the cameraman shouts.
And I’m done. Finished. Actually, considering what I just said on live television, I think that’s probably true in more than one sense.
“Sorry for ruining your interview,” I say in a small voice to nobody in particular. Or, you know. Everybody.
And I pull the microphone out from under my bottom, whisper, “Sorry, Yuka,” into it and run to the back of the room.
t’s not hard to see where my family is, even in dim lighting.
Dad’s doing his dance again. Toby’s bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet and Nat’s standing on a chair and clapping. Even Annabel’s nodding her head to what looks suspiciously like an internal beat. Wilbur is sitting on the edge of a box with his head in his hands and his hat off.
“Whoop!” Nat shouts across the room.
“Whoop,” agrees Toby gravely. “And again, what Nat said: whoop.”
“My daughter!” Dad cries as soon as I get close. He punches the air, scruffs my hair up and then folds me into a bear hug in one seamless movement. “Feminist, pioneer, trailblazer, general bottom kicker.”
Annabel nods. “Harriet Quimby would be proud,” she says approvingly, leaning forward and touching my face.
“As would Harriet the tortoise,” Dad adds, nodding up and down. Annabel rolls her eyes. “What, Annabel? She would.”
“I’m glad you guys liked it,” I say, my face going pink with pleasure. “I think that might be it for my modelling career, though. I’m so sorry, Wilbur. I let you down.”
Wilbur looks up with a pale face. “No, you didn’t,” he says in a quiet voice. “That was really brave, Harriet. Don’t worry about Yuka. I’ll deal with her.”
“Nobody deals with Yuka,” a sharp voice says from behind us and we all spin round. Yuka Ito is standing in the middle of yet another spotlight, totally in black lace, but
this time with bright red lips.
OK, does she just carry the spotlight around with her or does she just stop when she gets to one?
Yuka looks straight at me. “I do not appreciate being sat on, Harriet. Don’t do it again.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “This time I’m definitely fired, right?”
“Why would you be fired? If I had known you would say that, I wouldn’t have given you an earpiece in the first place.”
My mouth falls open. “But wasn’t it just a PR…”
“Of course not. If I believed that fashion was about being the same as everyone else, would I dress like a negative of Miss Havisham every single day for thirty years?”
“I guess not.”
“Then this conversation is over. You’ll sign your next contract with me tomorrow morning.”
Yuka turns around and starts walking back towards the door.
“On one condition,” I hear myself say in a clear voice. She stops and turns slowly back around to face me. “I’m not missing any more school. If you want me, you’ll have to do evenings, mornings and weekends. Like a…” I think about it briefly. “A paper round.”
Yuka narrows her eyes. “Did you just compare working for me to doing a paper round?”
I nod. “Yes.”
She shuts her eyes for a few seconds and then opens them again. The corner of her mouth twitches. “Condition accepted. I’m hiring you for another season so you keep me on my toes. After that, I’ll probably ditch you for somebody younger.” She glances in the air. “Nick?”
Nick steps out of the dark where he’s been standing, unseen. My whole stomach squeezes shut. “Yes, Aunty Yuka?” he says with a cheeky grin.
“Call me that again and you can collect your P45.”
“Yes, Aunty Yuka?”
Yuka sighs. “Get your own taxi home, Nicholas. Like your father, you’re far too irritating to sit with.” And she turns around again and abruptly stalks out of the room.
I giggle slightly, feeling about six years old, and then turn back round to introduce Nick to the people I love most in the world. Except I can’t.