by Holly Smale
That’s the name of the most expensive gown on the planet: designed by Faiyzali Abdullak, made of pure silk and covered in 751 Swarovski crystals.
It’s worth an estimated thirty million dollars.
On the upside, at least I don’t have to worry about destroying something quite that valuable today. On the downside, when Wilbur finds out exactly what part of the fashion industry I’m modelling for, he may never speak to me again.
I don’t think his standards include plastic crowns and Hobbycraft glue, drying on my neckline.
“Umm,” I say as the boat starts purring into the open ocean and I glance at my satchel: thank heavens the Brick is in it.
Buy some time, Harriet.
“Forty-two per cent of all marriages end in divorce. Is this really a growing business market, do you think?”
“But just think of the fifty-eight per cent that don’t,” Emily says chirpily, stapling together a tiny rip in my skirt. “Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t it romantic?”
OK. Try again.
“I’m sixteen,” I say desperately. “I don’t think you’re legally allowed to get married in Australia until you’re eighteen.”
“Ha!” Jack laughs, emerging from the cabin wearing the wetsuit. “Unless we’re planning on marrying you to a whale, then I think we’ll be all right!”
“A woman once married the Eiffel Tower,” I tell him, staring worriedly at what appears to be a camera entirely encased in thick plastic. “Search Google for long enough and you’ll find anything is possible.”
Then I frown at the ocean.
Marry me to a whale? What is that supposed to mean?
The boat is slowing down to a puttering stop, and the bright blue sea around us is dotted with other small boats, packed full of shouting and laughing tourists.
All of whom are wearing snorkels.
Lots of them also wear wetsuits, flippers and goggles and have air tanks attached to their backs, and are lowering themselves gently into the water or plunging off backwards with big squeaking splashes.
Click, click, click.
The realisation dawns slowly, like watching an enormous unstoppable steam train appear on the horizon and puff laboriously towards me. Huge, heavy and making a lot of noise.
And I’ve tied myself to the tracks so diligently I’ve no time left to escape.
Just enough to patiently wait for it to get here.
“We’re not going to moor on an island?” I ask hesitantly, watching as the anchor gets thrown overboard and winds its way towards the bottom of the ocean. “This wedding shoot isn’t on a tropical golden beach?”
Emily and Jack glance at each other, then erupt into gales of good-natured laughter. “On a beach? What a waste of your unique talents that would be!”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“That’s why we told the agency we needed someone special,” Emily says, adding yet more pink lipstick to my already neon face and leading me towards the edge of the boat. “Someone like you.”
“Indeed!” Jack says, strapping a big aqualung to his back and pulling goggles on. “Can’t wait to see what you can do down there, Harriet!”
I blink at them again: then at the water.
Then at the people splashing into the deep blue sparkling ocean with full diving gear on.
“Down there?” I say blankly as the train finally reaches me: steaming and screeching with no sign of slowing down. “As in … perpendicularly?”
“Absolutely!” Emily chirps as Jack waves, puts his breathing tube into his mouth and plunges into the water. “Why else would we have picked a model who’s also a trained freediver?”
And there it is.
Sixty-five tonnes of solid steel: smashing into my consciousness. Because the casting at the modelling agency is starting to run through my head again, except now I’m actually listening instead of focusing on getting all the answers right.
And it sounds kind of different.
How did you make the transition? You’re so young. You must have trained incredibly hard. What’s been your biggest challenge so far?
What can you tell us about breathing?
It’s like you’re a proper fashion model as well.
I’m an A* student in English, I have a gold medal in grammar and a certificate that proves I am in the top one per cent of the UK’s teenage linguists.
Yet I never once thought to ask: as well as what?
“A trained … s-sorry?” I stutter as I’m gently helped up to the edge of the boat: puffy white dress unravelling around me; veil fraying in the breeze.
“Freediver,” Emily grins, adding yet more blusher. “We can’t believe our luck. Honestly, we thought we’d end up getting an expert who had no idea how to model!”
Oh my God. They think I’m a professional mermaid.
“I-I …” I stutter, throat starting to close in sheer panic. “I don’t … I’m not sure I … How do I …”
“Don’t worry,” Emily reassures me. “The dress has weights in the belt to hold you down and Jack’s learnt all the sign language. You’ll be able to communicate with each other perfectly!”
I sincerely doubt that, given that:
“Umm,” I say, staring at the deep water.
I’m searching as hard as I can, but I can’t think of a single honourable way out of this mess. I didn’t wait for Wilbur’s help; I went over Eva’s head; I pretended the agency sent me and I took a job I knew nothing about, without asking any questions.
I wasn’t even patient enough to count to ninety beforehand.
Now two lovely people with a brand-new business have spent their entire budget on flying me to Queensland because I convinced them I’m a professional. And if I fail, their first ever photo shoot fails too.
This situation is all my fault.
As per bat pooping usual.
“How …” I say anxiously, tottering on the edge of the boat on my tiptoes, “uh, long will I be under there, exactly?”
“Up to you! Four or five minutes should be plenty!”
Four or five minutes would definitely be more than plenty.
Swallowing, I stare at the bright blue ocean as my internal well of biological trivia begins to whirr.
You can do this, Harriet.
Humans can hold their breath for twice as long underwater as they can on land because the body automatically decreases the pulse rate in order to minimise oxygen requirements.
The average person can manage thirty seconds.
So all I’ve got to do is get each shot done in one minute or less.
“Good luck!” Emily grins, patting me on the back.
Nodding, I hyperventilate as many times as possible to lower the general carbon dioxide levels in my body: the way professional diving champions do.
At least I’ve been practising that bit my whole life.
Then I take a deep breath, wrap my disintegrating skirt round my legs with one hand and pinch my nose between my fingers with the other.
And I jump in.
ow, I know a lot about water.
I know that the average human body is made up of fifty to sixty-five per cent water, while the brain consists of over seventy-five per cent fluid.
I know the original metric system was created by the weight of water, which means one litre of water weighs one kilo and one cubic metre of water is exactly one tonne.
I know that there’s the same amount of water on Earth now as there was when our planet was formed, so we’re drinking the exact same water as the dinosaurs, Cleopatra and Shakespeare did; I know there’s a water reservoir floating in space equivalent to 140 trillion times all the water in every ocean on Earth.
I even know the precise chemical structure of water and could draw you an accurate diagram.
But as I plunge into the Coral Sea and start sinking slowly, I also know that not one of those facts is going to help me now.
Because all that matters is that this water is dense and wet and I can’t breathe in it
. (Mainly thanks to not being able to absorb oxygen molecules through gills in the side of my neck, like a fish.)
Stay calm, Harriet. Channel your inner Little Mermaid.
Blinking, I focus on the retreating surface above me.
The sea is transparent; shimmering rays of light flicker through it, and waving gently beside me and below me are hills of beautiful corals in pinks, blues, greens.
Tiny clownfish in orange and white flit round me in skittish circles; a large silver and pink bass glides slowly past; spotted yellow fish with pouty lips hover towards me and then flick away. A bright blue starfish sits to my left, and a tiny green seahorse bobs up and down between the rocks.
A stingray soars calmly over my head like an aeroplane.
And I keep sinking.
Down to where the light rays are thinner and the water is bluer; the fish are larger and the coral darker. Finally – just when I think I’m going to keep going until I hit the bottom – I see Jack: peering through the underwater camera, one hand up with his fingers in a circle.
With immense effort, I push upwards to stay suspended.
And as Jack flattens his palm and gives a nod, I compose my face, throw my arms widely above my head and point my toes together.
Click.
Then I quickly shift: lifting one knee, curving my elbows and touching the backs of my fingers together. Click. Opening my eyes wide, I extend my back and reach to my right with my fingertips. Click.
My chest feels as if it’s about to burst.
Go, Harriet. Go.
As fast as I can, I kick my toes outwards as gracefully as possible while touching my palms above my head in a delicate prayer-shape.
Click.
Yup: I’ve modelled internationally and shot for some of the biggest fashion designers in the world.
And I’m now underwater, doing the “YMCA”.
My father would be so proud.
Finally, just as it feels like my head’s going to explode, Jack holds a thumb up and – with a flush of relief – I kick as fast as I can towards the surface.
Go go go go go go go –
I burst into the sunlight gasping for air with my wet red hair slapped across my face and poking up my nose.
Looking nothing like Ariel whatsoever.
“Perfect!” Emily chirps, helping me – dripping, bright red and panting – up the ladder on to the boat. “And again!”
So in I go.
This time in a dress covered with minuscule loose pearls.
Slowly, I sink.
Frantically, I attempt “The Robot”: arms held out rigidly at right angles and feet squared, face frozen.
Click click click.
Quickly, I swim back to the surface, clamber out, get into another dress, jump in and try “Picking Apples”: fingers stretched out, up on tiptoes.
Click click.
Out, dress, splash. “Knee Shuffle”.
Click click click.
“Saturday Night Fever”.
Click.
“Big Box Little Box”.
Click.
Until I’m hot and cold and I’ve run out of disco moves and everything is a whirl of water and sunlight and coral and fish and satin and floating and falling and I don’t know which way up I am or what I’m doing any more.
Just that I want it to stop.
I will do anything for this to stop.
Finally, Emily gives me a radiant smile.
“Just one more!” she says happily, helping me into the last wedding dress. “You’re such a star, Harriet! Well done you!”
I blink at her, chest heaving.
Trembling and trying to swallow, I’m led to the edge of the boat.
I stare at the sea for the seventh time.
And then I start falling.
This time I don’t stop.
As the sunlight flickers and sparkles around me, I’m suddenly calm, peaceful, serene. Spinning upwards and falling downwards: weightless and drifting, like a dandelion seed.
Or a bird, hovering in the air.
Maybe a pretty kestrel or a tiny blue merlin or a red-tailed hobby or a peregrine falcon or an iridescent hummingbird with a pink throat and those little green wings that go buzz buzz buzz I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hummingbird maybe I should go to Mexico or Costa Rica or Ecuador or—
Everything gets darker.
Slowly, the lights flicker and dim.
And I’m just closing my eyes when a hand reaches out and grabs mine.
Dragging me back to the surface again.
“Harriet?”
“Harriet? Open your eyes.”
“Come on, Manners. Look at me.”
lowly, I become aware of voices.
Then the rocking motion of waves slapping against the boat, the warm sun on my face, a light breeze on my legs; a hard wooden deck against my back.
A hand, still holding mine.
I know this hand.
I recognise the shape of the fingers, the shortness of the nails, the roughness of the palm, the way my thumb is being pressed on the outside.
This is a hand I’ve held before.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
There’s a face directly above me: tanned but angular, the mouth wide and full, tilting up in the corners with two little dents in the bottom lip. The nose slopes up gently: there’s a mole on the left cheek and a tiny line etched into the forehead.
Above it is a mass of dripping black curls.
And staring at me are two dark, familiar eyes: slanted like a lion’s and studying me intensely, as if they’re slowly trying to piece me together from little bits too.
“Hello,” I say calmly, then choke up a bucketful of seawater as the meteor hits and the Earth explodes, ripping everything away from the surface in one fell swoop: trees, people, buildings, pavements, mountains, rivers, seas.
Me.
“Oh, thank hell,” Nick says, touching his forehead to mine.
And everything goes black.
7, 451, 533, 451
7, 451, 533, 493
7, 451, 533, 511
“What’s she saying?”
“Is it a telephone number? Do we need to ring it?”
“We can’t, it keeps changing.”
“Do something!”
“Guys, it’s OK. Just give her a few seconds.”
Cautiously, I open my eyes again.
Nick’s still there.
My non-imaginary, statistically improbable, fully three-dimensional ex-boyfriend.
“7,451,533,631,” I croak blankly, staring at him. “Approximately that many people are in the world right now. It goes up really quickly.”
“It goes down pretty quickly too,” Nick sighs. “Manners, what the hell do you think you were playing at?”
Blinking, I try to sit and cough up another lungful of seawater.
Behind him, Emily and Jack are peering at me anxiously: hovering with glasses of water and cups of tea and plates of snacks.
“Here,” Emily says, wrapping me in a large piece of silver tinfoil like a turkey at Christmas. “Eat some cake, Harriet. Or a biscuit. We’ve got sandwiches too. Jack! Sandwiches!”
“I’m getting them,” he calls out frantically, diving into the cabin. “Harriet, what do you like? Cheese? Ham? Tuna? There’s some kind of beef with—”
“Just any sandwiches,” Emily shouts. “For God’s sake, Jack!”
Blinking, I look back at Nick.
He’s wearing a plain black wetsuit and flippers, goggles are wrapped over the top of his head, his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and I suddenly feel like I’m weightlessly floating and sinking, falling and flying again.
7,451,639,128 …
“I …” I start weakly.
“Drink the tea,” Nick says firmly, grabbing a cup and handing it to me.
“I don’t want any—”
“You’ve swallowed a lot of seawater and you’re going to dehydrate if you don’t. Drink it, Harriet.�
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Obediently, I take a few sugary sips.
“Jesus, what were you thinking?” he snaps over the top of my cup, standing up and starting to pace around the deck. “Harriet, do you have any idea what you … Did it even cross your mind what could have …”
For a second I imagine I can see his long lion’s tail twitching angrily and an unexpected giggle nearly pops out of my mouth.
“I’m fine,” I insist hoarsely, putting the cup back down and gratefully tucking into a piece of cake. “Just got dizzy for a second, that’s all.”
“What were you doing down there?” Emily yells at Jack, whacking him on the arm. “Why didn’t you notice there was a problem?”
“The manual said arms over your head means you’re OK!” he responds, sounding mortified. “Harriet, I’m so sorry.”
“Honestly, I’m fine,” I insist through a mouthful of cake, then swivel back to Nick again as if my eyes are compasses and he’s the North Pole.
“How?” I blurt. “How are you here?”
“I’m a diving instructor on that boat,” Nick says simply, pointing at a green motorboat packed with squealing tourists, fifty metres away. “It’s my last day on the job. So … luck, I guess.”
Just like that.
As if it’s not the least likely thing that has ever happened to anyone, in the history of the planet.
As if I didn’t already calculate the chances and they were nigh on zero. As if there aren’t twenty-three million people in Australia, five million people in Queensland, seventy-four islands and 344,400 km2 of Great Barrier Reef.
“You didn’t know I was here?” I ask, searching his dark eyes. “You didn’t … follow me, just in case I got into trouble?”
“Nope,” he smiles despite himself, anger finally relenting. “And let’s be honest, Manners: that would be a full-time job. You’re always getting into trouble.”
“I am not,” I say, flushing bright red. “Just sometimes.”
“Almost all of the time.”
“No more than anyone else.”
“Literally so much more than anyone else.”
Jack and Emily awkwardly clear their throats: I’d completely forgotten they were still there. “Umm, why don’t you take a few minutes to adjust while we get packed up,” Jack says. “You’re sure you’re OK?”