by Holly Smale
From Yuka, it just sounds true.
“In front of me are nineteen of my best designs,” she continues. “This is a lifetime of my work, and I will not accept any errors. You are not here to wear my dresses. You are here for my dresses to wear you.”
And I suddenly realise that this night might be a tiny part of my own personal history but it represents all of Yuka’s.
Her entire life, standing in front of her.
Swallowing a lump, I glance at the door behind her: a quiet drumbeat is starting to pulse and, over the top of that, violins, clarinets, oboes, rising softly.
And blimey: is that a piano?
“On cue, you will walk through the door, down the aisle, turn and pose for ten seconds at the end,” Yuka says sharply. “Then you will wait on the stage, where I will—”
She stops abruptly.
And for just a moment I see an expression flicker across her face: the first real emotion I’ve ever seen on it.
“Where I will—” she repeats.
Everyone is staring at Yuka with wide eyes: apart from Fleur, who frowns at me in confusion.
What’s going on? she signals with her eyebrows.
So I shrug with my best “mystified” expression and turn back to the front with another wave of sadness.
“Where I will join you,” Yuka finishes in a clear voice. “At which point you will all applaud me loudly and unreservedly until I tell you to stop.”
There’s a ripple of relieved laughter, even though I’m absolutely certain that is not a joke.
“I expect nothing but the best,” Yuka says firmly, resting her fingertips on the door handle. “I chose you all for a reason.”
For a second she pauses and I see it again: something flickers across her face and then flashes away again, like a fish underwater.
A graveness has descended on the room.
Even Poppy, Shola and Rose have apparently been humbled by Yuka’s uncharacteristic candour. Nobody else seems to know where it’s come from or what to do with it now it’s here.
I wish I didn’t either.
With a tiny nod Yuka opens the door.
“Models, get out there,” she says firmly, turning to look back at all of us. “And I’ll see you at the end.”
ne by one, we file out.
First the raven-haired girl in the Octopus Dress, then a brunette in black sequins; then Shola in turquoise lace, the sky-blue-haired girl in the Sumo Dress, Rose in purple feathers …
Slowly, the two lines get shorter.
Swallowing, I watch as Poppy adjusts the pink Manga Girl Dress, lifts her chin, gives her head a quick toss and then swishes through the door: it closes softly behind her.
“No sitting down,” Fleur reminds me as we get closer to the front. “I don’t think it’ll impress them this time.”
I smile and shake my head.
Then we both watch as an angular girl in lilac disappears, followed by a brunette in yellow and a blonde in green.
I’m suddenly at the front.
I read somewhere that a red-bellied woodpecker has a tongue so long that – when retracted – it forks into the throat, goes below the base of the jaw, and wraps round the inside of the bird’s skull.
That’s exactly how I feel now.
As if I can’t speak or swallow; all I can do is hover a few feet off the ground and try to resist the urge to repeatedly bash my head against something.
With infinite slowness, the door begins to swing open and for a split second I can see Nat: sitting next to Silva and leaning forward with an ecstatic, transfixed expression on her lovely face.
Behind her – in the second row – there’s a flash of pink hair and smiles.
And then, with a lurch in my chest, I see Nick.
Sitting at the back, dark eyes trained intently on the door I’m about to walk through.
Trembling, I step forward.
A gentle hand pulls me backwards again.
“Harriet,” Fleur whispers. “Switch on your dress! Or Yuka will never forgive you.” Quickly, she fumbles for the button in the back and presses it. “There you go.”
And – with a click – I’m suddenly covered in a thousand glittering stars again. “Thank you,” I whisper gratefully, because that was way too close for comfort.
I guess there was one mistake I hadn’t made yet after all.
Then the door swings open wide.
And everything and everyone on both sides of it disappear completely.
n front of me is a garden.
Immediately to my left stands a knotted, ancient oak tree – erupting into a dignified mass of green leaves – and round every branch are wound thousands of tiny white lights on golden wires.
Underneath it sits an orchestra with gold instruments and a grand piano: filling the air with a delicate, lilting, triumphant music.
Around the garden other trees are similarly lit, and yellow and white flowers are strewn everywhere: flowing from huge golden urns, hanging from golden birdcages, sprouting from golden troughs.
Above us is another network of lights, strung like a sparkling cobweb against a black sky dotted with stars and planets, and behind the garden is the whole of Sydney: the glittering bridge arching to the right and the moonlit harbour filled with busy, blinking boats.
In the middle of the garden sit hundreds of ornate golden metal chairs, on which are perched Yuka’s esteemed guests, all wearing rapt expressions.
And directly in front of me is a soft grass aisle.
Edged with flickering golden candles and strewn with yellow petals, leading to the prettiest white bandstand also covered in lights and hung with gold chiffon: on which quietly stand the models who went before me.
I mean, you’ve got to hand it to Yuka.
When she commits to something, she really goes for it. There are approximately six billion light bulbs in the entire world, and something is telling me she has bought the majority of them.
And it was worth every single penny.
Never mind a pot of gold: this is exactly what it should look like at the very end of a rainbow.
Taking a deep breath, I wait as the girl in front finishes her pose and carefully sashays up the stairs to the bandstand to join the others.
Then a woman standing silently next to the doorway whispers “Go.”
And I suddenly know that this is it.
This is everything my modelling career has been leading up to, from the second it began. Because maybe every mistake I’ve made – every stumble, every tumble, every crash, every humiliation – I made for a reason.
So I could give the woman who started my career the perfect end to hers.
“Go,” the woman behind me whispers for a second time, and with a deep breath I nod and lift my chin.
With my face relaxed, I stare straight ahead.
Then I start walking.
And with every step, I can see and feel and hear it all: the soft grass beneath my feet, the soaring fanfare of the orchestra, the glimmering lights of my dress, the proud faces of Nat and Bunty and Nick as I glide past them.
Because I don’t always need plans or strategies.
In this moment, I don’t need bullet points and maps; I don’t need to know where I’m going or where I’ve been. I don’t need to look to the future to try to see what’s coming or the past to see what has already happened; I don’t need to assess or analyse or theorise or research or dissect anything.
In this precise moment, all I need is now.
All I need is me.
Face composed, I reach the spot at the end of the aisle.
With more grace than I’ve ever felt before, I stand very still and twist my head: put my hand on my hip, feel the warmth of the air and smell the countless delicate flowers and feel hundreds of eyes trained in my direction.
Through the door, I can just see Fleur slowly emerging: shimmering green.
Ten, nine, eight …
And I can suddenly feel contentment pouring ou
t of me.
Splashing in a warm light that seems to emanate from my chest and wrap round me: holding me tightly and safely in one place.
Seven, six …
Scientists say that we have approximately 7*1027 – that’s a seven followed by twenty-seven zeroes – atoms in our bodies, consisting predominantly of oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium and phosphorus.
These elements were formed when the universe was created: when the heat and pressure of the Big Bang forced together atoms to create new ones, which slowly – over billions of years – evolved to become us.
Five …
Which is incredible, when you really think about it.
Because it means that ninety-three per cent of every single one of us is made of stardust that has never been combined in this exact order before: it has never been us before and it will never be us again.
But it will always be here somewhere.
Which means we are all infinite.
Four, three …
And we are all irreplaceable.
Two …
With a joyful smile, I drop my arm.
One.
And, calmly, I walk up the stairs and take my place among the stars.
here’s just enough room up here.
As the remaining models walk the aisle and join us on the bandstand, it slowly becomes clear that there’s exactly the right amount of space for nineteen people, to the nearest centimetre.
Which could be a huge coincidence.
But somehow – knowing Yuka – is a lot more likely to have been strategically planned with a tape measure and our exact hip specifications.
With a wink, Fleur slips in next to me and squeezes my hand.
Then I glance into the audience.
Nick’s eyes lock with mine, and – slowly – his face breaks into a wide, bright grin.
I smile proudly back.
Then I turn to the front and watch Yuka walk rigidly down the aisle.
One by one, the crowd rises to its feet.
And – cautiously at first, and then with more vigour – the garden begins to fill with the sound of clapping: rippling through the sky like raindrops.
Slowly, she reaches the end and turns round.
Then as if by some kind of Narnian spell, the clapping slowly halts and the orchestra stops playing.
All that’s left is the distant sound of the boats in the harbour and five hundred and twenty hearts.
Beating simultaneously.
“Fashion,” Yuka says finally into the silence. “Every single person here tonight has dedicated their life to a love of it.”
I blink twice. Not everyone, Yuka.
Somewhere in the changing room behind us is a diplodocus T-shirt that would strongly undermine that statement.
“Yet fashion divides. Some see it as frivolous and vain: an elite industry that objectifies and segregates the world into those who have, and those who have not.”
There’s a murmur in the crowd.
“Some see it as a way to make a frequently ugly world more expressive, more creative, more beautiful.”
Now fervent nods.
“Others see it as …” Yuka smiles minutely. “Just clothes.”
Abruptly, I flush bright red.
“All are correct, yet without question fashion has the power to change, unite and inspire. So tonight I have two announcements.”
I can literally hear five hundred and twenty breaths drawing in.
Or two thousand, six hundred litres of air being held.
“First,” Yuka continues, “these dresses are for sale. Money raised will fund a foundation supporting young people from all backgrounds in design careers, within Haute couture and high-street fashion.”
The murmurs are starting again.
“It will be called the Yuka Ito Foundation,” she adds. “Obviously.”
Now a ripple of shocked laughter and claps.
“And secondly …”
Here she pauses, and a wave of panic tightens my throat. Please not now, Yuka. Don’t tell them the truth like this. Not until Nick already knows. Urgently, I search to meet his eyes in the crowd but he’s focused intently on his aunt.
“This will be my final show,” Yuka finishes. “I have retired from the fashion industry.”
The murmurs are swelling to a frantic chorus, but I only feel relief flooding through me.
At least there’s still time.
With a patience I’ve never seen in her before, Yuka waits until the garden is silent again.
“This show is a celebration of my immense talent,” she continues finally, “and of fashion itself. In one way or another, it has changed our lives.”
Without warning, there are suddenly tears in my eyes.
Because now I can see a final ghost.
Lying in a pile of broken hats, wearing a green polyester football kit because her clothes had sick on them: wishing she was someone else.
Anyone else, other than herself.
And that girl doesn’t exist any more.
Because it turns out they’re not just clothes at all; they never actually were.
With a glance to the side, Yuka lifts a hand and nods at the orchestra.
Turning, she looks at her models and bows slightly.
Then she clicks her fingers and the sky fills with music and shimmering fireworks – exploding over the garden like metallic flowers – and gold confetti: shooting upwards in a riot of pops around us and raining down in a flurry of glitter.
And as the cheers begin again and the audience rises to its feet once more, Yuka slowly turns and walks stiffly back through the sparkle and chaos to the observatory.
Closing the door behind her.
ow, I know a lot about gold.
I know that nearly all the gold on Earth came from meteorites that hit our planet over 200 million years after it was formed.
I know that six ten-billionths of the sun is pure gold, and the most valuable legal tender in the world is a 1,000-kg Australian coin worth forty-five million dollars.
I know that gold has been found in the leaves of Australian Eucalyptus trees and that our own bloodstreams contain about 0.2 milligrams of the element.
And I know that the chemical symbol for gold is Au.
But as I stare at the garden of a star observatory in Australia – decorated with gold, coated in gold, filled with people who are gold, in a country that literally starts with gold – I suddenly realise that Yuka must know all of this too.
Because nothing she ever does is by accident.
“Wow,” Fleur whispers as we make our way down the aisle towards the backstage. “Did you see that coming? Retiring? I thought Yuka was going to keep going forever. I mean, she can’t be more than, what – forty-five?”
“Forty-seven,” I say quietly.
I know, because during the early stages of our relationship I got Nick to tell me all about his family tree. Then I put the genealogical data into an illustrated chart and gave it to him for Christmas.
I’m pretty certain he loved it.
Ears gently ringing from the fireworks, I push open the door to the main room. It’s a mess again already: all of the models, including me, are quickly undressing and handing their precious gowns to stylists who immediately cover them in silk and take them out of harm’s way.
“Good thing there were no shoes this time, Freckles,” Poppy says sweetly, gliding smoothly past me in her non-cartoon bra and knickers with an unsightly red rash rising across her ribcage. “I seem to remember you do so well in heels.”
So I stick my tongue out at her back.
I know it’s not very mature but I’m not seventeen for another five months and it feels so good.
“I’ve got to go,” Fleur says, carefully unzipping her dress, handing it to a stylist and then tugging her jeans and T-shirt on. “I have to get the next flight back to London in time for classes on Monday.”
She gives me a brief but intense hug.
“Umm,” I say nervously, fumbling through my satchel. “Do you want my – uh.”
Because frankly the last time I asked Fleur if she wanted my number she literally ran away in the opposite direction.
I’m not sure I want to repeat the experience.
“What the hell is that?” she says, widening her grey eyes at the Brick in my hand. “What year is this? Can you time-travel through that thing?”
I laugh. “I’m thinking we should go back to 1876 so we can show this atrocity to Alexander Graham Bell.”
“He’d be outraged.”
“Disgusted.”
“Maybe you could just leave it with him.”
We both laugh, then Fleur puts her number in my phone and I have to stifle an air-punch of triumph. Studies have shown that we may have an average of 155 social-networking friends each, but only turn to four of them if we’re in trouble.
And now I have five, so take that, scientists.
For the first time in my life, I’ve beaten the friendship odds.
Team FRJNTH, here we come.
But before I enter the party, there’s something left to do.
And I need a bit of privacy, so after I wave goodbye to Fleur I quietly slip away from the stylists and hubbub.
Then I get a physics textbook out of my bag, sit in a corner chair and quietly study the random nature of radioactive decay until everyone else has left for the party happening outside.
When the room’s finally empty, I walk over to a table and sit down in front of the mirror.
Slowly, I pull out a wet, soaped cloth and start wiping at my face.
And, layer by layer, the paint comes off.
Foundation, primer, powder, blusher, lipstick, highlighter, contour, eyeshadow, mascara, eyeliner: covering the white cloth in a thick sludge of muddy colours. With a new wet cloth, I do it again and again: gently wiping my face until it’s completely clean.
Then I put the cloth down and stare at my face.
My skin is very pale and densely freckled all over, like the egg of a bird. My cheeks are round, my chin is pointed and my nose is slightly too short for my face: turning up at the end. I have an upturned mouth, and big, almost lashless eyes that are a pale moss green and set far apart, exactly like – as Wilbur once pointed out – a frog or an alien.