Head Over Heels

by Holly Smale

  “You should answer your phone, Harriet,” India says finally.

  “Yup,” Jasper says with arched eyebrows. “It might be a little old lady in a blue hooded cloak with a wand, a pumpkin and a couple of lizards.”

  I swallow. Please no.

  Not now. Literally any other time you like: just not now.

  Raising my eyes to the skies, I send a silent, furtive prayer out into the Universe, grab my phone and turn the other way. “Hello, Wilbur?”

  The Universe clearly wasn’t listening.

  “Prepare the unicorns, bunny. It’s time.”

  ime doesn’t actually exist.

  Even a second isn’t what we think it is: it’s officially the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the caesium-133 atom.

  And unicorns aren’t exactly roaming the streets either, so technically Wilbur is making no sense whatsoever.

  But I know exactly what he means.

  I just can’t quite bring myself to believe it.

  I stare at my beautiful team picnic, heart sinking. “Th-there’s a job this evening?”

  “No, a big casting in London.” I can barely hear Wilbur over the clattering noise in the background. “I only just found out, olive-pip, but if you leave right away you can make it.”

  I glance back at my friends, now peeling open the sandwiches and peering curiously at their contents. “And there’s no way we can postpone?”

  “I’m afraid not, monkey.” The noise in the background is getting even louder. “They’re sending the details over, so I’ll email them straight through.”

  In a panic, I quickly race through my options.

  There aren’t any.

  I made a promise to Wilbur that I’d help out with his new agency, and I should stick to it: regardless of how little I actually want to. I start dejectedly buckling my satchel back up.

  What were the chances of this happening?

  One in 228, that’s what.

  I’ve been modelling for fifteen months – 547 days –and in that time I’ve done just two official castings. One with Yuka and one with an American magazine. I had a statistically higher chance of winning a cash prize with Premium Bonds than getting this call right now.

  Maybe I should think about investing.

  “Sure,” I sigh, standing up. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Just remember your book, poppet. That’s super important.”

  I nod. “Got it.”

  “Fantasmico,” Wilbur breathes. “And baby-baby-panda? Thank you.”

  I put the phone down and look sadly at the gloriousness in front of me. My wonderful, carefully planned picnic, completely ruined.

  Unless …

  “I have to go to London,” I say, looking at my watch. “But I can be here again in … an hour, maximum?”

  Then I glance up at them hopefully.

  “That’s not a question, Harriet,” Toby points out. “You’ve put a question mark on the end, but it’s actually a statement.”

  I look beseechingly at Nat. She understands my subtle rhetoric. “Umm,” she says after a few beats, glancing around the park. “Sure. I guess we can wait.”

  “We won’t start playing Scrabble until you return,” Toby agrees.

  “And we’ll try as hard as we can not to eat the meat-chocolate-fish-salad sandwiches,” Jasper says, lifting his eyebrows. “But I can’t promise anything: we’re only human.”

  India’s jabbing her purple heel into the mud in silence. She’s clearly even more disappointed by this crushing news than I am, poor thing.

  The happiness factor is depleting by the second.

  “Don’t worry!” I say, patting her arm. “I’ll be back before you know it and then you’ll have so much fun, just wait and see! Team JINTH forever!”

  Quickly, I type a quick text to Dad:

  Just going to London for Wilbur! Won’t be long! Hxx

  And I start running.

  n some Micronesian cultures, they believe that sweat is a warrior’s essence.

  I won’t go into unnecessary details.

  Suffice to say, by the time I reach the address Wilbur texted me, in the middle of Soho, I’ve jogged so enthusiastically there’s Extract of Harriet pouring down the middle of my forehead.

  And my back, my knees … the soles of my feet.

  I’m basically in the final death throes of the Wicked Witch of the West, and I’m melting all over the reception desk.

  Quickly, I wipe it off with my jumper sleeve and try my best to inhale without sounding like a broken vacuum cleaner.

  Then I ping the bell and glance around the empty atrium.

  This building is utterly enormous.

  The furniture’s white leather, the walls are entirely exposed grey brick, and there’s glass, green plants and gravel everywhere, like some kind of giant terrarium made for humans.

  “Hello?” I call out urgently, dinging the little bell again. My voice bounces around the room like a ball. “Is anybody there?”

  The only sound is another bead of sweat dripping on to the glass desk with a tiny plip.

  Oh my God: I must have missed the casting.

  Who are we even kidding? The fastest mile ever run by a woman is four minutes, twelve seconds, and I don’t think I’m in danger of beating that record any time soon.

  At one point of my journey I ended up air-vomiting against a lamp-post.

  I scan the room again: still nothing.

  Then I spot a paper sign stuck on a door, with this written on it in black marker:

  Heart still hammering, I rip my bulky coat off. I unwind my long, sticky red scarf, throw it over my shoulder and rearrange my sweaty T-shirt.

  Then I start trotting down the corridor.

  It feels like it goes on for miles – like one of my horrible cross-country nightmares – but with a final burst of exertion I finally reach a door with CASTINGS written on it.

  Panting, I stop with a wave of relief.

  And also a wave of nausea: I’m really not built for this much physical activity.

  “I’m here!” I breathe, rapping sharply on the door and wiping several drips from my forehead. Please. Please don’t have gone already. “Don’t worry, I’m here!”

  “Now just hang on a—” somebody says.

  But it’s too late: there’s nowhere to hang on to.

  With a final wobble my exhausted legs give way: throwing my entire weight against the door.

  It opens with a click.

  And – with a tiny squeak of horror – I fall face down into the world of fashion.

  here are probably better ways to enter a room.

  On horseback, for instance.

  Riding an enormous motorbike or standing on the gold wings of a flaming chariot. Cartwheeling or back-flipping; balanced precariously on the spine of two dragons, while simultaneously blowing a bugle.

  All of which would have been more subtle than shouting OOMPH and smashing out into a star-shape with my face pressed firmly against the floorboards.

  The door swings behind me with a bang.

  None of an octopus’s limbs know what the others are doing: I think the same can clearly be said for mine.

  “S-sorry,” I say, struggling upright with an embarrassed laugh and tucking a strand of soggy hair behind my ear. “Th-there are thirteen muscles in each leg and I think one of mine decided to give u—”

  I falter to a stop.

  I’ve fallen into yet another big, grey room with huge windows, a long white table and white seats. Colourful prints hang in frames along the walls, the table is covered in little plates and glasses, and there are nine serious-looking people: most of whom are wearing dark suits and ties and smart dresses.

  And every single one of them is eating a sandwich.

  Or trying to, anyway.

  My explosion through the door seems to have interrupted that process somewhat.
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br />   “Umm …” I stutter as they pause mid-chew. “Sorry, is this not the modelling audition?”

  “It’s going to be,” the only man wearing denim says, putting a ham baguette down. “Right now it’s our late lunch.”

  I don’t believe this. Did I just run straight from one picnic to another, like some kind of crazed teddy bear?

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh.” The man eyes me coldly. “Do you usually come bursting into private meeting rooms without waiting to be invited?”

  “N-no.”

  “Good to hear. Well, feel free to burst out again. You can return at the allocated time, with the other, less horizontal models.”

  Then Denim Man stuffs the baguette in his mouth, rips a bite off and turns towards the lady sitting next to him.

  I clear my throat carefully.

  “What … time would that be?” I glance quickly at my watch. “More specifically?”

  “Do you have somewhere you’d prefer to be?”

  My cheeks were already hot enough to generate their own electricity, but it feels like they’re about to vibrate off my face. Some deep survival instinct is telling me to be extremely careful.

  Yes. “N-no.”

  His frown deepens. “OK, tell you what. As you’re obviously so keen to jump the queue and present yourself before everyone else, why don’t you just go right ahead.”

  “E-excuse me?”

  Denim Man glances at the rest of the group. They’ve put down their wraps and baguettes and are staring at me the way my class stared at the chimpanzee flinging poop around at the zoo on our biology field trip.

  Except with considerably less amusement.

  “You have three minutes, whoever you are. This is your big chance to wow us. Starting from –” he looks at his watch – “now.”

  he Guinness world record for consecutive push-ups in the precise time I’ve been allocated is four hundred and twenty. There’s something aggressive and army-like about this man’s tone that makes me wonder if I’m expected to drop to the floor and beat it.

  Instead, I put my satchel cautiously next to my feet in an attempt to stabilise me and/or anchor me to the ground.

  Then I take a deep breath.

  You can do this, Harriet. You’re an experienced model now. A paragon of knowledge, a shining example of professionalism and expertise.

  “Hello, everyone,” I say, inexplicably curtsying with my fingers holding out the bottom of my T-shirt. “I am Harriet, the fashion model.”

  Brilliant. Now I sound like one of those creepy dolls you can make say things by pulling a string at the back of their heads.

  “From which agency?”

  I stare blankly at the lady who just asked that. Which agency? I never actually thought to ask. “Ah … Baby Baby Panda and … Associates?”

  “Ridiculous name,” Denim Man snaps. “Book?”

  Quickly, I bend down and grab it out of my satchel, then plop it on the desk in front of them.

  They all lean over to look. “What is this?”

  “Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky,” I explain politely, even though it’s written right there on the cover. “It’s not as good as Notes From The Underground, but still perfectly captures the human condition at its most raw and vulnerable.”

  Denim Man sighs. “Are you trying to be cute?”

  Obviously I am. Isn’t that what’s expected at a modelling casting?

  “Your book,” the woman explains patiently. “Your modelling portfolio? With modelling photos? So we can see what modelling work you’ve done?”

  My cheeks flush even harder. Now I’m not in a distracted rush, I realise that Wilbur didn’t mean bring a translation of a Russian classic with you.

  I should at least have brought The Idiot.

  It would have been more appropriate.

  “My portfolio’s at home,” I confess after a pause. “Under my bed.” Thanks to my fiasco in Paris, it’s been collecting spiderwebs and dust bunnies for quite some time.

  “Right.” Denim Man leans back against his chair and folds his arms. “So why do you think you’re right for this particular job? What do you have to offer us that no other model has?”

  This feels like my first ever casting with Yuka Ito, over a year ago. Except I’m even less prepared and making even more of a fool of myself, and I didn’t even realise that was possible.

  Isn’t it supposed to work the other way round? Shouldn’t I be considerably better at this by now?

  Or at least a tiny bit improved?

  “Ah …” On the way here I had more than half an hour of sitting on a train, making animal shapes out of clouds. Why didn’t I check my emails? “You’re very good … uh. Fashion people. Your clothes are really …” What? “Sewn … neatly.”

  “This isn’t a fashion agency.” My audience looks at each other. “Do you even know where you are?”

  Another wave of shame washes over me.

  “N-not in detail.” Oh my God, at the very least I could have paused to look at the sign on the outside of the building. What is wrong with me?

  Please don’t anybody answer that.

  My phone beeps. “Umm,” I say, grabbing for it with a slippery hand and unsuccessfully trying to switch it to silent. “S-sorry.”

  It beeps again and I stab at it again. “Sorry.”

  A third time: ditto.

  Most British people will apologise more than two million times in their lives. I suspect I’m going to run out in the next ten seconds.

  In a final act of desperation, I wrap it in my scarf and throw it to the bottom of my bag.

  “And is this your best effort?” The casually dressed man has stood up with his arms still folded. “This is you, bringing your A game?”

  Step it up quickly, Harriet.

  “I’ve done lots of jobs,” I say quickly. “I was the face of Yuka Ito, I shot a big campaign for Baylee, I’ve been to Japan and Russia and Morocco … and …” Don’t mention Paris don’t mention Paris … “And I did a really cool magazine in New York last year.”

  “I knew I recognised you!” an American lady cries, throwing her hands up. “You were wearing a sack and covered in mud!”

  That is not the image I was trying to prompt.

  Mr Denim frowns. “You are familiar, but … there’s something I can’t quite place … about … the … hair …”

  He frowns at the top of my head and that’s when it hits me. Like a pile of heavy bricks, slowly tumbling down on top of my head. Clunk. Then another two: clunk clunk.

  Clunk, clunk, clunk.

  Clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk–

  Until it feels like there’s a whole wall of realisation lying on top of me and I have no idea how I’m ever going to get up again.

  The brightly coloured prints. The central Soho location. The vast reception. The dark formal suits, and one person inexplicably wearing casual clothes. The exposed grey brick walls.

  This isn’t … It can’t be …

  Statistically, there’s just no way that this could be …

  “Harriet Manners?” the man says, reaching the same realisation at exactly the same time. “As in, daughter of Richard?”

  And – with a final clunk – any remaining chance I had of getting this job flies straight out the window.

  ere’s an interesting fact about the duck-billed platypus: it doesn’t have a stomach.

  I know exactly how it feels.

  In case you’ve forgotten: fifteen months ago my life wasn’t the only one that changed for good. On the exact day that I was scouted for modelling, Dad was fired as Head Copywriter for a big London advertising agency for telling an important client to go and French Connection themselves in the middle of their reception.

  And that’s where I am now.

  Which means – judging by the denim – the angry man is almost definitely Dad’s old boss, Peter Trout: Creative Director and Head Honcho.

  Pufferfish look cuddly but their spines co
ntain tetrodotoxin: a poison so deadly it can kill you with a single prick.

  I didn’t know trout could too.

  “So,” Peter says, folding his arms. “You’re Harriet Manners. That explains a lot.”

  I blink. “Does it?”

  “Clearly being an uncontrollable maverick with no regard for rules, regulations or general codes of conduct runs in the family.”

  OK, that’s really quite rude.

  Also, I’m an extremely well-behaved, reliable and law-abiding citizen, so this man clearly doesn’t know me at all.

  “Actually, that’s not entirely—”

  “Oh!” the American lady exclaims again. “You were the girl who sat down on the catwalk in the middle of a fashion show in Russia last year! I saw that in the paper!”

  “And we heard about Yuka’s last model,” the woman next to her adds. “Didn’t you ruin a couture dress with octopus ink? It was the talk of fashion week last year.”

  “Don’t you tend to faint on camera?”

  I open my mouth to object against these horrible, unkind accusations, then realise they’re completely accurate and promptly shut it again.

  The whole group has started loudly whispering at each other. “She’s not the girl in the Paris …”

  “You got that email too?”

  “It’s hard to tell without the giant ears, obviously.”

  In the meantime, Peter Trout is regarding me with a vague air of satisfaction. I hate to admit it, but the evidence is rapidly mounting.

  It’s horrifying.

  I’d built an entire identity on being the second most sensible Manners after Annabel, but that clearly isn’t the case.

  I’m rapidly slipping to less savvy than my dog.

  “And now you show up to my agency,” he snaps, “all ‘don’t worry I’m here!’ as if your reputation precedes you. Well, missy: it clearly does. And not in a good way.”

  My cheeks are burning. “But—”

  “This industry doesn’t need any more special little snowflakes who think the rules don’t apply to them, young lady. As your father proved, we already have enough.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded.

  Every winter in the US alone, at least one septillion ice crystals fall from the sky. There are literally very few things on this planet less special than a snowflake.