Head Over Heels

by Holly Smale

  “Please,” I say, pushing the buggy behind the reception desk. “Will you look after my sister for me? I’ll be two minutes.”

  Then I look at the other models.

  My confidence feels like a spinning top that’s slowing down: as if it’s wobbling, more and more unsteadily. This is not in the bag at all.

  Or if it is, I misplaced that bag some time ago.

  Also, there’s baby spit-up on Nat’s no-longer-smart coat.

  “Make that one minute,” I amend tiredly, rubbing as much as I can off with my sleeve. Then I wipe my sweaty hands on my leggings, tidy my hair and remove mascara smudge from under my eyes.

  And prepare to tackle Vogue head on.

  he thickest skull of all time is believed to have belonged to the pachycephalosaurus: a dinosaur with a domed head-bone ten inches thick, which was used to smash its targets into submission.

  I kind of wish mine was that solid right now.

  This is going to hurt.

  “Hello,” I say with the door swinging shut behind me. “My name is Harriet Manners, and I’m from Peak Models. Here are a few reasons why I am the right person for your magazine.”

  Sure enough, the mewling outside has already started: just as I suspected it might.

  Audition like the wind, Harriet.

  “Vogue was first published in 1892 but didn’t become a fashion magazine until 1909 when Toto Koopman was the first ever cover girl and she later became a spy during the war.”

  There’s another, slightly louder, mewl.

  Faster, Harriet.

  And maybe cut some of the fascinating historical background.

  “IbelieveIamversatileandflexible, capableofadapting to anykindofscenariowitheaseandskill …”

  The mewl gets even louder. “ihaveexperienceworking forsomeofthebiggestnamesinfashiontodayandhavealready featuredinanadvertinyourmagazinelessthanayearago …”

  But it’s no good: the mewl is now a shriek.

  At a volume of over 105 decibels and the right pitch, a human voice can literally shatter glass. Being left in Vogue reception was not part of the deal with my sister, and as punishment Tabitha is going to destroy the whole building and everybody in it.

  I can feel my cheeks getting hot.

  This was by far the most important casting of the day, and it’s slipping between my sweaty fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell the three silent people sitting in front of me. They haven’t moved a muscle since I started. “Please. I just need a few seconds.”

  Then I dart back into reception.

  Sure enough: Tabitha is purple with rage, her tonsils are visible from ten feet away and she’s waving her fists around like a tiny, furious boxer.

  “For God’s sake, take her.” The receptionist thrusts my exploding sister at me. “I’m not insured for this. She’s going to burst something.”

  Tabitha looks at me with pure sadness, and my stomach spins over with shame. I made a promise to my little sister, and I broke it. It’s a good thing memories don’t start until children are three years old or I think I’d have a lot of relationship fixing to do.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, bobbing her up and down gently. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere without you again, I promise.”

  Slowly, she quietens down.

  Then, giving her another little kiss as she nuzzles soggily into my neck, I hold my sister on my hip and step back into the casting room. “Anyway, as I was saying …”

  The woman with the sharp blonde bob abruptly holds her hand up. “Stop.”

  I flinch.

  And here it comes.

  They’re going to tell me they had a lovely time and they’ll call me and I’ll never hear from Vogue again.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Definitely,” the man says, nodding and looking at the other woman. “You?”

  “I certainly am. Is there time?”

  “We can find it. I’m feeling quite inspired, actually. This is going to be fabulous.”

  All three turn back to me.

  I hope they don’t ask what I’m thinking because frankly they lost me at stop.

  “Harriet, how do you feel about shooting an eight-page fashion spread for us next Thursday?”

  I’m so shocked I nearly drop Tabitha. I got it? I finally got a job? I’m going to shoot for Vogue?

  Toby was right: the information about Toto Koopman was data gold.

  “Oh, yes, please,” I blurt out gratefully. “Thank you. I promise I won’t let you down, I’ll be on time, I’ll work super hard and—”

  The hand goes up.

  “We have just one condition. The baby models with you.”

  o, here are some statistically unlikely events:

  How do I put this?

  They’re all more likely than Annabel allowing her eight-month-old daughter to start working as a fashion model.

  It’s been fifteen months and even I’m not technically allowed to take a job without a chaperone (even though I have, obviously).

  Also, next Thursday is a school day: I have double chemistry, biology and maths.

  Although – let’s be brutally honest – skipping education to model is not exactly unheard of for me: not skipping it would probably be more so. For a geek, I miss a surprising amount of lessons.

  But I need this job.

  “I …” My brain is turning frantically in circles like Hugo when he’s chasing his own tail. “Could you perhaps use a similar baby that is not this particular baby?”

  “I’m afraid not,” the woman says. “You look identical. That’s kind of the point.”

  Bat poop.

  There’s no way this is going to happen. Tabitha is too young to say yes for herself, and Annabel will say no and then ground me for even asking.

  Unless …

  Statistically there are seven people in the world who look exactly like each of us. I’m just about to suggest we look for one of Tabitha’s when I realise that the solution is also the problem.

  My seven are currently sitting outside.

  Ready to take the job the moment I turn it down, with great enthusiasm and gratitude.

  Especially the doppelganger.

  And I have a nasty feeling that if she replaces me just one more time, my modelling career is over for good.

  Brain still spinning, I glance down.

  Tabitha looks so happy: babbling and pointing at colourful Vogue covers on the wall. It’s not stretching the imagination very far to assume that this is what she wants.

  I just can’t believe that after a solid week of trying to become the Perfect Model, my Unique Selling Point isn’t actually me.

  I should have made a folder for Irony.

  “Yes,” I decide before I can change my mind. “OK, deal. We’ll both take the job.”

  “Fabulous,” the man grins, holding out a piece of paper. “Talk it over with your boyfriend and we’ll email your agent with the rest of the details.”

  “My b-boyfriend?”

  “Sorry, husband? Partner? Significant other?”

  I stare at the three of them blankly, my heart starting to squeeze. I can hear a slight rattling in my head. “I-I don’t have a boyfriend. We b-broke up a long time ago. Do I need one?”

  Maybe it’s some weird fashion criteria: must not be single or people will be able to tell in the photos.

  “Oh God,” the blonde woman says quickly. “That was incredibly insensitive, I’m so sorry. He meant the father of the little one, but just your signature will be perfectly fine.”

  I blink at them.

  After Einstein died, his brain was pickled, sliced into 240 cubes and left in a box labelled “Costa Cider” for twenty years. I’m guessing he was still sharper than me right now.

  Do they think Tabitha is my daughter?

  I don’t want to be rude about Annabel, but exactly how old and tired do I look?

  “Oh my goodness, no,” I laugh quickly, shaking my head. “This is
n’t …”

  But then what? I clarify that Tabitha’s actually my sister and they’ll need a signature from our parents instead – which incidentally they’ll never, ever get – and I’m back to square one.

  “This isn’t …?” the lady prompts in alarm. “Oh my gosh. You’re so young, but we just assumed that …”

  Backtrack, Harriet.

  “What I mean …” I say slowly and carefully, “is that the father of this child is … in … Manchester.”

  That’s not a lie.

  It’s a strategically positioned truth and I can’t get in trouble for it.

  “Well,” the man says, holding out a piece of paper, “in that case just your signature on this release form, please.”

  OK: this I can get in trouble for.

  I stare at the legally binding paper, brain flopping one way and then the other.

  Sign it or don’t sign it.

  Save Wilbur or don’t save Wilbur.

  Be a good friend or a rubbish one.

  “Great,” I say, grabbing it and urgently scrawling my name in the box at the bottom. “We’re very excited about this, uh, family opportunity.”

  Then I wave goodbye with Tabitha’s hand and scoot out of the room before I can do or say or sign anything else.

  The Kola Superdeep Borehole in Russia is the deepest artificial point in the world, drilled 12,262 metres towards the earth’s core.

  I think I just dug myself a new record.

  All I have to do is pretend Tabitha is my fake daughter, skip school, kidnap my sister, illegally shove her into the workforce for profit, wait for a forged document to surface and lie to my parents for the millionth time.

  So I’m going to have to get a move on.

  Because Annabel’s going to find out.

  Now it’s just a question of when.

  n the upside, at least I get to do this:

  “Wilbur, I got it!”

  Then there’s a silence long enough to hear somebody order pizza and a side salad in the background. Smiling, I tuck Tabby into her buggy, snuggle the little blue imposter horse next to her and watch her fall fast asleep.

  It’s been quite a momentous day for both of us.

  “Hello?” I say after forty or fifty seconds and two slices of background cheesecake ordering. “Wilbur? Are you there?”

  “Got what?” he finally says. “Alien Hand Syndrome? Because I was just reading about that, baby-can-of-tomato-paste, and I’m terrified. Your hand just does things without you knowing about it. What if I accidentally put on last season’s shoes? Utterly horrificating.”

  What on earth is he talking about?

  Then I realise: this is Wilbur’s version of ‘breezy and casual’.

  Oh bless him.

  “I got the job with Vogue,” I grin as somebody near him orders a bowl of olives. “And guess what? They want Tabitha too, so she’ll have to sign up with you as well! That’s double the money!”

  Then I cough. Gah.

  I really need to start working on my subtlety: I have the tact and delicacy of a red-bottomed baboon.

  “Money for me,” I clarify quickly. “The Encyclopaedia of Life Sciences features more than 4,300 commissioned articles and is very expensive and rare and I want it badly.”

  There’s another silence.

  Then – just as I’m convinced I’ve given myself away – Wilbur explodes into a firework display of words I’ve never heard before and will be extremely surprised to ever hear again.

  “Whoopdicracking figure-skating wombats!” he yells. “Bingolacious dolphins! Sugarific cherry coconut brownies!” He inhales loudly. “Bless my disco bats, I knew you could do it, baby baby tiger. There was no doubt in my mind.”

  Studies have found that a single smile generates the same amount of happiness as 2,000 bars of chocolate.

  I’d love to find out how much Wilbur produces.

  “I know there wasn’t,” I beam fondly.

  Which is – I realise as I say goodbye and put the phone down – exactly why I don’t feel bad, even though I’m doing something wrong.

  And why there’s now no doubt in mine either.

  There’s just a few people left to tell:

  We got VOGUE! GO TEAM JINTH! :) Hxx

  Within seconds, the messages start flooding in:

  No. Freaking. WAY. I told you! So proud of you. Nat xxx

  This is excellent news. Did you remember to tell them that 42% of VOGUE ONLINE readers are male? Toby Pilgrim

  And that the first celebrity ever on the cover was Madonna? Toby Pilgrim

  And 50% of the whole thing is advertising? Toby Pilgrim

  IN. THE. BAG. ;) J

  I beam again, then wait for the rest as I push the buggy back to the station.

  I catch the train home.

  I wait a bit more.

  I tidy Tabitha’s blankets up and make sure she’s warm and that all her empty milk bottles are straight at the bottom of the buggy. I check the train timetable even though I’m already on the train.

  Then I wait a little bit longer.

  Finally – forty-five minutes later, when I’m pretty much all the way home – my phone beeps.

  Awesome. India

  And maybe I’m wrong.

  But something’s telling me we might need to start looking for a new vowel in JINTH after all.

  spend the rest of Saturday evening and Sunday morning preparing for my visitor and trying to coach my sister on the pitfalls of modelling. Tabby’s been animated and glowing ever since we returned from London, and her total lack of poker-face has not gone unnoticed.

  “I don’t know what you two did together yesterday, darling,” Bunty says warmly as I walk into the kitchen, “but Squirrel has been beaming like the moon all morning.”

  My sister squeaks and waves at me conspiratorially from her highchair. If we’re going to start lying to our family regularly together, she’s really going to have to work on her facial expressions.

  She has no idea how to play it cool.

  “Oh really?” I say vaguely, giving Tabby a firm chill out look. “Science has shown that children with siblings four or more years older tend to be much smarter and have fewer allergies compared to those without. I think maybe she’s just happy to spend more time around me.”

  “I don’t doubt it, darling,” Bunty smiles.

  Then I start rooting energetically through the cupboards. “Do you know if we happen to have any Steak and Ale Pie lying around? Or maybe some Haggis?”

  “Haggis?” Annabel enters the kitchen with Dad two inches behind her. “Harriet, why on earth do you want minced sheep’s organs at 9am on a Sunday morning?”

  OK: eww. I thought it was some kind of Scottish dessert. “Fish and Chips? Toad in the Hole? Bubble and Squeak?”

  “I have a sausage roll,” Dad offers, pulling a greasy paper bag out of his pocket. “And some Haribo eggs.” Four emerge, stuck together. “And a liquorice lace. Maybe a few cheese crisps.”

  We all stare at him.

  “What?” he says defensively. “It was a long train journey from Manchester and I got hungry.”

  Apparently the nematode worm has a brain shaped like a doughnut.

  Sometimes I wonder if my dad does too.

  “Still doesn’t explain why they’re in your dressing-gown pocket, Richard.” Then Annabel bends down and gives Bunty a gentle kiss. “Good morning, Mum.”

  Annabel’s eyes are puffy and her face is kind of splotchy. Honestly, she looks more exhausted than she did yesterday.

  They should ask that spa for their money back.

  “Good morning, my angel.” Bunty smiles again and points at the wall. “Look, Bells. A rainbow. Do you know what that means?”

  Annabel turns to the kitchen sink.

  “Refraction,” I answer for her, pulling out a tin of mushy peas. “It means white light is passing through that crystal and separating it into different wavelengths that we perceive as colours.”

  Then I
pile a tin of mushy peas, some Cadbury chocolate, a packet of Jaffa Cakes and three packs of Walkers Crisps into a basket and glance at my watch.

  Yup: I’ve timed it perfectly.

  “Harriet?” Annabel says, turning round as I grab the basket, my satchel and three full carrier bags and start hefting them towards the door. “Where are you going now?”

  I pause in disbelief.

  “I literally told you,” I say in frustration, plonking my bags back down. “Four times. Not including that.”

  I point at a laminated sheet, stuck to the wall:

  Underneath this message is a colour-coordinated chart for the whole family. I’ve highlighted it in bright yellow pen and stuck a note next to it that says

  with hot pink arrows.

  I’m not sure what else I could have done.

  “I remembered,” Dad says smoothly, putting his arm around my stepmother as she blinks at the message. “And I’ve bought a spare air bed. You just get back to turning the hot tap off, sweetheart, before you drown us.”

  Water’s beginning to spray all over the kitchen.

  On second thoughts, maybe I don’t need to worry. It feels like I could turn Tabitha into a purple Chihuahua at the moment and Annabel wouldn’t notice.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say gratefully, kissing his cheek. Then I add in a whisper: “You might want to look into changing Annabel’s antihistamine meds.”

  Dad smiles. “It’s on the list.”

  And – for the second time this week – I pick my bags up and start heading back into London.

  sychologists recently made a discovery.

  After a lot of research, they found that the visual perception of a geographical slant is influenced by both physiological resources, like age and fitness, as well as psychological assets, like social support and camaraderie.

  In fact, their studies showed that even the thought of not being alone decreases a potential gradient and makes it feel like less of a physical challenge.

  You know what that means?

  Scientifically, a hill feels a lot less steep when climbed with a friend.

  I could have told them that for free.