Head Over Heels

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

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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.

“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 extremelycareful.

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.”

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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 modellingphotos? 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.