Head Over Heels

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 verygood … 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 Irecognised you!” an American lady cries, throwing her hands up. “You were wearing a sack and covered in mud!”

That isnot 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.

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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 contain 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 …”