Model Misfit

Chapter 67 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 68 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 69 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 70 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 71 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 72 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 73 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 74 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 75 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 76 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 77 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 78 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 79 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 80 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 81 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 82 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 83 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 84 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 85 (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

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y name is Harriet Manners, and I am a model.

I know I’m a model because:

1. It’s Monday morning, and I’m wearing a gold tutu, a gold jacket, gold ballet pumps and gold earrings. My face is painted gold, and a long piece of gold wire has been wrapped around my head. This is not how I normally dress on Mondays.

2. I have a bodyguard. The earrings cost so much I’m not allowed to go to the toilet without a large man checking my earlobes afterwards to make sure I haven’t accidentally flushed them.

3. I haven’t been allowed to smile for two hours.

4. Every time I take a bite of doughnut to keep my strength up everybody breathes in sharply as if I’ve just bent down and given the floor a quick lick.

5. There’s a large camera pointing at my face, and the man behind it keeps saying, “Oi, model,” and clicking his fingers at me.

There are other clues – I’m pouting slightly, and making tiny movements every couple of seconds like a robot – but they’re not necessarily conclusive. That’s exactly how my father dances when a car advert comes on TV.

Anyway, the final reason I know I’m a model is:

6. I have become a creature of grace, elegance and style.

In fact, you could say I’ve really grown up since you last saw me.

Developed. Blossomed.

Not literally. I’m exactly the same size and shape as I was six months ago, and six months before that. As far as womanly curves go, much like the netball captain at school, puberty is making no bones about picking me last.

No, I’m talking metaphorically. I simply woke up one day, and BAM: fashion and I were at one with each other. Working together, helping each other. Just like the crocodile and the little Egyptian plover bird that climbs into its mouth to pick bits of meat out of its teeth. Except obviously in a much more glamorous and less unhygienic way.

And I’m going to be totally honest with you: it’s changed me. The geek is gone, and in her place is somebody glamorous. Popular. Cool.

A brand-new Harriet Manners.

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nyway. The really great thing about being totally synergised with the fashion world is that it makes shoots very smooth and focused.

“Right,” Aiden the photographer says, “what are we thinking, model?”

(You see what I mean? What are we thinking: fashion and I are basically sharing a brain.)

“We’re thinking mysterious,” I tell him. “We’re thinking enigmatic. We’re thinking unfathomable.”

“And why are we thinking that?”

“Because it says so on the side of the perfume box.”

“Exactly. I’m thinking Garbo and Grable, Hepburn and Hayworth, Bacall and Bardot, but it might be best if you think reality TV show contestant and do the opposite.”

“Got it,” I say, shifting slightly in my position on the floor and moving my foot so that the sole is pointing towards me. Then I lean towards it gracefully. Mysterious. I grab the corner of my jacket and lift it slightly, like a butterfly wing, angling my face downwards. Enigmatic. Finally, I arch my back and poke out an arm so I’m staring at the crease of my inner elbow. Unfathomable.

“Got it.” Aiden looks up from the camera. “Model, Yuka Ito was right. These are some very strange shapes you’re pulling, but it works. Very edgy. Very high fashion.”

What did I tell you? Me and fashion: I walk in and out of its mouth and it doesn’t even try to eat me any more.