Geek Girl books 1-3: Geek Girl, Model Misfit and Picture Perfect

And she gently nudges me back into the world of fashion.

It is now manic.

The earlier commotion was obviously just the buzz before the mania: the whole room has exploded into a mess of lights and noise and panic. I can hear the music pumping from the stage and I don’t think the girls have time to be nasty any more: they’re whizzing in and out of clothes and being shouted at by people wearing headsets as if they’re working in call centres.

“Next!” an angry man shouts. “Come on! We don’t have time for a lipgloss touch-up! Get on the stage!”

There’s a small queue of models forming this side of the curtains and I’m totally mesmerised. They’re all twice my height, and willowy, and curvy in the right places, with the most amazing faces. Every single one of them looks like a different example of beauty, from a different imagination. And now they look like a collection of amazing birds, or butterflies, covered in greens and blues and reds and sparkles and feathers. It’s less fashion, I think, and more… plumage.

It’s like that butterfly farm I go to every summer with Annabel: the room is covered in colours. I feel a sudden pang of envy. I’m the little brown moth, going round and round the light bulb. Then I look at the mirror next to the stage. My eyes have been painted dark black, and my hair’s been fluffed up and pinned at the back. My cheeks are pink and flushed and the light is reflecting off the top of my head, and off my shoes, and off the straps over my back. The gold dress sort of shoots straight down because there’s nothing to stop it – but… it still looks pretty. Sparkly.

I’m not a moth, I realise with a lurch. I’m not one of them exactly, but maybe I’m still a butterfly. One of those little white ones that doesn’t live very long, but is happy just to get the chance to be there for a little while.

“Harriet?” the man with the headset on shouts. “Where’s Harriet?”

“I’m here,” I say as clearly as I can and realise my hands are damp. Dad’s somewhere out in the audience: Yuka reluctantly gave him a seat near the back. I have to make him proud. I have to. I have to make Annabel proud too, even though she isn’t here and doesn’t know about it.

“Get ready,” the man says. “You’re nearly up.”

I stand against the curtains and notice that there are three girls in front of me. Rose, Shola and a girl I haven’t spoken to – or been shouted at – before with a set of earphones in. A very, very beautiful girl with pale brown hair in curls.

“I’m Harriet Manners,” I say automatically, holding out my hand and trying to stop it shaking.

She takes her headphones out. “Hmm?” she says. “Sorry. I listen to music to help calm my nerves before a show.”

“I’m Harriet Manners,” I say again. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are,” she says, nodding and giving me a wry smile. “I’m Fleur. I’m not the face of anything.” And she gives me an almost imperceptible wink.

“This is the Closer,” Shola says, nodding at me. Fleur shrugs and puts her headphones back in again, and Shola smiles sweetly. “So they told you about the change of plans, right?”

“What change of plans?”

“They didn’t tell you? Oh, that’s just so like them. They told us while you were out the back, doing your little walking practice.” She looks at Rose. “So cute,” she adds, smirking.

“What’s changed?” I can feel myself starting to tense up again. I’ve learnt everything by heart; I’m not sure I can just alter details at this late stage. This never happens in exams at school. It’s why we have revision guides.

“Well, this is Moscow,” she explains as if I’m not aware of this already. “And we drive on the right here. So although Yuka’s not Russian, she’s decided last minute that models have to go right on the runway. Not left as they normally would. To make things more… realistic.”

“Huh?” I frown.

“I can’t believe they didn’t tell you. That was a close call.” Shola makes a face of massive relief. “Could have screwed everything up.”

I take a deep, confused breath. Honestly, I don’t know whether to believe her or not. Is she telling me that so I make a mistake, or is she genuinely telling me so that I don’t make a mistake?

Shola looks at me with massive, heavily made-up almond eyes. “We’re on the same side,” she says innocently. “Us models. We have to stick together. The better you look, the better I look, right?”

I look at her for a few quiet seconds, my mind twirling like a ballerina in a music box. “OK,” I finally whisper. “Thank you.” Rose has gone on stage now and it’s nearly my time. My legs are starting to wobble and I can feel my feet shaking.

“My pleasure.” And then Shola frowns. “What are you doing?”

“Blowing a raspberry,” I explain, doing a funky chicken so subtle I’m not sure she can see it. “Sorry. I’m just trying to relax.”

“Oh. Whatever,” Shola says, turning her back on me and rolling her eyes when she thinks I can’t see, and then she walks up the stage steps.

This is it.

I’m so terrified that when I try to lick my lips, my tongue doesn’t come out. Somewhere on the other side of the curtains is a huge audience, and in that audience is Dad, waiting for me to be amazing. It’s time to prove to him that I can be.

And maybe prove it to myself while I’m at it.

“You’re up,” the man with the headset says. “Good luck, Harriet.”

And I climb up the stairs into the bright lights.

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or a few seconds, I can’t move.

The theatre looks nothing like it did when I walked in. The lights are so bright I can hardly see anything, but there’s just enough visibility to ascertain that every single chair in the building is filled. Even the carved golden boxes near the ceiling have people in them, and if there were still tsars in Russia, I’d imagine that’s where they’d be sitting.

I glance in terror to the right, where I can vaguely see Yuka sitting in the centre of the front row, her face like a mask. And, somewhere at the back, I think I can see Dad holding both thumbs up in the air.

I stand there, paralysed, for a few seconds. Then I take a deep breath and I start walking.

Apparently I’ve been walking since I was nine months old and hanging on to the bottom of Dad’s jumper, but it has never felt like this before. It’s never felt so difficult, or so surreal. It feels less like I’m moving forward and more like it’s the floor moving backward and I’m just trying to keep up. Like… ice skating. Or walking down the aisle of a moving coach.

And as we know, I’m not so good at that.

I keep my face totally blank and try to focus on the music. All I have to think about is just one foot in front of the other. Looking as bored as I possibly can.

Somewhere near the bottom of the stage, I see Fleur, pausing and looking to the right and the left, just as I’ve been told to. Now that she’s at a distance I can appreciate what she’s wearing: emerald green, covered in little bits of floaty green material like a mermaid. And the biggest silver heels I’ve ever seen in my life. Bigger even than the red ones I had to wear in Red Square. She hasn’t even been given a wheelchair.

Now that’s what I call a model.

Fleur gives a little dignified toss of her head and starts walking back up the centre of the stage towards me, at which point something in my chest abruptly lurches in a panic.

If I believe Shola, I go right. If I don’t believe Shola, I go left. So right or left?

Left or right?

I can trust Shola. I have to believe that human beings are essentially good. That girls don’t destroy each other just because they can. I start veering towards the right. Then Alexa’s face pops into my head. Alexa would send me in the wrong direction. She would want a collision. What if Shola is another Alexa?

So I start moving towards the left. But if I start to believe that everyone is like Alexa, doesn’t it mean she’s won? If I start to lose faith in humanity, isn’t that worse than a million hands in the air? I can’t let that happen.

I start veering towards the right again.

We’re getting closer and closer and I can see a look of sheer panic starting to appear on Fleur’s face.