For my sister, Tara.
In calm or stormy weather.
fit adjective
1 Appropriate or suiting
2 Proper
3 Qualified and competent
4 Prepared
5 In good physical condition
NOUN
1 Fashionable clothing
2 An onset or period of emotion
COLLOQUIAL SLANG
1 To be really, really good looking
ORIGIN from the Old English fitt: ‘conflict or struggle’.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
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.
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.
“Now point your elbow in the other direction for me.” The photographer crouches down, adjusts the camera shutter and then looks back up again. “Towards the camera.”
Sugar cookies.
“You know,” I say without moving, “enigmatic, mysterious, unfathomable. They’re tautological. Yuka could save a lot of room on the box by just picking one.”
“Just move your arm.”
“Umm, has she considered ‘baffling’? It’s from an old word used to describe a wind that buffeted sailors from all directions. It’s sort of appropriate for a perfume, don’t you think?”
Aiden pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Right. How about you show me the bottom of the shoe? We should try to get the contrasting sole in the shot.”
I clear my throat, mind starting to race. “Erm … but what about Saudi Arabia, China and Thailand? It’s considered culturally impolite to show the bottom of your feet there …” I look around the room in a blind panic. “We don’t want to risk alienating them, do we?” I sweep my arm out in a wide, persuasive gesture.
And something on my sleeve catches Aiden’s eye.
Oh no. No no no.
“What’s that?” he says, standing up and walking over to where I’m
now scrabbling to get off the floor but my feet are caught in the enormous tutu. The photographer grabs my arm and peels a tiny gold sticker from the inside of my jacket elbow. “What’s this?”
“Hmm?” I say, swallowing and straining to make my eyes as round as I physically can.
Aiden peers at the sticker. “F = M × A?” he reads slowly. Then he pulls three more from inside the lining of the jacket. “V = I × R? Ek = ½ × M × V2? W = M × G?”
Before I can move he grabs the shoe from my foot, turns it over and pulls a sticker from the heel. Then he pulls one from my inside elbow and four from the inside folds of the tutu netting.
He blinks at the stickers a couple of times while I stare at the floor and try to look as small as humanly possible. “Harriet,” he says in a slow and incredulous voice. “Harriet Manners, are you studying maths in the middle of my fashion shoot?”
I shake my head and look at the air behind the photographer’s left ear. You know the crocodile and the bird? I think one of us is about to get eaten.
“No,” I answer in my littlest voice. Because a) It’s physics, and b) I’ve been doing it all the way through.
K, so I may have stretched the truth a tiny bit.
Or – you know: a lot.
I haven’t changed. In fact, I’m even more of a geek than I used to be because:
the grey matter in my brain is still developing extra connections on a daily basis
I know even more facts than I did before
I’m just coming to the end of exams, which means my short-term cognitive abilities are on overdrive.
I’m also not graceful, elegant or stylish, but I guess you’ve already worked that out for yourself.
“Unbelievable,” Aiden mutters, clicking through the images as I slip behind a curtain at the back of the room to get changed into my school uniform.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Thomas,” I call out. “I honestly didn’t mean to disrespect you and the crocodi— erm, fashion industry. Did you get OK photos?”
“That’s not the point. Do you know how many other models wanted this job?”
Yes. Last time I was at Infinity Models, two of them locked me in a cupboard so I missed a really big casting. I had to wait until the cleaner came round to let me out again.
“I’m sorry, it’s just it’s my final GCSE today,” I try to explain as I tug off the massive tutu and smack an elbow painfully against the wall. “At 2pm, the British education system is going to decide whether I have any chance of ever becoming an award-winning physicist. My entire future is going to be shaped by today.”
I pull on my school jumper, which promptly gets caught in the gold wire still wrapped around my head. There’s silence while I hop in and out of the ‘changing room’ with my jumper over my face and my arms waving in the air like manic bunny ears.
“Hmm,” Aiden agrees still clicking through images. “You’re clearly a genius destined for a Nobel Prize.”
“GCSE physics is not about literal spatial awareness,” I puff, clutching blindly at my head and simultaneously smashing my knee against the wall. “It’s conceptual spatial awareness. Two very different things.”
Which is lucky, because the wire on my head now appears to be caught on everything in a two-metre radius. I have a detailed Get To School On Time Plan in my satchel, and nowhere at all does it say: Detach Myself From A Curtain Ring.
“It’s OK, Harriet,” I say, spinning helplessly in little circles. “You still have an hour and eleven minutes to get to school by train. Or an hour and sixteen minutes by taxi. You’ve got ages.”
“Erm … you know the clock on the back wall is slow. Right?”
I abruptly stop circling.
Oh my God. OH MY GOD. I knew there was a reason they made us study karma in religious education.
“No,” I squeak, ripping myself free from the wire at the cost of quite a few hairs, a scratch on my cheek, a curtain ring and half a school uniform. “How slow?”
“An hour,” Aiden says.
And – just like that – both my Get To School On Time Plan and entire life trajectory fly straight out the window.
his is so incredibly typical.
The one time my dad isn’t at the back of a photo shoot, trying to ‘liven things up a bit’ by stealing bits of mannequin and pretending he has three arms and four legs, is the one time I really need him here.
But Dad’s at a job interview and I now have less than fifty minutes to get to a destination over an hour away.
As the taxi driver points out cheerfully after I clamber into the back and beg him to hurry: “I can only go as fast as the traffic, Goldilocks. I’m part of it, ain’t I?”
Which I would probably look at as a kind of poignant universal truth if I wasn’t preoccupied by trying to make myself as light as possible, in the hope that the decreased weight would allow the car to accelerate faster.
And also with correcting his grammar.
There’s nothing else I can do. Thanks to the laws of physics – and irony – the factors dictating how fast I get to my exam apparently do not include a) crying, b) hyperventilating or c) repeating ‘sugar cookies’ until the taxi driver shuts the internal window and flicks the switch that stops him being able to hear me.
So I may as well use the remaining time constructively to update you on what’s been happening in the past six months.
Here’s a brief synopsis:
1. I’ve become even less popular. Geek + Model = a whole new set of graffiti on your belongings.
2. I’m trying to cry less about it. We each expel an average of 121 litres of tears in a lifetime, and I can’t afford to dry up before I even hit sixth form.
3. My dad is still out of work, and Annabel is still working as a lawyer. This is worth noting, because my stepmother is now seven months pregnant, and Dad is definitely not.
4. Apparently the average person eats a ton of food a year: the weight of a fully grown elephant. Annabel is doing her best to single-handedly challenge this statistic. She is huge.
5. My best friend, Nat, has turned sixteen, and I have not. This means that Nat can now legally play pinball in Georgia, USA after 11pm and fly a plane solo in the UK, and I cannot.
6. I have modelled twice for Baylee, gone on a few go-sees (when not spending time productively locked in a cleaning cupboard) and that’s it.
7. I’ve finally reached the painful conclusion that my hair is not strawberry blonde.
8. It’s ginger.
And that’s it. Everything else has stayed exactly the same.
My stalker, Toby, still orbits me like some kind of slightly snotty moon and my nemesis, Alexa, still inexplicably hates me.
My agent, Wilbur, still makes up words whenever he feels like it, and the fashion designer, Yuka Ito, is still totally terrifying.
My dog, Hugo, is still fond of sampling anything sticky he spots on the pavement and I still keep my textbooks lined up in alphabetical, chromatic and subject order.
Because that’s how real life is: people and situations and dogs don’t change that often, even when you have written very careful plans and tried to force them to.
And if I could leave my list there, I would. Because it’s a nice list, isn’t it? A lovely, positive list that looks forward to an entire summer with Nat, a brand-new graffiti-less satchel next term, and – quite soon – the legal ability to fly planes on my own whenever I feel like it.
But I can’t leave it there, because one more thing happened. And – for a little while, anyway – it made all the other points seem less important:
9. Lion Boy dumped me.
Reasons Not to Think About Nick
He told me not to.
on’t worry. It’s not as bad as it sounds.
I mean, in some ways it’s exactly as bad as it sounds. Four months after our first kiss, Nick told me we shouldn’t see each other any more and then he abruptly disappeared from my life. I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Not a text. Not a phone call or a
voicemail. Not an email. Not a tweet or a Facebook message. Not even a fax (even though I’m not sure who faxes these days, but the option is still sort of there, isn’t it?).
But it’s totally OK. You don’t spend nearly sixteen years reading novels about love and scanning poetry about love and listening to songs about love and watching films about love without coming away with a pretty good idea of how love stories go.
Everybody knows the dramatic ups and downs are what make the difference between a real love story – the kind that people make into films – and a boring one that nobody bothers writing or singing about.
Would Pride and Prejudice be popular if Darcy and Lizzy hooked up at the first ball?
Would Wuthering Heights be a classic if Cathy chose Heathcliff?
Would Romeo and Juliet be studied in school if they dated for a few years and then got married and moved to the suburbs of Mantua?
Exactly.
So even if your love story involves somebody dumping you and moving back to Australia, as Shakespeare said you just have to refuse to “admit impediments”, and then they’ll come back to you. Everybody knows that.
And, yes, it’s been more than two months so it’s taking Nick a little bit longer than it probably should, but he must be on his way.
All I have to do is wait.
In the meantime, I’m trying not to think about him. I don’t think about his coffee-coloured skin, or his big black lion curls, or his green smell, or his eyes that slant up at the corners. I don’t think about the tilt of his nose, or the wideness of his smile, or the way he used to rub his thumb across my knuckle when we were holding hands and tap the end of my nose after I sneezed (which was very unhygienic, but for some gross and deeply disturbing reason I liked it).
I don’t think about how he makes me feel like a lightning bug: as if part of me is full of fire, and the other part of me can fly.
I don’t think about how I’d be with him all the time, if I possibly could.
And I absolutely never think about the fact that I’m not really enjoying this bit of my love story, and that I’d have much preferred the boring kind where Nick stayed and everything carried on exactly as it was before.
Even if it broke all the rules of romance straight down the middle.