Lie No.1
Nat, I have a bad cold. Really do this time. Not coming to school today or tomorrow probably. Hope you’re OK. See you Wednesday xx
Lies No.s 2 and 3
Annabel: “Why are you wearing your Winnie the Pooh jumper, Harriet?”
Me: “…It’s non-uniform day.”
Annabel (long silence): “And why haven’t you gone to work already, Richard?”
Dad: “It’s non-uniform… Hang on. No. Late start today. Going in later. Look: I bought some strawberry jam.”
Annabel: “Why? I hate strawberry jam.”
Lie No.4
Me: “Annabel, do you know where my passport is?”
Annabel: “Why on earth would you want your passport at 8am on a Monday morning?”
Me: “…International school project?”
Annabel: “Why does that sound like a question? Are you asking me or telling me?”
Lie No.5
Toby, have gone to Amsterdam for a shoot. H
By the time Annabel’s frowned at both of us, checked me for a temperature and gone to work, Dad and I are running late for the airport so packing consists of throwing everything I own into a little suitcase, bouncing on top of it to get it to shut and contemplating just trimming round the edges as if it’s some kind of pie.
I’ve decided if I’m doing this, I have to do it properly, so I’ve made a bubble chart plan on the computer and given a copy to Dad. My lies are pink bubbles, Dad’s lies are blue bubbles and the lies we have to share are – obviously – purple.
In synopsis: Nat thinks I’m at home, sick, Annabel thinks I’m at Nat’s tonight for a sleepover, followed by school, and Annabel also thinks that Dad’s flown to Edinburgh for a late emergency client meeting that will run over until tomorrow evening.
“I can’t believe you made a bubble chart,” Dad keeps saying in disbelief as we finally climb into our plane seats.
“It’s the most suitable kind of chart for this kind of plan,” I tell him indignantly. “I made a flow chart and a pie chart, but they didn’t work nearly as well. This one is a lot more sensible.”
Dad looks at me in silence. “That’s not what I meant,” he says eventually.
“I made a timeline graph too,” I tell him as we buckle our seatbelts. “The lies are spread across it on an hourly basis. But if I show it to you, you might get confused. I think it’s best if I simply alert you when you’re supposed to be saying something that isn’t true.”
Dad stares at the bubble chart again. “Harriet, are you sure you’re my kid? I mean, you’re sure that Annabel didn’t bring you with her and swap you in?”
I scowl at him and then wince in pain because the universe has apparently decided to wreak vengeance upon me by making my metaphorical devil horns literal. By the time the air hostesses start pointing to the exits, my entire forehead is hot and throbbing; by the time they bring round the free peanuts, I can’t really frown without it hurting, and by the time we start the descent into Moscow, Dad’s calling my brand-new and massive zit “Bob” and talking to it like a separate entity.
“Would Bob like a drink of orange juice?” he asks every time a flight attendant walks past. “Perhaps a piece of cracker?”
It takes every single bit of patience I have not to ask the pilot if we can just turn round and drop my father back in England because he is not behaving. None of this, however, is enough to crush my excitement.
I’m going to Russia.
Land of revolutions and preserved leaders with lightbulbs stuck in the back of their heads. Land of the Kremlin and the Catherine Palace and the lost Amber Room, which was covered in gold and somehow ‘went missing’ during World War Two. Land of big fur hats and little dolls that fit inside each other.
And if I have to model while I’m there, so be it.
“This is it,” Dad says as the plane comes down. He nudges me with his elbow and grins. “Do you know how many teenagers would kill for this, sweetheart?”
I look out of the window. There’s a flurry of soft white snow and everything is covered in white powder, like a postcard. Russia looks exactly as I imagined it would. And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot. It’s on my Top Ten List of Countries to Visit. Number Three, actually. After Japan and Myanmar.
I swallow hard. Things are starting to change already. From this point on, everything is going to be different.
“You’re living the dream,” Dad smiles at me, looking back out of the window.
“Yes,” I say, smiling back at him. “I think I just might be.”
he really great thing about Moscow airport is that it’s so Russian.
The signs are in Russian. The books are in Russian. The brochures are in Russian. The shops are in Russian. All the things in the shops are Russian. All the people are Russian. OK, maybe all the people aren’t Russian – most of them are getting off planes from the UK and America, and if I’m totally honest, everything is also in English – but everyone looks sort of… different. Exotic. Historical. Revolutionary.
Even Dad looks more sophisticated, and he’s still wearing that nasty T-shirt with the robot on the front of it. None of which seems to have made any impression on Wilbur.
“Oh, my Billy Ray Cyrus,” he sighs when we finally find him. He’s sitting on top of a pink suitcase, wearing a silk shirt covered in little pictures of ponies, and the second he gets close to me he puts his hands over his eyes as if I’m about to poke them out with my zit. “Where did that come from? What have you been eating?”
“Chocolate-chip cereal bars,” Dad informs him helpfully. “She had three for breakfast.”
“You look like a baby unicorn, Twinkletoes. Could you not have held off for another twenty-four hours before you started sprouting horns?”
I scowl in humiliation, wince, and try to push the spot back in again. “It’s only one,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Horn, singular.”
“Stop trying to climb the mountain with your fingers, Cookie-crumble,” Wilbur sighs, gently smacking my hand away. “Unless you’re planning on sticking a flag on top for posterity.”
Dad laughs so I thump his arm. Adults really need to learn to be more sensitive about teenage skin problems. They can be devastating to mental health, and to confidence, and also – I’d imagine – to modelling careers. “It’ll cover up with make-up, though, right?” I ask nervously.
“Treacle-nose, putting make-up on that is like sprinkling sugar on the top of Mount Fuji. Thank God for computers, that’s all I’m saying.” Then Wilbur takes a step back and surveys my outfit. “Luckily,” he exclaims, “we’ve saved the day with another moment of sheer fashion brilliance. Turn around, my little Rhino.”
I squint at him and then look down. “My Winnie the Pooh jumper?” I say in disbelief. “And my school skirt?”
It was all I had that still fitted and wasn’t a) in the wash, covered in sick, b) a football kit c) a suit or d) designed with an insect as a template.
“Winnie the Pooh Jumper and School Skirt,” Wilbur says, looking at the sky in wonder and slapping himself on the forehead. “You are truly an original, my little Jellyfish. Anyhoo, while I could stand here all day and talk about dermatological disasters and your sense of style, sadly I’m being paid to make sure I don’t.”
And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.
“But where are we going first?” I say as Dad and I trot along behind him. I’m so excited now that little insects feel like they’re rocketing around my stomach, the way they rocketed around the jam-jar trap we made at primary school. “The Gulag History Museum? The Tretyakov Gallery? The Novodevichy Convent? The Worker and Kolkhoz Woman is in Moscow, you know. It moved from Paris.”
Not that I’ve spent the entire journey reading a guidebook about Moscow or anything. Or – you know – three. And studying a map.
“Oh, good Lord. They sell lots of vodka here, right?” Dad asks. “I think I m
ight need one.”
“My little Ginger-cakes,” Wilbur says, turning to look at us with his hand on his hip. “We’re not sightseeing or drinking vodka. This isn’t a romantic weekend for three, although – ” and he looks at Dad – “Mr Panda Senior over here is definitely a cutey.”
Dad looks momentarily stunned, and then grins and winks at me. “I keep telling Annabel I am, but she never believes me.”
“So where are we going?” I repeat impatiently. I’m going to throttle Dad before this trip is over.
“We’re going straight to set, Sponge-finger,” Wilbur says in a businesslike voice, “and we don’t even have time to drop your bags off at the hotel first. However, we do have to find the other model before we go anywhere.”
I stare at Wilbur in shock. He’s started walking towards the taxi rank and is waving his hands around as if his feet are on fire. “Wooohooo?” he adds at the top of his voice. “Avez-vous a spare taxi, anyone? Silver plate?”
I continue looking at his back, slightly distracted by the fact that he seems to think we’re in France. “Other model? What other model?”
Another model is not on the bubble chart.
“It’s a paired shoot, Puppy-toe,” Wilbur explains, looking at his watch. “I’m certain I explained it all to you, although that could have been a dream. And not one of my most interesting ones either.” He looks at his watch again and sighs. “But he’s predictably late, as usual.”
My stomach falls into my knees. “He?” I finally stammer.
“That’s the personal pronoun we use when the subject is male, Petal. And, if I remember correctly, you’ve met this one before. You were talking about doves, or was it pigeons? Some sort of bird anyway.”
My stomach drops all the way to the floor. And then my heart and my lungs and my kidneys and my liver all follow it until they’re lying in a smashed-up pile at my feet.
There is no way this is happening.
“Finally,” Wilbur says, turning round and waving. Because there – leaning against a lamp-post in the snow, wearing a big army jacket and looking impossibly beautiful – is Nick.
Again.
hat were the chances?
I’ll tell you what the chances were. Approximately 673 to one. And that’s if Yuka Ito was only casting male models who were based in London. If you count the rest of the globe – which is equally full of beautiful people – then the statistics get even more improbable. Thousands to one. Thousands and thousands to one little tiny one.
And how have I worked this out so quickly? That’s not important. But if, say, I happened to stumble upon all the main modelling agency websites while I was bored last night, and I happened to count up all the male models, and I happened to calculate the chances of seeing Nick again soon, then that would be my prognosis. If I had.
As I said, it’s not important.
Approximately 673 to 1 and yet here he is, climbing into a taxi next to me. And my dad. Which is mind-boggling because I sort of assumed that if my planet and Nick’s planet weren’t supposed to collide then his planet and my dad’s planet were probably on different orbits, in different solar systems, in totally different universes.
Dad takes one look at Nick, sitting on the backseat next to me with his hair covered in snowflakes, and coughs. “I think I’m starting to understand why you were so keen to be a model, Harriet,” he says in the most unsubtle voice I’ve ever heard. I kick him on the ankle.
“What?!” Dad pretends to look innocent and offended. “I’m just saying, from a fifteen-year-old girl’s perspective, things are making a lot more sense all of a sudden.” And then he grins at me.
It’s not possible to be this embarrassed. If I open the taxi door while it’s moving and physically push my dad out, will I get arrested for murder? It might be worth it.
“Dad,” I whimper and stare out of the window as hard as I can. Moscow is zooming past – all snow and big buildings – but I can barely focus on it. Not only is Nick here when he’s not supposed to be, he’s even more handsome than last time I saw him. He gets better looking every day, as if he’s taking some kind of magic beautifying potion made from the tongue of a unicorn and the hair of a dragon or something.
Perhaps I should ask if he has any spare.
“You met under the table at The Clothes Show, do you remember?” Wilbur says innocently, waving his hand between us.
Dad’s all-knowing expression has deepened. “Is that so?”
Nick half smiles at me and puts his feet up on the seat in front of us. “Harriet Manners,” he says in his slow, lazy voice. “Dedicated to law enforcement.”
“She gets that from her stepmother,” Dad explains and I quickly try to calculate how much injury I’ll cause if I wait until there’s a red light and then just casually kick Dad’s car door open.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
Nick shrugs. “I got the Baylee gig a while ago,” he says as if he’s just landed a Saturday job at the local supermarket. “They were just waiting to find the right girl.”
Oh my God. I’m the Right Girl? I’m usually the Girl That Will Have To Do I Suppose Because That Other One Got Chicken Pox (Year Five play Cinderella).
Wilbur leans forward. “Plum-pudding,” he says in an awe-filled voice. “He’s done it all. Gucci, Hilfiger, Klein, Armani. Barely sixteen years old and one of the most successful young male models in London. You’re very lucky to work with him, my little Pot of Bean Paste. He can hold your hand. Walk you through it.”
I look briefly at Nick’s hand. I wish, I think wistfully. And then my cheeks go pink.
“It’s nothing to be worried about, honestly,” Nick says in a calm voice, staring out of the window. “We rock up, we do our job, we get snowed on, we go home again. It’s no biggy.”
I nod quickly, my whole head now zinging with nerves. No biggy. The closer we get, the more real it’s starting to feel, and the more I can feel the panic rising. The last few days have been less like a funfair rollercoaster and more like one of those round balls they strap astronauts into in preparation for space. I’m never quite sure which way is up any more.
But it’s fine: this is no biggy. It’s just me, Dad and Wilbur, hanging out in Moscow for twenty-four hours, taking photos. Casual, breezy photos, with a really expensive camera. And one of London’s top male models and a famous photographer. And maybe fashion legend Yuka Ito drinking coffee 100 metres away and switching lights on and off with a disgusted look on her face. Just six people and one of them is Lion Boy.
No biggy. Sure.
My heart is starting to hammer like one of the little toy soldiers in a Christmas cartoon, and my mouth has gone suddenly fuzzy. I lick my lips and try to focus. This is what I wanted. This was my choice. This is what I’m lying for. And what’s the point if I’m so scared I can’t enjoy my own transformation?
I look out of the window while I try to calm my breathing down. It is really beautiful. The buildings are massive and majestic, everyone is wrapped up in furry hats and scarves and there are Christmas lights twinkling between the snowflakes. And every so often, if you look really hard, it’s possible to see a man in uniform, standing on a corner with a massive gun in his hands.
Which distracts a little bit from the Christmas ambience, but still.
And then there’s the river: huge and shining with the lights stretching out in reflections across the water. Exactly like the books I have at home and much, much better than La Seine in Paris.
Which is not being racist towards rivers. I’m just saying.
“We’re nearly here, my little Chocolate-drops,” Wilbur says as the taxi turns a corner. “Baby-baby Unicorn, how are you feeling? Calm? Cool? Deeply and irretrievably fashionable?”
I give the least convincing nod of my life. “I feel fine,” I lie as the taxi stops. My hands suddenly feel like live fish in my lap: all slippery and incapable of staying still. “I feel great,” I continue, looking out of the window.
“I feel—”
Then I stop. Because in front of us is a huge square, filled with snow. On one side is an elaborate red wall and on the other side is a large white palace, delicately carved. I know that if I was to turn round, there would be a red castle behind us, but directly in front of us is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Red, and blue, and green, and yellow, and striped and starred and carved like the most expensive cake you could possibly imagine.
And in front of that are about thirty-five people, sixty lights, trailers, chairs, hangers full of clothes, clusters of passers-by and – inexplicably – a small white kitten on a pillow, wearing a lead.
And it looks like every single one of them is waiting for us.
ion Boy lied.
There’s no other way of putting it: he totally and utterly lied. This is a biggy, in every possible sense of the word. As soon as we get out of the taxi in Red Square – which is where I’ve already worked out we are – we’re surrounded. It’s like being in some kind of zombie movie, except that instead of the undead wearing ripped clothes and trying to eat us, it’s fashionable people wearing black and fur and trying to talk to us about our journey.
“At last!” somebody shouts at the back. “They’re finally here!”
“Sweetums,” Wilbur announces as he gets majestically out of the car. The snow has slowed down, but Wilbur still opens a huge umbrella in case his hair gets “damp”. “I’d like to say it was the traffic, but it really wasn’t. It’s just so much easier making an entrance when everybody’s waiting already, isn’t it?”
I’m glaring at Nick so hard that my eyebrows are starting to hurt. “No biggy?” I hiss as we’re helped out into the snow. “No biggy?”
Nick grins at me and shrugs. “Oh, come on,” he says in a low voice. “If I’d told you the truth, you’d have just tried to climb out of the taxi window.”
He’s right. “I would not,” I snap back because climbing out of windows isn’t a very elegant image for him to have of me, and then – to regain a little bit of dignity – I toss my head as angrily as I can. Although it’s pretty hard staying mad when you’re standing in the middle of a fairytale in front of a castle with somebody who looks just like a prince.