“Perfect,” Eva beams with a nod, lobbing the stick into a drawer. “If anything comes up, we’ll let you know.”
Then there’s a silence.
Lobsters hear with their legs: maybe I should give mine a shot too, because I definitely caught that last sentence wrong.
“Sorry, if anything comes up?” I say blankly. “If?”
“When,” Eva corrects easily. “It may take a little while – four weeks, maybe five. Sometimes six before anything starts coming through for our new girls.”
I stare at her in confusion.
“But I don’t have six weeks,” I blurt. “I’ve only got eleven days left in Australia. Then I have to go back to England and do my exams.”
“Excellent!” Eva says more brightly. “We like girls with lots of qualifications. Why don’t you come back in the summer holidays, and then you’ll have much more time!”
That is not what I meant at all.
Never mind Mount Disappointment: this has turned into the Volcano of Disillusionment and it feels like I’m about to fall straight in.
Plus it doesn’t make any sense.
Wilbur heavily implied days ago that there was modelling work waiting for me in Australia. A foreign agency has asked me to loan your prodigious sparkliness to them for a few weeks, possum. They’ve been watching your ascent for a while and we think this could be what tips you into Supermodel-land.
I’ve even got an Ideas For Breezy Australian Modelling Facial Expressions list, printed out and folded in my wallet: I’ve been practising them secretly in the mirror every morning.
I’ve been walking on my tiptoes pretending I’m wearing heels at any given opportunity, just in case.
I’m dressed in a flaming yellow evening gown, for goodness’ sake.
I am ready for this Supermodel-land adventure.
And I have to be honest: I don’t feel very tipped anywhere right now. In fact, I’m about as vertical as a human being can get.
“We’ll be in touch,” Eva says, putting her bare feet on the desk and crossing them at the ankles. “Thanks for coming in, Harriet. It’s an absolute pleasure to have you on our books.”
I open and shut my mouth a few times like a goldfish.
Or maybe a cow: they only breathe through their mouths when there’s something wrong with them too.
“Uh,” I say, picking awkwardly at my skirt. “OK. I’ve … got a new phone number. Would you like it?”
“Why not?” Eva shrugs pleasantly.
Hastily, I scribble Bunty’s Brick number on a piece of pink paper on the desk, and draw a few hearts and flowers round it to try to make it a bit more distinctive.
Then I push it across the desk as memorably as possible.
“Lovely!” Eva says, sliding it to the bottom of a huge pile of other girls’ phone numbers. “Catch you around, Harriet!”
Around? Around where?
“Umm,” I say as she opens the window and the fly zooms out. “Thanks for seeing me.”
“It was a pleasure,” Eva agrees, making it clear that this was very much a one-time occurrence. “Nice dress, by the way.”
Swallowing, I grab my portfolio.
“Thanks,” I say lamely.
Then I’m waved back out of the Australian fashion world just as sunnily as I was waved in.
“moment” is defined as ninety seconds.
It’s a medieval unit of time, introduced before the invention of the mechanical clock: the movement of a shadow on a sundial covered forty momenta in one solar hour, so each one changed in length depending on the length of the day and the season.
And for years Annabel has been encouraging me to “take one”, before I react to any difficult or confusing situation.
So as Eva shuts the office door behind me, I obediently start counting slowly down from ninety.
Eighty-nine, eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six …
The agency is still buzzing.
Models are appearing with portfolios held tightly under their arms and disappearing into offices. Agents are making busy, efficient phone calls, probably booking exciting jobs, organising exotic travel, discussing availability for brand-new and life-changing experiences.
Eighty-five, eighty-four, eighty-three …
Arranging photo shoots and fashion shows in places I’ve never been to: possibly involving some species of animal I’ve never met, adopted, freed or annoyed before.
Eighty-two, eighty-one, eighty …
And I’m finding it quite difficult to believe that with all this fashion action going on, I’m not suitable for any of it.
Seventy-nine, seventy-eight …
I mean, I’ve travelled this far: they could give me a chance, couldn’t they?
Seventy-seven, seventy-six, seventy-five …
Just one little casting?
Seventy-four, seventy-three …
The youngest person ever to fly in space – twenty-five-year-old Gherman Titov – performed seventeen loops round the Earth in twenty-five hours. I could go round the world seven hundred and forty times in the time Eva wants me to wait for a modelling job.
And set a new world record while I’m at it.
Seventy-two, seventy …
Oh my God, a moment is so long.
Seven …
So so long.
Sev—
You know what? There’s a reason we have watches.
Quickly – before anyone spots me – I gather my yellow satin skirts and swish into a side room full of machines and paper and folders and pens: possibly because it feels a bit more homely to me.
Then I close the door, lump my portfolio down on the machine in front of me and get the Brick out.
I quickly scroll through to the number I need, then firmly press the button and lift the heavy handset to my face.
There are a few rings, then a click.
“Baby-baby Dingo! How’s it hanging, my sparkly koala bear? Upside down, by the feet?”
“Wilbur,” I whisper urgently. “I think I need your help.”
K, not help.
Guidance. Instruction: counselling and enlightenment. Suggestions, information, tips and pointers. Direction and recommendations.
Or … you know.
The answers to a few billion questions.
For some reason, Wilbur is already laughing.
“You need help?” he snorts down the line. “That’s very unlike you, my little platypus-face. Is this definitely Harriet Manners I’m talking to? Because that is totally out of character, Sugar-wombat.”
Sometimes I think the people in my life don’t see me the way I see me at all.
“I’ve just had my appointment at the Australian agency,” I say, “and I think there’s been some kind of clerical error, because they don’t have any jobs for me. None whatsoever.”
“Baby-baby Kangaroo,” Wilbur says gently. “It was never guaranteed employment, more like a fab potential opportunity. I thought you understood.”
Judging by the big gaps I left in this fortnight’s schedule with GUARANTEED MODELLING DAYS!!! written on them, I definitely did not.
“They said I might have to wait more than a month.”
“That’s perfectly normal, bunny,” my British agent confirms. “You’ve been super lucky so far. Modelling is like a game of Scrabble. Sometimes you’ve got the right letters, sometimes you don’t. And sometimes, tiny blobfish, you’ve just got to sit your little tush down and wait until you do. Why don’t you go see the sights with that twinkly grandmother of yours?”
Frowning, I leaf through my folder, then press a button on the machine in front of me.
Wilbur’s making no sense, as per usual. Last time I played Scrabble I managed to get ninety-three points out of the word SYZYGY using a blank tile and a Z double letter score, and Jasper was so irritated he wouldn’t talk to me for three hours.
It’s an alignment of three celestial bodies like the sun, the moon and the Earth, just in case you’re wondering.
The
re is always a word you can play.
“So I should be patient?” I clarify, absent-mindedly pressing another button. “You think something will come up?”
“Mais oui,” Wilbur agrees. “Just relax, my little candy-cassowary. And what are those beeping noises, Muddle-mop?”
Umm.
The sound of me photocopying my entire portfolio in case I need extra copies of it in the future?
“I’m just … organising documents and … enjoying a bit of … Australian warmth.”
This photocopier was made in Taiwan, but there you go.
“Perfiddlyection,” Wilbur says as another copy of my snowflake headshot pops out. “It’s raining dragons here but one of my new girls snagged a top Gucci campaign and I’m flying to Mauritius with her next week, whoop to the whoop!”
A tiny unintentional sigh escapes my lungs.
Mauritius is famous for once being the only home of the now-extinct dodo and being composed of eighty per cent sugar cane.
I’d love to start sketching that itinerary out.
“Tell you what, my little gingernut,” Wilbur says as the machine stops whirring and I tuck the warm pages back into my portfolio. “I’ll give Eva a bellio tomorrow, see if I can’t squeezify you into some kind of casting. How does that sound?”
A wave of intense gratitude rushes through me.
I knew Wilbur would help.
Or – you know. Guide and inform. Ahem.
“Yes, please,” I say with immense relief. “And I’m really not fussy, I’ll do literally anything.”
“No, you won’t, sugarplum,” my fairy godmother laughs. “You’re my model and Peak Models has a reputation of epic-ality to maintain, honey. But I’ll see what I can do.”
OK, so: where was I?
Seventy. Sixty-nine, sixty-eight …
Carefully, I look both ways and scoot out of the stationery room before anyone catches me.
Sixty-seven, sixty-six …
Holding my warm portfolio to my chest, I start scurrying down the corridor towards the exit. I’ve just got to wait until tomorrow. That’s not so long, right?
Sixty-five …
Maybe we can visit the Sydney Sealife Aquarium in the interim: they’ve got a gentoo penguin called Steven.
Sixty-four …
And a manatee called Pig.
Sixty-three …
A door to a room on my left opens and a woman walks out.
Sixty-t—
“Thanks for coming!” a voice calls out: “I think she was the last on the list. Is there anyone left?”
Sixt—
Six—
Wait a second.
Maybe it’s time to be my own fairy godmother.
Grab My Moment …
“Hello,” I hear myself say, taking a step forward and holding out my hand. “I’m Harriet Manners. Sorry I’m late.”
ometimes being a geek can be slightly problematic.
Like when you go up to the whiteboard at breaktime and correct a teacher’s maths equation and they reduce your A* to an A grade.
Or when you spend ten minutes informing the person studying the menu in front of you in the cafe queue that a single cup of coffee contains eleven per cent of the recommended daily dose of riboflavin, six per cent of pantothenic acid, three per cent of manganese and potassium, and two per cent of niacin and magnesium and then they leave without buying anything.
Or when you correct your friend’s grammatically incorrect texts with *you’re or *their and they don’t reply for three days.
Oh, who am I kidding?
More often than not, being a geek is a life-hazard and should come with some kind of preliminary warning attached: a flashing headlight, or at least a little red badge.
But, every now and then, it can be handy.
And as I step impulsively into an unknown casting with a head full of random knowledge, something tells me this might be one of those times.
This might be the fashion hub of Australia but any questions thrown at me, I reckon I can probably answer. A beauty contest held in Singapore in 1998 awarded sixty per cent of the marks for knowledge of the internet.
I am already prepared.
“I’m so sorry,” the pretty blonde lady in front of me says. “I thought we were at the end of the list from the agency. Did we miss you off?”
“Oh,” I laugh, tossing my head with as much nonchalance as I can muster. “I’ve just arrived from England. They didn’t think I’d be able to make it in time, but here I am! Phew! Thank goodness there are 102,465 flights a day worldwide and I was on one of them!”
Excellent, Harriet. Life-grabbing and assertive.
Enthusiastically, I thrust my still-warm portfolio at them.
Then I grab eight or nine of the photocopied sheets and arrange them in a neat fan across the table, for good measure.
“Great!” an even blonder young man in jeans and a blue T-shirt says with a strong Australian twang. “I’m Jack and this is Emily. And it’s a niche job so the more the merrier!”
Together, they bend over my book.
And – as they flip slowly through – I can feel the excitement in the room growing: the way a balloon expands if you put the neck over the mouth of a milk bottle and then heat the bottle up.
They nod vigorously at the Baylee headshot, and at the Elizabethan Vogue Polaroid. They murmur with fierce approval at the Mount Fuji shot for Yuka Ito and the glass Manga Girl box picture and the gold tutu.
By the time they get to Charlie the octopus, Jack and Emily are grinning widely.
And I can feel hope inflating inside me like hot air too.
I knew this would work. I just knew it.
This is My Moment and I have grabbed it all by myself: without help from anybody.
“An octopus!” Emily says, smiling brightly at me. “What an absolute treat!”
“Charlie was a callistoctopus macropus,” I agree delightedly. “Also known as the Atlantic white-spotted octopus, found in the IndoPacific region and shipped to Japan especially for the shoot.”
“I do hope he wasn’t hurt,” Jack frowns.
“He wasn’t hurt at all,” I promise. “In fact, did you know that common octopus collect crustacean shells and other objects to construct fortresses round their lairs?”
“It’s lovely having an expert in our midst,” Emily smiles, and I feel a surge of pride: I have spent my whole life hoping somebody would call me that.
“Well,” I say as modestly as possible. “I prefer to call myself an enthusiast, really.”
“These pictures are amazing, Harriet,” Emily says, picking up the photocopy of the sumo photo in Tokyo. “It’s like you’re a proper fashion model as well.”
I beam with delight. I’ve been called many things, but a proper fashion model has never been one of them. “Thank you so much!”
“And how did you make the transition?” Jack asks, jotting something down on a piece of paper. “Was it tricky, or did it come naturally?”
I think about that excellent question for a few seconds. “It was hard at first, but I think I’ve adjusted to it now.”
I mean, there have obviously been a few mishaps in the process, but there’s no need for them to know all the details of my personal fashion journey.
“You’re so young. When did you start?”
“I was fifteen. In my country that’s quite normal, I think.”
“You must have trained incredibly hard. What’s been your most challenging location so far?”
The rollercoaster at Luna Park, without a doubt: I was so scared I nearly climbed out at the top. “Coney Island, New York,” I say thoughtfully. “I think my heart stopped beating completely!”
“Hahahah!” they laugh. “Sometimes it must feel like that, right? But you know what they say: we are all born of the ocean, and each of us has a little ocean inside us.”
I blink. Roll with it, Harriet. “Did you know that the blood has a ninety-eight per cent similar chemical co
mposition to seawater, and almost exactly the same pH, so that saying is really almost literal?”
The clients glance at each other with unmitigated joy.
And I can feel myself physically expanding: my breadth of knowledge swelling inside me until the balloon of information is about to explode.
Being a geek rocks.
“But what can you tell us about breathing? Because,” Emily smiles modestly, “I’m afraid we’re coming at this mostly from the fashion angle. I’m sure you know much more.”
Excitement tingles through every fibre in my body. Oh my God, what can I tell them about breathing?
Basically everything.
“Well,” I say quickly, “we all have different lung capacities, but the vital capacity for the average woman is 3.1 litres, while the inspiratory capacity is about 2.4.”
Their eyes open wide.
“And,” I continue, “breathing actually has very little to do with oxygen. Air only has twenty-one per cent!”
They nod, enraptured.
“And the oxygen is used to break down glucose in the cells into carbon dioxide via ATP.”
OK: I’m going to stop now.
Mainly because I’m so excited my own lung capacity feels like it’s shrunk by at least half.
I am nailing this.
Emily and Jack glance at each other, then close my portfolio with a triumphant snap.
“Well,” Jack says with a broad grin. “I think that’s all we need to know. We’ve been looking for someone who could combine experience and detailed knowledge with fashion, and you’re perfect.”
I stare at them. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” Emily says with a happy grin. “You’re just what we’ve been waiting for, Harriet. The job’s yours if you want it.”
ragonflies have the best vision in the animal kingdom.
While humans see colours as a combination of red, blue and green, Japanese researchers have discovered that the dragonfly has thirty-three different types of light-sensitive proteins, which means they can see colours we can’t even imagine.
And I know exactly how they feel.
Because as I quickly scribble my phone number and email address on the back of my photocopied headshot and walk proudly out of the casting, the world suddenly looks so bright it’s as if I have 30,000 facets in my eyes too.