If I’m very lucky, she’ll have somehow copied over anything pertaining to me.
With a burst of enthusiasm, I type:
Dear Yuka Ito,
I read online that you were given a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Council of Fashion Designers of America! Congratulations! Although I didn’t know you were even eligible – it was very clever of you to register your business in the US like that.
Anyway, I am the Social Media Chief Controller President™ of an up-and-coming designer called Natalie Grey and I was wondering if you would like to repost some of her images on your website?
Just two or three should be plenty! ;)
You won’t regret it!
Harriet Manners xx
Quickly, I press SEND.
Then I realise I didn’t actually attach any photos or links, so I write another email.
Dear Yuka Ito,
Whoops! I forgot the photos.
Don’t worry, I’ve attached thirty-two images to this email so you have PLENTY to choose from! ;) ;)
Harriet x
I press SEND again.
But the file’s too big to send, so I carefully separate the photos out into four emails of eight photos each and ping them to Yuka.
Then I realise I forgot to say please and thank you.
So I compose a seventh email.
Dear Yuka Ito,
Please and thank you very much!
H x
Yup: that should do it.
I’m getting pretty good at Taking The Initiative, even if I do say so myself. Maybe I should run an after-school class in Seizing Your Carp when I get home.
A few seconds later, Nat emerges from the house: rubbing her eyes and wearing the enormous T-shirt I gave her with a photo of Team JRNTH printed on it and which she swore she’d rather “eat with ketchup than wear, Harriet”.
I think this is her touching way of saying she’s forgiven me.
Either that, or we’re about to have a really weird dinner.
“Hey,” my best friend says sheepishly, standing in the doorway. “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing,” I say, quickly closing the laptop. “Just making sure I’m on top of my logarithms and integral changes of variables in time for the new term.”
Nat doesn’t need to know what the next stage of Plan B is yet: not until I know that it’s going to work.
“Sometimes I worry about you deeply,” she says and smiles, sitting down beside me and elbowing me affectionately. “So what’s the next Sydney sightseeing plan, bestie? Hit me with our schedule.”
And – as if by magic – I see that all my stupid blunders are forgiven and forgotten.
That’s the thing about space.
Scientists have ascertained that the universe is already 13.8 billion years old and many billion light years across, and they predict that it will last for another five billion years. In other words: it’s big, it’s old and there’s plenty to go around.
So maybe Bunty is right: maybe I don’t always have to hold on so tightly.
Because the people I love always find their way back in the end.
have been a model for nearly seventeen months.
Or – if you want me to be a little more specific – nearly twelve thousand hours, seven hundred thousand minutes or forty-four million seconds.
And it’s fair to say they’ve been pretty insane.
In that relatively short amount of time, I have destroyed a hat stall in Birmingham; jumped around in the snow outside the Kremlin; floated in a light-up dress in Lake Motosu-ko in Japan and been hit by a bike on Shibuya crossing.
I’ve watched the 250,000 streetlights of New York flicker from Brooklyn Bridge; been draped in unhappy snakes in Jemaa el-Fnaa in Marrakesh and rolled around in the orange sands of the Sahara Desert; danced in clouds of Holi paint in India and been unceremoniously water-sprayed by an elephant.
I’ve been terrified by the Catacombs of Paris and have fallen into Le Piscine Molitor wearing a giant bunny head, and crashed on to quite a few floors in the general London area.
What I’m trying to say is: thanks to modelling, I have probably done and seen more in the last 637 days of my life than I did in the 5,572 days before it.
Although possibly not quite as much homework.
But just as soon as I think I’ve got this, the fashion world somehow manages to throw a new challenge at me. And as I board the plane in sunny Sydney for a two-hour flight north, I realise that this is one of them: me, on a one-day shoot on the other side of the world from where I live, all by myself.
And I can’t help wondering how the Harriet Manners of a year and a half ago would have reacted. You remember: the girl who hyperventilated into crisp packets and hid under tables.
She’d probably have put the sick bag over her head already.
Except, as the plane roars smoothly into a bright blue sky, I suddenly realise that girl doesn’t exist any more. Bit by bit, I’ve left her in tiny pieces in all these different places over the last year and a half: scattered across the world like anxious confetti.
Because I don’t feel nervous any more.
I don’t feel overwhelmed or scared; I don’t feel like I can’t do this, or I shouldn’t be here or I don’t belong.
And yes, I am still Harriet Manners, geek girl to the core. But all I feel right now is freedom and excitement and adventure: the door opening to my place in the world.
A whole new chapter.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the air hostess chirps as the plane slowly glides north. “If you look to the left, you will be able to see the Tasman Sea, stretching all the way to Tasmania.”
Obediently, I peer out of the window next to me.
“Those of you on the right-hand side of the plane should be able to see all the way to Tamworth and Dubby.”
Leaning over, I stretch the other way.
Miles of gold and green are patchworked and scrambled and flecked with blue beneath us.
“And if you lean over to look below,” the lady’s voice continues as I eagerly follow her instructions, “it’s a clear enough day to see the eastern coastline of Australia. We’re now crossing over the Gold Coast, towards Brisbane, Yamba and Byron Bay.”
I sit bolt upright.
Then, swallowing, I gingerly peer down at the landscape underneath us. I see squares of buildings, a few white strands of beaches scattered along jagged turquoise edges, roads etched out like delicate veins on the back of a hand.
I peer a bit harder, and for just a second I almost think I can see people: moving around below us like ants.
Living their lives, oblivious to us gliding above them.
Which is obviously impossible: we’re far too high up for that kind of detail.
But I swear that for a fraction of a moment I see it.
I see a little brown house with a big backyard: a gnarled tree and a surfboard against a falling-down porch; an attic with a window that looks up to the stars.
For a moment, I think I see him.
“And now we’re heading up past the Sunshine Coast,” the air hostess continues as my neck twists painfully so I can watch the tiny town retreat behind us. “Where the plane will begin our descent into Proserpine.”
Blinking, I try to focus.
The final email through from Emily and Jack last night completely confirmed how utterly suited I am for this job.
I am ready to tell them everything.
I can tell them that Queensland is the second-largest state in Australia: five times the size of Japan, and seven times the size of Great Britain. I can point out that it’s home to more than four million people and two hundred national parks including the Riversleigh Fossil Fields and the Wet Tropics.
I might casually throw in the fact that it’s known as the Sunshine State because it receives between eight and nine hours of sunlight every single day, and also that the sea surrounding it contains ten per cent of all the discovered fish species on the planet.
That there’s a natural s
tructure in Queensland so big you can see it from outer space.
I am ready to blow their minds.
Slowly, the plane begins to descend into a warm, golden light and every passenger is peering out of the windows.
Below us are a million shades of blue: from deep ultramarine to indigo, sapphire to cyan, azure to pale turquoise. Stretching to the horizon, mixed with swirls of bright white as if somebody has dropped an ice-cream cone from the troposphere and it’s melting everywhere.
Cast into the shimmering water at random are splotches of dark green: forest-covered islands that curve in mounds as if giants are curled up and sleeping beneath them.
The edges of these countless islands are ragged and delicate, as if they’ve been ripped from the pages of a huge emerald book.
And dotted between them in the sea are tiny white boats.
Tourist boats and yachts that get bigger and brighter as our plane gently lowers towards a bronzed, rust-coloured runway, lined with gently swaying palm trees.
If the human eye were a digital camera, it would have 576 megapixels: more than twice the power of the highest-quality camera you can buy. And as the excitement in my stomach starts building, I find myself trying to capture an epic film of this moment so I can keep it in my brain forever.
Because in spite of all the amazing things that have happened in the last seventeen months, I have never, ever been close to one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World before.
This is officially number four.
Just below Mount Everest in Nepal, Victoria Falls in Zambia and the Grand Canyon in America. And just above the Northern Lights in Iceland, Paricutin Volcano in Mexico and the harbour of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Out of the blue, I get to start checking off a whole new lucky list.
And it begins with:
ere are some facts about the Whitsundays:
I’m not exactly sure what the plans for the photo shoot are, but I’m sincerely grateful for the huge bottle of SPF50 Nat shoved into my satchel at the last minute. Something tells me that today is going to involve bikinis, frolicking in turquoise shallows and developing the kind of sunburn only redheads on reflective white sand can really hope to achieve.
“Harriet! Sweetie, you’re here!”
Emily bounces across the Proserpine arrivals lounge in tiny jean shorts and a black crochet crop top, then kisses my cheeks enthusiastically.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” she beams as Jack appears, grinning behind her.
“We are indeed,” Jack agrees, pumping my hand up and down vigorously. “The agency told us not to expect much on our budget, but here we are! We landed ourselves the perfect model!”
“We’re so lucky.”
Never mind just dragonflies: I’m so happy there are probably a few possums and cats that can see me shimmering in a billion colours now too.
I’ve been called many things in my life, but the perfect model has never been one of them.
I wish Eva were here to hear it.
And maybe a few people from school.
And Stephanie from Infinity Models, Aidan the photographer, Peter Trout, India, Poppy, Shola, Rose …
Actually, it would be nice to have quite a lot more witnesses.
“You’re so welcome,” I beam as I’m led into the blinding yellow sunshine, towards a slightly dusty grey car. “This is a dream come true for me too. I’ve never been to the Whitsundays before!”
Jack and Emily’s eyes widen into circles. “Whaaaat?”
“No! That’s crazy! We’d have thought it would be the first place you’d have come!”
“Apart from Crystal Bay in Bali or Elephant Head Rock in the Similan Islands.”
“Or Barracuda Point in Sipadan.”
“Maaya Thila in the Maldives.”
“The Great Blue Hole in Belize.”
“The Komodo Islands.”
“Oh, who are we kidding? There are so many amazing locations, how do you even pick?”
I grin at them widely.
I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure that at the head of my How to Be A Top Model list it says Agree With Whatever The Paying Client Says.
So I nod as fervently as I can.
“I guess you just pull it out of a hat!” I laugh brightly. “That way the decision is made for you, like in Harry Potter!”
They start chuckling heartily.
“This is so much fun, isn’t it?” Emily says, cheeks shining.
“We’re new at this,” Jack nods, putting an affectionate hand on Emily’s shoulder. “Probably should have explained this at the casting but it was a bit of a whirlwind. Em is the creative and I do the photography. It’s our first proper shoot, so this is kind of exciting for us.”
“Not kind of, Jack,” Emily frowns for a split second, then beams again. “It’s super exciting.”
This is incredible. I’ve never seen two clients so happily enthusiastic and utterly uninterested in playing it cool.
I think I’ve finally found my kind of fashion people.
“Do I need to prepare anything?” I say as the car starts driving towards the coast and I gaze out of the window at rows of lush spiky flowers I am yet to know the accurate Latin name for. “What kind of look are we going for?”
So far my modelling CV includes: scared, blank, delighted, confused, ecstatic, distracted, amused, embarrassed, heartbroken, loved-up and humiliated.
I am a veritable smorgasbord of human emotion.
“Oh, you’ll see when we get there,” Emily laughs. “And don’t worry, Harriet. No doubt you’ll be the one telling us what to do!”
Aww, she knows me so well already.
“Right,” Jack says as the car pulls up next to a small pier. “If it’s OK, we’ll get you ready on the boat. That gives us more time for the fun stuff.”
Then he leaps out and opens the car door for me.
The golden sunshine hits me with full force, like opening an oven door half an hour into baking a cake. (Which I’ve been told ruins the process but how else are you supposed to know how it’s going?)
“After you,” Jack says, gesturing towards a compact white speedboat. “I’ll grab the equipment out of the boot.”
In the meantime, Emily is heaving an enormous, plastic-covered bag out of the boot, followed by a big black box. “I’m probably not the most experienced stylist you’ve ever worked with,” she laughs as a hairbrush falls out of the box.
“Ems,” Jack says, shaking his head. “We can do this, remember?”
“Sure,” Emily says, flushing. “Right?”
“Right.”
Their nervous excitement is suddenly almost tangible: as if you could reach out two fingers, pull the end of it and unravel it like a spool of cotton.
With a minor stomach lurch, I turn to look back at the speedboat. There’s the driver and two assistants on board already, so at least it won’t just be the three of us, out there on the ocean.
Because for the first time since I impulsively gatecrashed the casting, it’s beginning to occur to me how little I know about what we’re actually doing here.
And the tiniest seed of anxiety is planted.
I’ve been so focused on telling these clients what I know and what I can do that I forgot to ask any questions about them at all.
Which may not have been my cleverest move.
“Great!” Jack says jubilantly, dragging out of the boot what appears to be a thick blue full-length Victorian leotard. “This is going to be such fun.”
Another mini-wave of consternation.
“Is that for me?” I say dubiously. “Am I modelling … wetsuits?”
“Oh golly, no,” Emily laughs, unzipping the bag. “That’s for Jack. Your look is quite the opposite, I’d say.”
With a proud flourish, she pulls out a dress.
It’s long and white: tight on the bodice and covered in tiny sequins and lace to a beaded silver waist, where it abruptly puffs into the bigg
est ruffled skirt I’ve ever seen.
It’s also – there’s no nice way to put this – falling apart.
Even from metres away I can see the stitching starting to unravel, the beads coming loose and the bottom half slowly separating from the top.
“I made it myself!” Emily adds as she leads me into a cabin on deck and helps me carefully into it. “By hand!”
Several hundred sequins promptly fall on to the floor.
“Whoops,” she says chirpily. “Luckily I’ve brought some glue.”
“Uh,” I say as it begins to seep through the lace. “Brilliant.”
It’s also surprisingly heavy: within minutes I have to sit down on a bench because my leg muscles are quivering.
With a firm hand, Emily proceeds to give me blue eyeshadow up to the eyebrows, bright pink blusher and hot pink lips that are completely ignoring my natural lip shape.
Then I’m led back outside, scattering beads and sequins as I go.
“Let’s not forget the veil!” Emily squeaks, pinning a long piece of fraying chiffon to the back of my head. “And the tiara!”
She attaches a crystal-covered plastic crown on top of it.
Then with a practised air of feigned modesty, she opens the big bag again and slowly pulls out eight more dresses. Each one is long and white and elaborate: covered in flowers and sparkle and lace and ruffles and embroidery and feathers.
And each – in its own matrimonial way – is disintegrating rapidly.
By the time they’re all out of the bag, the floor is covered in tiny bits of random white fluff: like the aftermath of one of Victor’s particularly vicious pigeon attacks in the garden.
The boat engine starts to hum and I twist round in growing panic, looking for my phone.
Maybe I can call Wilbur.
Maybe I can call the Australian agency.
Maybe I can speak to Eva, explain that I took this job without telling her and I’m not entirely sure that—
But it’s too late: the boat has started motoring away from the land, and we are surrounded by sparkling, turquoise, infinite, expansive sea.
Umm.
What the sugar cookies have I got myself into this time?
he Nightingale of Kuala Lumpur.