Head Over Heels

  “You are a very mean man,” Rin adds with more ferocity than I knew she was capable of. “I am cheese off and not full of beans for you. Go and get yourself lost!”

  “Well, I’m sorry for doing my job,” Aiden retorts as I start to slow down to a hiccup. “I just asked her for an emotion that was real.”

  “It wasn’t him,” I manage, wiping my face on a no-longer-white glove. “I-It’s me. I’m sorry, I’m just … tired.”

  I suddenly realise that’s true.

  It’s exhausting: keeping everything and everyone under control all the time.

  Also, this corset is not helping.

  I haven’t inhaled properly in two and a half hours.

  “If it helps,” Aiden says, holding up his camera, “those pictures are going to be amazing, Harriet. Probably worth the unattractive mental breakdown.”

  Jasper makes an aggressive growling sound at the back of his throat and I shake my head at him gratefully.

  Now I’m calming down, I’m actually starting to feel acutely embarrassed.

  This is all my own doing, isn’t it?

  I let myself get carried away, and I promised myself months ago that I wouldn’t.

  “Right.” I give myself a firm shake. I just need to refind my focus, and maybe a bit more oxygen. “Guys, I’m OK, really. So what’s next? I’m ready.”

  “No, you’re not,” Aiden says. “You look like you’ve just been steamrollered by a Boots make-up counter.”

  He holds up the camera so I can see my reflection in the lens. I’m red, white and black stripes and it looks as if I’m made of hot wax and all my features have slipped four inches down my face.

  I’m basically The Scream by Edvard Munch.

  “I think your shoot is over for the day now, Harriet,” Aiden continues firmly. “So I may as well head back to the house to shoot Sophia …”

  There’s a silence.

  Then, slowly, we turn to stare at the enormous maze that surrounds us.

  Inexplicably, it looks even bigger.

  “OK,” Jasper says. “Any suggestions of how we get out?”

  “Left?” Aiden suggests, scratching his head. “Or … no, it’s definitely left. Then straight on. Then left? Or possibly right.”

  “Wrong,” Rin offers. “I mean …” She grabs a dictionary out of her handbag. “Right. We go right. Or left. Then left.”

  “We’re going to die in here, aren’t we,” Jasper says, deadpan.

  Seriously. No wonder I have to concentrate so hard all the time: what would they do without me?

  “I’ve got this,” I say, wiping my eyes. “Just follow me.”

  he word maze comes from the Old English word maes, which means to bewilder or confuse. Clearly the people who designed this in 1833 had never met me before.

  With total ease, I lead everyone swiftly towards the exit, taking sharp turns at exactly the right points, without a single wrong step or hesitation.

  And OK, I may still remember the fun interactive Hatfield House maze puzzle I made for one of my Elizabeth projects, but I’ve never actually put it into practice before.

  I still think that’s quite impressive.

  “Wait,” I hear Jasper say in a low voice to Aiden. “Did Harriet actually know the way the whole time?”

  Oops.

  Before they can ask any more valid questions, I grab Rin’s arm and scoot out of earshot.

  “So, how was it?” I whisper. “Are you having fun?”

  “Oh Harry-chan,” Rin says fervently, clutching her hands together. “It is most excellent. In this England castle I am having time of my life.”

  I look at her carefully.

  Her cheeks are glowing, her eyes are bright and her step is significantly lighter. The sad, shrunken Rin of two days ago has disappeared completely.

  A wave of relief rushes over me.

  Thank you, Jasper.

  “And you’re not missing Japan?” I ask cautiously. “You don’t regret coming here?”

  “Not even little bits, Harry-chan,” Rin beams. “I am so happy to be with you and new friends. England is top of the notch and knees of the bees.”

  I laugh, then look down.

  Hang on: is she wearing jeans? How did I not notice that before?

  “I borrow from Charlotte,” she says, blushing slightly. “She says they are very cool England cut.”

  “They look awesome on you,” I smile. “Especially with that top.”

  “This is mine,” Rin says proudly, pointing at her smart, V-neck black jumper. I peer a bit closer: although from a distance it looks like a professional model-like item of clothing, when you’re very close to it you can see little embroidered cat faces near the hem.

  “I can see that,” I grin, squeezing her arm.

  With one more right turn, Rin and I come to the final twist of the maze and exit into the sunlit green park: Hatfield House looming, stately and majestic in the distance.

  And that’s when I hear it.

  Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, playing at top volume from my satchel: propped against the bench.

  It stops for a few seconds, then starts again.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  Dropping Rin’s arm, I race over and rummage through my satchel, pulling out lists and plans and physics homework until I finally find my phone.

  There are twelve missed calls.

  All of them from Wilbur.

  He knows.

  He knows I lied to Vogue about Tabitha being mine; or about the contract I signed. Or Annabel’s just found out or school has just rung or …

  I press the green button.

  “Wilbur?” I mumble, hands starting to sweat. “Is everything OK?”

  “No, poppet,” he says quietly. “Everything is not OK at all.”

  lobster’s brain is in its throat.

  Judging by the fact that I can no longer either breathe or think properly, mine may have just slipped down there too.

  There must be something I can say.

  I just need to find the right words in the right order, and everything will be OK.

  “So here’s what happened,” I blurt after a few seconds of guilty silence. “There was this mirror except it wasn’t a mirror and a girl who looked like me but wasn’t and …”

  I clear my throat. Nope. Definitely wrong words.

  Try again, Harriet.

  “And Mister Trout was there with a sandwich but I showed him Dostoyevsky and he got angry …”

  Wrong order.

  Sugar cookies.

  “Wilbur,” I say, playing for time while I think of an excuse that sounds a bit less bonkers, “I can definitely explain.”

  “I think you just did. You’re a magical peanut-butter-cup of joy and beauty and a single day with you is like being the bunny in Alice In Wonderland.”

  “I …” I blink. “Sorry, huh?”

  “Everything isn’t OK, monkey. It’s spectacularific. Do you want the good news first, or the fabulous news, or the fantabulous news, or maybe all at once?”

  This conversation is not going as I thought it would. “G-good news?”

  “The best, my little marshmallow top. This is the news that good news tells other people to prepare for. Ready? Vogue just rang: they love you and Mini Manners and want to work with you again ASAP.”

  “Really?” I frown. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as a stick of deodorant,” he giggles. “Ready for number two? They also want Rin to meet with their head honchos for a go-see! I’m sending them her portfolio as we speak!”

  I stare in amazement at my friend.

  She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with a daisy and singing “dancing clean, feel the beat from the tangerine, ooh yeeeah”.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that Charlotte had been cornering Rin for a job, but of course she was.

  How could anyone in the world not love her?

  “Wilbur, that’s amazing!”

  “It certainly is, chipmunk-breath!”
he cries jubilantly. “And now do you want the most tremendalazing news?”

  My hand tightens on the phone.

  “You got another job, baby-baby-turnip! KABOOM! And this one’s an actual payer, so you can put money towards those adorable little textbooks after all!”

  I blink at my phone, then at Hatfield House.

  Then down at the tight, incredibly painful corset I’ve been struggling to breathe in for the last three hours.

  “Umm, what do you mean by ‘a payer’? What about the job I just did?”

  “Vogue’s pretty much unpaid,” Wilbur laughs breezily. “Huge kudos, lovely photos, almost no money. It’s always been that way. And yet oh how we love them so!”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I did all of that – the shoot, the crying, the criminal fraud, the lying and stealing (then temporarily losing) of a precious infant – for free?

  Oh my God: of the many things I have researched over the last few days, why was How much am I being paid the only thing not on the list?

  I am such an idiot.

  “So, ah, what’s this new one?” I ask, crossing my fingers hopefully and trying to swiftly push away the swoop of disappointment. Focus on the positive, Harriet. “Is it … uh. Lucrative?”

  I really hate hearing myself say that.

  “Baby dumpling,” Wilbur laughs breezily, “by the time you’ve finished this job, you’ll be able to blow your nose on ten-pound notes if you want to.”

  “Who is it for? And when?”

  “You got the fizzy drink campaign, bunny. And you’re shooting tomorrow.”

  know: it makes no sense, right?

  After everything – the falling over, the being-shouted-at, the disrespect and the lack of preparation – Peter Trout’s agency gave me the fizzy drink job anyway?

  I mean, doesn’t that just prove his point?

  Isn’t it yet further evidence that I still just crash around the fashion industry, without design or intention: being handed top jobs on a plate?

  Nope.

  Because Rin wasn’t the only part of my plans I didn’t tell you about.

  That first night, after my disastrous casting with Mr Trout when I’d seen Wilbur in the restaurant and realised how much he needed me to get this job, I pushed movie-night with my family back an hour and sat down at my desk.

  I got my best folders and rulers and notepads and highlighter pens and laid them out neatly on my desk. With great care, I set up the new binding machine I got for Christmas that Nat said I’d never use and I have used plenty.

  And I started my new, multilayered plan.

  I researched how much revenue fizzy drinks brands generate (the top two make a hundred billion dollars a year) and how Coca-Cola create so many types you could try a new one every day and it would take nine years to sample them all.

  I discovered that soda flavours in Japan include octopus, wasabi, kimchi, cheese and eel, and that 7UP contained the mood-stabilising drug lithium until 1948 (hence the name); that the twenty-three ingredients of Dr Pepper are still one of the world’s top secrets.

  I even found out about the vending machines in the 1990s which varied price according to the temperature outside: the hotter it got, the more expensive it was to drink them.

  And made notes to strongly advise against following this ethically dubious practice.

  Then I typed it all out and carefully constructed an A4 booklet including relevant photos, charts and graphs.

  And I took THE HARRIET MANNERS’ FIZZY DRINK REPORT back into Mr Trout’s agency, along with my modelling portfolio – carefully reorganised as Wilbur suggested – and a long letter, apologising profusely and in detail.

  Plus personalised flapjacks, because it’s not really an apology without baked goods.

  It must have actually worked.

  Ha. I knew all you really need to win anyone over is a decent session with a binding machine: flowers are so overrated.

  “Did they say anything about the shopping psychology infograph?” I ask curiously. “Apparently eighty-five per cent of consumers are primarily drawn by colour. Royal blue could be a contender.”

  “What the Mary Poppins are you talking about?” Wilbur laughs. “You lost me at psychology.”

  “The Fizzy uh … never mind.”

  “It’s the funniest thing, monkey. Do you remember the Levaire advert you shot in Morocco last year? You know, while I was in New York and Stephanie was trying to be me, which is physically and spiritually impossible?”

  I bought a monkey, was nearly throttled by four snakes and watched the sun set in the Sahara Desert. So: “Yes.”

  “Well, the girl who replaced you – I want to say Hannah? – got this job too.”

  Hannah.

  Oh my God: I can’t believe this didn’t occur to me before. The girl with the elaborate CV; the girl with the dancing awards and gymnastics abilities and operatic singing.

  The girl I pretended to be for the entire trip to North Africa.

  She’s my doppelganger?

  “But …” I wipe my face and a trail of thick black eyeliner smudges across my glove like a sooty snail. “If she got it then …”

  “She broke her leg this morning!” Wilbur shouts triumphantly. “Right in the middle! Apparently she was doing some kind of backflip and landed in the wrong place! Haha! That’ll teach her to be so unnecessarily bouncy!”

  Then he clears his throat. “Officially Peak Models is very sorry for her loss.”

  Ah.

  OK, maybe it wasn’t all the report. It looks like I’m the replacement for my replacement who it transpires I actually replaced to begin with.

  Although surely the home-made diagram showing international fizzy drink consumption on a full-colour world map must have tipped the balance a little bit.

  “Tomorrow?” I double-check, swallowing. “The shoot’s tomorrow?”

  “Hannah was actually flying tonight, poppet, but you’ve got another fifteen hours to get ready while they process an emergency visa.”

  I blink.

  Apparently the first ever pacemaker was used to plug into a wall socket, and my heart is racing so fast it feels like I’ve been hooked up to the mains.

  Flying. Emergency Visa.

  I’m going abroad I’m going abroad I’m going abroad I’m going abroad I’m …

  “Where?” I manage, heart thudding like a drum.

  “Trumpet-cake,” he says, “you’re going to India.”

  ow, I may not know much about hosting guests.

  Thanks to the constant cancellation of my sleepovers, parties and picnics, I haven’t had much of a chance to practise.

  But I do know one thing.

  You can’t compel a friend to fly thousands of miles across the world to your side and then fly off and leave her to her own devices in a totally strange country.

  As social gallantry goes, it’s just not on.

  “Just one minute, Wilbur,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’ll call you back.”

  Then I look at Rin: sitting on the floor, humming “bald-headed woman, bald-headed woman to meeee” and brushing the fluffy tail that’s hanging off her handbag.

  She looks up with a bright smile. “Hai?”

  My heart is still racing, but a whole new wave of guilt is starting to surge as well. “That was Wilbur. You got a go-see with British Vogue.”

  She nods happily. “Hai. Charlotte ask me a few hours ago. Jean editorial. Good Wilbur times.”

  Ah. That makes a lot more sense.

  It did seem strange that Vogue were just handing out extra pairs of trousers like a benevolent Oxfam: they were obviously already in Charlotte’s kit.

  My smile falters. “But I’ve been offered another job too, and it’s really far away. Four thousand one hundred and sixty-eight miles away, to be specific. And it would mean leaving you on your own for a …”

  Rin’s already jumped off the floor and her arms are around me. “Harry-chan! My gob is smacked! This is cor
king! Double happy Wilbur times! I am so delight for you!”

  A warm glow begins to radiate from my cheeks. She’s genuinely more excited about my opportunities than her own: I wish I cared less about the adventure itself too.

  “Are you sure?” I check anxiously. “You won’t be lonely? Or sad? Or … homesick?”

  You won’t hide back in my bedroom again, refusing to come out?

  “No, Harry-chan,” she says sincerely. “You must go make money for Wilbur. I will be dory hunky.”

  I can still feel my brain flipping like a pendulum between excitement and guilt. “You honestly don’t mind being on your own in a strange country for a couple of days?” I study her pretty face a bit harder. “Honestly?”

  She doesn’t seem to be lying or faking it: there isn’t a flicker of doubt there. “Harry-chan,” she says confidently, kissing my cheek, “you are also on your own in strange country. We are sister peas in pod and we must both now seize the carp.”

  I laugh. “Rin, do you mean carpe diem which is Latin for seize the day?”

  “Yes,” she giggles. “Exactly. When you find your carp in the sea you must hold on tight!”

  “Do you think I should grab this carp?”

  “Grab it, Harry-chan!”

  We both laugh and I hug her again in gratitude.

  Yes, this still leaves skipping one day of school to worry about, but I only have two lessons on a Friday and with an extended sick note, I think I should be able to work my way round it.

  As for my parents, I’ll work out what to do about them later. With Annabel’s current vagueness, almost any excuse will do.

  Actually, you know what? This could be a good thing. With me away, Rin will have extra time to hang out with other people instead.

  Other, taller, grumpier people with thicker eyebrows.

  In fact …

  Oooh. That could work.

  Scientists have recently discovered that the power of our brains could charge an iPhone in approximately seventy hours, if they could just find a way to plug it into our heads: I’ve just had a moment of inspiration that could blow an iPhone right up.

  Seize the carp, Harriet.

  With a lurch of excitement I hold my phone so Rin can’t see it and quickly text: