Head Over Heels

  “Fine,” she says in a voice tinged with a definite tone of relief. “In that case, I need to write down the doctor’s number, the vet’s number, the dentist’s number … Rearrange the food delivery …”

  She turns and runs down the stairs with the words “Has anybody seen my yellow legal pad?” trailing behind her.

  “Fantastic idea,” Dad grins when she’s gone, playfully knocking my chin with his fist. “You’re turning into a very thoughtful girl in your old age.”

  Yup: I’m going straight to hell.

  With how tired Annabel’s been looking lately, this is something I actually should have thought of.

  “Richard!” Annabel shouts up the stairs. “Come on, we need to sort out the family itinerary for while I’m gone!”

  “Because nothing says mellow hippy relaxation time like ten typed-out pieces of A4, stapled together,” Dad says with a smile. “Unless it’s in Comic Sans.”

  Then he disappears too.

  Yet again, nurture versus nature continues to astound me: Annabel and I are essentially twins.

  “Bunty,” I say slowly, turning to look at my grandmother in astonishment. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll have an amazing time,” she says with a wide smile. “And don’t drink the water.”

  he rest of the night is manic.

  Annabel’s so frantic – organising everything and making Dad promise to text her in Turkey with updates on how we’re doing every four hours – she doesn’t notice I’m packing too.

  And as she races round the house, coordinating different folders for Dad (‘Laundry’, ‘Food’, ‘Tabitha and Harriet’), I make sure I’ve got everything I could possibly need.

  Sunscreen: check.

  Rubber shoes and insect repellent: check.

  A stomach full of butterflies and a head full of dreams, hopes and relevant facts: CHECK.

  For instance, India is geographically the seventh largest country in the world and the largest democracy, with a surface area of over 1.27 million square miles. There’s an enormous dichotomy of wealth: more than a million Indians are millionaires but the vast majority of its population live on less than two dollars a day.

  India is home to the wettest place on earth – Mawsynram, a village in the East Khasi Hills – and it produces more cow’s milk than any other nation in the world.

  It has a floating post office.

  And – most excitingly of all – both Snakes and Ladders and Chess were invented there, originally called Moksha Patamu and Chaturanga respectively.

  It also has one of the highest rates of murder, at 40,000 per year, but I’m not going to think about that statistic.

  All I’ll say is, I haven’t felt like this since just before I left for Moscow, for Tokyo and for Morocco.

  I enjoy modelling, but I really love travel.

  “And it’s called India,” I tell Rin as I somehow stuff the last few bits into my suitcase the next morning, “because it’s a corruption of the word Sindhu, which was pronounced Hindu, the country’s main religion.”

  “Sooo desu?” Rin’s diligently sticking all my toiletries into a pink glittery wash bag that’s appeared from nowhere. “What else?”

  “They actually invented the decimal system and the concept of zero as a number.”

  She shakes her head incredulously. “Stop with your jokes.”

  “And the Taj Mahal was built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan for his wife and took 22,000 people 22 years to complete.”

  “You can knock me down with bird feathers, Harry-chan.”

  “They also invented yoga too, darlings,” Bunty adds, yawning from where she’s propped up on my bed with her battered old suitcase snuggled next to her. “Many thousands of years ago.”

  Well, I suppose no country can be perfect.

  Grinning, I stuff my earplugs into my satchel and – just in time – remember to grab my How To Be A Perfect Model list and tuck it in too.

  Whoops. Almost forgot about that.

  This time I really need to try and remember why I’m flying to a foreign country in the first place.

  “Rin?” I say, pausing. “Are you sure you’re OK with me going?”

  “Yes,” Rin says calmly. “Of course. I am happy here with Victor and Nat and Toby.”

  “And Jasper,” I say with a sly smile. “Don’t forget about Jasper.”

  She grins back shyly. “I’m not forgetting about Jasper, Harry-chan. Don’t you worry.”

  “Somebody’s meeting you at the airport, I’m assuming?” Dad says, poking his head round the door. “The answer’s an immediate and truthful ‘yes’ or we have a problem.”

  Yup: my dad knows exactly where I’m going now too.

  Bunty told him – she said I needed an emergency contact who was staying in England – but he’s being surprisingly zen about it. She’s obviously convinced him of just how mature and grown-up I am these days.

  Either that or she’s hypnotised him with a crystal.

  “They’re sending a car to take me to the airport and meeting me directly at the other end,” I reassure him. “I promise I’ll be looked after the whole time.”

  He just doesn’t know by who.

  I think I’ll add the fact that it’s the advertising agency that fired him last year to the long list of unpleasant consequences I’ll have to deal with later.

  “Good,” he says, folding his arms. “Or your daddy will tell them where to go.”

  “Mmm,” I say, zipping my suitcase up.

  He actually already has.

  Rin and I wave Bunty and Annabel off at the front door just after lunchtime.

  Then we wave them off again.

  (Annabel came back to check Dad has Tabitha’s Development Schedule in case she progresses too rapidly while she’s away.)

  And they disappear just in time.

  Less than fifty seconds after Bunty’s pink VW drives off to Gatwick airport and I’ve quickly got changed into my professional-model-appropriate clothes, a big black car rounds the corner for me.

  A very big, very black, very shiny car. Very big and black. Very shiny.

  OK, it’s a limousine.

  “Woah,” Rin says, eyes widening. “Harry-chan, you are now the big time.”

  “Crikey,” Dad says as Tabitha starts clapping her hands. “I think you might be earning more than the rest of this family combined, Harriet. Any chance I could borrow a fiver?”

  I blink in amazement as a chauffeur in a neat blue uniform climbs silently out of the front and waits for me politely with his hands clasped together.

  Then I take a deep breath.

  You can do this, Harriet.

  You are a Professional. You are Confident and Stylish. Healthy and Prepared.

  You’ve found the bag, and this is now IN IT.

  Dad pivots my suitcase of books around and helps the chauffeur load it into the back of the limo. Then – without warning – he grabs me in a too-tight bear hug.

  “Are you sure that you’re ready to do this on your own? Because if you’re not, just say the word and we can walk now. No questions asked.”

  And – in a flash – I suddenly remember the first time he said that exact thing to me. Sitting in a tiny back room in the Infinity Models agency. Just me and my dad.

  Moments before my life changed forever.

  I nod, an unexpected lump abruptly stuck in my throat.

  “Yes,” I say without a flicker of hesitation. “I’m ready.”

  Because I think I finally am.

  ’ve been on quite a few planes in my life.

  There was the flight to Moscow with Dad on my first ever modelling trip, and to Tokyo with Bunty; to Marrakech with Annabel, and New York with Tabitha (she was definitely the most prominent passenger, anyway).

  I flew to Nice with Nat and her mum when I was twelve, and to Krakow on a history school trip with my whole class at thirteen, with Alexa throwing peanuts at my head all the way.

  But this
is the first time it’s just me.

  Me, 4,168 miles, nearly eight hours and an Airbus A380: the largest passenger airplane in the world, equivalent to the size of two blue whales.

  And I’ve been put in Business Class.

  With seats that lie completely flat like beds, a wireless tablet and my own private minibar full of soft drinks, just in case I wasn’t excited enough by this experience already.

  This is my first time flying solo, my first time as a proper adventurer and explorer, and I intend to make the most of every second of it.

  Ding.

  “Yes, madam?” the air hostess says graciously, turning my call button off. “How may I help you?”

  I beam at her in delight.

  Nobody’s ever called me a madam before, unless I was in trouble, and I don’t think that counts.

  “Did you know that if you laid out all the wires on this plane end to end, they would stretch from London to Edinburgh?”

  “I didn’t know that, no, madam.”

  I snuggle comfortably into the big leather seat-slash-bed.

  “And that its wings are actually made in England, the tail in Spain, the fuselage in Germany and it’s all put together in France. Did you know that?”

  “No, madam.”

  “And that the Airbus A380 fits three thousand suitcases?”

  “Yes, madam. Can I get you anything to eat or drink on this journey?”

  I think about it carefully. “What can I have?”

  “Whatever you like, madam,” she smiles. “This is Business Class. It’s all included.”

  A wave of happiness suddenly floods over me.

  Being a model rocks.

  “Then yes, please,” I yawn, snuggling in a little further. “I think I’ll have it all.”

  Sadly, I don’t get to enjoy any of it.

  Next thing I know, I’m being nudged gently awake, the plane is descending and the lights are being turned on.

  Fudge nuggets.

  My first solo flight and I slept through the entire thing. I guess that’ll teach me to stay up all night teaching my friend how to play Indian chess.

  “Are we there?” I mumble, sitting up abruptly, wiping a little dribble off my face and flinging open the window shutters. “Is this India?”

  Outside is a bright blue early-morning haze.

  Even with the plane’s air conditioner turned on full blast, the air looks so warm and thick you could hold it in your hands, and it’s the exact, cerulean shade of Tabby’s eyes.

  Or the W of a Word document.

  And, beneath that dense blue, in an arch that stretches out and disappears into the shining mist, are tiny buildings: browns and greens, oranges and reds and blues.

  A whole country built on colours.

  “Madam,” the air hostess says, handing me a wet wipe, “welcome to Delhi.”

  ndira Gandhi International – named after India’s first ever female Prime Minister – is the largest airport in India, and has doubled in size since 2007. Twenty-seven million passengers pass through on their way in, out and through the country every single year.

  As I have my passport and visa checked, collect my luggage and walk out into the arrivals terminal, it looks like they may have all decided to pass through at this precise moment.

  The building is crammed.

  Stuffed with people of every description, age and possible nationality. Businessmen, backpackers, tourists, locals; children, teenagers, old people; babies, men, women.

  All chatting and jostling for space or sitting on suitcases and leaning against the shiny white walls of an incredibly glossy hall.

  I blink anxiously around the room.

  How is anyone possibly going to find me here? There’s just no way that in this total chaos and noise, they’re going to be able to—

  My phone starts ringing.

  Oh. I suppose there’s that.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Harriet?” a woman says with a very faint Indian accent. “My name is Deepika. I’ll be coordinating your entire trip in India so you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  Oh thank God.

  Obviously, I really enjoy being independent and mature and at the top of the organising tree, but I also enjoy not getting lost in the middle of the second most populated country on the planet (experts believe it’ll overtake China in 2023).

  “Hi Deepika,” I say warmly. “Thank you so much. I’m really, really happy to be here.”

  Too happy, possibly.

  Now I’m not stranded indefinitely in a crowded foreign airport, I’m so excited, I’m struggling to stay physically still.

  My Dance of Triumph is about to break out, unedited and uncontrolled: I can feel it.

  With a subtle wiggle, I look up at the huge sculpture hanging over my head. It’s incredibly beautiful: enormous gold copper coins with brass three-dimensional hands emerge from the middle in a variety of graceful gestures.

  I’m sure it must mean something culturally important and artistically significant.

  I can’t wait to find out what.

  “Understandably,” Deepika continues as I do a merry shoulder shimmy, “we’d like to get moving as fast as possible. As you may have noticed, it’s extremely busy in India at the moment and time is of the essence.”

  “Absolutely,” I nod, exuberantly waggling my bottom. “Where shall we meet? Is there a car outside? Shall I come and find you?”

  Then – excitement getting a little too much for me – I hop from side to side a few times and jerk my head like a pigeon. Then I waggle my arms slightly and blow a raspberry, just for good measure.

  Finally, I end my tiny impromptu I Can’t Believe I’m Actually In India Right Now dance with a leap and a quick spin round.

  The final Yessss dies on my lips.

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Deepika smiles, hanging up her phone. “I’m standing directly in front of you.”

  ice one, Harriet.

  Just over an hour and a half in India, and you’re already waggling your bottom at the organiser.

  That is not how a professional behaves.

  Not a professional model, anyway. Maybe a few of the dogs who get taken to Crufts do.

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you time to orientate yourself,” Deepika says, glancing at her watch. “There’s no flexibility on this particular shoot and we’re already running behind.”

  With poise, she’s walking swiftly towards the exit very slightly ahead of me. There’s something curiously cat-like about her: composed and kind of detached.

  She even looks a bit like a cat, with dark skin, long, insanely glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail, thick black flicked eyeliner and a beautiful, silver-coloured Punjabi suit: a long, embroidered tunic with sleeves and loose green trousers.

  I really have to stop doing The Dance of Triumph.

  “Don’t worry,” I say earnestly, skipping to catch up. “I slept the whole journey. I’m not tired in the slightest.”

  “Excellent,” she says with a small smile. “Ideally you were supposed to arrive yesterday and there would have been plenty of time, but our initial plans had to be … adjusted.”

  That’s a very sweet way of saying the girl we originally chose broke her leg so we had to fly you here at the last minute instead.

  Deepika pushes open the glass door and I gasp.

  It’s like being hit in the face with an enormous fist, except instead of flesh and bone this fist is made of hot, solid air and blinding, forty-six-degree sunshine.

  Why on earth would they pick two redheads for this shoot?

  I’m going to get roasted like a pepper.

  Fumbling desperately for my SPF 50, I’m led through soupy, dense air towards a faded red car. We climb into the blessedly air-conditioned back seat and I wipe the sweat already dripping from my flushed forehead.

  “I’m afraid we have some way to go,” Deepika says calmly, leaning forward and nodding to the driver. “And it’s
essential we get there on time or the whole shoot is ruined.”

  I put my seat belt on and look curiously out of the window as the car pulls gently and smoothly away from the kerb. “I understand.”

  Honestly, I just want to get going too: I want to see India, not an airport car park.

  “So we’re going to have to go fast.”

  “No problem.” I peer out at the enormous palm trees, lining the edges of the sunshine-soaked road.

  “Mmm.” Deepika puts on her sunglasses and smooths out her punjabi. “Harriet, you might want to shut your eyes.”

  And so the nightmare begins.

  ast year, I went on a rollercoaster.

  It was in New York, it was called Cyclone, it was eighty-five feet tall and it shot upside down and round and round at sixty miles per hour.

  And for the whole ride, I was convinced I was probably going to die.

  This time, I’m sure of it.

  As the car heads through the dusty outskirts of Delhi – the pastel-painted and grey cement buildings getting smaller and less regularly shaped and the air getting hazier and smokier – the roads begin to fill up.

  And I don’t mean just with cars.

  There are cars, vans, trucks, lorries: weaving in and out, beeping and braking and swerving. Food carts wheel across the road without warning, full of fruits and corns, beans and fried breads. Little green and yellow rickshaws and bicycles bolt haphazardly between spaces; nimble motorbikes lace their way in and out.

  A cow ambles across next to a horse-drawn carriage. People run into the road from the streets, inches from beeping lorries. Scooters perched on by two, three, four, five people – whole families – dip between the traffic: a tiny baby without a helmet held firmly on a lap at the front.

  A bus with thirteen people sitting on the roof and seven standing on the suspension shoots by, followed by a bicycle with a sofa strapped to the back. A big, white, bony cow with prominent shoulder blades draws a packed carriage; a car with fifteen cardboard boxes piled precariously on top takes a sharp left, wobbling as it goes.

  And we just keep driving faster.

  Faster and faster: braking, accelerating, beeping, swerving. Curving around enormous trucks and holes in the road; bolting through dirt and dust until the air and the windows are thick with orange.