Swallowing, I feel myself shrink further: to approximately the size of an Etruscan Shrew, the tiniest mammal on earth.
Wilbur’s not just my agent.
Nearly a year and a half ago he swooped in and pulled me out of a pile of broken hats, and – in one way or another – he’s been swooping in ever since.
Saving me from meltdowns, sabotage and anxiety attacks; defending me against boys and protecting me from designers. Complimenting my Winnie-the-Pooh jumper when nobody else ever does.
Without Wilbur, I wouldn’t be a model.
Wouldn’t have found the confidence to stand up to my bully or make new friends; wouldn’t have flown around the world.
I’d still be a scared little girl breathing hard into a salt and vinegar crisp packet and reciting the periodic table backwards.
My life wouldn’t have changed at all.
And he asks for my help – just once – and what happens?
I don’t even listen to him.
I mean, who are we kidding?
I put ten times more preparation into the bunting I made for the Team JINTH picnic.
And – with a hot wave of shame – I shrink further and further: to the size of a bee hummingbird (two centimetres).
A sea urchin (one centimetre).
A mycoplasma gallicepticum: the smallest living organism on the planet, and (quite fittingly) the tiny bacterium that lives in poop.
Because … Peter Trout was right.
I fell into modelling by accident and I’ve been attempting to wing it ever since. Letting other people save me, over and over again.
Pretending to try, without actually trying.
I sit for a few more minutes, thinking hard.
Then I take my hands from my eyes, uncurl from the pavement and stand up straight.
I might only be one girl, but I can do this.
I know if I just redirect some of my attention and focus, I can get modelling jobs, make money and save Wilbur’s agency.
Because now it’s my turn to be the fairy godmother.
I’m going to flip this fairytale over.
And change Wilbur’s life instead.
just need to survive long enough to do it.
By the time I get home it’s sixty-two minutes later than my allocated fifteen and the house is dark, locked and ominously quiet.
I creep round to the back door: that’s firmly secured as well. I glance up at my bedroom, but unfortunately I took Toby’s Stalker Route down six months ago for his health and safety (and also mine) so that’s no longer an option.
Then I slide around the squashed hydrangea and carefully evaluate the bathroom window. If I can somehow squeeze through it, I can pretend I’ve been on the toilet the whole time and nobody will ever push for details.
Genius.
I’ve just stripped down to my vest top to make myself as aerodynamic as possible when there’s a voice behind me.
“It’s not going to work, you know.”
I spin round: Dad’s standing behind me with an overexcited Hugo on a lead.
“It might work,” I say defensively as Hugo jumps up and affectionately paws my stomach. “I’ve calculated my shoulder width to window ratio and if I go in at an angle it should just about fit.”
“Ah, but you didn’t calculate for what’s on the other side,” Dad says in a wise voice. “The sink’s too close. You’ll slip and end up with your left foot jammed down the toilet bowl until Annabel breaks through the bathroom door and then gets the neighbours to help pull you out again.”
He looks into the sky. “Or something like that, I’d imagine.”
How have I never heard that story before?
“So what do you suggest?”
“If you want to sneak in without disturbing your stepmother, the window in the laundry room is the best option. But Annabel and Bunty are meditating in there while they wait for you so it’s also a no-go.”
I glance at the kitchen window.
“Locked,” Dad says, shaking his head.
Catflap?
“Too small. I’ve tried.”
“Any chance you could pick me up by the feet and hurl me down the chimney? I don’t have time to be in trouble right now. There’s something really important I have to do.”
Dad laughs. “Get behind me.” Then he opens the front door.
“Annabel?” he calls into the empty hallway. “It turns out Harriet did text me. We’ve just been for a walk and she slipped in the mud. She’ll need to sort herself out before movie night.”
I beam at him: that should buy me long enough.
Also, it’s a very believable excuse.
I’ve got the Best Dad Ever.
“Thanks,” I whisper, running up the stairs. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Good. Those stars aren’t going to narrate themselves.” Dad grins widely. “Oh. Wait. Yes, they will.”
Now, I know many things.
I know that there are more life forms living on your skin than there are people on this planet. I know that hamsters can store half their own weight in food in their cheeks, and that astronauts’ hearts become rounder in space.
I even know that the scientific name for a llama is lama glama and have written a very funny rhyming poem about it in the back of my diary.
But of all the things I know, how to Make A Plan is right at the top of the list.
And I’m going to put that particular skill to good use.
By the time I’ve been given a ten-minute warning, there are just three things left to do.
Swallowing, I make the first call.
There’s an immediate click.
“Greetings, bumble-boo! This is Wilbur with a bur and not an iam. Say something interesting and I’ll decide if you’re worth ringing back. Toodle-poo!”
Beep.
“Hi Wilbur! It’s Harriet. So, I was just thinking … I’m at school all week but I’ve just realised how much money I need for uni next year. Could you fit in as many castings for me on Saturday as possible? You’d be doing me a huge favour.”
Wilbur has to think I’ve become incredibly money-hungry overnight or it’s not going to work.
“And …” I hesitate. How do I say I hope you’re OK and I’m here for you please don’t worry about anything it’s going to be OK without giving it all away? “… Gravy.”
I put the phone down and tick the next point off my list.
Then I send a group message.
Team, I know you’re busy but it’s kind of important. Could you spare just half an hour tomorrow morning? Hxx
Finally, I open my laptop.
Wilbur needs all the help he can get.
On the way home, I may have worked out a way of doubling his new agency’s chances; of giving him the best shot at happiness I possibly can.
I’ve just got to hope this works.
With a deep breath, I click a button and watch the webcam light turn green. I watch the dark screen slowly flicker to life. And I make a call that’s going to travel to the other side of the world.
A call that could change everything.
How To Be A Perfect Model
This is exactly why I love my friends.
Last weekend, we had to cancel our plans.
But now I really need them, they’re here.
Yawning and wearing the top half of their purple pyjamas in India’s case because it’s 9am on a Saturday, but here just the same.
Rallied around in my bedroom like friendship superheroes.
I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
“What do you think?” I say once I’ve finished explaining Wilbur’s dilemma. “Do you think I can do it?”
They pass around my latest list in silence.
With thought and care, they give it the respect and attention it deserves.
Then – one by one – they start snorting with laughter.
Honestly, I don’t understand why.
This is the least funny thing I’ve ever wr
itten.
“Sorry,” Nat says eventually, wiping her eyes. “It’s just … Harriet, this is going to be … hard for you.”
Charming.
“It’s not going to be that difficult,” I say, lifting my chin. “What exactly are you insinuating?”
They stare pointedly at the chocolate croissant in my hand. It may or may not be the third I’ve had this morning, and I may or may not have spread it with strawberry jam, butter and Nutella.
I slam it back on the plate defensively.
“Do you think Kate Moss asks her friends if they’d like a Mars Bar whizzed up into a milkshake for breakfast?” Jasper asks faux-innocently.
“It tastes really nice,” I snap. “And if I’m going to be stylish and adopt a healthy living regime, I’ll need all the extra energy I can get.”
“You’ve hidden in the stationery cupboard during every netball match for eleven years,” Nat observes, still grinning. “You once wrote THIS IS THE ONLY KIND OF EXERCISE I LIKE on the front of your maths book.”
“That was a keenly observed pun!”
“Hahaha.” Toby’s still laughing. “Seduce the camera! Harriet Manners! Seduce! Hahaha!”
Apparently only one in twelve friendships last. If they don’t stop undermining me right now, they’re going straight in my eleven.
“Actually, I can be very alluring,” I say, folding my arms crossly, cheeks going pink. “Many boys have been completely overwhelmed by my attractive and seductive strategies and charm.”
“Haha!” Toby laughs, rolling over on my bed. “Harriet, do you remember that time we kissed? No offence, but you were terrible. Diabolical. Really quite horrifically, atrociously, unspeakably—”
“We’ve got it. Offence taken.”
“Wait,” Jasper says, pausing from examining the notes on my revision pegboard. “Hang on, you kissed Toby? When did that happen?”
“243 days ago.” Toby opens his diary at a starred bookmark. “In Japan. Sadly while I adore Harriet mentally, physically we are not chemically aligned. I believe she’s been rebounding in pain ever since.”
“So …” Jasper frowns, “I don’t think I understand the timeline. Was this before or after N—”
“Anyway,” Nat says smoothly, lobbing a balled-up yellow Post-it at him, “all I’m saying, Harriet, is of course we’ll help. We like Wilbur and we love you. Whatever you need.”
The sudden relief is intense.
If I’m being honest, I didn’t see this list being particularly easy to tick off either. Of all the instructions I’ve given myself to follow, not surviving off a form of sugar like a bumblebee is probably the hardest.
Also, I’m kind of hoping if I distribute tasks cleverly and sensitively it’ll help cheer them all up too.
This could fix six birds with one well-organised and perfectly aimed stone and they won’t even know it.
“Brilliant,” I say, pulling out four individually bound files in different colours. “Because I’ve delegated each of you a specific skill set to lead on.”
Jubilantly, I hand out the folders and wait for the collective Team JINTH delight.
“FASHION AND STYLING,” Nat reads from the front of a large blue folder.
“RESEARCH AND PREPARATION,” Toby says, flicking avidly through a huge red one. “Ooh! This is just like the Sorting Hat, Harriet! Except with a lot more paperwork.”
“Coffee?” Jasper says, flicking his single piece of yellow paper. “My specific skill set is hot beverages?”
“And cold,” I remind him. “It’s important to stay flexible.”
Then we turn to look at India, sitting quietly in the corner. Her face is expressionless and she’s carefully examining the purple timetable stuck in the back of her folder.
“Confidence,” she says without looking up. “You’ve given me a new revision schedule, Harriet. With time slots.”
“You’re welcome,” I beam modestly. “That should make everything much more streamlined for you and help boost those girls.”
Then I sit down at my desk and prepare for the hardest homework of my life.
For the first time, I’m not modelling to transform or undergo some kind of metamorphosis. I’m not running away or chasing towards anything, and I’m not seeking popularity or power.
No: I’m just going to step up and be a professional.
Starting right now.
s predicted, Nat doesn’t need telling twice.
Judging by the speed with which my Best Friend bounces off my bed, shouts “Me first! Sit down, Toby, I SAID ME FIRST,” and jumps into my wardrobe, she’s clearly been waiting to give me a makeover for quite some time.
Eleven years, quite possibly.
I’m trying to pretend she didn’t roll her sleeves up first: I assumed this was more of a tweak rather than a demolition job.
“No,” she says brusquely as the Winnie-the-Pooh and Eeyore jumper I wore to Russia comes sailing out of the wardrobe.
“Nah.” The Halloween black-spider-onesie lands on top, eight legs flailing. “Nope nope nope,” she says as my red bobble hat, lobster shoes and gold star top hit the floor.
“Not this either.” The red halter-neck dress decorated with hearts lands at my feet with a plop.
My own heart gives a little painful twist.
So many seminal outfits: so many precious, irreplaceable memories. I can literally see the last fifteen months of my life piling up in front of my eyes.
Also – “Nat, you bought me that.”
“I know,” she says, head momentarily reappearing from the depths of my wardrobe. “It’s gorgeous and that’s the problem. When you walk into a go-see, do you want the thing they notice to be the clothes?”
I suppose I hadn’t thought of it like that.
“Have you still got your Cream of Tomato Soup costume?” Toby asks curiously. “It shows Harriet is versatile enough to model both clothes and food.”
“Plus,” Jasper adds, “nothing says hot like a bowl of steaming liquid.”
They all laugh and I scowl.
Up to the age of sixteen, girls have an average of one point higher in IQ than boys, and I think this proves it. Although frankly Jasper’s seventeen: there’s no excuse.
India says something about needing the bathroom and slips out of the door.
“Now.” Nat rummages for a few more minutes, then holds up a pair of plain black leggings I didn’t even know I owned, a slim black V-neck T-shirt and black pumps. “Harriet, take those clothes off.”
Jasper abruptly stops laughing.
“Uh.” He takes a few steps sideways, like a crab. “I’ve – uh – just remembered I’ve got to … Uh. Tables. Work. Coffee. Bye.”
And he quickly strides out of the room.
Even though it’s a Saturday morning and the cafe doesn’t open for another hour and a half. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a shift today.
Brilliant. Boys now physically run away from me at the first sign of a bra strap.
Nat stares pointedly at Tobes, then sighs, pushes him out of the room and slams the door behind him. “Hey, Jas!” we hear him call out. “Wow, you got down the stairs fast.”
“Here,” Nat says more gently, handing me the pile of plain black Lycra. “Put this on.”
“But,” I object as my BFF carefully ties my hair into a tight bun and pins up my fringe, “I don’t look fashionable at all.”
Honestly, I look like I’m about to attend a yoga teacher’s funeral.
“Exactly,” Nat says, patting my face with a little tinted moisturiser, then applying one layer of mascara and a swipe of pink lip balm. “Fashion’s their job, Harriet. Yours is to be the blank canvas. Let them see it properly.”
She carefully tweaks my outfit a few times, then pulls me in front of a mirror.
For the first time in my personal history, there are no cartoon hamsters or ponies, no attached multicoloured feathers, no mini-pigs, no fringe in my eyes or straps breaking. No mismatched shoes, no sweat,
no gold on my face or chocolate on my top lip.
I look like me, except neat and tidy.
Nat’s a style prodigy.
Although I can’t believe that after fifteen full months of trying, my spider onesie was actually the closest I ever got to getting it right.
I sneak a look at the reflection of Nat behind me. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes are shining and there’s a bounce back in her step. She really does love fashion: just not the essay-writing part of it.
I’d say that’s the Happiness Goal for ‘N’ achieved.
So I’d better leave her alone to get on with her studies: the best gift I can possibly give her.
And the most difficult to offer.
“Harriet?” a voice calls through the door as Nat glances at her watch, mutters shoot and grabs her bag again. “You just got an email from Wilbur. Also one about fifteen per cent off pencils at the Natural History Museum. It’s a very good deal, I strongly advise going for it.”
I pull open my bedroom door sharply. “Toby. How do you know my password?”
“I’m Head of Research and Preparation,” he says in surprise. “It’s my job.”
I should have thought this through more carefully.
Fine. I’ll just change it when he’s gone home. “What does it say?”
“These pencils are made of the finest quality wood with engraved lettering and …”
“The email from Wilbur, Toby.”
“He can sort something for next Saturday but he doesn’t want to exhaust you. There’s also a very strange photo of a kitten with a moustache.”
Even at his lowest, Wilbur’s still trying to make me smile. “Please email back and tell him to cram as many appointments in as possible. I’m not fussy.”
“Done,” Toby says after a slight pause. “I’ve also purchased you four pencils because it really is an excellent deal.”
I make a mental note to change my bank details too.
Then I stick my head into the hallway. “India? It’s your turn! I’ve got books I can pile on my h …”
The bathroom door is open.
“India?” I hop downstairs. “India?” I try the living room. “India?” I hop into the garden, as if she might be wandering desperately around our flowerbeds, looking for somewhere alternative to urinate.