Head Over Heels

  “Trafalgar Square,” I say in confusion. “You need paperwork to shoot there, so I assumed …”

  We’ve walked round the corner and stopped outside a big grey building with carvings over an enormous curved doorway and pillars: Trafalgar Square is no longer actually visible.

  “Well,” Jasper says, lifting his eyebrows, “you know what they say about assuming, Harriet-uccino.”

  “It makes an ass out of the Ming dynasty?”

  I’m rewarded with a sharp laugh.

  “Nope.” Jasper points upwards. “It means you’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion, yet again. We’re going in here.”

  ow, I know a fair amount about art.

  I know that red paint was more valuable to Aztecs than gold and that Sir Isaac Newton invented the colour wheel.

  I know that when the Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre the empty space attracted more visitors than the painting and when lit a coloured crayon will burn for thirty minutes straight.

  I even know that in 1964 a Swedish journalist exhibited pictures drawn by a chimpanzee to see if professional art critics could tell the difference.

  (For the record – they couldn’t.)

  But it doesn’t matter how many facts I know about art, I don’t totally get it. And I can say that with some confidence, because that’s exactly what my art teacher, Mr Randulph, wrote on my Year Nine Report Card.

  All of which means I may have visited every other museum and exhibition in London more times than I can possibly count.

  But I have never, ever been here.

  The same cannot be said for Jasper.

  From the moment we walk through the big glass doors of the National Portrait Gallery, he looks different.

  Poised, determined, comfortable.

  I stare at him in surprise.

  Has he transformed, or is he always like this and he’s just finally in the right environment? The way a wolf in a grey, dull city would just look like a big dog until you finally saw it in a forest: being who it’s meant to be.

  Without a word, Jasper carries on walking.

  Straight through the high-ceilinged, wood-panelled rooms, past pictures of people I recognise – Shakespeare, David Bowie, Jane Austen – and people I definitely don’t: rosy-cheeked children, men with austere pointy beards, and women with elaborately jewelled dresses and tiny dogs.

  Finally he stops in front of a black and white photograph of Winston Churchill.

  “There,” he says with a nod. “Your inspiration.”

  I look around the room, because I’m obviously missing something.

  “Umm.” I glance at Jasper’s profile, but he’s still staring at the picture. How do I put this politely? “I’m not entirely sure you understand the world of fashion modelling, Jasper.”

  In all my time as a teenage model, nobody has ever asked me to be like the man who led Britain to victory in the Second World War.

  “This was taken in 1941,” Jasper says, ignoring me completely. “Churchill was tired and didn’t want his portrait taken. Yousuf Karsh, the photographer, refused to give him a drink, ripped the cigar out of his mouth and took the photo before he could respond.”

  I look at the photo more closely. Churchill looks genuinely furious: belligerent, bullish, as if he’s seconds away from ripping the room apart.

  “This photo helped to win the war,” Jasper adds, almost as an afterthought. “It showed how terrifying and inflexible he could be.”

  Then Jasper turns and continues walking.

  He stops in front of a portrait of a pretty lady in a blue dress.

  “This was the wife of the artist’s best friend,” Jasper says. “He was in love with her, and she never actually knew it. This was his way of communicating how he felt.”

  Then, without waiting for a response, he turns and keeps walking, pausing in front of a painting of a woman sleeping peacefully with a hand curled under her face.

  “This is Lady Venetia. She died an hour before this painting was made. Her husband was so heartbroken he commissioned a painter immediately and kept this next to his bed for the rest of his life. He believed her spirit had gone into the painting.”

  A lump rises into my throat. That’s so incredibly sad, and so incredibly beautiful.

  And also a bit like a creepy Oscar Wilde novel.

  “Jasper …” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  “Every picture tells a story, Harriet. Sometimes we know what the story is. We know it’s rage, or sadness, or love, or grief. And sometimes we don’t. But they all have one.”

  He gestures around the room.

  Blinking, I lean towards a large painting of a young girl. She’s standing next to a brown and white dog, a triumphant smile at the corner of her lips.

  And the meaning of what Jasper’s saying is slowly starting to hit me.

  It’s not enough for me to just be there.

  These portraits capture fleeting moments. They’re emotions immortalised, a transient life made permanent: however personal or public, private or shared.

  In a world where everything changes, these are points of time that stand still. A way to hold on to something that can’t last forever.

  And the same goes for each of my photos.

  The fear and confusion in my face when I was trapped in a glass box full of dolls; the bewilderment as I was covered in octopus ink. The glowing snowflakes photo, taken moments after my hand was held for the first ever time. The second I fell in love, immortalised in a shining lake.

  Even those first few clumsy polaroids: the anxiety of a bullied girl, thrown into a world she didn’t think she could or should be part of.

  All the stories I’ve already told, without even knowing it.

  “Harriet,” Jasper says, turning and looking straight at me, “as a model, you are a blank canvas. It’s up to you to paint a picture.”

  I blink at him as the box in my head rattles a few times. That’s just what Nat said too, isn’t it?

  I’ve never seen my job as anything more than meaningless expensive photos of clothes before – with me as a giant living breathing doll – but maybe it’s more than that.

  Maybe it’s art too.

  Huh. I should go get my Year Nine Report Card and ask for a reassessment: I think I finally get it.

  I stare at Jasper.

  You know, it’s weird. I’ve always thought his face was round, but it isn’t: it’s kind of a heart shape. And though I initially evaluated his hair (a little unkindly) as mousey, up close it’s actually bronzes and browns and golds and blonds.

  Lots of bright colours, mixed up together.

  “Thank you,” I say after a short pause. “You’re a good friend.”

  “Yeah.” Jasper smiles slightly. “Probably too good. I’m expecting my medal any day now.” He hands me my folder. “Come on, Harriet-uccino. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. Let’s get back home.”

  bviously, it’s important to stay realistic.

  So as much as I’d love everything to go perfectly on Saturday morning, I’m not really expecting to stick precisely to my Plan A itinerary.

  In fact, given the Universe’s refusal to ever – in sixteen whole years – follow my plans properly (or, frankly, at all), I’ve actively lowered my expectations.

  This means I’ve also written a Plan B:

  A brief Plan C:

  And a very cursory Plan D:

  Mainly because these are all things that have already happened to me at some point so I need to stay on guard in case they decide to happen again.

  It turns out I don’t need any alternative plans.

  For the first time ever, the Universe decides it’s on board with my preferred itinerary.

  Inexplicably, I fall asleep at 10pm and wake up a full nine hours later, feeling refreshed and full of energy. A quick experimental prod confirms that the pulsating spot on my cheek has magically disappeared overnight.

  Then I roll over and read these thre
e texts:

  With a tiny squeak of excitement, I check my emails, jump out of bed and do a little Dance of Triumph around my bedroom: I’m one step further on my Get Wilbur Happy Again plan.

  Then, following my clearly outlined Team JINTH instructions, I somehow manage to get ready without spilling foundation on my black Lycra or brutally stabbing myself in the eye with a mascara wand. I don’t burn breakfast or resort to half a bar of chocolate instead, and I actually remember to tuck a pile of comp cards in the front of the orange PEAK portfolio Wilbur sent me.

  (Yes, I Googled what comp card means.)

  Finally – after a quick check that I’m not sporting a moustache or gold face paint or odd shoes – I start bouncing optimistically towards the door.

  Plan A has been completed in its entirety.

  I can’t believe it: karma actually works.

  After years of the cosmos ignoring every plan I’ve ever had, now I’m dedicated to helping others the Universe has finally started appreciating just how efficient and well thought through my arrangements actually—

  “Harriet? Sweetheart, where are you going?”

  Annabel appears at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a smart white shirt and ironed black trousers, with Tabby curled sleepily in her arms.

  It’s 8am on a Saturday morning: at this point, my family’s normally running round in a panic, trying to coordinate my sister’s various body functions.

  “Good morning!” Smiling, I kiss Tabby’s cheek. “I’m off to London for the day. Remember?”

  Annabel blinks a few times with puffy eyes.

  “N-ooo. I don’t … think so.”

  “Sure you do.” Swiftly, I grab the smart black coat Nat’s lent me so I don’t ‘ruin all her hard work’. “I told you over breakfast on Monday that a musophobist is a person who distrusts poetry and turophobia is a fear of cheese and a Hellenologophobia is a dislike of Greek terms, and then I told you I’m doing some castings in London today for Wilbur.”

  I’m not going to lie: I may have slipped it on the end of that very long list intentionally.

  My facts have cunning multiple purposes.

  “But don’t worry,” I add cheerfully, swinging open the front door, “I’ll definitely be home before it gets dark.”

  According to the itinerary I definitely won’t, but even Frodo only needed to confront one difficult mission at a time.

  Waving, I start down the garden path.

  “Umm.” Annabel clears her throat behind me. “Oh God, Harriet. I’m so, so sorry, but I didn’t hear you and I thought I’d told you but I obviously didn’t and … things are a bit up in the air and I must have dropped that particular ball … and …”

  I stop walking and turn round slowly: doom starting to impend.

  “Told me what?”

  Annabel has a very un-Annabel look on her face. “Your dad’s got a second interview in Manchester today. He left an hour ago.”

  I blink. “Really? But that’s great!”

  “And your grandmother and I have an important day booked that we really can’t get out of. A spa-type thing.”

  “How lovely!” Doom’s still impending, but I can’t work out which direction it’s coming from. Unless they expect me to sit with them in a sauna, because that’s never going to happen: I spend half my life bright red as it is.

  There’s a long silence while my stepmother apologises energetically with her eyebrows.

  “And …” I prompt, waving my hand in a circle.

  “And …” Annabel says, then – incredibly slowly, with the speed of a feather falling – she looks straight at me, and then pointedly down at Tabitha.

  And there it is: DOOM.

  The cutest, fluffiest, most adorable fat-cheeked doom known to mankind.

  “But …” No. No no. This can’t be happening. My plans. My perfect plans. “I can’t stay home to babysit, Annabel. I promised Wilbur. I’ve spent a whole week preparing for this.”

  I used up seven plastic folders.

  “I’m so sorry, Harriet,” Annabel says, her complexion changing from white to slightly grey. “We have to leave right now and it’s just too late to find anyone else. Maybe you could rearrange it?”

  “Sure,” I snap. “I’ll just ask all the top photographers and designers and editors in London to reschedule their job interviews to a time more convenient for me, shall I?”

  Annabel looks up from trying to gently disentangle Tabby’s clingy little hands from around her neck, like one of those gooey little rubber men stuck to a window.

  “Hmm?” she says, kissing the top of Tabby’s head. “That sounds like a great idea, sweetheart. Do that.”

  Oh my God.

  Do I have to explain sarcasm to her too?

  “But …” Say something, Harriet. “Annabel, I don’t … This is … Can’t you … I won’t …”

  According to my fact books, the Spanish national anthem has no words. In an incredibly unfair turn of events, apparently now I don’t either.

  “Thank you so much, darling,” Annabel says quickly, plopping a sleepy Tabitha in my arms. “We’re both very grateful.” Then she leans into the hallway. “Mum! We’re late! Are you ready?”

  There’s a tinkle of bells.

  Then – in a floating mass of scarves, feathers and long skirts – Bunty wafts out of the living room, pink hair piled into a top-knot, large tasselled bag flung over her shoulder. Smelling of something smoky and sweet, like barbecued cherry blossoms.

  “For my next adventure, darling?” she beams brightly, kissing me on the cheek. “Always.”

  Then they both climb into the pink VW Beetle and drive off at top speed.

  Leaving me holding the baby.

  ere are a few interesting facts:

  It takes ten litres of water to make a single A4 sheet of paper, and wasted pages account for 25 per cent of landfill. Globally, we destroy between three and six billion trees every single year.

  I should probably stop printing my plans out: they are literally not worth the paper I’ve written them on.

  Also, I am never speaking to the Universe again.

  Blinking in dismay, I stand on the doorstep with Tabitha and stare at the road, praying they’ll come straight back again.

  Panic is starting to surge through me.

  It’s like sitting in front of a line of dominoes with a strong breeze blowing and my finger stretched out.

  If today falls, everything else falls too.

  Without today, I can’t get modelling jobs. Without modelling jobs, there’s no money for Wilbur, without money Wilbur’s agency fails, he goes bankrupt and so on, tumbling in a series of disastrous clicks.

  Until all my plans are lying in a pile at my feet: just another big old mess.

  And I cannot let that happen.

  Brain whirring, I glance down at Tabitha. Her thumb is in her mouth, her eyes are flickering shut and her tiny pink hand is firmly gripping Dunky the fluffy donkey.

  She looks so sweet. Serene. Completely at peace.

  Easily managed.

  Let’s be honest: I could probably do with a little moral support today anyway. And at no stage whatsoever did Annabel say I had to stay here to look after Tabitha. It was heavily inferred, but never actually clarified verbally.

  So, legally, it’s open to interpretation.

  In a flash of inspiration, I run into the kitchen, grab a handful of milk bottles from the fridge and lob them into a large quilted bag with five spare nappies.

  Hope rising, I cram a plastic musical puzzle in as well, in case she gets bored. Then I pop a floppy, sleepy Tabby in the buggy, fling my satchel over my shoulder and start off towards London as fast as I can.

  These dominoes are staying up.

  I’m going to conquer the modelling world today, everything’s going to go as planned and now I’m simply taking my baby sister with me.

  After all, how difficult can that be?

  get my answer within fifteen seconds.


  The first five are fine: I manage to wrangle the buggy out of the front door, close it behind me and somehow get us both on the path.

  Six, seven and eight are also doable.

  We reach the front gate and I manage to get it open while also waving at our neighbours and praying they don’t have Annabel’s mobile number.

  It’s at second nine that it starts to go wrong.

  The back wheel of the buggy gets wedged against the gate pole and I jiggle it slightly to release it.

  Muttering, I jiggle again.

  Then again.

  But it’s on the fourth jiggle that Tabby abruptly wakes up and I watch in slow motion as she flings her arm out and Dunky goes flying: over the edge of the buggy, and on to the grass next to us.

  And before I can even start to bend down to retrieve it, Victor has raced out from under a bush and grabbed Dunky in his mouth.

  My stomach lurches in horror.

  No. No. No no no no.

  “No!” I yell at him as he bounds a few steps away. “Bring that back! Bad kitty!”

  Victor pauses, orange tail waving.

  He gives me a dark, evil look that makes it clear why Pope Innocent VIII had all cats declared as demons in the 15th century.

  With a small growl, he disappears with Dunky into the overgrowth.

  And that’s when the screaming starts.

  Statistically, a baby will cry for an average of two hours a day. Tabby has decided to ignore these basic guidelines.

  With grief and rage, my sister shrieks as I clamber into the bush after Victor, to no avail. She howls as I offer up every other toy in the house and bawls as I give up and start jogging us towards the station, singing Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star as loudly as I can.

  She squalls as I ram the buggy on to the train and weeps on the underground: ululates down Carnaby Street and vociferates into Broadwick Street.

  She laments loudly in five different toyshops while I try desperately to find a replacement Dunky.

  By the time I find some kind of inferior blue stuffed horse and start running towards my first appointment of the day – already forty-five minutes late – I’ve run out of words to describe my sibling’s fury.