by Holly Smale
Not that I think of Nick like that. We’re just colleagues.
Dad, in the meantime, is sucking the attention up as fast as physically possible. “My daughter,” he’s saying to anyone who will listen. “The strawberry-blonde one. Can you see?” He keeps pointing to his own hair. “Genetically mine. It’s actually a recessive gene so she was very lucky because her mother was a brunette.”
“Dad,” I whisper again and roughly four more ways to kill him race through my head. “Please.”
“Harriet, this is all so… so…”Dad sighs happily while he looks for the right word, dusting off his nineties vocab. “Rad,” he finishes and I have to put my hand over my face to hide my embarrassment.
It’s not enough to ruin this moment, though. I’m in Red Square. To my left is the Kremlin, which houses Lenin’s Mausoleum, and in front of me is St Basil’s Cathedral, one of the most amazing and famous pieces of architecture in the entire world. There’s the GUM department store, and the State Historical Museum, and the Kazan Cathedral. There’s even a bronze statue of Kuzma Minin and Dmitry Pozharsky, although it’s so covered in snow I can’t see who is who.
It’s stunning, which shouldn’t really be a surprise. It’s not called Red Square because it’s red. It’s because the Russian word for red – KpacHaЯ– also means beautiful. This is their beautiful square.
There are so many people making so much noise – so many objects I don’t really recognise – that it takes me quite a few moments to realise that Nick has disappeared completely again and the crowd is starting to part in the middle, like the Red Sea except Black.
It slowly gets quieter and the parting widens until there’s a distinct snowy pathway up the middle. Even Wilbur stops talking and the only sound left is the kitten, who now and then makes a small squeaking sound like a door shutting.
“Here she comes,” somebody whispers in what sounds a lot like terror, and all heads turn in one direction.
Stalking up the pathway on the highest black heels I’ve ever seen is Yuka Ito. And she’s staring directly at me.
ow I could be wrong, but Yuka Ito appears to be wearing exactly the same outfit, except with bright orange lipstick instead of purple. For somebody so high up in the fashion industry, she seems to have even fewer wardrobe options than I do.
Yuka stops two metres away from where we’re all standing, totally mesmerised. She doesn’t look happy. Although obviously I’m not sure what happiness looks like for Yuka Ito. Let’s just say the snow on her shoulders doesn’t appear to be melting in the slightest.
“Wilbur,” she says in a voice so appropriately icy it’s like it’s coming from the sky. “What, precisely, do you think your job is?”
“Other than being generally fabulous?”
“Debatable,” Yuka snaps. “Would you say that your job entails getting my models to me at the time I’ve asked you to get them to me?”
Wilbur thinks about this for a few seconds. “I would say it’s definitely on the list, yes.”
“Then could you explain why they’re both forty-five minutes late?”
“Darling,” Wilbur sighs, rolling his eyes. “Turning up on time is so keen. Not cool. Plus –” and he makes a little gesture and lowers his voice, as if telling us a secret –“it’s snowing.”
“Yes, I was vaguely aware of that. Although everybody else managed to get here on time because in Russia snow is not, shall we say, unexpected.” Yuka’s lips press together in a straight line and then she looks at me. “Could you also explain why the female face of my new collection is sporting some kind of head accessory?”
Head accessory? What is she… Oh. My whole being goes bright red. She’s talking about the spot. If there was a light above my head, I suspect it would be turned off about now.
“If you cast a teenager,” Wilbur says patiently, “that’s a risk that comes with the territory. They’re skinny, yes, but just full of hormones and pus. It’s like employing a tiger and then complaining because it has whiskers.”
Yuka looks at me impassively. I’ve definitely felt prettier. She makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Fine,” she says in a snipped voice. “We’ll digitally enhance her beyond recognition anyway. Take her to the hotel to get ready while we set up and do Nick’s solo shots. You’ve got an hour and a half.” And then she clicks her fingers at a handful of people standing directly to her right. “There’s a list. Follow it exactly. Let me make this clear: this is not your time to shine creatively.” She scowls at the crowd in general. “Now,” she adds. “Why are you all still standing there? I’m finished.”
And then she walks back through the black sea, which closes neatly around her.
I look at Wilbur in bewilderment.
“List?” I say finally. “What list?”
“I believe, Munchkin-face, that’ll be the list of what we’re going to do about this.” And then he waves his hand in my direction.
Apparently by this he means me.
“But,” I finally manage to blurt, “I thought you said I was perfect just the way I was?” At which point Wilbur throws his head back and roars with laughter.
And that, apparently, is my answer.
o I have a confession to make: I haven’t come here totally unprepared. I mean, I can’t expect them to do everything, can I? If I want to be cool, I have to put a little effort in. Participate in my own metamorphosis.
So I spent a few hours last night doing some research on the internet. I know a whole lot more about the fashion industry than I did before. And I’m kind of excited because now I get a chance to prove it and, maybe, start making a little progress in the right direction.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” one of the women wearing black says. I’ve been taken out of the snow and put into a little hotel room just behind Red Square. I’ve never seen so many beauty products, make-up items and hairbrushes. There’s even one of those headlamps set up, like the one my grandma uses when she gets a perm.
I sit down. Another woman gets a piece of paper out and looks at it. “Are you kidding me?” she says in disbelief. “No cat eyes? Doesn’t Yuka know it’s all about cat eyes this season?”
The other woman shrugs. “Prada have just done it so it’s officially over already.”
I blink. This isn’t quite the conversation I was gearing up for, but I shall do my best to keep up.
“You know,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to look as casual as possible, “cats’ eyes have a mirror-like membrane on the back to maximise light exposure. That’s why they shine in the dark.”
The two ladies look at me. “That’s… nice.”
“And on the subject of fashion,” I add quickly, mentally trawling through the research I did last night, “did you know that in the eighteenth century it was very hip to stick on eyebrows made out of mice skin?”
They gaze at me in silence.
“Also,” I add, determined to keep going until they’re impressed, “did you know that there are buttons on coat sleeves because Napoleon ordered them to stop his soldiers wiping their noses on their jackets?”
“That’s gross,” one of them points out.
“But weirdly interesting,” the other one adds.
See? I told you my research would pay off. I’ve already won over a little bit of the fashion industry with my hip knowledge.
“Now,” she continues, looking at the list again, “we’ve got just enough time to do your make-up after. And get you into the clothes.”
I stare at her and then I stare at Dad who’s wandering around the room picking things up and putting them down again. (“Look, Harriet! A Russian Bible! It’s all in Russian!”) Dad shrugs nonchalantly as I raise my eyebrows at him. “No idea what anyone’s talking about, sweetheart. Don’t look at me.”
“After what?” I ask tentatively, looking at Wilbur.
We’ve got an hour and a half. How much time does it take to put on a bit of lipstick and a dress? How much time does it take to make me into a model? How ugly d
o they think I am?
Wilbur claps his hands together. “Ah, my little Pineapple-chunk, this is the best bit,” he explains. “I’ve been excited about it ever since I saw The List.”
I look around the room and already I can feel a sense of impending doom. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, come on,” Wilbur shouts in excitement, starting to jump up and down. “What happens to the Ugly Duckling to turn her into a swan?”
The blood drains from my face. “You’re making me go swimming?”
“Yes!” Wilbur shouts excitedly. “We’re making you go—” and then he stops. “What? No, honey. We’re giving you a haircut.” At which point the door opens.
“And that,” Wilbur adds, pointing to the incredibly short man who has just walked in, “is the wizard who is going to transform you.”
Right, I’m not sure what fairytales Wilbur has been reading, but at no stage in any of Hans Christian Andersen’s stories does the Ugly Duckling get a haircut.
The Ugly Duckling gradually becomes the beautiful bird on the outside that he always was on the inside. It’s a story about inner beauty and embracing who you truly are and fulfilling your destiny (and also ignoring mean ducks who have a go at you in the process).
He doesn’t just get a haircut. I’ve tried explaining this to Wilbur, but he’s having none of it. “What are you talking about, Treacle-bottom?” he says distractedly, still dancing round my chair like some kind of excited leprechaun. “So how does he go from all ratty and grey to beautiful and smooth and white then? Are you telling me a hairdresser wasn’t involved?”
I’m not quite sure what to say to that, so instead I shut up and stare at the hairdresser – a French man called Julien – who is walking solemnly round in the opposite direction.
“Now,” Julien says, “ma petite puce. Wot iz your name again?”
“Harriet Manners,” I say, sticking my hand out awkwardly. Did he just call me a flea?
Julien stares at my hand in shock. “Mon Dieu,” he says, appalled. “I am French. We do not touch ’ands. It is un’igienic.”
“Sorry,” I say, pulling it back as quickly as possible and wiping it on my trousers.
“Non, instead we do a little kissin’. Like zis.” And he leans forward and kisses Wilbur three times on the cheeks and then once lingeringly on the lips.
Wilbur giggles. “Best bit of my trip,” he whispers to me behind his hand. “I do love Frenchmen.”
“Ze lip bit was just for Wilbur,” Julien explains. “We don’t do zat in France. Alors.” He grabs my face and stands behind me, looking into the mirror. Then Wilbur’s face pokes up to the right, and Dad’s face pokes up to the left until all three are staring at me like a bad eighties album cover.
“Zis ’air,” Julien continues. “It iz big.”
“Yes,” I agree.
“It iz too big. It iz… ’ow you say… flooding you.”
“Drowning?” Dad offers helpfully.
“Mais oui. You are nuthin’ but a little wave in an ocean of ’air. We cannot see your features. It iz all lost.” Julien looks at Wilbur and then looks back at me. “Yuka iz right,” he says finally, and Wilbur gives a little squeal as if somebody just trod on his toe and he’s happy about it. I’m not feeling as comfortable with this conversation as I should be.
“Your ’air,” Julien explains in a nonchalant voice, “iz too big for your ’ead.”
“It’s supposed to be,” I explain. “More room to hide.”
“Non.” Julien pushes me back down again. “A little ’ead needs little ’air.”
“And a little ego needs lots,” I argue, but it’s too late. Julien has put a thick lock of my hair between his scissors and he’s moving them closer and closer to my head. “Dad!” I yell. “Do something!”
“Touch a hair on my daughter’s head,” Dad says firmly, standing up, “and my wife will sue you all.”
“OK,” Julien shrugs.
And then he lops the whole lot off.
y dad is having a breakdown.
He keeps looking at my head and then murmuring, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, and putting his hands over his eyes. “I think Annabel is going to notice this one,” he says eventually.
I touch the hair clutched between my fingers. An hour ago it was waist-length and now it’s bobbed to just below my ears. I also have a short spiky fringe which is going to be standing vertically for the rest of my teens.
Julien is calling this look “La Jeanne d’Arc for the New Decade”. I think it means that I’m going to be sent to the wrong toilet in restaurants until it grows back again.
“Darling,” the stylist says, patting me on the shoulder, “I know you must be gutted: the loss of your femininity and so on. But we don’t really have time for this. We need to get you ready.”
I nod, and then pull myself together and get off the bed. I can’t complain just because my idea of a transformation apparently isn’t the same as anyone else’s, i.e. to make me look better.
“OK,” I say bravely, getting into the make-up chair. I’m going to just let them do whatever it is these people want to do.
Which is, apparently, bore me to death.
Being transformed is incredibly dull. It’s like watching somebody you don’t know paint by numbers. They inexplicably paint my face with something the same colour as my face, then put pink stuff where I was blushing before they covered it up, and then give me lots of black mascara that goes into my eyes, and then bright pink lips.
Then they put shimmery stuff on my shoulders, and shimmery stuff in my hair, and then they hand me my ‘outfit’. I’ve used quotation marks, for the record, because it’s not an outfit. It’s a short fake fur coat and a pair of the highest red heels I have ever seen. And that’s it.
No, sorry. I’ve also got a pair of big black knickers you just can’t see under the coat and a sheer pair of tights that are totally transparent and do nothing apart from make my legs look weird and shiny, like the legs of a Barbie.
I stare at it all for a few seconds in disbelief and then take it into the bathroom to maintain my modesty, which for some unknown reason everybody seems to think is really funny. Then I sit on the seat of the toilet to put ‘the outfit’ on.
Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there.
“Harriet?” a concerned voice eventually says, accompanied by a knocking on the door. “It’s Dad. Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“She’s probably so mesmerised by her own beauty she can’t move away from the mirror,” I hear Wilbur stage-whisper. “It’s why I’m always late.” Then he knocks on the door as well. “Look away from the reflection, baby,” he shouts through the wood. “Just look away and the spell will be broken.”
“Dad? Can you come in here? I’m on the toilet.”
There’s a pause. “Darling, I love you very much. You’re my only child and the apple of my eye and whatnot. But I’m not coming in there if you’re on the toilet.”
I sigh in frustration. “With the seat down, Dad. I’m sitting on the toilet. As a chair.”
“Oh. OK.” Dad pokes his head round the door. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t stand up.”
“You’re paralysed? How did that happen?”
“No, I literally can’t stand up. The heels are too big, Dad. I can’t walk in them.” I try to stand up and my ankles buckle and I collapse back on to the toilet.
“Oh.” Dad frowns. “Why hasn’t Annabel been teaching you how to walk in heels? I thought we had an agreement: I teach you how to be cool and she trains you how to be a girl.”
I stare at him in silence. This explains so much. “I’ve never worn heels before. So what am I going to do?”
Dad thinks about it and then starts singing ‘Lean on Me’ by Al Green. He bends down and I take one wobbly step and hang on to his shoulder like a tipsy baby koala hanging on to a eucalyptus tree. Then Dad spins me round so I’m facing away from the door.
“What are you doing?” I snap
crossly. I’m currently failing to be a girl, let alone a model. “The exit’s that way.”
“Before we go anywhere, I want you to see this,” Dad says and he points in the mirror.
Next to a reflection that looks exactly like my dad is a girl. She’s got white skin and sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin and green eyes. She has thin long legs and a long neck and she’s sort of graceful yet clumsy-looking, like a baby deer. It’s only when I lean forward a bit and see that her nose turns up at the end just like mine does that I fully register that it’s me.
That’s me? Wow. The beauty industry actually works. I look… I look… I look kind of OK.
“You can say what you like,” Dad says after a moment. “But I think me and your mum must have done something right.”
I make an embarrassed but pleased peeping sound.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m taking full credit for the hair. But she had all the beauty. She’d be so stoked right now.” Then Dad spins me round again so that my toes are on top of his feet and starts half-carrying, half-dancing me out of the bathroom. “Roar for me?” he demands.
“Rooooaaaar.”
“That’s the one. Now let’s go get ’em, Tiger.”
“I think this is leopard, actually,” I point out, looking at the coat. “Tigers have stripes.”
Dad gives me his widest grin. “Then let’s go get ’em, Leopard.”
It takes another four minutes to get out of the bathroom, and by the time I’m back in the hotel room, Dad has corrected the leopard analogy to “baby giraffe learning how to ice-skate”.
Which is extremely unkind. I’d like to see him try and walk with eight-inch spikes attached to his feet. Plus, giraffes never lie down and there are at least three points where I’m sort of horizontal.
