by Holly Smale
“Errr,” I say, bobbing a little curtsey. “That’s very helpful. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, sniffing slightly.
And I’m forced to walk slowly away, pretending to be inordinately interested in a passing cloud until she’s gone.
At which point I turn my map around and try again.
Forty minutes.
It takes forty minutes to get to what Google says is an eight-minute walk away. On the bright side, I manage to find the Rockefeller Center which is:
nowhere near where I’m supposed to be
even bigger than everything else
nowhere near an ice rink
on my To Do List, which is handy.
I also go past a nice green park with lots of people playing chess and draughts, a carousel with pink and white horses, an enormous H&M, the headquarters of Facebook, a theatre showing The Lion King and a Lego shop with an enormous Lego dragon bursting out of the ceiling.
Getting lost is actually quite an educational experience. Which is good, because if this morning is anything to go by, it looks like it’s going to happen quite a lot.
Finally I arrive outside a huge, shiny skyscraper with enormous windows and a big, revolving glass door. LA MODE it says in big silver letters on a plaque next to the door.
I take a deep breath.
Then I wipe my clammy hands on my dress and push through the revolving doors.
Back into the world of fashion.
s we know, I’ve been a model – on and off – ever since Nick found me under that table at The Clothes Show Live. But as I walk into the vast, glittering reception of one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world, it suddenly hits me that I haven’t been.
Not really.
Two months ago, Yuka Ito told me that I didn’t understand the fashion world because I’d never actually been part of it. That she and Wilbur had held my hand throughout the entire journey: from the moment I was spotted in a pile of broken hats in Birmingham to the second I ended my contract with her.
For the first time, I truly understand what she was talking about.
This is my first time in a magazine reception. I’ve never been on a normal casting or a go-see. I’ve never competed for a job or been rejected. I’ve never had a portfolio to carry around or a card with my photo on it.
I’ve never had to prove myself.
I’ve just stumbled through modelling as I stumble through everything: from one catastrophe to the next, optimistic that things will turn out all right in the end.
A schoolgirl with absolutely no idea how lucky she was or how much of a fairy tale she’d been handed.
This time, everything is different.
I’m going to be treated like everyone else, and I have to prove I can do it. This is New York. I’m just one of ten thousand girls who want the same thing.
I can suddenly hear Yuka’s voice: Fashion is hard work, fickle and unforgiving. It eats girls like you for breakfast.
And I know I should be scared.
But I’m not.
This is what I want: to carve my own adventure, instead of being handed it ready-made and wrapped in a big pink bow.
“Yes.” The man at reception doesn’t look up: he keeps tapping away at his computer.
“Umm.” I straighten out my dress and then realise one of the straps has snapped and is hanging down my back. I quickly grab it and start unsuccessfully attempting to tie it on to the front. “I’m here to see Wilbur?”
“Wilbur?”
“Wilbur …” I pause, and then flush. I’ve just realised I don’t actually know Wilbur’s last name. He’s like Madonna, or Jesus. “He’s about this high.” I hold my hand just above my head. “A little bit …” I don’t want to be unkind, so I stop. “He’s probably wearing sequins. Or feathers. Or both. And wellies.”
The man finally looks up and stares at me coldly. “I know who Wilbur is.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Take a seat,” he says, pointing to one of the enormous white sofas. “He’ll be down in a minute.”
I nod in the most sophisticated way I possibly can while holding my dress together with my hands, and do exactly that.
I’d forgotten this world even exists.
Everyone and everything inside looks like it’s been buffed and polished. Every time the glass doors revolve, somebody exciting enters the building. A woman in an unseasonably heavy fur coat. A man in tight trousers and pointed shoes. Three young models: beautiful, thin, wearing black from head to toe with enormous handbags.
There’s a stupidly good-looking blond boy roughly my age sitting on the sofa opposite me. After fifteen minutes the silence is starting to get awkward, so I shuffle forward on my bottom and smile at him as brightly as I can.
“Hello,” I say cheerfully. “How are you?”
He glances up, looks at me with piercing blue eyes and then goes back to texting on his phone.
“Did you know,” I say in my most casual voice, “that the word ‘skyscraper’ was originally a nautical term referring to a small triangular sail set above the skysail on a sailing ship? We only adopted it for buildings quite recently.”
The boy grunts slightly and presses a few more buttons.
I’m just trying to work out if I know any more relevant facts about New York landmarks when the doors of the lift open and somebody I know walks out.
Except it’s not Wilbur.
It’s a girl. She’s tall and has long brown curly hair and an incredibly pretty face: heart-shaped, with a tiny pointed chin and wide brown eyes. She’s wearing a pale blue dress, and her white platform heels are so chunky she looks like a baby horse. As if they’re the only things anchoring her to the ground.
She adjusts the straps of her handbag on to her shoulder and starts clomping through the reception, towards the entrance.
Then she sees me and stops.
“Harriet?”
I stand up, blinking. The last time I saw this beautiful girl I was holding her hand. A few minutes before that, I was knocking her on to the floor of a catwalk in front of a room full of people in Moscow.
I didn’t think I’d see her ever again. Except apparently when the world gets bigger, it also gets a whole lot smaller at the same time.
“Fleur?”
And I don’t even think about it.
I run across the reception and throw myself around her neck.
“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I squeak happily, kissing her cheek. “No idea at all.”
leur and I talk about everything.
We talk about what we’ve been doing, and my Japanese job with Yuka, and how I’m now in America with my parents and my baby sister. We talk about how far away England is, and about how bad the turbulence can be on the flight over. We talk about the stars on the ceiling of Grand Central station, and the layout of American roads, and how weird it is that the fire hydrants are painted gold.
At least, I do.
Because as the conversation progresses, I realise Fleur’s not really saying much.
Or anything, in fact.
Her eyes are flicking around the reception, and she’s getting pinker and pinker.
Slowly, I grind to a confused halt.
Finally, she says, “I’m sorry, Harriet, but I have to go. I have a casting to get to.”
She gives me a swift hug.
“Oh,” I say, because suddenly grabbing on to her ankles and screaming Please be my friend I don’t have any left doesn’t seem a very dignified option. “OK.”
“Let’s do lunch sometime?” she says, starting to head towards the door.
I beam at her.
I knew I would find a friend in New York City, and I’ve only been here an hour. This is so much better than Greenway.
“Yes, please. I really want to try a slider, which is apparently an American miniature beefburger. Could you do today? Or maybe tomorrow? We could take some to Central Park and have a picnic?”
/> “Sure,” Fleur says, adjusting her handbag and looking at the door again.
“So should we swap numbers?” I say, quickly scribbling mine down on a piece of paper. “I’m quite far away but just give me a bit of warning and I can get the train.”
I hand her the piece of paper and she puts it in her handbag without looking at it. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I say, as Fleur starts pushing the door with her hand and then nods.
“Catch you later.”
And she disappears into the street, leaving me – totally numberless – behind her.
pparently the centre of the sun is fifteen million degrees centigrade, but I think right now my cheeks can probably give it a run for its money. Maybe I should stop telling people about the colour of fire hydrants.
In fairness, I’ve got better conversation openers.
I walk back to my seat, just as the lift doors open again with a little ping.
“Thanks for coming in,” a pretty blonde woman says to an incredibly tall, dark-skinned bald girl wearing an orange lycra catsuit. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Of course you will, babe,” the girl says, kissing the air a metre from her left ear. “I have no doubt. Call my agent.”
Then she stalks through the reception on enormous orange heels. “Come on then, you,” she adds to the blonde boy still sitting opposite me, clicking her fingers. “We haven’t got all day – I need to get my cards done.”
The blond boy raises his eyebrows, puts his phone back in his pocket and, scowling slightly, follows the tall girl out of the swinging doors.
I look back to see Wilbur, who was obviously hidden behind her.
“Lord,” the blonde woman says to him. “She’s so … aggressive.”
“My hot potato-wedge,” Wilbur says with a disinterested hand-wave. “That is, as they say, irreleventia. The girl has got cheekbones I could spread houmous all over my low-fat bagel with.”
“Mmm,” the blonde woman says. “I’m not entirely sure she’d let you do that. And I do wish she’d stop turning up to castings uninvited. So, where were we?”
“I believe I was refusing to allow you to pair a Versace jacket with that Prada pantsuit for the shoot next week. I’ll eat them both before I let you do that. And the Gucci shoes. Heel first.”
“Wilbur,” the woman sighs. “Nobody is going to make you eat shoes, Gucci or otherwise. That would be insane.”
“Au contraire,” my old agent says defiantly. “Insanity is thinking lime green goes with navy. That is the very definition of insanity.”
Actually, according to Einstein, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
In which case, I may have a problem.
I finally find my voice.
“Hello, W—” I start, but he keeps walking past me: purple-sequined jacket shimmering in the sunlight.
“Are you sure?” the woman continues in a tentative voice. She’s wearing a very soft camel-coloured pashmina and her hair is bleached white and hangs in soft waves. “I can’t help feeling you’re wrong.”
“Fine, Nancy, have it your way but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Wilbur replies. I make sure my broken dress strap is tucked under my armpit and try again.
“Hi, Wi—”
“So what about the shoot tomorrow, Darling-pie?” he continues. “Have you decided yet?”
“No,” Nancy sighs. “I’m still not totally convinced by the girls, to be honest.”
“As I keep telling you, darling, you need a statuesque one. Dark-skinned. Exotic. Cheekbones. Like lovely Kenderall back there with the attitude problem. But maybe with Beyonce hair.”
I clear my throat. “Hi—”
The lady grimaces. “Maybe … But I kind of like the baldness.”
Wibur nods. “Try a similar, less strident girl without hair then.” He looks around and finally makes direct eye contact with me.
Thank goodness.
I was starting to wonder if I’d been rendered invisible during the last three minutes, or at the very least mute like Man Friday in Robinson Crusoe.
“That,” Wilbur adds, pointing at me as if he’s never seen me before in his life. “Like her, except the absolute opposite.”
I flush. What?
Nancy slowly turns and looks at me. She looks at my purple rubber flip-flops, at my broken heart dress and hoody, and then at the red hair escaping in little sweaty strands around my face.
I wipe under my eye and my finger comes away slightly black. Several of my eyelashes appear to be glued together.
“Who is she?”
“Just some nobody.” Wilbur rolls his eyes. “As I said, we want the opposite, Sugar-plum. Use her as inspiration and go the other way. We don’t want ginger and alien duck-face. It’s not fresh. It’s so over it’s rolling down a hill, you know what I mean?”
Excuse me? Some nobody?
Ginger and alien duck-face, however, are pretty standard.
“No,” Nancy says, walking towards me. “I have no idea what you mean, Wilbur.” She puts a few fingers under my chin, and lifts it into the sunshine.
“Yawn-o-rama,” Wilbur says tiredly. “This girl is a mess. Have you seen those freckles? That pointy nose? That chin? Those glassy, vacant, staring eyes? I’m falling asleep just looking at her. Bor-ing. She is totally and utterly forgettable.”
I blink. Ouch.
“I like her,” Nancy says decisively. “What’s your name?”
“Harriet Manners,” I say as politely as I can.
“Are you a model?”
“Well, not real—” I start and Wilbur clears his throat. “Umm … yes?”
“Mis-take,” Wilbur starts singing. “Big mis-take. HUGE faux pas. Catastrophic and megalithic and—”
“Wilbur Evans,” Nancy finally snaps. “You may be Creative Advisor at La Mode but I am the new Fashion Editor so will you be quiet and let me choose the model I want for my shoot, please?”
Wilbur lets out an enormous sigh.
“Fine,” he says dramatically. “If you will insist upon going down this disastrous path then I suppose it is my job to support you.” He throws his arm across his face. “Even if this strange and badly dressed girl is totally last year.”
What’s wrong with my dress?
“Thank you, Wilbur. Get her portfolio biked over ASAP and book her for 8am tomorrow.” Nancy looks at me again, nods happily and adds, “Perfect.”
Then she picks up some files from reception and heads back towards the elevator.
As soon as the doors shut, I turn to Wilbur with my mouth still hanging open.
“My little egg on toast,” he says, giving me a hug and kissing my cheek. “Gosh, but you’re as delicious as ever, I’m happy to see. Have you been taking multi-vitamins? Your spots are nowhere near as pulsating as they normally are.”
I stare at Wilbur in silence, and then manage: “What the sugar cookies just happened?”
“A little bit of Creative Advisory magic,” Wilbur says, putting on his sunglasses and winking at me. “And that, Harriet Manners, is how it’s done.”
hat is not how it’s done by the way.
Just to make that clear.
So much for being a proper, grown-up model, pursuing a fashion career through the traditional, linear methods. It looks like Wilbur has just psychologically manipulated an insecure fashion editor into giving me a job.
That is not what I intended at all.
“Nancy just needed a little nudge in the right direction, Bunny-crumble,” Wilbur confirms. “With some people that involves shoving them very hard the opposite way.”
Which doesn’t make me feel any better.
“What’s the job for?”
“It’s a seven-page spread in La Mode magazine, which the infinitely glorious moi shall be styling.” He looks at me and lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t look so guilty, Bacon-chops. If you weren’t right for the job, I wouldn’t have rung you in the firs
t place. I am a professional.”
I nod nervously. “OK.”
I still feel like I’ve queue-jumped. Like the time I accidentally shoved in front of Alexa at lunch and had my ponytail dipped in gravy as retribution.
I glance quickly around, just in case anyone is planning on doing it again.
“So what’s the inspiration this time, Monkey-moo?” Wilbur waves at my dress and flip-flops.
“I thought it was quite pretty.”
“I Thought It Was Quite Pretty,” he says in delight, clapping. “Is it made out of dolls’ house curtains? Amazement. You light up my life, Petal-cheeks. You really do.”
Right. I am never wearing this dress again.
“So you’re not an agent any more?”
“Yuka Ito pulled a few strings as an amicable parting gesture,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at me. “It turns out genius is much easier to recognise in the States than back home, especially when your CV is somewhat – how do we put it? – embellished.” He drags a large black book out of his bag and hands it to me.
“You’re going to need this,” he adds. “So keep it safe. I’ve already made a copy for Nancy.”
I open it curiously.
Stuck in the front is an extremely close-up photo of a girl with snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes. You can see every single one of her billion freckles, and her eyes are wide and distracted and lit up from the inside.
I flip the page, and there’s a photo of a ginger girl crouched on the floor in a tutu, covered in gold paint. Then another where she’s holding a giant silver fish, dripping in octopus ink, and one standing in a sumo ring with a shadowy figure in the background.
There’s one where the girl is stuck in a glass box, curled up in a pink wig with hundreds of identical dolls.
There’s a picture of her floating in a lake in a lit-up dress, with Mount Fuji behind her and a thousand stars glimmering in the water.
And then I get to the final page and pause.
It’s a photo of the same girl again, jumping in the air with a boy. A gorgeous boy with dark curly hair, sharp cheekbones, a big navy jacket and narrow, glowing eyes. The girl’s feet are bare, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes are bright and she looks the happiest any girl has ever looked, ever.
