Head Over Heels

by Holly Smale

  “Gosh,” Rebecca says, leading me into the pantry: the house is shut to the public until the end of March, so it’s now a makeshift dressing room. “Well, we won’t be doing that today, I assure you.”

  “And,” I say as she wipes my face clean with a damp cloth, “pink lips and cheeks were created from rouge made from ground-up cochineal beetles combined with red ochre?”

  “Crikey.” She applies a thick layer of moisturiser. “No ground-up beetles today.”

  “Also, Queen Elizabeth made her skin whiter with a combination of white lead and vinegar, which was poisonous and left craters in her skin. Which meant the more she used, the more she had to use.”

  We both look at the white foundation.

  “No lead,” Rebecca smiles. “Or acid. I promise. And I won’t be shaving your hairline to give you a higher forehead either.”

  I smile at her gratefully.

  I was totally ready and willing to throw myself into this experience at any cost, but I have to be honest: I’m a little relieved that she’s using contemporary tools of the trade instead.

  With an immense effort, I stop chatting just long enough for Rebecca to make my skin look flawless, paint a little black dot under each of my eyes, flush my cheeks with gel blusher and daub a faint red spot in the middle of my mouth with lipstick.

  “We’re doing Elizabethan but modern,” she explains, styling my hair and then attaching very long red hairpieces that match it exactly and fall down all the way to my bottom. “Something a little fresher and younger.”

  Then she holds out a long dress.

  It’s bright yellow silk, huge, floor length and covered in tiny embroidered black skulls, with elegant black ridges spiking out of the shoulders.

  I’m kind of hoping this is an update too, or my Year Two project may need revisiting.

  “There is just one concession to tradition, I’m afraid,” Rebecca says with a small grimace. “And I’d like to apologise in advance.”

  Oh my God: I knew it.

  After all that, they’re taking both my eyebrows.

  You can do this, Harriet. You are a brave, resilient queen, capable of rising above such slight and unimportant topics as facial hair.

  Nobody knows what they’re really for anyway.

  “OK,” I say, closing my eyes firmly. “But please teach me how to draw them on afterwards or my best friend is going to kill you.”

  “Breathe in, sweetheart,” Rebecca laughs. “This is going to hurt.”

  She’s not wrong.

  Ten minutes later, my eyes are prickling with uncomfortable tears.

  Normally the surface of our lungs would stretch to the size of half a tennis court, but the corset I’m now wearing is so tight and so rigid, mine have been reduced to the size of a postage stamp and an assistant has to put my shoes on for me.

  On the upside, at least I can still communicate thanks to my still fully unedited eyebrows.

  “Gorgeous,” Rebecca says in satisfaction, tying a jet-black ribbon round my now ridiculously small waist. “You’re a sixteenth century vision, my darling. Let’s get you in there.”

  This proves harder than you’d think.

  Somewhat embarrassingly, I need four assistants: two to fold my dress inwards so I can fit through the pantry doors like a telescope, one to hold my hand so I don’t fall over in my elaborately jewelled heels and another to carry my enormous hair extensions so they don’t get caught up in the shoulder spikes.

  I’m starting to realise that with great majesty comes great responsibility.

  And also great balancing skills.

  Breathing much more shallowly than I’m used to, I shuffle stiffly through the narrow corridors: into the Long Gallery, running the entire length of the South Front of the building. It’s nearly two hundred feet, there’s an enormous fireplace, the walls are elaborately carved wood and the ceiling is coated in gold leaf, glowing in the sunlight.

  Then I stand in the grand entrance, blinking.

  In one corner is Sophia, now changed into a six-foot-wide red dress covered in tiny, pink embroidered bees: carefully having her eye make-up retouched.

  In another is Charlotte, chatting to Rin.

  Across the middle, in front of an elaborate throne, is the standard photo shoot set: large cameras, huge metallic lights and assistants milling around, looking busy and anxious.

  But I don’t care about any of that.

  Because as I scan the room a little faster, I can feel icy panic starting to run through me: across my shoulders, up my neck and down my back, into my chest and ears. And as I scan it for the third time, my stomach flips over with a bolt of terror.

  No. No no. No no no no no no no no no no …

  “Tabby?” I say, spinning around. “Tabitha? Tabs? TABITHA?”

  But nobody responds.

  No gurgle, no squeak, no little red curls bouncing up and down. No rosy cheeks and bright eyes, watching me with unquestioning adoration.

  The human heart beats more than three billion times in the average lifetime, but you can take at least three of those off my total.

  My whole chest has frozen solid.

  Where the hell is my baby sister?

  here are apparently pivotal moments where your whole life flashes before your eyes.

  This is one of them.

  Except instead of my life it’s Tabitha’s, and instead of flashing it’s just one big, blinding glare of white-hot terror.

  Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God …

  How could I have just left her?

  How could I have been so distracted by my Elizabethan ambitions that I let a bunch of strangers walk off with the person in the entire world I love most?

  I am the worst big sister ever.

  And this is the exact place where Mary Tudor tried to get Elizabeth imprisoned for treason in the Tower of London.

  “Tabby?” I shake my assistants off and wobble dangerously into the middle of the room. “Tabs?” Fear is starting to close my throat. “TABITHA MANNERS?” I grab a passing photographic assistant by the jumper. “WHERE IS SHE?”

  All week, this felt like a totally reasonable plan.

  In the glossy, safe Vogue offices and in the sanctity of my bedroom, what I was doing didn’t seem that reprehensible.

  Irresponsible, yes. Selfish and poorly thought-through, quite possibly.

  But not bad.

  Except it’s finally hitting me: I’ve just ripped a defenceless eight-month-old baby away from her mother without permission and left her in the hands of a bunch of fashionistas I don’t know, to do with as they will.

  What the fudge nuggets is wrong with me?

  “The baby?” the assistant blinks nervously: I’m shaking him more than a little roughly. “Are we talking about the baby?”

  A human bite is approximately 120 pounds per square inch, while a crocodile has the strongest jaw of any animal on the planet at 3,700.

  I know it’s not this poor boy’s fault.

  But I swear if he doesn’t answer me this very second, I’m going to turn into a reptile and chew his head right off.

  “YES OF COURSE THE BABY WHERE IS THE BABY GIVE ME TABBY OR I SWEAR I WILL RIP THIS WHOLE PLACE TO—”

  “Blimey,” a voice says behind me. “Are we in character already?”

  I spin so fast I nearly poke the assistant’s eye out with my shoulder spikes.

  “Tabby?”

  She’s curled up in Jasper’s arms, beaming, in a pretty cream lace dress with a train so long it’s thrown over one of his shoulders.

  The relief is so intense it’s a good thing I’m wearing the corset because it’s basically the only thing holding me up.

  “Bababababa,” she tells me happily as I launch myself across and start covering her in kisses that leave little red lipstick spots all over her face. “Bababababa.”

  “They have a farm,” Jasper explains. “We went to look at the goats. Goats don’t say Baa, Tabitha. They say Meh. I told you, they�
�re the most unimpressed creatures in the animal kingdom.”

  I blink at them both.

  My heart is still hammering, and I’m struggling to breathe: adrenaline, fear and an already reduced lung capacity are a heady combination.

  “I didn’t know where she …” I gulp. “I wouldn’t know what I’d do if …”

  Jasper hands her to me without a word.

  “Bababa?” she says, smacking me in the face with something damp, small, grey and fluffy. “Bababa?”

  Wait. “Is that …?”

  Gripped tightly in my deliriously happy sister’s hand is the original Dunky.

  “He was in a tree at the end of your street,” Jasper shrugs. “That cat of yours is an impressive climber. I had to fight a squirrel who thought it was its baby.”

  A grateful lump rises into my throat.

  After my panicked hunt under the bush and a long and fruitless conversation with Victor, I had just presumed that Dunky was gone for good.

  “Bababababa,” Tabitha beams, whacking me with her beloved toy again. “Bababababa.”

  “Thank you, Jasper,” I say awkwardly. “For … looking after her for me.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

  I blink. “Uh. Absolutely.”

  “Harriet?” Charlotte calls, hurrying across the room. “Are you ready to … Oh.” Her eyes widen at Tabby, covered in little red dots, and me: now lipstick-less. “Let’s get you both tidied up and then we can start.”

  ver the last year and a half, I have been transformed a dozen times.

  I’ve worn dresses covered in tentacles; long pink wigs and net tutus; found myself liberally doused in gold paint and mud and ink and sequins; been lit up by a switch and covered in a sack.

  I’ve been a doll in a box, a nomad in a desert.

  A glowing Ophelia in a lake.

  I’ve jumped in snow and danced in sand; sat down on catwalks and wandered around a sumo stage. I’ve whizzed round in circles and upside down at hundreds of miles an hour; attended parties and crashed into castings.

  I’ve turned into so many different people.

  But as I walk close behind Tabby, past an enormous mirror to my right, I realise with a jolt that this is a version of me I haven’t seen before.

  The yellow dress is flared and glowing in the sunshine; the spiky collar is so high it touches the sides of my head. My face is steady and pale, and my red hair is waved in glossy tumbling curls. The crown on my head is gold and delicate.

  I look regal. Powerful. Majestic.

  Holding my chin up, I stare at my reflection without flinching or blushing or looking away.

  It feels like something has changed.

  I don’t feel out of my depth or anxious or out of control any more. I feel as if I know exactly what I’m doing and what I want and how I’m going to get it.

  And for just a moment it’s as if I can see both of us, standing side by side: the Harriet Manners of nearly sixteen months ago in a borrowed leopardskin coat and red high heels – terrified and wobbly and uncertain – and this one.

  A girl who needs nobody.

  A girl with nothing to answer to or bow down in front of: totally in command, strong and free with an untethered heart.

  A girl in control of her own story.

  Just like Elizabeth.

  “I can’t believe we were only going to use two models,” Charlotte says as Tabby and I are led in front of the bright lights. “I’m so glad you brought your little one to the casting, Harriet. Three is so much more interesting.”

  “Mmm,” I say quickly. “She’s … uh. My little one all right. AKA belonging to me.”

  Then I look round.

  We’ve been positioned in a triangle: me, standing up, with Sophia seated to my left in a throne – enormous red gown spread regally out and hair piled high – and Tabby gurgling happily on her lap.

  I glance up just in time to see Jasper lean down and say something quietly in Rin’s ear.

  She laughs and claps her hands together.

  “Well,” someone says as I lean forward to hear a little better, “Harriet Manners. I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

  I freeze, mid-earwig.

  Where do I know that voice fr—

  Oh my God: no. You have got to be kidding me. The radius of the earth is 6,371 km: it’s a really big place. Of all the photographers on the planet to choose from, there’s no way that Vogue would have picked …

  “Aiden,” I say, spinning around.

  “Little Miss Stickers,” he says over the top of a huge camera. “A pleasure, as always. How do you plan on ruining my photo shoot this time?”

  he Universe clearly thinks it’s hilarious.

  Just for once I finally feel in control of my life, and it sends someone to loudly and repeatedly remind me of a time when I wasn’t.

  And to regale everyone else with stories about me while he’s at it.

  “So she’s making these crazy poses,” Aiden says as I try my best to stay focused on the job at hand, “then I look closer and she’s covered in tiny stickers.”

  Concentrate, Harriet. You are a professional.

  I shift a little, keep my neck as long and regal as possible and move my body very subtly towards the camera.

  You are a Queen. A leader, a pioneer, a powerful force of gravitas and majesty.

  “Stickers?” Jasper says from behind one of the lights. “What kind of stickers?”

  “Maths equations,” Aiden laughs, clicking a button. “Home-made, handwritten. Unbelievable.”

  “They were physics and I typed them,” I mutter through gritted teeth.

  “It turns out she was trying to revise for an exam while simultaneously shooting a huge perfume commercial for Yuka Ito.”

  I stick my nose in the air. “An exam which I aced, by the way. Top in the year, thanks for asking.”

  “Then she got tangled up in the changing-room curtains and couldn’t get back out again.”

  OK: I’m not quite as proud of that. It definitely wasn’t one of my most regal moments.

  I turn to glare daggers at Aiden.

  “Yes!” he shouts, clicking the button a few times. “Perfect! Let’s see that anger! I’m thinking controlling! I’m thinking imperious and dictatorial and overbearing!”

  “I’m thinking that’ll be a challenge,” Jasper says in a low voice.

  So I turn my icy death-glare on him instead.

  “Oh I love this,” Charlotte declares happily from the side where she’s watching carefully. “Harriet, you’re fierce right now. Sophia, you’re a noble, wise goddess, as always. And Tabitha … You are the star of this show, sweetheart.”

  I look around in surprise.

  I’d almost forgotten Tabs was there, she’s behaving so perfectly. She isn’t crying, grizzling or sucking her thumb. She’s not blowing spit bubbles or vomiting or giggling or trying to climb up Sophia’s hair.

  Her blue eyes are wide, her chubby little face is relaxed, her tiny pink mouth is very slightly pouted and she’s staring curiously at the camera.

  Not at Aiden, not at Jasper, not even at beloved Dunky: now being held carefully by Rin.

  The camera.

  Uh-oh. Apparently we snap as many photos in two minutes as the whole of humanity did in the 1800s, and it looks like Tabitha is preparing to be in all of them. She’s a born poser, just like Dad.

  Annabel is going to kill me.

  I reach over and pat her cheek so she knows I’m still here: she beams and grabs my finger.

  Click. “Gorgeous!” Click. “Adorable!” Click click click. “Sweet!” Aiden frowns. “But as touching as this is, I think I actually preferred the earlier icy look, Sticker Girl. So let’s go back to that, shall we?”

  I glance at Sophia, standing up and shifting from one foot to the other. She’s a total professional: her chin is up, her eyes are hard, and she’s making tiny movements every few seconds so that no photo is
the same.

  “I have got to pee,” she whispers regally under her breath. “My bladder is fit to burst.”

  OK: maybe the movements serve a double purpose.

  “Harry-chan is wonderful, ne?” Rin sighs as I attempt to take a deep breath without breaking my ribcage. “She is beauty and rare, like unicorn.”

  “Yup,” Jasper says drily. “She’s unbelievable.”

  “That’s better!” Aiden shouts as I turn towards him crossly. “Let’s keep that expression, Harriet! Haughty and high-handed! Love it!”

  He clicks a few more times and I can’t help noticing that Rin and Jasper have been standing next to each other in silence for at least fifteen minutes. And it’s not a comfortable silence either: it’s awkward and stiff.

  This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

  The idea was for them to connect while I worked: to bond romantically, adhere together and let the fireworks fly. Like Jane Eyre and Rochester, or Romeo and Juliet: the two other famous R and J couplings.

  Except hopefully without all the dying, blindness and fires.

  “OK,” Aiden says, flicking through the photos on his camera. “We’ve got this shot. Let’s try something else.”

  I look back at my friends.

  Maybe they just need another little nudge in the right direction.

  “Yup,” I say, as my brain starts whirring again. “Let’s do that.”

  lot of people don’t know this, but Cupid actually had two types of arrow.

  The famous one was made of gold and dove feathers, and when shot into the heart it caused intense feelings of love and desire. The other, less well known, type was made of lead and owl feathers, and resulted in indifference and apathy.

  I’m starting to wonder if I’ve shot the wrong one.

  After an elaborate costume change – I’m in bright green silk covered in tiny blue embroidered butterflies, with a pearl tiara with gold wires wound round it – all three Elizabeths are led carefully outside into the enormous park.

  My assistants are helping me not to trip over my dress, slip or face-slam the ground in any way, and Tabby’s being wheeled in her buggy ahead of us by a mildly besotted Charlotte. Which means I can focus on trying to subtly listen to Rin and Jasper, walking ten metres behind me.