by Holly Smale
“No idea,” Anish laughs. “My brief was to photograph the model having fun at Holi and make it as colourful as possible. I’m afraid the top creatives have yet to share their genius vision with us.”
According to the project I gave the agency, there are sixteen packs of sugar in one regular bottle of soda. I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.
Unless …
“May I ask you a favour?” I say as I follow him back down the narrow streets, leaving a trail of bright purple footsteps behind me. “Do you think you could send a couple of those photos to my phone? Just ones you’re not going to use – ones with my eyes closed or something. I promise I won’t share them publicly.”
Yes, that’s right: I’ve had another idea.
It’s completely ridiculous, but I suddenly feel like there’s nothing to lose.
“Sure,” Anish says as the shouts begin receding into the air behind us. “Do you need a break, or can we keep shooting? I’d really like to keep the positive energy up.”
I nod, although I’m not sure I can get any happier.
When enormous stars explode they release more energy in a few seconds than our sun will in ten billion years, and they’re still nothing in comparison to how much brightness I’m giving off right now.
“Let’s keep going,” I say firmly. “Do I need to get cleaned up first?”
Anish starts laughing.
He laughs and laughs, then turns a narrow corner into a winding street and just keeps laughing.
“Oh no,” he chortles as we round the final corner. “I think we’ve got that covered.”
And that’s when I go very still.
Because in front of us is a pretty courtyard and a large group of people. Deepika and the stylists are on one side, busying themselves with towels and wipes and hairbrushes. Peter Trout is on the other, staring at his phone.
And in the middle – right where you can’t miss it – is the best, most magical thing I’ve ever seen.
Better than a unicorn. Better than a rainbow. Better than a million shooting stars.
It’s an enormous elephant.
was wrong: I could get happier.
Also, I knew something like this would eventually happen.
First it was Barry the tiny white kitten. Then Charlie the irritated octopus, Francis the miniature pig, and a plethora of snakes (I feel bad about not giving them names).
Richard the monkey and Zahara the camel.
Every single time I work with an animal, it’s just been getting bigger and bigger. For my next photo shoot, they’re going to put me in a wetsuit and ask me to ride home on the back of a blue whale.
“We heard you have an affinity with animals,” Peter Trout says sharply. “Is affinity the right word?”
I stare at the elephant.
It’s painted all over: covered with bright patterns in paint – pink and yellow flowers, green swirls, intricate blue borders and orange spots – but it doesn’t look silly or clown-like.
Instead, the elephant gazes at me steadily from underneath its make-up with the wise, kind, infinitely knowing eyes of a huge grey wizard and flicks its enormous ears.
Elephants have the largest brain of any land animal. They understand human body language and can identify between different languages; they can even mimic human voices (one could actually speak five words in Korean).
They’re famous for their empathy: for comforting one another when stressed by stroking each other’s trunks and remembering things for up to eighty years.
They have been known to paint flowers.
And they grieve.
When the elephants they love die, they cry and stand around them for hours, mourning and trying to bury the remains. One was even photographed by National Geographic, slowly wrapping its trunk around the passed-away elephant’s trunk and standing in that position for a full day, saying goodbye.
Basically, elephants have three times as many neurons in their brains as humans, and considerably more compassion and kindness than quite a few people too.
They are the number one best animals in the world.
And I think I’m about to burst into emotional tears on a job yet again.
“Is it …” I take a few steps forward and swallow. “Has it … How is it …”
I can feel myself being drawn towards the elephant on an invisible wire. Everyone around me is slowly disappearing: it’s just the two of us.
“Her name is Manisha,” Deepika says from somewhere behind me. “It means wisdom in Sanskrit. She’s from an elephant wildlife sanctuary near Mathura, and she’s painted for Holi every year. Not just for this photo shoot. It doesn’t upset her.”
All of the tension in my stomach abruptly flows away.
She’s from a sanctuary.
They’ve rescued her already and she’s not unhappy or stressed and I don’t have to feel guilty or maybe arrange some kind of escape plan for both of us so I can go and live with her forever on the plains of India.
Although it’s kind of tempting.
“So you don’t have to purchase this one,” Peter Trout adds. “To clarify.”
I flush pink. Wilbur must have told them about Richard the macaque and the four snakes.
“Go for it,” Deepika says warmly, and I realise I’ve been standing with my hand stretched out for the last few minutes.
Slowly, I inch forward.
Not because I’m scared – I’ve never been less so – but because, just as Elizabeth the First was the queen of all queens, this is the noble leader of all animals. She deserves my respect and my humility.
Manisha gives a little huffing sound and calmly watches me approach.
Taking a deep breath, I move even nearer.
I close my eyes, unable to believe this is about to happen.
Then I hold my hand out and touch her side.
Her skin is warm and dry, wrinkled and slightly hairy, and I suddenly want to rest my cheek on it and wrap my arms round her tightly.
So I do.
Without hesitation, I start cuddling an elephant.
Manisha gives another little huff and shifts her weight slightly as I open my eyes. Then she reaches out, grabs the bottom of my vest in her trunk and starts trying to put it into her mouth.
I shout with laughter as my tummy is abruptly exposed. “Hey!”
Gently pulling my T-shirt back out again, I pat her face while her trunk searches the rest of me for something else to eat.
“You’ve got 100,000 muscles in that, you know,” I tell her as it feels its way gently up to my shoulder and starts tickling my neck. “Although as you’re an Asian elephant rather than an African elephant you have to wrap your trunk around objects to pick them up rather than pinching them with the end.”
With a little puff, Manisha flicks her ears again.
Then somebody says something in Indian from behind me and she reaches down towards the water in a large bucket behind us I hadn’t noticed.
“What are you—”
With another little huff, Manisha slowly pulls her trunk out again.
“Oh,” I say as she holds it up high above us and I finally understand why Anish was laughing. “Oh.”
And she starts spraying.
n a single day, we each shower for an average of nine and a half minutes.
Statistically, we do this eight times a week, which is 65.9 hours, or approximately three days in the shower every year.
This means in the average lifetime, we spend six months in the shower.
I could live a million lives and never beat this one.
As Manisha flings clean water high into the air and it starts shattering down on top of my head so I can’t breathe, can’t talk, can’t see, I start to giggle. And as she dips her trunk for a second go, and a third, and a fourth, my laughter gets louder and louder.
There’s water and colour streaming everywhere.
Dripping from my hair into my eyes and pouring down my face: running down my neck and
legs. All the paint and powder that settled and dried over the last hour is pouring off me: cascading in a swirling torrent of reds and greens and purples and pinks and yellows and browns.
And my new best friend is dripping in them too.
Still laughing, I bend down and cup water in my hands. Then I energetically fling it over both of us again and again.
Finally, when the water is running clear, I stop.
The entire team is still stood exactly where they were to start with: watching me in total silence.
I clear my throat awkwardly.
I’ve done it again, haven’t I?
Will I ever be able to model without getting distracted?
“Umm,” I say quickly to Anish, standing patiently under his raincoat, already holding his camera. The poor man has obviously been waiting for me to finish. “I’m so sorry. Where would you like me to stand?”
Deepika starts laughing and Peter Trout puts one hand over his face.
“We’re finished,” Anish grins. “That was spot-on, Harriet.”
And that’s when I realise the final two things I didn’t see coming:
he job’s completely over.
Apparently they only needed two different shots for the advert and they’ve already got them both.
Which means that within six hours of landing in India, I’ve done exactly what I was flown out here for.
Without breaking anything, ruining anything, falling over, getting fired or accidentally destroying the campaign by leaking it to a national newspaper.
This is turning out to be a day of firsts.
Emotionally, I say goodbye to Manisha.
I kiss her gently on the nose and promise to visit again. There’s no way I’m not coming back here to see this place properly.
Then I’m taken back to another room of the restaurant, where I’m hosed down unceremoniously with cold water that hasn’t just been up an elephant’s trunk.
Suffice to say, it’s a lot less entertaining.
“Here,” Deepika says when I’m finally clean and dry, wrapped in a fluffy towel and reaching for my black Lycra clothes. “These are a little gift from us, to say thank you for doing such an amazing job.”
She hands me a pile of new clothes, still warm from the sunshine.
A bright orange pair of loose, baggy trousers with a crotch right by the knees, covered in crazy yellow and pink patterns, and a long, cotton red tunic with tiny orange embroidered elephants along the hem.
Gratitude suddenly pulses through me.
Thank goodness I don’t have to put those boring, sweaty black Lycra clothes on: they’re just not … right for me.
I’m not sure they ever were.
Plus, I’ve worn them four times in a row and I think they’re starting to smell.
Happily, I tug on the comfortable, bright colours and then stand in front of the mirror. That’s better. So much breezier. So much lighter. So much more me.
I look like a multicoloured flying squirrel.
“Are you ready for the drive back to Delhi?” Deepika asks gently. “I promise it’ll be slightly slower this time. Although not a lot, admittedly, or we’ll get rammed off the road.”
My phone beeps and I grab it out of my satchel.
Then I click on an attachment from an unknown number.
It’s a photo of me.
My hands are held high over my head with my palms outstretched, my eyes are shut and my face is shining with the widest, most genuine smile I’ve ever seen on myself.
Around me, people are jumping into the air and silently shouting, and there are colours everywhere: dripping down my face, puffed into the air, flicked through my hair and across my top.
It’s nothing like my other fashion photos: it’s not like modelling at all.
This is something else entirely.
A temporary moment in time, captured forever.
“Actually,” I say, holding tightly on to my phone, “how many cars are heading back to Delhi?”
“Two,” Deepika says with a quick nod across the road. “Ours, and that one.”
Parked on the other side is an enormous jeep.
Silver, big wheels, high seats, thick windows, the kind of bumper that actually allows bumps. Not the biggest thing on the road by any means, but also definitely not the smallest.
And in the back is Peter Trout: reading a newspaper and ignoring us all completely.
“Do you mind if I travel in that one?” I say as politely as possible. “For a change of … scenery?”
And maybe a somewhat less friendly companion.
“I don’t see why not,” Deepika nods. “There’s plenty of space in either.”
I beam, give her a quick hug and thank her profusely for all of her help. Then – phone still clutched tightly in hand and my steps bouncing with a confidence I never knew I had – I head straight towards the jeep.
There’s almost no chance whatsoever that this is going to work, but I’m going to give it a shot anyway.
Let the next Harriet’s Epic Happiness Plan begin.
cientists believe that – contrary to traditional popular opinion – humans don’t have six basic facial expressions, we have twenty-one.
There’s the basic happy and sad.
Fearful, surprised, appalled and full of hatred.
Then it gets a little more complicated and nuanced: sadly fearful, happily disgusted, disgustedly surprised, angrily surprised, angrily disgusted and so on.
As I click open the back seat of the jeep and slide in next to Peter Trout with a bright smile, it’s hard to tell exactly what his face is doing.
But it’s probably some of those last options.
And definitely not the first one.
“You,” he sighs as I close the door behind me and place my satchel firmly in my lap.
“Me,” I agree, clicking my seat belt securely. “Hello, again.”
He groans. “What do you want?”
I’m not under any grand illusions about how this is going to go, by the way. I already know that in advertising the client always gets the final say, and that I’m only here because I looked enough like Hannah to be chosen as her last-minute replacement; regardless of what Peter Trout wanted or did not want.
I was definitely not this man’s first choice.
Or second, third, fourth, fifth or six.
The fact that I’m even allowed within a hundred-mile radius of him is quite surprising.
But today is all about surprises.
“I just wanted to have a quick chat,” I say as breezily as I can muster. The ignition turns on and the driver starts steering the enormous SUV away from the kerb. “Is that OK?”
“Something tells me you’re going to talk at me even if it’s not.”
I beam at him. Oh, I most certainly am.
“Did you know,” I say as the jeep heads towards the main road, “that full-fat sugary fizzy drinks are as bad for your health as tobacco?”
Peter Trout scowls. “Of course I do. My client is a fizzy-drink company.”
“And those who binge on diet soft drinks have been proven to have seventy per cent bigger waists after a single decade?”
“Yes.” Trout looks like he’s considering the repercussions of opening the jeep door and throwing me bodily out. “Believe it or not, you’re not the only person with access to statistics, Snowflake.”
“Of course,” I say a lot more humbly. Don’t blow this, Harriet. “But did you also know that forty-one per cent of children under eleven drink more than one can a day?”
“Oh, for the love of …” he growls. “There you go again. This oh-so-cute, know-it-all routine doesn’t work on me, you know. You might charm others with this wide-eyed, quirky act, but I find it terribly tedious. Save it for someone who cares.”
I look up and smile brightly.
I heard the words but I didn’t really take any of that in: I was sending a text message under my satchel.
“And that three cans a day h
as so much sugar it can triple the risk of heart disease?” I continue, as my phone vibrates. “Isn’t that shocking?”
Then I glance down.
Yup: got an immediate reply, as I suspected I would.
“For your information,” Peter Trout snaps, “you’re way off. We’re advertising a brand-new soft drink, and it doesn’t have any sugar in it at all.”
“Oh really?” I say, typing under my satchel. “But you know what they say about artificial sweeteners like aspartame, saccharin, sucralose …”
“It doesn’t have any of those either.”
There’s a quick vibration and I glance down and write another message.
“Ah. But what about other additives? If you look in the project I gave you, I think you’ll find that there are health risks involving diabetes, even cancer …”
“Don’t you get it?” Peter Trout looks about ready to throttle me. “That’s the point of this drink. It has no additives, no sugars, nothing. It’s one hundred per cent natural, full of vitamins and minerals, and therefore good for you.”
He leans back in his seat. “So if we could enjoy the rest of this journey in peace, I’d be incredibly grateful.”
I grin and send another text under my satchel.
Then I stare out of the window with my heart pounding and watch the scenery race past. The roads are still chaotic, we’re still going too fast, but this time I’m kind of putting my trust in the driver.
Maybe I’m actually learning to let go after all.
An hour later – as we whizz past another long line of camels – my lap vibrates once more and I pick up my phone.
The photo of me has been skilfully edited: the colours intensified, the focus zoomed in and re-cropped so I’m slightly on the side of the picture.
And in the space under one of my arms – in perfectly Photoshopped lettering – it says:
NO ADDED COLOURINGS
I laugh and hold my phone out.
“What about that for a strapline?” I say innocently, heart thumping again. “It’s cute, don’t you think?”
Peter Trout stares at it in silence.
“Hmm,” he says after an agonisingly long pause. “That’s good.”
My phone beeps again.
