Edie has Project Gloria to worry about. I, meanwhile, have Project Flying Pig. It’s my plan for finding my perfect job in fashion . . . and for proving to my mother that she is totally wrong about me.

Every time I bump into someone at Miss Teen who looks vaguely busy and important, I quiz them on what they do. They look annoyed to start with, but eventually they tell me. I am the only person who really understands the coffee machine, so it pays to be nice to me.

It feels like no two people do the same thing. There are brand managers, merchandisers, forecasters and buyers. They don’t even make the clothes. Then there are pattern cutters, sample makers, garment technologists and production managers. Plus whole departments of PR, HR, and a bunch of other stuff that’s starting to make my head spin. I obviously couldn’t possibly do what they all do, so I try and work out who I most want to copy. And the awful thing is, so far Mum’s right. They’re all great, but I really don’t want to do any of their jobs. Not exactly. I want to be a part of their world, but I can’t find my niche. It has to be here. I just haven’t looked hard enough.

Andy Elat stops me in a corridor one day.

‘You’re getting a bit of a name for yourself, kid,’ he says.

‘As something good?’ I ask nervously.

‘As something persistent. What’s with all the interrogations?’

I explain about my need to find my perfect job in fashion. He nods wisely.

‘I’ve never known a kid so immersed in the world as you, Nonie. It’s not just what you do, it’s what you know. Plus how you dress.’ At this point he laughs. Not very politely. But at least he doesn’t tell me to go home and change.

‘So?’ I prompt.

‘You’ll find a job, or it’ll find you.’

Hah! I wish Mum had been here to hear this.

‘A job running a label?’ I ask.

He narrows his eyes. ‘I’m trying to picture it. You in a suit? I mean, maybe, but . . . You good at spreadsheets?’

I nod. I hate spreadsheets. I really loathe them. They always go wrong on me. I think they’re just traps waiting to spring on me and add up to the wrong number, but if I need to be good at them to get a job in fashion then . . . OK.

Andy frowns. He doesn’t look convinced.

I realise I’m frowning back. Was Vivienne Westwood good at spreadsheets? Was John Galliano? I bet not, but then, they were good at designing and making fabric into an art form. I can’t do that either. There must be something I can do. I just wish Andy had said, ‘Hey, you’ve already organised a catwalk show, haven’t you? And look at all that chutzpah you’ve got. You’ll be fine.’ But he didn’t. I’m back where I started.

Ever since the night at the Tate Modern, I’ve sort of assumed that my career in fashion was sorted. Apparently it’s not. That would be OK – I’m only seventeen and I don’t have to decide everything yet – except I’ve wanted to be a part of this world since I was tiny and nothing’s changed. In fact it’s worse. Since I met Crow, I’ve wanted it even more badly. I am both desperate and incompetent. This is not a great combination.

Andy wanders off down the corridor, wishing me luck over his shoulder. I don’t think I need luck. I think I need another life, another brain and a whole new personality. Project Flying Pig was perfectly named. Maybe I should get a job as a project namer. I’m so qualified. Yaaay.

When I get home, to my amazement, there’s an email from Crow waiting for me on my laptop.

Hi Nonie! Isn’t it cool? I know! I can email! There’s this great computer class and we all go every weakend. Joseph runs it he is realy cool. How is London? Victoria started seling school bags, Im helping the girls make them. Shes doing realy well. Ill give you one when I get home. Or you can buy one. Bye! Crow xxx

What? Victoria? Victoria! Who is seven, maybe eight, max. VICTORIA is already an entrepreneur, selling school bags, and I can’t even find a decent job at Miss Teen. This does not make me feel good. Although I’m pleased for her, obviously. I wonder why Crow wants me to buy a bag, though. Normally she just gives us stuff. Are we slightly less friends now that she’s at home with her family? Has she got a new set of friends, maybe?

I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to tell her about what Andy Elat said, either. Instead, I email her back a few paragraphs about Jenny’s kittens. And about how there’s this boy from French class at the local Starbucks, and isn’t that a funny coincidence?

I’m interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door. A very tall man with a notebook pokes his head in and asks if he can have a look around. This is bizarre, but I say yes anyway. I assume Mum’s let him into the house. I hope so.

He has a good look at all my furniture, peers through my window and admires my view, then whips out a tape measure and does some quick measurements.

‘Impressive property,’ he says, pocketing the tape measure.

‘Yup,’ I agree.

And he, presumably, is the man Mum has called to try and help her sell it, which is why she stood over me for an hour while I tidied my room recently. Yaaay.

Things are going to be different, Crow said. This is what different feels like. It doesn’t feel good.