hat were the chances?

I’ll tell you what the chances were. Approximately 673 to one. And that’s if Yuka Ito was only casting male models who were based in London. If you count the rest of the globe – which is equally full of beautiful people – then the statistics get even more improbable. Thousands to one. Thousands and thousands to one little tiny one.

And how have I worked this out so quickly? That’s not important. But if, say, I happened to stumble upon all the main modelling agency websites while I was bored last night, and I happened to count up all the male models, and I happened to calculate the chances of seeing Nick again soon, then that would be my prognosis. If I had.

As I said, it’s not important.

Approximately 673 to 1 and yet here he is, climbing into a taxi next to me. And my dad. Which is mind-boggling because I sort of assumed that if my planet and Nick’s planet weren’t supposed to collide then his planet and my dad’s planet were probably on different orbits, in different solar systems, in totally different universes.

Dad takes one look at Nick, sitting on the backseat next to me with his hair covered in snowflakes, and coughs. “I think I’m starting to understand why you were so keen to be a model, Harriet,” he says in the most unsubtle voice I’ve ever heard. I kick him on the ankle.

“What?!” Dad pretends to look innocent and offended. “I’m just saying, from a fifteen-year-old girl’s perspective, things are making a lot more sense all of a sudden.” And then he grins at me.

It’s not possible to be this embarrassed. If I open the taxi door while it’s moving and physically push my dad out, will I get arrested for murder? It might be worth it.

“Dad,” I whimper and stare out of the window as hard as I can. Moscow is zooming past – all snow and big buildings – but I can barely focus on it. Not only is Nick here when he’s not supposed to be, he’s even more handsome than last time I saw him. He gets better looking every day, as if he’s taking some kind of magic beautifying potion made from the tongue of a unicorn and the hair of a dragon or something.

Perhaps I should ask if he has any spare.

“You met under the table at The Clothes Show, do you remember?” Wilbur says innocently, waving his hand between us.

Dad’s all-knowing expression has deepened. “Is that so?”

Nick half smiles at me and puts his feet up on the seat in front of us. “Harriet Manners,” he says in his slow, lazy voice. “Dedicated to law enforcement.”

“She gets that from her stepmother,” Dad explains and I quickly try to calculate how much injury I’ll cause if I wait until there’s a red light and then just casually kick Dad’s car door open.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.

Nick shrugs. “I got the Baylee gig a while ago,” he says as if he’s just landed a Saturday job at the local supermarket. “They were just waiting to find the right girl.”

Oh my God. I’m the Right Girl? I’m usually the Girl That Will Have To Do I Suppose Because That Other One Got Chicken Pox (Year Five play Cinderella).

Wilbur leans forward. “Plum-pudding,” he says in an awe-filled voice. “He’s done it all. Gucci, Hilfiger, Klein, Armani. Barely sixteen years old and one of the most successful young male models in London. You’re very lucky to work with him, my little Pot of Bean Paste. He can hold your hand. Walk you through it.”

I look briefly at Nick’s hand. I wish, I think wistfully. And then my cheeks go pink.

“It’s nothing to be worried about, honestly,” Nick says in a calm voice, staring out of the window. “We rock up, we do our job, we get snowed on, we go home again. It’s no biggy.”

I nod quickly, my whole head now zinging with nerves. No biggy. The closer we get, the more real it’s starting to feel, and the more I can feel the panic rising. The last few days have been less like a funfair rollercoaster and more like one of those round balls they strap astronauts into in preparation for space. I’m never quite sure which way is up any more.

But it’s fine: this is no biggy. It’s just me, Dad and Wilbur, hanging out in Moscow for twenty-four hours, taking photos. Casual, breezy photos, with a really expensive camera. And one of London’s top male models and a famous photographer. And maybe fashion legend Yuka Ito drinking coffee 100 metres away and switching lights on and off with a disgusted look on her face. Just six people and one of them is Lion Boy.

No biggy. Sure.

My heart is starting to hammer like one of the little toy soldiers in a Christmas cartoon, and my mouth has gone suddenly fuzzy. I lick my lips and try to focus. This is what I wanted. This was my choice. This is what I’m lying for. And what’s the point if I’m so scared I can’t enjoy my own transformation?

I look out of the window while I try to calm my breathing down. It is really beautiful. The buildings are massive and majestic, everyone is wrapped up in furry hats and scarves and there are Christmas lights twinkling between the snowflakes. And every so often, if you look really hard, it’s possible to see a man in uniform, standing on a corner with a massive gun in his hands.

Which distracts a little bit from the Christmas ambience, but still.

And then there’s the river: huge and shining with the lights stretching out in reflections across the water. Exactly like the books I have at home and much, much better than La Seine in Paris.

Which is not being racist towards rivers. I’m just saying.

“We’re nearly here, my little Chocolate-drops,” Wilbur says as the taxi turns a corner. “Baby-baby Unicorn, how are you feeling? Calm? Cool? Deeply and irretrievably fashionable?”

I give the least convincing nod of my life. “I feel fine,” I lie as the taxi stops. My hands suddenly feel like live fish in my lap: all slippery and incapable of staying still. “I feel great,” I continue, looking out of the window. “I feel—”

Then I stop. Because in front of us is a huge square, filled with snow. On one side is an elaborate red wall and on the other side is a large white palace, delicately carved. I know that if I was to turn round, there would be a red castle behind us, but directly in front of us is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. Red, and blue, and green, and yellow, and striped and starred and carved like the most expensive cake you could possibly imagine.

And in front of that are about thirty-five people, sixty lights, trailers, chairs, hangers full of clothes, clusters of passers-by and – inexplicably – a small white kitten on a pillow, wearing a lead.

And it looks like every single one of them is waiting for us.