Q tests on the internet can say what they like; it’s not a great sign when you’re outwitted by an octopus. Never mind invertebrates, Charlie’s clearly smarter than at least one animal with a spine as well.

My co-model isn’t ready. That’s what Haru was telling me. Charlie needed a few minutes out of water first so he wouldn’t panic. Nobody expected me to try grabbing him straight away; they expected me to categorically refuse to touch him, like a normal fifteen-year-old girl.

The dark ink doesn’t just hit the dress: it goes everywhere. All over my face and hands and legs. All over the floor. All over the expensive tuna fish. It’s like the world’s biggest, most explosive, broken biro.

“Baka!” Haru yells as I stand there in shock, quietly dripping deep purple everywhere. “Bakayaro!” He throws a plastic lens cap on the floor.

“Umm …” Naho says, but this time there’s no need for translation.

He’s right.

I’m an idiot.

I apologise earnestly and repeatedly, but by the time they’ve wiped me down with half a dozen paper towels and sponged the ink off my hair, I realise the situation can’t be saved. The one-off dress is ruined. The fish that aren’t blue have been sold; the rest are being hosed down in a corner. The photographer is smoking outside and throwing sporadic Japanese words at me through the door. Naho is politely refusing to translate them.

And Yuka has gone.