ne day, I’m going to be the kind of ex-girlfriend who moves in a bubble of composure and indifference, leaving former suitors sobbing in her wake.

Today is clearly not it.

Not only did Nick see me smack my head on the overhead luggage compartments, he also sees me miss my first step off the train and fall straight on to the platform floor. He immediately reaches out a hand to pick me up, but I shake it off, put my hands on my hips and thrust myself off the ground. “Exercise,” I tell him imperiously, bending a couple of times to demonstrate. “It’s important to practise lunges wherever possible.”

“Obviously.” Nick nods. “It’s rule 452 in the Fashion Modelling Handbook.”

What? Why has nobody given me this book yet?

He smiles. “And rule 593 is Break Everything in a Twenty-Metre Radius, so you’re clearly a natural.”

Oh.

I blush and pretend to look for my train ticket in my satchel, even though I know it’s in my pocket.

“Come and give me a kiss, Prince C,” Wilbur announces as I search fruitlessly for a suitable comeback. “I haven’t seen you for yonks and diddly yonks. How’s that big brute of a country treating you?”

“Fine. Freezing cold, though.”

“Australia’s a contrary mare, and no mistake,” Wilbur agrees, shaking his head. “Sunny at Christmas, cold in summer. What does Santa wear there, I wonder?”

“Red board-shorts,” Nick says as he starts leading us out of the tiny station. “He’s big into surfing.”

“Well,” Wilbur exclaims triumphantly, “no wonder he’s got such red cheeks and nose by the time he gets round to us.”

“Did you know,” I blurt out, “that if Santa Claus was real, in order to deliver presents to 378 million Christian children all over the world, his sleigh would have to move at 3,000 times the speed of sound with 214,200 reindeer and the air resistance and the centrifugal forces involved would cause both the reindeer and Santa to explode?” I pause. “Not that I think Santa’s real,” I add. “I’m just saying if he was real.”

Oh, for the love of sugar cookies. Nice way to not look like a silly child, Harriet.

“Aaaand she’s back,” Wilbur says, patting me on the head as if I’m a slightly dim-witted Labrador.

“Did you bring any Polaroid with you?” Nick asks as we start walking towards a large white van with blacked-out windows. “Haru’s run out.”

“I’m a professional, darling. Of course I have Polaroid film.” Wilbur opens a flowery bag with a rabbit printed on it. “Now, is Yuka ready for this cherub?”

“That’s not exactly how she’s referring to Harriet at the moment, but – yes.”

“And how about the … you know?”

“Ready. It pains me to say it, but my aunt is a genius.”

“That good?”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s like they’re talking in code. To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to know what they’re on about.

So far my modelling career has consisted of: jumping around in snow with bare feet; being covered in gold paint; getting attacked by an octopus; feeling humiliated in front of 20,000 people and being put in a glass box.

Judging by past experiences, I would imagine they’re now planning to wrap me in clingfilm and drop me off the top of a mountain attached to an elastic band. It’s for the best all round if I just don’t ask.

“And any sign of …” I say to Wilbur, lifting my eyebrows. I can totally do code too. Ha.

“What?”

“You know.”

“No, what?”

For God’s sake. How come when I try to be all mysterious, nobody understands what I’m talking about?

I blush. “Poppy or Rin,” I whisper under my breath. “Any sign of them?”

“None,” Wilbur whispers back. “Your grandmother’s still guarding the flat like a gloriously sparkly Pyrenean Mountain Dog. She texted me to say she’s got them baking wasabi cookies. It’s going to be fine this time, my little Human-firework. We’ve made absolutely sure of it.”

My shoulders relax, but only slightly.

Over the last ten years, Alexa and her minions have shown me so many shades of hatred I could draw you an Unpopularity Rainbow.

I know the shade of hatred you get when you tell people they’ve used the wrong word in a sentence; the shade when you’ve just had a six-page spread in Harper’s Bazaar; the shade when you’ve accidentally tripped in the school canteen and thrown baked beans and chicken Kiev all over the back of the person in front of you.

I even know the shade of hatred that comes from telling people about shades of hatred, and offering to draw them an Unpopularity Rainbow.

But I’m not sure anyone has ever hated me enough before to change my alarms, wear out my phone battery, plant a pair of culturally offensive shoes on me and manhandle a cockroach, all to try and get me fired when I’m 6,000 miles from home.

Not even Alexa.