e get off the train in silence.

Wilbur and I stand as close to each other on the platform as we possibly can.

“Come here,” Yuka says. “Now, please. Both of you.”

I’ve been to the headmaster’s office at school plenty of times before. In Year Seven, I was called in to receive the Biology Award and the History Essay Award and the Debate Team Award. Then I went in again in Year Eight to accept the Physics Award and another History Essay Award. In Year Nine I got the English Award, and then in Year Ten I had to go back so that he could give me quite a large book voucher and inform me tensely that I wouldn’t be winning any more awards because it was upsetting the other students.

But I have never, ever been called in because I’m in trouble.

I imagine it would feel exactly like this.

Wilbur and I look at each other, and then start creeping down the platform, like two little children playing What’s The Time, Mister Wolf? I’m so hysterical with fear and nerves, I’m quite surprised when Yuka opens her mouth and the first line out of it isn’t ‘Dinner Time’.

“Who gave you your first break in modelling, Harriet.”

Her voice is terrifyingly gentle: in exactly the way a cat gets very slinky just before it pounces on a mouse.

I clear my throat. Technically Nick ‘discovered’ me, but the tiny part of me that knows how to stay alive steps in just in time to stop me saying that. “You.”

“And who has given you work ever since.”

“You.”

“And is this” – Yuka gestures serenely around her – “what normally happens. Are fifteen-year-old girls normally picked out of school trips and handed highly paid international jobs for a world-class designer with no castings, no competition, and no experience?”

I can’t help but feel that this is a slightly leading question. “No?” I guess weakly.

“Correct. Most models go on hundreds of castings and are rejected hundreds of times. They struggle for years against themselves and each other. Very few make any real money. Those that do have a few years, at best, before they are thrown aside. Fashion is hard work, fickle and unforgiving. It eats girls like you for breakfast.”

I suddenly feel as if I’m in a Roald Dahl novel. Hasn’t Wilbur said something like this before?

“I understand.”

“No, Harriet. You don’t understand, because I made sure of it. I gave you an exclusive contract from the beginning to ensure you would not be part of that world. And I have done everything I can since to keep you away from it.”

My eyes widen. Has my entire modelling career been a sort of glamorous babysitting?

“But … why?”

“I saw qualities in you I wanted to keep. And I was worried that the industry would take them away from you.”

I have literally no idea what qualities she’s talking about.

“Th-thank you?” I stutter, face flaming.

“And in return,” Yuka continues, “you have shown me disrespect, arrogance and disobedience. You have lied, you have been late, and you have failed to follow a single one of the basic rules I gave you.”

I shut my mouth abruptly and look at Wilbur in a panic. His entire face is now a shade of mossy green.

“N-n-no, Yuka,” I say, but there’s so little saliva in my mouth that my tongue’s starting to make a sticky, clacking sound. “I didn’t … I haven’t … you don’t understand—”

“Yes, Harriet,” Yuka says quietly, “I think I do.” She reaches into her bag, pulls out a newspaper in English and hands it to me. There’s a full-page spread: a large photo of a much, much younger Yuka in black lace, and the caption:

INDUSTRY ICON STEALS DESIGNS

Fashion icon Yuka Ito has broken her contract with fashion powerhouse Baylee in order to set up her own label. A source close to the fashion icon says: “A small group of us models have been flown all over Asia for the launch of her new label and it’s all super top secret. I was so excited to get my shoot in Tokyo.”

A spokesperson for Baylee said: “Yuka Ito is currently signed exclusively to our label. While she did design these clothes herself, until her contract expires, they technically belong to us. We are seeking legal advice.”

Yuka Ito has so far been unavailable for comment.

“I-I-It wasn’t me,” I say urgently, looking back at the article. ‘Us models’? That’s not even grammatically correct. “Although I know it sounds a bit like me I didn’t tell anyone about—”

But I did, didn’t I?

I knew precisely how important it was to keep my mouth shut – I promised Yuka and Wilbur that I would – and I still let the secret out. Trying to make two girls like me was more important than keeping my word.

“I should have explained earlier,” Wilbur says, stepping forwards while a hot, burning wave of shame knocks the wind out of me. “It’s not really my little Monkey-bum’s fault, there’s been some unprofessional activity going on—”

“Enough,” Yuka says. “I’m not interested in hearing any more stories.” She turns to me and says flatly: “Do you think it was a coincidence that you were positioned in Tokyo, Harriet.”

I blink. “Umm …”

“Japan is my home. You were to be the face of the whole campaign. But that was clearly the worst decision of all. So you’re fired. I trust this is one instruction you won’t have a problem following.”

“Now just a second—” Wilbur starts, and Yuka turns to him.

“And you’re fired too, William. Please take Harriet back to the flat, collect her things and go to the airport. Your tickets will be waiting for you there.”

Wilbur looks as if somebody has snatched the battery out of him. He gets visibly smaller. “It’s Wilbur,” he says. “With a ‘bur’ and not an ‘iam’.”

“I don’t think it really matters,” Yuka says. “We will not be working together again.”