ere’s an interesting fact about the duck-billed platypus: it doesn’t have a stomach.

I know exactly how it feels.

In case you’ve forgotten: fifteen months ago my life wasn’t the only one that changed for good. On the exact day that I was scouted for modelling, Dad was fired as Head Copywriter for a big London advertising agency for telling an important client to go and French Connection themselves in the middle of their reception.

And that’s where I am now.

Which means – judging by the denim – the angry man is almost definitely Dad’s old boss, Peter Trout: Creative Director and Head Honcho.

Pufferfish look cuddly but their spines contain tetrodotoxin: a poison so deadly it can kill you with a single prick.

I didn’t know trout could too.

“So,” Peter says, folding his arms. “You’re Harriet Manners. That explains a lot.”

I blink. “Does it?”

“Clearly being an uncontrollable maverick with no regard for rules, regulations or general codes of conduct runs in the family.”

OK, that’s really quite rude.

Also, I’m an extremely well-behaved, reliable and law-abiding citizen, so this man clearly doesn’t know me at all.

“Actually, that’s not entirely—”

“Oh!” the American lady exclaims again. “You were the girl who sat down on the catwalk in the middle of a fashion show in Russia last year! I saw that in the paper!”

“And we heard about Yuka’s last model,” the woman next to her adds. “Didn’t you ruin a couture dress with octopus ink? It was the talk of fashion week last year.”

“Don’t you tend to faint on camera?”

I open my mouth to object against these horrible, unkind accusations, then realise they’re completely accurate and promptly shut it again.

The whole group has started loudly whispering at each other. “She’s not the girl in the Paris …”

“You got that email too?”

“It’s hard to tell without the giant ears, obviously.”

In the meantime, Peter Trout is regarding me with a vague air of satisfaction. I hate to admit it, but the evidence is rapidly mounting.

It’s horrifying.

I’d built an entire identity on being the second most sensible Manners after Annabel, but that clearly isn’t the case.

I’m rapidly slipping to less savvy than my dog.

“And now you show up to my agency,” he snaps, “all ‘don’t worry I’m here!’ as if your reputation precedes you. Well, missy: it clearly does. And not in a good way.”

My cheeks are burning. “But—”

“This industry doesn’t need any more special little snowflakes who think the rules don’t apply to them, young lady. As your father proved, we already have enough.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

Every winter in the US alone, at least one septillion ice crystals fall from the sky. There are literally very few things on this planet less special than a snowflake.

Also, I’d like to make the point that he’s the only one in the room not wearing a suit.

His irritation is visibly rising.

“Frankly, your uncontrollable father cost this agency thousands of pounds. And now you have the audacity to break into my company, my lunch, in front of my clients, dripping with sweat, jumping the queue, giggling, phone ringing, wearing whatever that is …”

“A home-made JINTH T-shirt and dungarees.”

“… no portfolio, unregistered agency, no idea what you’re doing or what time you should arrive or why you’re here or what job it is you’re even trying to get.”

His argument is undeniably strong.

“But I—”

“And we’re … what, exactly? Supposed to be won over by your eccentricities? Charmed by your quirks? Besotted with your totally unprofessional attitude and lack of respect for this industry and everybody in it?”

I’m so hot with shame there’s a chance I’ll combust and they’ll have to identify me from the name written on the inside front cover of my Russian literature.

Swallowing, I lift my chin. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean it.”

“From what I can tell, model Harriet Manners, you never seem to mean anything.”

I’m completely speechless.

“So I suggest,” he says, sitting back in his chair and making a triangle with his fingertips, “that you stumble out of the modelling industry and leave room for somebody who actually wants to be there.”

Mr Trout picks up the last mouthful of his baguette and points with it at the door.

“Now you can go.”