he next six days are spent in training.

With the help of a few carefully analysed and highlighted women’s magazines, I do my best to blend my academic school duties with my target of temporary physical and mental perfection, in time for the weekend.

This includes:

By Friday, I finally understand why so many models abandon education at a young age: school is not compatible with a healthy-guru lifestyle. My stomach is no more toned at all.

Luckily, I’ve made up for it with research.

Thanks to intense lessons every evening with Toby in the cafe, I know everything there is to know about fashion.

OK, that sounds kind of arrogant. Correction: I know a lot more than before.

Which was zero, so that’s not difficult.

And now – after disappearing into a week of solid college classes and lectures – Nat’s turned up at the cafe to give me my final Model exams with a clipboard, a white shirt and a fake pair of diamante glasses.

She’s possibly taking this a little too seriously.

“Ready,” I say, putting my mug down. “Go.”

“Where was Guccio Gucci born?” Nat fires at me, pointing her fountain pen. “And when?”

“Florence,” I answer promptly. “1881. He was the son of an Italian merchant.”

“One point,” Nat nods sternly, drawing a little tick. “What is the current value of the fashion industry to the UK?”

“Twenty-six billion pounds. There has been an increase of twenty-two per cent in nominal terms since Oxford Economics measured it in 2009.”

“Yes.” She draws another little tick. “Who inspired Louboutin’s red shoe sole?”

“His assistant. She was painting her nails at the time.”

“And,” Toby says, leaning back and making his fingers into weird little triangles in a frighteningly sinister echo of Peter Trout, “how do you walk like a cat?”

“Yes,” Nat snaps, business-like and sharp. “How do you walk like a … wait, what?”

“Cats are digitigrades,” he explains. “I’ve told Harriet that she needs to walk on her toes and put her front leg and her back leg forward at the same time.”

Nat rolls her eyes.

“So close,” she sighs, smacking him gently on the nose with her pen. “Yet so far.”

“Speaking of far,” Jasper says, putting more cake on the table, “has anyone seen India this week?”

We look at each other.

Apart from a brief flash of purple on Monday morning, there have been no sightings at all. In spite of the handwritten letter I slipped in her locker, the note I pinned to the physics door and the email I sent her with an attached document detailing all of the Team JINTH whereabouts this week.

I’d think she’d fallen off the surface of the planet entirely if I hadn’t set up a Read Receipt.

My stomach’s starting to go rigid.

“Oh, umm,” Nat says, clearing her throat, “I totally forgot. I got a text from Indy yesterday. Her parents grounded her while she was at yours, Harriet, and she had to peg it home. She said she’s really sorry but not to take it personally.”

And I swear it’s like magic.

With one swoop, my entire body relaxes. There was a tiny part of me that thought we’d done something to upset her.

In relief, I look at my list. “OK, can anyone take Confidence for her? I don’t mind who fills in.”

“Sorry, H,” Nat says, standing up and taking her fake glasses back off, “I’ve got more revision to do. Honestly though, there’s nothing left for you to learn. You’re going to be amazing.”

“Apart from at seduction.” Toby’s chortling. “HAHAHAHA.”

I must be the only person in the world with an ex-stalker who thinks she’s physically abhorrent.

Thank goodness Jasper’s gone back to the counter so he can’t add a little dig there too.

They have not let up about it.

Still chuckling, Toby hands me a stapled document with Harriet Manners’ VIP Saturday Castings – the Research at the top of the page in marker pen.

“Nice one, Tobes,” Nat grins, high-fiving him.

Toby looks genuinely chuffed.

“It was nothing,” he blushes. “Just a few library sessions here, a few night classes at Central St Martins there.”

And just like that, I realise Team JINTH Happiness Goal number two is already achieved. All Toby ever really wants – has ever really wanted – is to be included.

TICK.

“You’re going to walk this,” Nat says brightly, kissing my cheek. “I can feel it in my bones.”

A lump rises into my throat.

In an animal-rescue centre in Orlando a fully grown tiger, lion and a bear share a pen: rescued as cubs together and now totally inseparable.

That’s what the three of us are.

The best of friends, even though nature, geography and common interests usually mean we’d never normally meet, and in other circumstances might literally kill each other.

“Gotta run. Text us later?” Nat calls over her shoulder, grabbing her bag and hurrying towards the exit. “Love you.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Toby exclaims with an elaborate sigh, standing up and following her. “I just don’t feel the same way, Natalie.”

“Oh shut up, Toby,” Nat says affectionately.

And the door swings shut behind them.