t starts better than I could possibly have hoped it would.

Despite being nearly an hour late, Tabby and I sail straight through Elle reception, into the glamorous open-plan magazine office and towards a very chic-looking fashion editor in camel-coloured trousers and a light blue shirt.

Quickly, I run through my mental list.

Am I being professional? TICK. Confident? TICK. Stylish? TICK. Is my health top-notch? AS GOOD AS CAN BE EXPECTED IN ONE WEEK.

Have I done my research? OH YOU BETCHA.

The word jeans comes from the cotton trousers worn by sailors from Genoa; the world’s first fashion magazine was published in 1586 and it takes more than 30,000 silkworms to produce twelve pounds of raw silk. I’ve even remembered extracts from the fifty copies of Elle Nat gave me, collected over the last half-decade.

Admittedly, my self-belief wobbles slightly as the ridiculously beautiful blonde model in front of me puts a portfolio full of Prada campaigns back in her bag and looks in alarm at the slightly soggy toy tucked under my arm.

But I quickly recalibrate.

I’ve done Baylee. I’ve done Yuka Ito. I kind of half did Levaire. I have just as much chance as any of these girls.

This is in the bag.

“Hello,” I say to the editor, before she can comment on Tabby. “I’m Harriet Manners and there was a babysitting conundrum. I promise it’s not a sign of opprobrium towards fashion and I respect you very much.”

“Don’t worry at all,” she smiles warmly, holding out a hand. “Childcare is a nightmare, I have one myself. So let’s see what we have here.”

I give her my orange portfolio and somehow manage to swallow an intense impulse to tell her that the fruit orange actually came before the colour orange and was a reduction of nāranga, the Sanskrit word for “orange tree”.

Be professional, Harriet.

“Lovely,” the editor says, opening my book and flicking the first page over. “Beautiful.” She flicks again. “Gorgeous.” Flick. “Very pretty.” Flick flick. “Wonderful. What a lovely face you have.”

Flick flick flick flick.

Then she takes one of my comp cards out, puts it on a table full of other comp cards and hands the book back to me. “Thank you, Harriet. We’ll be in touch.”

I blink in amazement.

Oh my God, is that it? Did I just get my very first job of the day? All it takes to achieve meteoric success is a well-organised binder and a bit of belief in myself.

I should have done this ages ago.

“When exactly, do you think?” I don’t want to be pushy, but time is of the essence. “I’m free Monday lunchtime. Can you call between 1:30pm and 2pm?”

“We’ll be in touch. Thank you, Harriet.”

“It’s just that I have a double maths lesson at three so if I can’t pick up you can leave details on voicemail.”

“Thank you for coming in, Harriet,” she says more firmly. “See you another time.”

“Or email. I can give you that too. I can check my phone under my desk.”

“Thank you, Harriet. I’ll bear that in mind.”

Then the editor turns pointedly to the stunning, ebony-skinned girl lining up behind me, who is getting a shiny silver portfolio out of her bag.

Hang on a minute.

Is … Is this like what Nat was saying about dating? When they say they’ll be in touch but what they actually mean is they won’t be in touch at all?

Have I just been fashion-dumped?

“Umm, sorry to interrupt.” I lean abruptly in front of the other model’s photos. “Does this mean you won’t be in touch or you will be in touch? I need to check.”

The girl starts laughing.

“Ah.” The editor smiles briefly. “I see. In that case, we won’t be in touch. I’m afraid you don’t have the right look for us at present, Harriet. Maybe come back in a few years.”

“A few years?” I say in dismay. “But you don’t understand. I don’t have a few years.”

At least that makes the other model stop laughing: she now thinks I’m dying.

“I’m sorry, Harriet,” the editor says smoothly. “Better luck elsewhere.”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Harriet. Have a very nice day.” Politely but deliberately, the editor spins fractionally in her chair away from me.

And it looks like my first casting is over.