hich is absolutely fine.

I mean, I knew I wasn’t going to get them all. I only need to secure two, maybe three, modelling jobs to make a real difference, and according to Toby’s schedule I’ve still got seven castings to go.

That’s a forty per cent success rate target at maximum, or an E grade if modelling was a GCSE.

Which I’m very happy it’s not.

I tend to cry all night if I get anything less than an A-minus.

Anyway, as I push Tabitha rapidly along the streets to my next appointment, I focus on staying positive and confident. I’ve got a great plan and this is in the bag: all I need to do is stick to it without getting creative or veering off course.

The same cannot be said for the buggy.

First it goes into a drain, then a pothole and a shop-window. I can’t get it up the kerb, then – while texting Team JINTH to let them know how it’s going – I drive it into a lamp-post.

By the time Tabby and I arrive in Savile Row, we’ve lost all the time we made up at the last casting. Not to mention the fact that I can barely read the notes for this go-see because there are so many hearts drawn all over them. Nat’s pencilled Kiss the doorstep! in Toby’s margins, and I don’t have time to check if she means literally.

I cautiously give the doorframe a quick peck, just in case.

The door swings open with a sharp bang.

“Model!” a very short man in a black polo-neck snaps. “Why are you sniffing our shop? What’s wrong with you? Come in quickly, you’re letting the warmth out.”

Then he scuttles away, busy and ant-like: muttering about how he “doesn’t appreciate waiting around all day for tardy teenagers”.

Obediently, I push the buggy past grey, tailored and very formal suits and dresses: into the kind of darkly lit back room I’m not sure I should be following a strange man into.

Then I clear my throat anxiously. “This is very—”

“Walk,” the man says, straightening his glasses.

“I’m sorry?”

“Walk.” He makes little stepping movements with his fingers. “You put one foot in front of the other and move forward?”

“Of course,” I say, quickly grabbing a pair of black heels out of the buggy, popping them on and thanking my lucky stars that Nat forced me to spend three hours practising walking in them this week.

Then I start ambling across the room.

“Faster,” the man says, clapping his hands, so I obediently scoot forward a bit faster. “Not that fast.” I slow down. “Shoulders back.” I obey. “Too far.” I pull them forward again. “More hip.” I roll my middle section. “Less hip.” I go rigid again. “Good lord, girl, who taught you to walk?”

“My dad. When I was fourteen months old.”

“Bad,” he snaps. “Bad bad bad. You should get a new one. You’re no use to me at all.” Then he starts ushering both Tabby and I out of the shop with flappy hands.

My heart lurches in dismay. That’s it?

Scientists have worked out that the perfect slice of toast should be cooked for exactly 216 seconds. You can’t make a decent breakfast in the time it’s taken for my shot at this position to be over.

He hasn’t even looked at my portfolio.

I haven’t told him that the first pair of Levis was sold for $6 of gold dust, and I feel like that definitely might have helped.

“Umm.” Do something, Harriet. “Would you like my composite card for future reference?” I desperately thrust nine or ten at him from the doorstep. “I’ve hole-punched them for easy storage.”

He hands my cards unceremoniously back.

“Keep them, honey. Judging by that performance you’re going to need as many as you can get.”

And the door gets slammed in my face.