don’t know how long we shoot for.

With colours exploding in every direction and music pumping, I laugh and dance, spin and throw paints around: singing incoherently with strangers and hugging people at random until Anish grabs my arm.

“We’ve got to go!” he yells in my ear. “That was brilliant!”

Honestly, I’d forgotten he was even there: all concept of a camera or a modelling job or the fact that I’ve been flown thousands of miles for thousands of pounds totally melted away.

I wasn’t trying, and it was the best shoot I’ve ever done.

“That was amazing!” I yell, following him out of the crowd, breathing heavily and – judging by the bright orange and green strands of hair stuck to my face – looking kind of like an overgrown Oompa Loompa.

“Sorry we didn’t have time to brief you,” he smiles over his shoulder, removing the raincoat. “We needed to hurry or …”

He gestures at the crowd behind us.

There are still enthusiastic puffs of bright smoke and powder, but the paints are starting to sludge together into browns and khakis and everyone is beginning to look a bit straggly and unkempt.

As much fun as they’re all still having, the photogenic window of opportunity was clearly narrow.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I say politely, wiping a yellow hand across my forehead and watching as it comes away bright pink, “what has any of this got to do with fizzy drinks?”

“No idea,” Anish laughs. “My brief was to photograph the model having fun at Holi and make it as colourful as possible. I’m afraid the top creatives have yet to share their genius vision with us.”

According to the project I gave the agency, there are sixteen packs of sugar in one regular bottle of soda. I don’t see how that has anything to do with this.

Unless …

“May I ask you a favour?” I say as I follow him back down the narrow streets, leaving a trail of bright purple footsteps behind me. “Do you think you could send a couple of those photos to my phone? Just ones you’re not going to use – ones with my eyes closed or something. I promise I won’t share them publicly.”

Yes, that’s right: I’ve had another idea.

It’s completely ridiculous, but I suddenly feel like there’s nothing to lose.

“Sure,” Anish says as the shouts begin receding into the air behind us. “Do you need a break, or can we keep shooting? I’d really like to keep the positive energy up.”

I nod, although I’m not sure I can get any happier.

When enormous stars explode they release more energy in a few seconds than our sun will in ten billion years, and they’re still nothing in comparison to how much brightness I’m giving off right now.

“Let’s keep going,” I say firmly. “Do I need to get cleaned up first?”

Anish starts laughing.

He laughs and laughs, then turns a narrow corner into a winding street and just keeps laughing.

“Oh no,” he chortles as we round the final corner. “I think we’ve got that covered.”

And that’s when I go very still.

Because in front of us is a pretty courtyard and a large group of people. Deepika and the stylists are on one side, busying themselves with towels and wipes and hairbrushes. Peter Trout is on the other, staring at his phone.

And in the middle – right where you can’t miss it – is the best, most magical thing I’ve ever seen.

Better than a unicorn. Better than a rainbow. Better than a million shooting stars.

It’s an enormous elephant.