K.

Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. But keep them subtle: I don’t want Yuka Ito to think I’m going into labour.

Everything is dark, except I don’t know whether it’s just my brain closing down in shock or my eyes adjusting to the light. The whole room is pitch-black, and there’s just a small lamp in the corner. And right in the middle, sitting in a chair, is a very small woman.

She’s very still, and very silent, and she’s wearing black from head to toe. Everything is black: her long hair is black, her minuscule hat is black and the lace hanging over one eye is black. Her dress is black and her shoes are black and her tights are black. The only thing on her that isn’t black is her lips, and they’re bright purple. Her hands are folded very neatly in her lap, and the only other way I can think of to describe her is that she’s everything that Wilbur isn’t: quiet, controlled and absolutely rigid. She looks exactly like a fashionable spider.

I knew I should have stuck to my first outfit choice.

As if on cue, Wilbur cries, ‘Sweetheart!’ and flounces across the room to greet her. ‘It’s been tooooo long!’

She looks at Wilbur without a flicker of expression on her perfect, pale face. “I saw you eight minutes ago. Which I believe is two minutes longer than we agreed.”

“Precisely! Tooooooo long!” Wilbur runs back to me, totally unfazed, and pushes me forward. “I had difficulty retrieving this one,” he explains happily, as if he’s Hugo and I’m some kind of really nice stick. “But retrieve her I finally did.”

He gives me another nudge with his fingertips until I’m standing awkwardly in front of Yuka. There is something so queenly about her that I find myself suddenly dropping into a curtsy, the way I was taught to in ballet class before the teacher asked Annabel not to bring me back because it was “impossible to teach me grace”.

Yuka Ito looks at me with a stony face and then – almost without moving – touches a little button on a remote control on her lap. A bright spotlight fades in dramatically, almost directly above me, and I jump a little bit. Seriously. What kind of room is this?

“Harriet,” she says as I squint upwards. There’s no inflection to her voice, so I’m not sure whether it’s a question or a statement or whether she’s just practising saying my name.

“Harriet Manners,” I correct automatically.

“Harriet Manners.” She looks me up and down slowly. “How old are you, Harriet Manners?”

“I’m fifteen years, three months and eight days old.”

“Is that your natural hair?”

I pause briefly. Why would anyone dye their hair this colour? “…Yes.”

Yuka raises an eyebrow. “And you’ve never modelled before?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about clothes?”

I look down at my grey pinstripe suit. It must be a trick question. “No.”

“And do you know who I am?”

“You’re Yuka Ito, Creative Director of Baylee.”

“Did you know who I was before Wilbur told you thirty seconds ago?”

I glance at Wilbur. “No.”

“But she’s very bright,” Wilbur bursts enthusiastically, clearly no longer able to contain himself. “She picks things up ever so quickly, don’t you, my little Bumblebee? Once I told her who you were she didn’t forget straight away at all.”

Yuka slowly slides her gaze over to him. “At what point exactly,” she says in an icy voice, “did it seem as if I was attempting to engage you in conversation, Wilbur?”

“None at all,” Wilbur agrees and takes a few steps back. He starts gesturing at me to get behind him.

“And,” she continues, looking at me, “how do you feel about fashion?”

I think really hard for a few seconds. “It’s just clothes,” I say eventually. Then I close my mouth as tightly as possible and mentally flick myself with my thumb and middle finger. It’s just clothes? What’s wrong with me? Telling the fashion industry’s most powerful woman that It’s Just Clothes is like telling Michelangelo, It’s Just A Drawing. Or Mozart, It’s Just A Bit Of Music. Why is there no kind of net between my brain and my mouth to catch sentences like that, like the one we have in the kitchen sink to catch vegetable peel?

“Would you mind explaining why you want to be a model in that case?”

“I guess…” I swallow uncertainly. “I want things to change.”

“And by things she means,” Wilbur interrupts, stepping forward, “famine. Poverty. Global warming.”

“Actually, I mean me mainly,” I clarify uncomfortably. “I’m not sure fashion is going to help with anything else.”

Yuka stares at me for what feels like twenty years, but is actually about ten seconds with a totally blank expression on her face. “Turn around,” she says eventually in a dry voice.

So I turn around. And then – because I’m not sure what else to do – I keep turning. And turning. Until I start to worry that I’m going to be sick on the floor.

“You can stop turning now,” she snaps eventually, and her voice sounds high and strained. She flicks her finger again and the light above me abruptly switches off and plunges me back into the dark. “I’ve seen enough. Leave now.”

I stop, but the room continues spinning, so Wilbur grabs me before I fall over.

I can’t believe it. That was my chance and I blew it. That was the escape hatch from my life and I managed to shut it on myself within forty-five seconds. Which means I’m stuck being me forever.

Forever.

Oh, God. Maybe I am actually a moron after all. I might have to recheck my IQ levels when I get home.

“Go, go, go,” Wilbur whispers urgently because I’m still standing in the middle of the room, staring at Yuka, totally paralysed with shock. “Out, out, out.”

And then he bows to Yuka, shuffles backwards out of the room with me behind him and shoves me back into the real world.