y dad is having a breakdown.

He keeps looking at my head and then murmuring, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, and putting his hands over his eyes. “I think Annabel is going to notice this one,” he says eventually.

I touch the hair clutched between my fingers. An hour ago it was waist-length and now it’s bobbed to just below my ears. I also have a short spiky fringe which is going to be standing vertically for the rest of my teens.

Julien is calling this look “La Jeanne d’Arc for the New Decade”. I think it means that I’m going to be sent to the wrong toilet in restaurants until it grows back again.

“Darling,” the stylist says, patting me on the shoulder, “I know you must be gutted: the loss of your femininity and so on. But we don’t really have time for this. We need to get you ready.”

I nod, and then pull myself together and get off the bed. I can’t complain just because my idea of a transformation apparently isn’t the same as anyone else’s, i.e. to make me look better.

“OK,” I say bravely, getting into the make-up chair. I’m going to just let them do whatever it is these people want to do.

Which is, apparently, bore me to death.

Being transformed is incredibly dull. It’s like watching somebody you don’t know paint by numbers. They inexplicably paint my face with something the same colour as my face, then put pink stuff where I was blushing before they covered it up, and then give me lots of black mascara that goes into my eyes, and then bright pink lips.

Then they put shimmery stuff on my shoulders, and shimmery stuff in my hair, and then they hand me my ‘outfit’. I’ve used quotation marks, for the record, because it’s not an outfit. It’s a short fake fur coat and a pair of the highest red heels I have ever seen. And that’s it.

No, sorry. I’ve also got a pair of big black knickers you just can’t see under the coat and a sheer pair of tights that are totally transparent and do nothing apart from make my legs look weird and shiny, like the legs of a Barbie.

I stare at it all for a few seconds in disbelief and then take it into the bathroom to maintain my modesty, which for some unknown reason everybody seems to think is really funny. Then I sit on the seat of the toilet to put ‘the outfit’ on.

Ten minutes later, I’m still sitting there.

“Harriet?” a concerned voice eventually says, accompanied by a knocking on the door. “It’s Dad. Are you all right, sweetheart?”

“She’s probably so mesmerised by her own beauty she can’t move away from the mirror,” I hear Wilbur stage-whisper. “It’s why I’m always late.” Then he knocks on the door as well. “Look away from the reflection, baby,” he shouts through the wood. “Just look away and the spell will be broken.”

“Dad? Can you come in here? I’m on the toilet.”

There’s a pause. “Darling, I love you very much. You’re my only child and the apple of my eye and whatnot. But I’m not coming in there if you’re on the toilet.”

I sigh in frustration. “With the seat down, Dad. I’m sitting on the toilet. As a chair.”

“Oh. OK.” Dad pokes his head round the door. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t stand up.”

“You’re paralysed? How did that happen?”

“No, I literally can’t stand up. The heels are too big, Dad. I can’t walk in them.” I try to stand up and my ankles buckle and I collapse back on to the toilet.

“Oh.” Dad frowns. “Why hasn’t Annabel been teaching you how to walk in heels? I thought we had an agreement: I teach you how to be cool and she trains you how to be a girl.”

I stare at him in silence. This explains so much. “I’ve never worn heels before. So what am I going to do?”

Dad thinks about it and then starts singing ‘Lean on Me’ by Al Green. He bends down and I take one wobbly step and hang on to his shoulder like a tipsy baby koala hanging on to a eucalyptus tree. Then Dad spins me round so I’m facing away from the door.

“What are you doing?” I snap crossly. I’m currently failing to be a girl, let alone a model. “The exit’s that way.”

“Before we go anywhere, I want you to see this,” Dad says and he points in the mirror.

Next to a reflection that looks exactly like my dad is a girl. She’s got white skin and sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin and green eyes. She has thin long legs and a long neck and she’s sort of graceful yet clumsy-looking, like a baby deer. It’s only when I lean forward a bit and see that her nose turns up at the end just like mine does that I fully register that it’s me.

That’s me? Wow. The beauty industry actually works. I look… I look… I look kind of OK.

“You can say what you like,” Dad says after a moment. “But I think me and your mum must have done something right.”

I make an embarrassed but pleased peeping sound.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m taking full credit for the hair. But she had all the beauty. She’d be so stoked right now.” Then Dad spins me round again so that my toes are on top of his feet and starts half-carrying, half-dancing me out of the bathroom. “Roar for me?” he demands.

“Rooooaaaar.”

“That’s the one. Now let’s go get ’em, Tiger.”

“I think this is leopard, actually,” I point out, looking at the coat. “Tigers have stripes.”

Dad gives me his widest grin. “Then let’s go get ’em, Leopard.”

 

It takes another four minutes to get out of the bathroom, and by the time I’m back in the hotel room, Dad has corrected the leopard analogy to “baby giraffe learning how to ice-skate”.

Which is extremely unkind. I’d like to see him try and walk with eight-inch spikes attached to his feet. Plus, giraffes never lie down and there are at least three points where I’m sort of horizontal.

“Well, this isn’t going to work, is it?” Wilbur points out eventually. “At this rate you’ll be way too old to model by the time we get down to the shoot, Angel-moo. You’ll probably be in your early twenties and what good is that to anyone?”

“I could put my trainers back on?” I suggest, getting them out of my bag.

Wilbur visibly flinches. “A next season, perfectly cut, limited edition Baylee coat worn with… are they supermarket own-brand trainers?” He swallows. “I think I just sicked up in my mouth. Fashion sacrilege. I can’t allow it. Not while there’s a breath left in this beautiful body of mine.” He frowns and looks around the room. “Luckily I’m brilliant as well as stunning,” he adds happily. “And I have an idea.”

 

Ten minutes later, I enter Red Square with my entourage behind me. It’s not exactly the entrance I was hoping for. In fact, I believe I’ve got my head in my hands for all of it.

Nick takes one look at the wheelchair, accurately guesses why I’m in it and gives a very uncool shout of laughter so loud that pigeons fly off the top of a nearby statue. Yuka isn’t quite as impressed.

“Would somebody like to tell me,” she hisses as she stalks towards where I’m sitting, glaring at the seven people standing behind me, “who broke my model?”