legant. Dignified. Graceful.

 

Three words that don’t describe me in the slightest. Five people have to pick me out of the wheelchair and carry me to where Nick is waiting in the snow, in front of St Basil’s Cathedral, and when they plop me down, it takes another few minutes to get me balanced enough to remain vertical on my own. Which I can just about manage. As long as I focus really hard, don’t move a muscle and scrunch my toes up into claws inside the shoes for leverage. And keep my hands out at the sides like a tightrope walker. None of which is aided by Dad’s continuous laughing.

Or – for that matter – Nick’s.

I’m briefly introduced to the photographer, Paul, who is a thin blond man without – as far as I can see – one single flamboyant tendency. He looks totally focused on the job, which is actually even more worrying. At least with Wilbur, it’s possible to forget that there’s a great deal riding on me.

It’s not a little metamorphosis experiment any more. It’s a job. It’s very expensive. It’s very important. And it matters to a lot of people.

“Look at me doing wheelies in the snow!” Wilbur screams in the background, spinning around in the wheelchair.

The photographer takes one look at him, grinds his teeth and looks back at Nick and me. “I just need to set up lighting,” he says in a tense voice, looking up at the sky. It’s starting to snow harder and the sky is a little darker than it was before. “Can somebody get my light reflector?”

A young boy races off and then runs back with a big gold circle.

“Just make yourself comfortable for a few minutes,” he says, fiddling with a little black box as the boy starts flicking the gold circle around. “I’ll take a few test shots when everything’s perfect.” He fiddles with the box again and then looks up. “Somebody might as well get Gary.”

Gary? Gary? Who the hell is Gary?

I look at Nick, who I’ve managed to avoid making eye contact with since I came back from the hotel. I feel extremely self-conscious now that my hair’s all gone. Like the Wizard of Oz after the curtain’s come down. Nick has his hands in the pockets of a large army-style coat and his hair gelled into a Mohican. He scrunches up his nose at me and my internal organs turn inside out again.

Shouldn’t I be immune to him by now? Or is he like the human version of the common cold?

“You want to watch out,” he says in his slow drawl. “Gary’s vicious.”

I look around in alarm. “Is Gary another model?” I whisper in terror. “A stylist? A hairdresser? Yuka’s assistant?”

“Nope,” Nick says and the corner of his mouth is twitching. “Worse. He’s a monster. Raises hell wherever he goes.” And then he looks past me and nods. “Here he comes. Watch yourself.” And out of the crowd comes a woman holding the teeny-tiny white kitten.

 

OK, first impressions are deceiving. As soon as the lady hands him over to me, Gary nips my finger and starts clawing his way up my shoulder, hissing like an angry kettle. It’s just not natural for something so cute and fluffy to be so nasty.

I look at Nick in distress. “Why is he spitting at me?”

“Maybe he thinks he’s a llama.”

I grab the kitten, who has changed his mind and is now scrabbling back down and trying to use my arm as a springboard. I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s small and white: if he lands in the snow, there’s a really good chance we’ll never find him again.

“OK, guys,”Paul finally says. “We’re ready to do some test shots.” He pauses and looks at me. “Harriet. What are you doing to that animal?”

I look down to where I’m sort of hanging on to Gary by his back legs while he scrabbles away with his front ones. “Bonding?” I offer weakly.

“Could you bond in a way that looks a bit less like animal cruelty?”Paul clears his throat. “Right, I’m going to take a dozen or so frames. It’s not too important what you do now, but this might be a good time to practise.”

I nod nervously, grimly hold on to the cat and try to pretend that there isn’t a large group of people in a semicircle, all watching every single thing we do.

Right, this is it. I’d expected a little more training – perhaps a little step-by-step instruction sheet on modelling – but… this is fine. I’ll just go with it. Let the inner model out. Wilbur and Yuka obviously saw something deep within me, which has just been waiting to burst forth and impress everyone. Like a… dragon. Or a really big dog.

I stare at the camera with my most modelly face. There’s a pause and then Paul looks up. “What are you doing, Harriet? What’s that face?”

I gulp. “It’s my modelling face.”

“Your…” Paul says in confusion and then he rolls his eyes. “You have a modelling face, Harriet. You don’t need to strain it as if you’ve got a bad case of constipation. Relax.” There’s another silence. “Now what are you doing?”

“Smiling?”

Paul sighs. “Have you ever seen a fashion magazine in your life? Take a look at Nick, Harriet. What is he doing?”

I look at Nick. “He’s, erm… Just standing there.”

“Precisely. He’s being natural, in the best-looking way possible. Just pretend the camera’s not here, sweetheart, and focus on being as beautiful as you can be.”

The cat’s clearly not convinced that I’m capable of this either; he makes a mewling sound and scratches in terror at my other shoulder. Which makes me wobble dangerously on the heels, so I have to reach out and grab Nick’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” I mumble in embarrassment and stare hard at the snow.

Why didn’t anyone explain that there was actually some kind of skill involved in being a model? Why didn’t somebody tell me I’d have to actually do something? Why didn’t they know I’d be rubbish?

I can feel my eyes starting to well up, and somewhere in the background I hear the make-up artist starting to panic loudly about my mascara. I look at Nick in open desperation and he gives me a crooked smile.

“Right,” he says under his breath. “Give me the cat,” and he takes it off me. Gary immediately makes a small meowing sound, curls up happily in Nick’s arm and goes to sleep. Even Gary is in love with him.

“Now blow a raspberry.”

I look at him for a few seconds in silence. “You want me to blow a raspberry?”

“Yup. Loud as you can. Make it a nice wet one.”

I can feel my cheeks getting pink under the foundation. “I’m not blowing a raspberry,” I tell him in a dignified voice. “I’m nearly an adult.”

“Blow a raspberry.”

“No.”

“Blow it.”

“No.”

“Blow.”

“Fine,” I snap in exasperation and I blow a half-hearted raspberry.

Nick frowns at me. “That wasn’t even a strawberry.”

“Oh, for the love of…” I sigh and then I blow a much louder raspberry. I’m not even going to look at Yuka. I don’t think this is why she employed me. “Happy now?”

“Much better. Now wiggle your shoulders. And your neck.”

I wiggle my shoulders and my neck.

“Knock your knees together.”

I knock my knees.

“And do the funky chicken.”

I giggle and obediently do the funky chicken.

“Can you handle cold feet? Because if you can, I reckon you should take those stupid shoes off and hold them.”

I glance at Paul, who is concentrating on adjusting one of the lamps to his right. And then I glance to the left where Yuka Ito is sitting in a black chair, glaring at us both with the face Annabel pulls when she eats oysters.

“OK,” I say, shrugging, and take my shoes off. I’m so nervous I can’t feel my feet anyway. Plus, I’m not sure I can get much worse at this. The only way is up.

Apparently Nick’s thinking the same thing. Literally. “Now,” he says, grinning. “I’m going to hold your hand. And when I say jump, jump, as high as you can. Look straight at the camera, keep your face calm and jump. OK?”

I nod, with my head now numb.

“Relax?”

I nod.

“Funky chicken?”

I nod and waggle my arms a bit.

“OK, jump,” Nick whispers.

And I jump.