jump a little bit and then – to cover it up – cunningly pretend I’m checking out the bounciness of the sofa.

“As part of our fashion special,” Jane continues as if she hasn’t noticed that I’m bouncing up and down on national television, “we have with us this morning Harriet Manners, the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl who made headlines across the world as the newest face of fashion powerhouse Baylee. How are you, Harriet?”

“I’m fantastic, thanks, Jane,” Yuka says in my ear.

“I’m fantastic, thanks, Jane,” I repeat like a robot.

“And we also have Nick Hidaka, the sixteen-year-old male face of the brand. How are you, Nick?”

“I’m barely awake, thanks, Jane.” And then he grins at her so that his dimples pop in and out. “But I’ll do my very best.”

Are you kidding me? And I’m the one being spoon-fed lines?

Jane blinks a few times. “Amazing. Now, Nick, am I right in thinking that this wouldn’t be your first big campaign? You’ve done Armani, Gucci, Hilfiger…”

“Apparently so.”

“…And now Baylee. I remember there was a bit of controversy when you were first cast. Tell me, what’s it like to work with your Aunty Yuka? Extra pressure or is it nice keeping it in the family?”

Nick laughs. “Well, let’s just say if I screw it up, it’s going to make for an uncomfortable Christmas dinner.”

What?

My whole head has gone numb. Yuka is Nick’s aunt? Nick is Yuka’s nephew? They’re related? They’re family? The same blood runs through their… well, you get the picture.

And nobody told me?

“…you’ve caused a bit of a commotion yourself already, Harriet.” Patrick’s leaning forward and I suddenly realise that while I’m silently freaking out, he’s trying to engage me in conversation.

“Listen, Harriet,” Yuka hisses in my ear. “Or at least pretend to.”

“Ahmmm,” I mumble, smiling at as many people as possible.

“Fifteen years old, plucked from obscurity less than a week ago.” Jane looks at her notes. “You caught legendary designer Yuka Ito’s eye straight away, I hear. Gosh. That doesn’t happen that often, does it? Isn’t that just a fairytale?”

I look at her blankly.

“Yes, Jane,” Yuka whispers. “It’s a fairytale come true for any girl.”

“Yes, Jane,” I say obediently. “It’s a fairytale come true for any girl.”

“And Yuka’s even designing a special outfit for you in her next show.”

This is news to me. I stare at Jane.

“She is,” Yuka says and I repeat. “I’m extremely lucky.”

“Truly amazing.” Jane shakes her head as if she wants to jump across the sofa and slap me jealously across the face. “Who wouldn’t want that at fifteen?” She laughs gaily. “Who am I kidding: who wouldn’t want that at any age? And it says here you’re her new muse. Wow. Tell me, Harriet, have you always wanted to model?”

“Ever since I was a child,” Yuka says clearly in my ear. “I used to dress up in my mother’s clothes and twirl around my bedroom in front of the mirror. I have always been captivated by fashion.”

“Ever since I was a child,” I say dutifully. “I used to dress up… in… my… m-m-m—” I swallow. Dad gave all my mum’s clothes to the charity shop when she died. There was nothing to dress up in. And when Annabel came along, the only thing available would have been a suit.

I briefly imagine a skinny little red-headed girl twirling around in a huge pinstripe suit complete with tie and clunky office shoes and have to stifle a giggle.

“Harriet,” Yuka snaps. “Say it.”

“…in my mother’s clothes and twirl around the bedroom in front of the mirror,” I continue, trying to straighten my face out and not cry at the same time. “I have always been captivated by fashion.”

“And how have you managed to balance it with your schoolwork so far?” Jane asks. “It must be hard, combining the two?”

“Baylee always puts my schoolwork first,” I chime after Yuka has spoken. “It’s of key importance to them.”

Apart from – you know – the bit where they made me take two days off to go to Russia. And this morning.

“And your favourite school subjects?” Patrick winks at the camera. “I think we can guess what they’d be!”

Maths. Physics. Chemistry.

“Textiles and art, of course,” I say diligently after waiting a nanosecond for my cue.

“And what about your school friends? You must be a very popular girl now.”

I think of Alexa’s scowling face and the shouts of Geek. I think of thirty hands in the air. “Uh-huh,” I say.

“Uh-huh was not what I just said,” Yuka snaps.

“As the new muse of one of fashion’s biggest players,” Jane says in excitement, “is the fashion life everything you thought it would be?”

Yuka clears her throat and I wince slightly: it’s really unpleasant having that sound shot straight into your head.

“Modelling is everything I dreamed it would be…” I repeat. “And I love fashion because it’s really about individuality, and creativity… and… and self-belief… and self-exp…” I trail off into silence.

Jane leans forward. “Self-exp?” she prompts.

“Self-expression,” I say in a small voice. Then I stare into the black space where my family are sitting. There’s a commotion behind the camera and somewhere in my ear I can hear Yuka starting to panic.

What the hell am I doing?

I’m sitting here, in front of five million people, repeating someone else’s lines about self-expression. I’m harping on about individuality in a dress somebody else put me in, with a haircut somebody else gave me, wearing make-up somebody else did. I’m talking about self-belief when I became a model because I didn’t have any.

Have I learnt nothing?

I take the microphone out of my ear and abruptly sit on it. Underneath my bottom, I can hear the tinny sound of Yuka yelling.

“It’s not true,” I say, taking a deep breath.

Jane flinches and I can see Patrick furiously reading the autocue.

“I didn’t dream about being a model,” I say firmly, refusing to look at Nick. “I dreamed of being a palaeontologist. I didn’t do any twirling when I was a child, my favourite subjects are maths and physics, nobody at school has ever liked me and I don’t think this is going to help much.”

“Well,” Jane says, laughing nervously, “isn’t that just…”

“And I don’t love fashion,” I say because I can’t stop now; this suddenly feels like the most important thing I’ll ever say. “It’s just clothes.”

There’s a gasp from around the studio and even the microphone under my bottom has stopped vibrating.

“And self-belief and self-expression and individuality are really important,” I continue, looking into the dark and talking too fast, “but if you’re wearing what everyone tells you to wear and saying what everyone tells you to say and thinking the way everyone tells you to think then – well… you don’t have any of those things, do you?”

Patrick is starting to look frightened and there’s a pink patch forming on Jane’s cheeks. “You don’t like it?” she says, her forehead creasing in the middle. “You don’t like modelling?”

I think about going to Russia, and jumping around in the snow, and walking down that catwalk, and the butterfly girls. I think about how much fun it can be and how I feel when I’m doing it. I think about Dad’s excitement, Annabel’s pride and Nat’s selflessness. “Actually, I do like modelling,” I say in surprise. “But I don’t want to be somebody else to do it. I still want to be me, and if that means wearing a suit and doing my trigonometry homework ten days before it’s due then that should be OK.”

“But if you hate fashion—”

I shake my head because I’ve suddenly realised that’s not true either. “You know, Jane, cavemen used to wear different skins and bones to differentiate themselves from each other and from other tribes.”

“Erm…”

“So if fashion’s a creative way of showing the world who you are and where you belong, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? But if who I am is a Winnie the Pooh jumper then I should be allowed to wear it.” I pause and look into the dark where Toby is standing. “Or a T-shirt with electronic drums.” I look at Dad and Annabel. “Or a robot T-shirt or a pinstripe suit.” And then I look at Wilbur. “Or a pink top hat for no reason at all.”

“But—”

“But they’re still just clothes. They can’t make you something you’re not. They can only help to say who you are.”

Stop talking, Harriet. Stop talking right now.

I think I’ve sort of forgotten I’m on television. I’m having my little epiphany on air, in front of five million people. But at least I’m not lying any more.

Patrick is sweating and one of the cameramen is making a winding motion with his finger. Nick leans forward. “I disagree,” he says and I flinch. Of course he does. He’s Yuka’s nephew.

Jane smiles at him. “You do?”

“Piglet is far superior. Harriet’s made quite an error of judgement.”

I gape at him. What is he talking about?

“Piglet?” I snap. “What has Piglet ever done of any importance?”

“Helped to pull Winnie out of Rabbit’s door, for one thing.”

Nick and I look at each other for a few seconds and something passes between us. Except – yet again – I’m not quite sure what that thing is.

“Well,” Jane says finally, breaking the silence. “That was a very interesting insight into…” she thinks about it, “something, wasn’t it?” She glances at Patrick and puts her finger to her ear. Does she have a microphone as well? Is anybody round here just saying what’s in their own heads? “Sadly, that’s all we have time for. Coming up after the break, how to compost the hair from your pet brush.” Jane grins at the camera and picks up her script again.

“And cut,” the cameraman shouts.

And I’m done. Finished. Actually, considering what I just said on live television, I think that’s probably true in more than one sense.

“Sorry for ruining your interview,” I say in a small voice to nobody in particular. Or, you know. Everybody.

And I pull the microphone out from under my bottom, whisper, “Sorry, Yuka,” into it and run to the back of the room.