All That Glitters (20 page)

And I
still
managed to tell the entire hospital ward that for thirty minutes after they’ve been removed, human tonsils can bounce higher than a rubber ball if dropped on the floor.

What I’m trying to say is: it takes an awful lot to shut me up. Within three minutes, Morocco has somehow achieved it.

As we drive slowly into the ancient medina, the world outside the car windows begins to unravel into a carnival of colour and noise. Narrow, dusty streets are crammed with people in long turquoise robes, pink scarves, blue and red and green hats, embroidery in white and grey and purple. Cars are everywhere – beeping at each other and parked willy-nilly in streets while drivers talk to each other, yell, laugh and shout – and scooters weave nonchalantly in and out of the traffic.

Dotted here and there are animals: horses, trotting along the road drawing little green carriages; wild-eyed ginger cats, streaking down alleyways; brown donkeys laden with brightly woven bags and camels chewing patiently in little huddles.

And as we get out of the car and start wheeling our bags through narrow, cobbled streets, it intensifies yet further.

From uneven peach and yellow walls hang fabrics in every colour of the rainbow; red and yellow bags, silver jewellery, rows of sparkling slippers in greens and oranges, glass lanterns, carved wood and painted ceramics.

Sunshine stripes the walls and floors with lines of yellow, and the smell changes every few seconds: from fruit to incense to flowers to a faint scent of urine mixed with leather.

Sounds are blended – French, Arabic, English, American, laughter, music, shouts – and piles of food lie glistening on tables: pointed mounds of musky spices, trays of figs, mountains of oranges in carefully constructed pyramids.

Every time I turn my head, there’s something else to see, something else to smell.

Finally, the driver stops outside a small, heavy wooden blue door and knocks on it.

With a loud squeak, it swings open.

And the world transforms yet again.

The chaos has abruptly disappeared.

A long turquoise pool stretches across the floor, lit from below. Lanterns line pale, marble floors with arched doorways, tinkling flute music plays, columns and ornate iron balconies stretch upwards in a mass of stone carvings.

Enormous stained-glass lights hang from the ceiling, and flowers, mirrors, incense sticks, elaborately painted furniture and silk cushions are scattered everywhere like a carnage of tired butterflies.

It feels as if we’ve climbed inside the lamp of a particularly house-proud genie.

“Right,” Annabel says after a few minutes of totally awestruck silence. She sinks into one of the velvet sofas with a little sigh. “This is my new house, Harriet. If your father wants me, tell him I will be in this exact position for the next three years.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” A gentleman walks towards us in white trousers and a white tunic. He has two tiny glasses of steaming honey-coloured liquid, which he places calmly in front of us. “I’m so glad you like it. Alan wa Salan. Mint tea?”

“Make that five years,” Annabel says, gratefully taking her glass. “Six if there’s a ginger biscuit.”

“Hello, Alan,” I say, sticking my hand out
confidently
and plonking my suitcase down. “It’s nice to meet you, and also super cool that your first name rhymes with your last name. You must have very poetic parents.”

Alan laughs.

“
Alhan wa salhan
means
welcome
in Arabic. My name is Ali, and I’m the manager of this riad. There is a Berber proverb that says you have to calm the surface of the lake to see to the bottom.” He waves a hand gracefully around. “That is what I try to achieve here. Anything you wish, it is my pleasure to grant.”

I beam at him. Looks like we found the genie.

“Eight years,” Annabel whispers, standing up and looking at the carved stone ceiling. “Nine if there’s a garden.”

“I’m afraid you only have a couple of minutes to freshen up,” Ali continues, gently pivoting both our suitcases and leading us quietly through a little marble hallway into a powder-blue room, full of flowers and lilac silks and bright paintings. “The crew is setting up in Jemaa el-Fnaa at the moment.”

There’s a four-poster bed, which I immediately sit on and start happily bouncing up and down.

“Ali, did you know that Morocco contains one of the most ancient civilisations in the entire world? The oldest ever child’s skull was found here. It dates back a hundred and eight
thousand
years, which means it’s all the way from the early Pleistocene period. Isn’t that cool?”

“Very cool,” Ali says with a small smile. “The director and stylist are in the lounge now. When you’re ready, I’ll take you down.”

“Thank you so much.” I bounce a few more times. “Also, did you know that in Morocco you have
forty
different ecosystems of animals, which used to include lions and bears and—”

I abruptly stop. Hang on a minute.

“Sorry,
director
? Do you mean … photographer?”

“Apologies,” Ali says, bowing slightly. “I’m not totally up to speed with fashion terminology. What do you call a man who directs a television commercial?”

A man named Ashrita Furman holds the current world record for the most forward rolls ever done in one hour (1,330). He also holds the record for the fastest somersaults, longest top spinning, quickest leapfrogging and most star jumps, and is arguably a very twisty and flippy kind of man.

I think my stomach just beat him at all of them.

Oh my God.

I’m here to shoot a television commercial?

“I think th-there’s been some kind of mistake,” I eventually stutter, jumping up and grabbing Ali’s hand. “I’m not an actress, I’m a model and I’m here to shoot a campaign for Jacques Levaire and—”

“I’m afraid there’s no time,” Ali says brightly, handing me three sheets of A4 paper covered in very small writing. “See you in a few minutes, Hannah Manners.”

ere are just a few occasions when I have failed to move as expected in public:

Frankly, my clumsiness has already been pretty well documented.

I’m not entirely sure we need any more evidence.

Especially not on film.

With my brain making small, desperate clicking sounds, I stare in confusion at the paper I’ve just been given. It appears to be some kind of brief, with JACQUES LEVAIRE INTERNATIONAL TIMEPIECE ADVERTISING CAMPAIGN typed at the top. With a CV and photo stapled to the front.

It’s definitely me – I recognise the freckles, the too-far-apart eyes, the pointy nose and vacant expression – but underneath it in neatly italicised letters is written:

HANNAH MANNERS

model-artist-performer-dancer-actress

I’ve been hyphenated
five
times?

Even in my panic I can’t help feeling quite impressed: pushy American model Kenderall would be so jealous of me right now.

“Trained at RADA?” Annabel frowns over my shoulder. “Graduated from a dance programme with the Royal Academy of Arts? A summer with the Royal Shakespeare Company? Harriet, do you have a Nobel peace prize knocking around somewhere that I don’t know about?”

The entire document is packed with achievements.

Short films I’ve starred in, awards I’ve won, songs I’m capable of singing entirely
a cappella
. There’s a brief summary of the time I triumphed in
The Phantom of The Opera
, and a paragraph all about just how wide my splits are and how fast I can backflip. My emotional
range
, apparently, is quite outstanding.

Except none of it was me, obviously.

Having known me for a year now, I’d imagine you’ve already worked that out for yourself.

“Stephanie’s sent them the wrong details,” I say in a blank voice. “She actually, literally thinks I’m Hannah Manners.”

Yah, Hannah, darling. That’s what I said.

I look at Annabel with wide eyes.

I can’t do this. I can’t film an
international television commercial
as if I’m somebody who knows exactly what they’re doing
.
I struggle to behave like a normal human being in private, let alone when it’s being recorded for posterity and shown to millions.

I glance at the brief again.

Like, literally millions. This is being shown in England. France. Italy. America. South America. Spain. Portugal. Russia. Australi—

Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmy—

Hydrogen. Lithium. Sodium. Potassium …

“Harriet, sweetheart.” Annabel sits down next to me on the bed and gently pulls my hands away from my face. “This is exactly why I’m here: to sort out misunderstandings like this. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll go and explain everything.”

She stands up and grabs her briefcase: always ready to fight some kind of legal battle, even on holiday.

Except … then what?

Annabel tells them I have the
emotional range
of a peanut, and then what happens? It’s too late to get sent home now. I’ll have to model anyway: they’ll just know I’m not good enough before I’ve even started.

Plus … isn’t this what I wanted? The opportunity to be someone better? Someone … starrier? Even if it means – temporarily – being someone
else
? Maybe Hannah can teach me a few things on my list while I’m at it.

And that does it.

“Don’t tell them,” I say firmly, standing up and forcing my breathing to slow back down again. “Annabel, if this is the girl they want, then
this
is the girl they’re going to get.”

I wave the paper in the air.

I can be risky. I can be confident. I can be
brave.

Annabel frowns and looks at me steadily for a few seconds. “Are you sure? Because, sweetheart, you really don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” I say, putting the paper on the table. “This time I want to.”

n the forests of central Africa grows a plant called the
Pollia condensata.
It produces tiny iridescent fruit that reflect pinpricks of light, and biologists claim that it is officially the shiniest living organism in the world.