Picture Perfect (20 page)

“Yes,
please.
I really want to try a slider, which is apparently an American miniature beefburger. Could you do today? Or maybe tomorrow? We could take some to Central Park and have a picnic?”

“Sure,” Fleur says, adjusting her handbag and looking at the door again.

“So should we swap numbers?” I say, quickly scribbling mine down on a piece of paper. “I’m quite far away but just give me a bit of warning and I can get the train.”

I hand her the piece of paper and she puts it in her handbag without looking at it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I say, as Fleur starts pushing the door with her hand and then nods.

“Catch you later.”

And she disappears into the street, leaving me – totally numberless – behind her.

pparently the centre of the sun is fifteen million degrees centigrade, but I think right now my cheeks can probably give it a run for its money. Maybe I should stop telling people about the colour of fire hydrants.

In fairness, I’ve got better conversation openers.

I walk back to my seat, just as the lift doors open again with a little
ping
.

“Thanks for coming in,” a pretty blonde woman says to an incredibly tall, dark-skinned bald girl wearing an orange lycra catsuit. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Of course you will, babe,” the girl says, kissing the air a metre from her left ear. “I have no doubt. Call my agent.”

Then she stalks through the reception on enormous orange heels. “Come on then, you,” she adds to the blonde boy still sitting opposite me, clicking her fingers. “We haven’t got all day – I need to get my cards done.”

The blond boy raises his eyebrows, puts his phone back in his pocket and, scowling slightly, follows the tall girl out of the swinging doors.

I look back to see Wilbur, who was obviously hidden behind her.

“Lord,” the blonde woman says to him. “She’s so …
aggressive.
”

“My hot potato-wedge,” Wilbur says with a disinterested hand-wave. “That is, as they say,
irreleventia
. The girl has got cheekbones I could spread houmous all over my low-fat bagel with.”

“Mmm,” the blonde woman says. “I’m not entirely sure she’d let you do that. And I
do
wish she’d stop turning up to castings uninvited. So, where were we?”

“I believe I was refusing to allow you to pair a Versace jacket with that Prada pantsuit for the shoot next week. I’ll eat them both before I let you do that. And the Gucci shoes. Heel first.”

“Wilbur,” the woman sighs. “Nobody is going to make you eat shoes, Gucci or otherwise. That would be insane.”

“
Au contraire
,” my old agent says defiantly. “Insanity is thinking lime green goes with navy. That is the
very definition
of insanity.”

Actually, according to Einstein, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

In which case, I may have a problem.

I finally find my voice.

“Hello, W—” I start, but he keeps walking past me: purple-sequined jacket shimmering in the sunlight.

“Are you sure?” the woman continues in a tentative voice. She’s wearing a very soft camel-coloured pashmina and her hair is bleached white and hangs in soft waves. “I can’t help feeling you’re wrong.”

“Fine, Nancy, have it your way but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Wilbur replies. I make sure my broken dress strap is tucked under my armpit and try again.

“Hi, Wi—”

“So what about the shoot tomorrow, Darling-pie?” he continues. “Have you decided yet?”

“No,” Nancy sighs. “I’m still not totally convinced by the girls, to be honest.”

“As I keep telling you, darling, you need a statuesque one. Dark-skinned. Exotic. Cheekbones. Like lovely Kenderall back there with the attitude problem. But maybe with Beyonce hair.”

I clear my throat. “Hi—”

The lady grimaces. “Maybe … But I kind of like the baldness.”

Wibur nods. “Try a similar, less strident girl without hair then.” He looks around and finally makes direct eye contact with me.

Thank goodness.

I was starting to wonder if I’d been rendered invisible during the last three minutes, or at the very least mute like Man Friday in
Robinson Crusoe
.

“
That
,” Wilbur adds, pointing at me as if he’s never seen me before in his life. “Like her, except the absolute opposite.”

I flush.
What?

Nancy slowly turns and looks at me. She looks at my purple rubber flip-flops, at my broken heart dress and hoody, and then at the red hair escaping in little sweaty strands around my face.

I wipe under my eye and my finger comes away slightly black. Several of my eyelashes appear to be glued together.

“Who is she?”

“Just some nobody.” Wilbur rolls his eyes. “As I said, we want the
opposite,
Sugar-plum
.
Use her as inspiration and go the
other
way. We don’t want ginger and alien duck-face. It’s not fresh. It’s
so
over it’s rolling down a hill, you know what I mean?”

Excuse me? Some
nobody
?

Ginger and alien duck-face, however, are pretty standard.

“No,” Nancy says, walking towards me. “I have no idea what you mean, Wilbur.” She puts a few fingers under my chin, and lifts it into the sunshine.

“
Yawn-o-rama
,” Wilbur says tiredly. “This girl is a mess. Have you seen those freckles? That pointy nose? That chin? Those glassy, vacant, staring eyes? I’m falling asleep just looking at her.
Bor-ing.
She is totally and utterly forgettable.”

I blink. Ouch.

“I like her,” Nancy says decisively. “What’s your name?”

“Harriet Manners,” I say as politely as I can.

“Are you a model?”

“Well, not real—” I start and Wilbur clears his throat. “Umm … yes?”

“Mis-take,” Wilbur starts singing. “Big mis-take. HUGE
faux pas
. Catastrophic and megalithic and—”

“Wilbur Evans,” Nancy finally snaps. “You may be Creative Advisor at La Mode but I am the new Fashion Editor so will you be quiet and let me choose the model I want for my shoot, please?”

Wilbur lets out an enormous sigh.

“
Fine
,” he says dramatically. “If you will
insist
upon going down this
disastrous
path then I suppose it is my
job
to support you.” He throws his arm across his face. “Even if this strange and badly dressed girl is totally last year.”

What’s wrong with my dress?

“Thank you, Wilbur. Get her portfolio biked over ASAP and book her for 8am tomorrow.” Nancy looks at me again, nods happily and adds, “Perfect.”

Then she picks up some files from reception and heads back towards the elevator.

As soon as the doors shut, I turn to Wilbur with my mouth still hanging open.

“My little egg on toast,” he says, giving me a hug and kissing my cheek. “Gosh, but you’re as delicious as ever, I’m happy to see. Have you been taking multi-vitamins? Your spots are nowhere
near
as pulsating as they normally are.”

I stare at Wilbur in silence, and then manage: “What the
sugar cookies
just happened?”

“A little bit of Creative Advisory magic,” Wilbur says, putting on his sunglasses and winking at me. “And
that,
Harriet Manners, is how it’s done.”

hat is not how it’s done by the way.

Just to make that clear.

So much for being a proper, grown-up model, pursuing a fashion career through the traditional, linear methods. It looks like Wilbur has just psychologically manipulated an insecure fashion editor into giving me a job.

That is not what I intended
at all.

“Nancy just needed a little nudge in the right direction, Bunny-crumble,” Wilbur confirms. “With some people that involves shoving them very hard the opposite way.”

Which doesn’t make me feel any better.

“What’s the job for?”

“It’s a seven-page spread in La Mode magazine, which the infinitely glorious
moi
shall be styling.” He looks at me and lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t look so guilty, Bacon-chops. If you weren’t right for the job, I wouldn’t have rung you in the first place. I am a
professional.
”

I nod nervously. “OK.”

I still feel like I’ve queue-jumped. Like the time I accidentally shoved in front of Alexa at lunch and had my ponytail dipped in gravy as retribution.

I glance quickly around, just in case anyone is planning on doing it again.

“So what’s the inspiration this time, Monkey-moo?” Wilbur waves at my dress and flip-flops.

“I thought it was quite pretty.”

“I Thought It Was Quite Pretty,” he says in delight, clapping. “Is it made out of dolls’ house curtains?
Amazement.
You light up my life, Petal-cheeks. You really do.”

Right. I am never wearing this dress again.

“So you’re not an agent any more?”

“Yuka Ito pulled a few strings as an amicable parting gesture,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at me. “It turns out genius is much easier to recognise in the States than back home, especially when your CV is somewhat – how do we put it? –
embellished
.” He drags a large black book out of his bag and hands it to me.

“You’re going to need this,” he adds. “So keep it safe. I’ve already made a copy for Nancy.”

I open it curiously.

Stuck in the front is an extremely close-up photo of a girl with snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes. You can see every single one of her billion freckles, and her eyes are wide and distracted and lit up from the inside.

I flip the page, and there’s a photo of a ginger girl crouched on the floor in a tutu, covered in gold paint. Then another where she’s holding a giant silver fish, dripping in octopus ink, and one standing in a sumo ring with a shadowy figure in the background.

There’s one where the girl is stuck in a glass box, curled up in a pink wig with hundreds of identical dolls.

There’s a picture of her floating in a lake in a lit-up dress, with Mount Fuji behind her and a thousand stars glimmering in the water.