LITMIR.BIZ

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looks like a little boy,” another one says in a perfectly audible whisper.

      “Maybe she is. Let’s see what happens when she takes off her skirt.”

      “I reckon she doesn’t have anything going on down there. Like Action Man.”

      “Have you ever seen freckles like it?”

      “Yeah. Definitely. On a, like, egg.”

      “Or, like, a Dalmatian.”

      I can literally feel my face collapsing. This is exactly like school. Except that they’ve all got a fewer clothes on, which somehow makes it even worse.

      I’ve said nine words so far. How can it have gone so badly wrong already? How do they know all the same insults?

      “Actually,” I say in the most reprimanding voice I can find, “there are no animals that have no reproductive organs at all. Even hermaphrodites have both sets, for instance the great majority of pulmonate snails, opisthobranch snails and slugs. So that is a physical impossibility.”

      There’s a surprised silence and then the room erupts into nasty giggles. It’s probably not going to go down in history as one of my most incisive comebacks.

      “And,” I add, looking at the girl with the stockings, “I’d rather not bite you. I don’t know where you’ve been.”

      The giggling stops.

      That’s better, Harriet. That’s the sort of thing Nat would have said.

      The girl blinks at me a few times in shocked silence. “What did she just say to me?” she eventually snaps to the girl next to her and her forehead starts to get all scrunched up in the middle. “I’m the face of Gucci. I’m Shola. People don’t talk to me like that. I won’t be talked to like that.”

      “Don’t get worked up, honey,” a blonde with huge blue eyes whispers back. “It’ll just make you ugly and we’re about to go on. Vogue’s out there. Stay pretty for Vogue.”

      Shola swallows and concentrates. “Thanks, Rose. I am so not getting wrinkles for her.” She looks back at me and narrows her eyes. “You’re how old?”

      “Fifteen and three-twelfths.”

      “My God, you still measure your age in fractions. I’m not getting worked up over a child. I’m just not. I am a woman. I am the face of Gucci Woman. It’s right there in the title.”

      “It is,” Rose agrees, patting her on the shoulder. “It’s right there on the advert under your face, Shola. Woman.”

      “Harriet?” a friendly lady in red says, tapping me on the shoulder just in the nick of time. Models are clearly bonkers. “This is your outfit.” And she unzips a clothes bag.

      A general hiss goes round the room as I stare at the contents. It’s a long, silky gold dress with thousands of tiny little gold feathers layered around the bottom. It has thin straps made of sort of gold fish scales and it shimmers when you touch it, like a magic cloak. It’s really, really beautiful: even I can see that. Although it is going to make me look a bit like the toffee finger in a box of Quality Street.

      “That’s mine? For me?”

      “It is, darling. You’re the Closer.”

      Another slightly louder hiss goes round the room. “I’m the what?”

      “The Closer. You’re the last girl on the catwalk. All eyes are going to be on you, honey.”

      I quickly look into the mirror, and behind me I can feel every single eye in the room glaring at my back.

      “You’re the new face of the line,” she continues. “Yuka wants you to be as prominent as possible.”

      I can see Shola’s face getting paler under her make-up. She glances quickly at Rose and a look passes between them, but I’ve no idea what it means.

      “OK,” I say, trying to ignore the new clenching sensation in my stomach. “But…”And then I take a deep breath. “The… Ummm.” I stop. How can I put this subtly? “The… er.” And then I take in as much oxygen as I can. “What shoes am I wearing?” I finally blurt out.

      The lady smiles at me kindly. “These,” she says. And then she holds out a pair of little gold-scaled shoes with one-inch kitten heels. I almost collapse with relief.

      “Yuka says she would prefer it if you could stay upright,” she says with a wink. “Now, Miss Manners, let’s get your hair and make-up sorted so we can have a little practice, shall we?”

       can do it.

      I can actually do it. I can walk up and down a room with a pretty dress and heels on and not rip anything, ruin anything, break anything or fall over.

      It seemed like an impossibility an hour ago. But… I’ve practised and practised backstage for about an hour until I’m pretty sure I can get through this evening without a disaster. I mean, it’s one walk. A toddler could do it, with a bit of encouragement and maybe one of those push-along toys. How hard can it be?

      “Thank you so much,” I say to Betty, the stylist who has been helping me. She’s even managed to find time to quickly de-fluff both my legs without causing any damage.

      Betty winks at me. “My pleasure, chicken. Quick revision: what are you walking in time to?”

      “The music,” I say eagerly. She gave me her iPod to practise with. I have no idea what the music is, but it’s actually quite nice. At least I know when to put each foot forward.

      “And what do you do when you get to the bottom of the runway?”

      I’m back in my comfort zone: studying and revision. “I pause with one hand on my hip, and then I face towards the left, and then the right, and then I pause again, and then I turn round slowly and walk back.”

      “Facial expression?”

      “Totally blank and slightly bored.”

      “Excellent. And what side are you walking on?”

      “Centre, and when you see a girl coming, keep to the left.”

      “I think you’re set.” She smiles at me and points at the door. I was taken out of the area where everyone was getting ready so that I could concentrate, and also so that I could fall over without anyone laughing at me. “Knock ’em dead,” Betty adds.

      Which – given the probability of that happening – is not the best thing she could have said to me.

      And she gently nudges me back into the world of fashion.

      It is now manic.

      The earlier commotion was obviously just the buzz before the mania: the whole room has exploded into a mess of lights and noise and panic. I can hear the music pumping from the stage and I don’t think the girls have time to be nasty any more: they’re whizzing in and out of clothes and being shouted at by people wearing headsets as if they’re working in call centres.

      “Next!” an angry man shouts. “Come on! We don’t have time for a lipgloss touch-up! Get on the stage!”

      There’s a small queue of models forming this side of the curtains and I’m totally mesmerised. They’re all twice my height, and willowy, and curvy in the right places, with the most amazing faces. Every single one of them looks like a different example of beauty, from a different imagination. And now they

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