LITMIR.BIZ

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      My cheeks were already hot enough to generate their own electricity, but it feels like they’re about to vibrate off my face. Some deep survival instinct is telling me to be extremely careful.

      Yes. “N-no.”

      His frown deepens. “OK, tell you what. As you’re obviously so keen to jump the queue and present yourself before everyone else, why don’t you just go right ahead.”

      “E-excuse me?”

      Denim Man glances at the rest of the group. They’ve put down their wraps and baguettes and are staring at me the way my class stared at the chimpanzee flinging poop around at the zoo on our biology field trip.

      Except with considerably less amusement.

      “You have three minutes, whoever you are. This is your big chance to wow us. Starting from –” he looks at his watch – “now.”

      

      he Guinness world record for consecutive push-ups in the precise time I’ve been allocated is four hundred and twenty. There’s something aggressive and army-like about this man’s tone that makes me wonder if I’m expected to drop to the floor and beat it.

      Instead, I put my satchel cautiously next to my feet in an attempt to stabilise me and/or anchor me to the ground.

      Then I take a deep breath.

       You can do this, Harriet. You’re an experienced model now. A paragon of knowledge, a shining example of professionalism and expertise.

      “Hello, everyone,” I say, inexplicably curtsying with my fingers holding out the bottom of my T-shirt. “I am Harriet, the fashion model.”

      Brilliant. Now I sound like one of those creepy dolls you can make say things by pulling a string at the back of their heads.

      “From which agency?”

      I stare blankly at the lady who just asked that. Which agency? I never actually thought to ask. “Ah … Baby Baby Panda and … Associates?”

      “Ridiculous name,” Denim Man snaps. “Book?”

      Quickly, I bend down and grab it out of my satchel, then plop it on the desk in front of them.

      They all lean over to look. “What is this?”

      “Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky,” I explain politely, even though it’s written right there on the cover. “It’s not as good as Notes From The Underground, but still perfectly captures the human condition at its most raw and vulnerable.”

      Denim Man sighs. “Are you trying to be cute?”

      Obviously I am. Isn’t that what’s expected at a modelling casting?

      “Your book,” the woman explains patiently. “Your modelling portfolio? With modelling photos? So we can see what modelling work you’ve done?”

      My cheeks flush even harder. Now I’m not in a distracted rush, I realise that Wilbur didn’t mean bring a translation of a Russian classic with you.

      I should at least have brought The Idiot.

      It would have been more appropriate.

      “My portfolio’s at home,” I confess after a pause. “Under my bed.” Thanks to my fiasco in Paris, it’s been collecting spiderwebs and dust bunnies for quite some time.

      “Right.” Denim Man leans back against his chair and folds his arms. “So why do you think you’re right for this particular job? What do you have to offer us that no other model has?”

      This feels like my first ever casting with Yuka Ito, over a year ago. Except I’m even less prepared and making even more of a fool of myself, and I didn’t even realise that was possible.

      Isn’t it supposed to work the other way round? Shouldn’t I be considerably better at this by now?

      Or at least a tiny bit improved?

      “Ah …” On the way here I had more than half an hour of sitting on a train, making animal shapes out of clouds. Why didn’t I check my emails? “You’re very good … uh. Fashion people. Your clothes are really …” What? “Sewn … neatly.”

      “This isn’t a fashion agency.” My audience looks at each other. “Do you even know where you are?”

      Another wave of shame washes over me.

      “N-not in detail.” Oh my God, at the very least I could have paused to look at the sign on the outside of the building. What is wrong with me?

      Please don’t anybody answer that.

      My phone beeps. “Umm,” I say, grabbing for it with a slippery hand and unsuccessfully trying to switch it to silent. “S-sorry.”

      It beeps again and I stab at it again. “Sorry.”

      A third time: ditto.

      Most British people will apologise more than two million times in their lives. I suspect I’m going to run out in the next ten seconds.

      In a final act of desperation, I wrap it in my scarf and throw it to the bottom of my bag.

      “And is this your best effort?” The casually dressed man has stood up with his arms still folded. “This is you, bringing your A game?”

       Step it up quickly, Harriet.

      “I’ve done lots of jobs,” I say quickly. “I was the face of Yuka Ito, I shot a big campaign for Baylee, I’ve been to Japan and Russia and Morocco … and …” Don’t mention Paris don’t mention Paris … “And I did a really cool magazine in New York last year.”

      “I knew I recognised you!” an American lady cries, throwing her hands up. “You were wearing a sack and covered in mud!”

      That is not the image I was trying to prompt.

      Mr Denim frowns. “You are familiar, but … there’s something I can’t quite place … about … the … hair …”

      He frowns at the top of my head and that’s when it hits me. Like a pile of heavy bricks, slowly tumbling down on top of my head. Clunk. Then another two: clunk clunk.

      Clunk, clunk, clunk.

       Clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk clunk–

      Until it feels like there’s a whole wall of realisation lying on top of me and I have no idea how I’m ever going to get up again.

      The brightly coloured prints. The central Soho location. The vast reception. The dark formal suits, and one person inexplicably wearing casual clothes. The exposed grey brick walls.

      This isn’t … It can’t be …

      Statistically, there’s just no way that this could be …

      “Harriet Manners?” the man says, reaching the same realisation at exactly the same time. “As in, daughter of Richard?”

      And – with a final clunk – any remaining chance I had of getting this job flies straight out the window.

      

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