LITMIR.BIZ

       July 8th

      “Are you sure?” I said doubtfully. “I’m not really on the list.”

      Nick laughed.

      “You’re on my list,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Admittedly it’s a really short one and for the next few hours your name is –” he looked at the silver ticket in his hands – “Isobel Marigolden.”

      I stared at the enormous warehouse.

      It looked like it was still under construction. There were dark grey bars lining the ceiling, and blotches of white paint on the floor. Dirty plastic sheets were hanging in grimly lit sections at the back. Down the middle was a wide, shabbily painted silver strip and hard metal seats neatly lined the two longest sides of the room.

      I sat down nervously.

      “Can I come backstage with you?” I asked. “Maybe I can help you get ready.”

      Nick gently picked me up and moved me three seats along and two rows back.

      “You can’t just sit where you like at a Prada fashion show, Harriet,” he laughed. “And backstage there are going to be thirty boys in dirty underpants and mismatched socks. I’m not entirely sure you’d want to see that, even if the designer allowed it.”

      The boy’s PE changing room at school sounded eerily similar. “Good point.”

      “So can you wait here?”

      “I have this,” I said, waving Anna Karenina. “I can probably sit for three whole days happily.”

      “If you look for perfection, you’ll never be content,” Nick said in a bizarre voice.

      My eyes widened. “OK, a) you’ve read Anna Karenina? and b) that was possibly the single worst attempt at a British accent I’ve ever heard.”

      “That’s because it was Russian,” Nick said, raising an eyebrow. “And yes, I’ve read it. Or, you know: looked at the pictures really hard. I am a model, after all.”

      He smiled and leant down to kiss my nose.

      “I’ll wait,” I said, flushing and opening the book, which I suddenly liked a billion times more because it now had Nick in every single line.

      “Thank you.” My boyfriend gave me another quick kiss on the lips. “I’ll see you later, my little geek.”

      Over the next two hours, the room filled with people; slowly at first, and then in great, noisy swarms.

      People in shiny black, people in red lace, people in white shirts with pointy collars. People who knew exactly where they were supposed to sit and were doing it without complaining about the hardness of the seats.

      Then the room got very quiet and very dark. Music started pumping and lights started flashing. The dirty plastic sheets parted.

      And out walked the boys, one by one.

      They slunk to the front of the room, stopped, stared, turned and slunk back out again like prowling, pointy-hipped wolves. Dozens of them: angular and floppy-haired and stern. In sharp silver shirts and grey suits; black jackets and blue ties.

      As the music vibrated, I could feel my stomach clenching.

      I miss this, I suddenly realised.

      I missed the music I didn’t recognise and the bright lights and the dark audience. I missed the bustle and panic and noise in a room somewhere behind us. I missed the excitement and the bright eyes and the rustle of papers as people made notes.

      I missed Wilbur and his ridiculous outfits and his made-up language. I missed Rin and Kylie Minogue, the sock-wearing cat who hated going for walks. I missed Tokyo and being transformed by stylists. I even slightly missed the terrifying Yuka Ito.

      But most of all I missed

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