LITMIR.BIZ

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in Russian. The brochures are in Russian. The shops are in Russian. All the things in the shops are Russian. All the people are Russian. OK, maybe all the people aren’t Russian – most of them are getting off planes from the UK and America, and if I’m totally honest, everything is also in English – but everyone looks sort of… different. Exotic. Historical. Revolutionary.

      Even Dad looks more sophisticated, and he’s still wearing that nasty T-shirt with the robot on the front of it. None of which seems to have made any impression on Wilbur.

      “Oh, my Billy Ray Cyrus,” he sighs when we finally find him. He’s sitting on top of a pink suitcase, wearing a silk shirt covered in little pictures of ponies, and the second he gets close to me he puts his hands over his eyes as if I’m about to poke them out with my zit. “Where did that come from? What have you been eating?”

      “Chocolate-chip cereal bars,” Dad informs him helpfully. “She had three for breakfast.”

      “You look like a baby unicorn, Twinkletoes. Could you not have held off for another twenty-four hours before you started sprouting horns?”

      I scowl in humiliation, wince, and try to push the spot back in again. “It’s only one,” I mumble in embarrassment. “Horn, singular.”

      “Stop trying to climb the mountain with your fingers, Cookie-crumble,” Wilbur sighs, gently smacking my hand away. “Unless you’re planning on sticking a flag on top for posterity.”

      Dad laughs so I thump his arm. Adults really need to learn to be more sensitive about teenage skin problems. They can be devastating to mental health, and to confidence, and also – I’d imagine – to modelling careers. “It’ll cover up with make-up, though, right?” I ask nervously.

      “Treacle-nose, putting make-up on that is like sprinkling sugar on the top of Mount Fuji. Thank God for computers, that’s all I’m saying.” Then Wilbur takes a step back and surveys my outfit. “Luckily,” he exclaims, “we’ve saved the day with another moment of sheer fashion brilliance. Turn around, my little Rhino.”

      I squint at him and then look down. “My Winnie the Pooh jumper?” I say in disbelief. “And my school skirt?”

      It was all I had that still fitted and wasn’t a) in the wash, covered in sick, b) a football kit c) a suit or d) designed with an insect as a template.

      “Winnie the Pooh Jumper and School Skirt,” Wilbur says, looking at the sky in wonder and slapping himself on the forehead. “You are truly an original, my little Jellyfish. Anyhoo, while I could stand here all day and talk about dermatological disasters and your sense of style, sadly I’m being paid to make sure I don’t.”

      And he starts wobbling across the airport with his suitcase in one hand and the other held inexplicably high in the air.

      “But where are we going first?” I say as Dad and I trot along behind him. I’m so excited now that little insects feel like they’re rocketing around my stomach, the way they rocketed around the jam-jar trap we made at primary school. “The Gulag History Museum? The Tretyakov Gallery? The Novodevichy Convent? The Worker and Kolkhoz Woman is in Moscow, you know. It moved from Paris.”

      Not that I’ve spent the entire journey reading a guidebook about Moscow or anything. Or – you know – three. And studying a map.

      “Oh, good Lord. They sell lots of vodka here, right?” Dad asks. “I think I might need one.”

      “My little Ginger-cakes,” Wilbur says, turning to look at us with his hand on his hip. “We’re not sightseeing or drinking vodka. This isn’t a romantic weekend for three, although – ” and he looks at Dad – “Mr Panda Senior over here is definitely a cutey.”

      Dad looks momentarily stunned, and then grins and winks at me. “I keep telling Annabel I am, but she never believes me.”

      “So where are we going?” I repeat impatiently. I’m going to throttle Dad before this trip is over.

      “We’re going straight to set, Sponge-finger,” Wilbur says in a businesslike voice, “and we don’t even have time to drop your bags off at the hotel first. However, we do have to find the other model before we go anywhere.”

      I stare at Wilbur in shock. He’s started walking towards the taxi rank and is waving his hands around as if his feet are on fire. “Wooohooo?” he adds at the top of his voice. “Avez-vous a spare taxi, anyone? Silver plate?”

      I continue looking at his back, slightly distracted by the fact that he seems to think we’re in France. “Other model? What other model?”

      Another model is not on the bubble chart.

      “It’s a paired shoot, Puppy-toe,” Wilbur explains, looking at his watch. “I’m certain I explained it all to you, although that could have been a dream. And not one of my most interesting ones either.” He looks at his watch again and sighs. “But he’s predictably late, as usual.”

      My stomach falls into my knees. “He?” I finally stammer.

      “That’s the personal pronoun we use when the subject is male, Petal. And, if I remember correctly, you’ve met this one before. You were talking about doves, or was it pigeons? Some sort of bird anyway.”

      My stomach drops all the way to the floor. And then my heart and my lungs and my kidneys and my liver all follow it until they’re lying in a smashed-up pile at my feet.

      There is no way this is happening.

      “Finally,” Wilbur says, turning round and waving. Because there – leaning against a lamp-post in the snow, wearing a big army jacket and looking impossibly beautiful – is Nick.

      Again.

      hat were the chances?

      I’ll tell you what the chances were. Approximately 673 to one. And that’s if Yuka Ito was only casting male models who were based in London. If you count the rest of the globe – which is equally full of beautiful people – then the statistics get even more improbable. Thousands to one. Thousands and thousands to one little tiny one.

      And how have I worked this out so quickly? That’s not important. But if, say, I happened to stumble upon all the main modelling agency websites while I was bored last night, and I happened to count up all the male models, and I happened to calculate the chances of seeing Nick again soon, then that would be my prognosis. If I had.

      As I said, it’s not important.

      Approximately 673 to 1 and yet here he is, climbing into a taxi next to me. And my dad. Which is mind-boggling because I sort of assumed that if my planet and Nick’s planet weren’t supposed to collide then his planet and my dad’s planet were probably on different orbits, in different solar systems, in totally different universes.

      Dad takes one look at Nick, sitting on the backseat next to me with his hair covered in snowflakes, and coughs. “I think I’m starting to understand why you were so keen to be a model, Harriet,” he says in the most unsubtle voice I’ve ever heard. I kick him on the ankle.

      “What?!” Dad pretends to look innocent and offended. “I’m just saying, from a fifteen-year-old girl’s perspective, things are making a lot more sense all of a sudden.” And then he grins at me.

      It’s not possible to be this embarrassed. If I open the taxi door while it’s moving and physically push my dad out, will I get arrested for murder? It might be worth it.

      “Dad,” I whimper and stare out of the window as hard as I can. Moscow is zooming past – all snow and big buildings – but I can barely focus on it. Not only is Nick here when he’s not supposed to be, he’s even more handsome

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