LITMIR.BIZ

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parting widens until there’s a distinct snowy pathway up the middle. Even Wilbur stops talking and the only sound left is the kitten, who now and then makes a small squeaking sound like a door shutting.

      “Here she comes,” somebody whispers in what sounds a lot like terror, and all heads turn in one direction.

      Stalking up the pathway on the highest black heels I’ve ever seen is Yuka Ito. And she’s staring directly at me.

      ow I could be wrong, but Yuka Ito appears to be wearing exactly the same outfit, except with bright orange lipstick instead of purple. For somebody so high up in the fashion industry, she seems to have even fewer wardrobe options than I do.

      Yuka stops two metres away from where we’re all standing, totally mesmerised. She doesn’t look happy. Although obviously I’m not sure what happiness looks like for Yuka Ito. Let’s just say the snow on her shoulders doesn’t appear to be melting in the slightest.

      “Wilbur,” she says in a voice so appropriately icy it’s like it’s coming from the sky. “What, precisely, do you think your job is?”

      “Other than being generally fabulous?”

      “Debatable,” Yuka snaps. “Would you say that your job entails getting my models to me at the time I’ve asked you to get them to me?”

      Wilbur thinks about this for a few seconds. “I would say it’s definitely on the list, yes.”

      “Then could you explain why they’re both forty-five minutes late?”

      “Darling,” Wilbur sighs, rolling his eyes. “Turning up on time is so keen. Not cool. Plus –” and he makes a little gesture and lowers his voice, as if telling us a secret –“it’s snowing.”

      “Yes, I was vaguely aware of that. Although everybody else managed to get here on time because in Russia snow is not, shall we say, unexpected.” Yuka’s lips press together in a straight line and then she looks at me. “Could you also explain why the female face of my new collection is sporting some kind of head accessory?”

      Head accessory? What is she… Oh. My whole being goes bright red. She’s talking about the spot. If there was a light above my head, I suspect it would be turned off about now.

      “If you cast a teenager,” Wilbur says patiently, “that’s a risk that comes with the territory. They’re skinny, yes, but just full of hormones and pus. It’s like employing a tiger and then complaining because it has whiskers.”

      Yuka looks at me impassively. I’ve definitely felt prettier. She makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Fine,” she says in a snipped voice. “We’ll digitally enhance her beyond recognition anyway. Take her to the hotel to get ready while we set up and do Nick’s solo shots. You’ve got an hour and a half.” And then she clicks her fingers at a handful of people standing directly to her right. “There’s a list. Follow it exactly. Let me make this clear: this is not your time to shine creatively.” She scowls at the crowd in general. “Now,” she adds. “Why are you all still standing there? I’m finished.”

      And then she walks back through the black sea, which closes neatly around her.

      I look at Wilbur in bewilderment.

      “List?” I say finally. “What list?”

      “I believe, Munchkin-face, that’ll be the list of what we’re going to do about this.” And then he waves his hand in my direction.

      Apparently by this he means me.

      “But,” I finally manage to blurt, “I thought you said I was perfect just the way I was?” At which point Wilbur throws his head back and roars with laughter.

      And that, apparently, is my answer.

      o I have a confession to make: I haven’t come here totally unprepared. I mean, I can’t expect them to do everything, can I? If I want to be cool, I have to put a little effort in. Participate in my own metamorphosis.

      So I spent a few hours last night doing some research on the internet. I know a whole lot more about the fashion industry than I did before. And I’m kind of excited because now I get a chance to prove it and, maybe, start making a little progress in the right direction.

      “Sit down, sweetheart,” one of the women wearing black says. I’ve been taken out of the snow and put into a little hotel room just behind Red Square. I’ve never seen so many beauty products, make-up items and hairbrushes. There’s even one of those headlamps set up, like the one my grandma uses when she gets a perm.

      I sit down. Another woman gets a piece of paper out and looks at it. “Are you kidding me?” she says in disbelief. “No cat eyes? Doesn’t Yuka know it’s all about cat eyes this season?”

      The other woman shrugs. “Prada have just done it so it’s officially over already.”

      I blink. This isn’t quite the conversation I was gearing up for, but I shall do my best to keep up.

      “You know,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to look as casual as possible, “cats’ eyes have a mirror-like membrane on the back to maximise light exposure. That’s why they shine in the dark.”

      The two ladies look at me. “That’s… nice.”

      “And on the subject of fashion,” I add quickly, mentally trawling through the research I did last night, “did you know that in the eighteenth century it was very hip to stick on eyebrows made out of mice skin?”

      They gaze at me in silence.

      “Also,” I add, determined to keep going until they’re impressed, “did you know that there are buttons on coat sleeves because Napoleon ordered them to stop his soldiers wiping their noses on their jackets?”

      “That’s gross,” one of them points out.

      “But weirdly interesting,” the other one adds.

      See? I told you my research would pay off. I’ve already won over a little bit of the fashion industry with my hip knowledge.

      “Now,” she continues, looking at the list again, “we’ve got just enough time to do your make-up after. And get you into the clothes.”

      I stare at her and then I stare at Dad who’s wandering around the room picking things up and putting them down again. (“Look, Harriet! A Russian Bible! It’s all in Russian!”) Dad shrugs nonchalantly as I raise my eyebrows at him. “No idea what anyone’s talking about, sweetheart. Don’t look at me.”

      “After what?” I ask tentatively, looking at Wilbur.

      We’ve got an hour and a half. How much time does it take to put on a bit of lipstick and a dress? How much time does it take to make me into a model? How ugly do they think I am?

      Wilbur claps his hands together. “Ah, my little Pineapple-chunk, this is the best bit,” he explains. “I’ve been excited about it ever since I saw The List.”

      I look around the room and already I can feel a sense of impending doom. “What’s going on?”

      “Oh, come on,” Wilbur shouts in excitement, starting to jump up and down. “What happens to the Ugly Duckling to turn her into a swan?”

      The blood drains from my face. “You’re making

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