LITMIR.BIZ

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dog.

      I stare at the camera with my most modelly face. There’s a pause and then Paul looks up. “What are you doing, Harriet? What’s that face?”

      I gulp. “It’s my modelling face.”

      “Your…” Paul says in confusion and then he rolls his eyes. “You have a modelling face, Harriet. You don’t need to strain it as if you’ve got a bad case of constipation. Relax.” There’s another silence. “Now what are you doing?”

      “Smiling?”

      Paul sighs. “Have you ever seen a fashion magazine in your life? Take a look at Nick, Harriet. What is he doing?”

      I look at Nick. “He’s, erm… Just standing there.”

      “Precisely. He’s being natural, in the best-looking way possible. Just pretend the camera’s not here, sweetheart, and focus on being as beautiful as you can be.”

      The cat’s clearly not convinced that I’m capable of this either; he makes a mewling sound and scratches in terror at my other shoulder. Which makes me wobble dangerously on the heels, so I have to reach out and grab Nick’s shoulder.

      “Sorry,” I mumble in embarrassment and stare hard at the snow.

      Why didn’t anyone explain that there was actually some kind of skill involved in being a model? Why didn’t somebody tell me I’d have to actually do something? Why didn’t they know I’d be rubbish?

      I can feel my eyes starting to well up, and somewhere in the background I hear the make-up artist starting to panic loudly about my mascara. I look at Nick in open desperation and he gives me a crooked smile.

      “Right,” he says under his breath. “Give me the cat,” and he takes it off me. Gary immediately makes a small meowing sound, curls up happily in Nick’s arm and goes to sleep. Even Gary is in love with him.

      “Now blow a raspberry.”

      I look at him for a few seconds in silence. “You want me to blow a raspberry?”

      “Yup. Loud as you can. Make it a nice wet one.”

      I can feel my cheeks getting pink under the foundation. “I’m not blowing a raspberry,” I tell him in a dignified voice. “I’m nearly an adult.”

      “Blow a raspberry.”

      “No.”

      “Blow it.”

      “No.”

      “Blow.”

      “Fine,” I snap in exasperation and I blow a half-hearted raspberry.

      Nick frowns at me. “That wasn’t even a strawberry.”

      “Oh, for the love of…” I sigh and then I blow a much louder raspberry. I’m not even going to look at Yuka. I don’t think this is why she employed me. “Happy now?”

      “Much better. Now wiggle your shoulders. And your neck.”

      I wiggle my shoulders and my neck.

      “Knock your knees together.”

      I knock my knees.

      “And do the funky chicken.”

      I giggle and obediently do the funky chicken.

      “Can you handle cold feet? Because if you can, I reckon you should take those stupid shoes off and hold them.”

      I glance at Paul, who is concentrating on adjusting one of the lamps to his right. And then I glance to the left where Yuka Ito is sitting in a black chair, glaring at us both with the face Annabel pulls when she eats oysters.

      “OK,” I say, shrugging, and take my shoes off. I’m so nervous I can’t feel my feet anyway. Plus, I’m not sure I can get much worse at this. The only way is up.

      Apparently Nick’s thinking the same thing. Literally. “Now,” he says, grinning. “I’m going to hold your hand. And when I say jump, jump, as high as you can. Look straight at the camera, keep your face calm and jump. OK?”

      I nod, with my head now numb.

      “Relax?”

      I nod.

      “Funky chicken?”

      I nod and waggle my arms a bit.

      “OK, jump,” Nick whispers.

      And I jump.

      ’m holding Nick’s hand.

      I’m actually holding Nick’s hand. And nobody made him do it. He did it for free.

      Or, you know. For a modelling fee. But he didn’t have to.

      It was his idea.

      Not that this is the only thing going through my head for the rest of the shoot, obviously. I’m a professional. I think about lots of… modelling related things. Like clothes, and make-up, and hair, and sticky eyebrows made out of mice.

      And… and… no.

      That’s all I think about. The fact that Nick is holding my hand and I’ve never had my hand held by a boy before in my entire life unless you count when I was eight and forced into being Prince Charming’s mother in the school play, and I don’t.

      And this time it’s Lion Boy.

      This time it’s Nick.

      *

      It turns out that when Nick said jump, his idea was that he also jumped, and so we both leapt into the air at the same time as high as we could. Nick held on to the kitten, I held on to the red shoes and we both jumped together.

      And everyone loved it. Paul loved it. Wilbur loved it. Dad loved it. The crowd loved it. Even Yuka stopped threatening to sack everyone in a ten-mile radius. Gary wasn’t quite as keen, but you can’t please everyone.

      When we’ve finished jumping in the air from a standing position, we throw caution to the wind and try running along from left to right, jumping. And then from right to left, jumping. Eventually I’m so relaxed and having so much fun they actually manage to get me to not jump for a few shots, just for variety. They even get close to my face and I don’t flinch or start twitching because I’m too busy thinking about… erm. Make-up. And clothes. And hair. And mice. And so on and so forth.

      Before I know it, we’re done.

      I’m a model.

      “My little Pea-pod!” Wilbur squeals as soon as Paul shuts down the camera. Nick immediately lets go of my hand, and by the time I turn around he’s gone again. Poof. Like the proverbial genie. “Look at you, just bouncing around like a little kangaroo in the snow!”

      Dad pushes past him. “All right, kiddo?” he says, and it looks like his face is going to snap in half, he’s smiling so hard. “Chip off the old block, that was. I used to do high jump for the under-sixteens. Won trophies and everything.”

      “Dad, you won a bronze medallion on Sports Day once when you were thirteen. It’s still on top of the fireplace.”

      “Trophy, medallion, who’s counting? Anyway, I’m very proud.” He gives me a hug. “I thought for a horrible minute there we were going to have to pay for our own flight home. Now did someone say free vodka?” And he scampers off happily in the direction of the hotel.

      I look at my empty hand again. I can’t believe Nick’s gone already. I’ve never seen anyone capable of becoming invisible quite so quickly or unexpectedly. And I can’t help wishing

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