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 than last time I saw him. He gets better looking every day, as if he’s taking some kind of magic beautifying potion made from the tongue of a unicorn and the hair of a dragon or something.
Perhaps I should ask if he has any spare.
“You met under the table at The Clothes Show, do you remember?” Wilbur says innocently, waving his hand between us.
Dad’s all-knowing expression has deepened. “Is that so?”
Nick half smiles at me and puts his feet up on the seat in front of us. “Harriet Manners,” he says in his slow, lazy voice. “Dedicated to law enforcement.”
“She gets that from her stepmother,” Dad explains and I quickly try to calculate how much injury I’ll cause if I wait until there’s a red light and then just casually kick Dad’s car door open.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as nonchalantly as I can.
Nick shrugs. “I got the Baylee gig a while ago,” he says as if he’s just landed a Saturday job at the local supermarket. “They were just waiting to find the right girl.”
Oh my God. I’m the Right Girl? I’m usually the Girl That Will Have To Do I Suppose Because That Other One Got Chicken Pox (Year Five play Cinderella).
Wilbur leans forward. “Plum-pudding,” he says in an awe-filled voice. “He’s done it all. Gucci, Hilfiger, Klein, Armani. Barely sixteen years old and one of the most successful young male models in London. You’re very lucky to work with him, my little Pot of Bean Paste. He can hold your hand. Walk you through it.”
I look briefly at Nick’s hand. I wish, I think wistfully. And then my cheeks go pink.
“It’s nothing to be worried about, honestly,” Nick says in a calm voice, staring out of the window. “We rock up, we do our job, we get snowed on, we go home again. It’s no biggy.”
I nod quickly, my whole head now zinging with nerves. No biggy. The closer we get, the more real it’s starting to feel, and the more I can feel the panic rising. The last few days have been less like a funfair rollercoaster and more like one of those round balls they strap astronauts into in preparation for space. I’m never quite sure which way is up any more.
But it’s fine: this is no biggy. It’s just me, Dad and Wilbur, hanging out in Moscow for twenty-four hours, taking photos. Casual, breezy photos, with a really expensive camera. And one of London’s top male models and a famous photographer. And maybe fashion legend Yuka Ito drinking coffee 100 metres away and switching lights on and off with a disgusted look on her face. Just six people and one of them is Lion Boy.
No biggy. Sure.