“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 he wouldn’t.
“London, Poppet,” Wilbur says kindly, patting my shoulder.
“Hmm?” I’m still gazing in the direction I think Nick went.
“He’s gone back to London. He has another shoot for a different designer in the morning.”
I swallow in embarrassment and quickly look away. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please, Petal-pants. You’re all lit up like Lenin, and you don’t have the excuse of a lightbulb in the back of your head.”
I clear my throat crossly. “Nick and I are just colleagues,” I say with as much indifference as I can muster and an improvised shrug. “We work together.”
“Not any more you don’t,” Wilbur says matter-of-factly, patting me on the head. “His bit’s over. Yuka’s not as bothered about the male fashion end of the spectrum. Not bad money for a four-hour gig, hey?”
A swoop of disappointment hits my stomach and I bite my bottom lip in case it reaches my face. I should have realised. I’ll probably never see Nick again, unless it’s on the pages of a magazine in a doctor’s surgery and half his face will probably be missing from where somebody’s ripped out a coupon from the other side.
I can feel my cheeks tingling. And he didn’t even say goodbye.
“So,” I say as calmly as I can, “is my bit over too then?”
I’ve done a shoot, I’ve got a new haircut, I’m wearing make-up and I’ve held a boy’s hand, but…
I still feel like me. Something’s not working the way it’s supposed to.
Wilbur starts pealing with laughter. “Is my bit over? Is my bit… Oh, my little Bookworm,” he sighs eventually, bending over and putting his hand in the crease of his waist. “You do crack me right down the middle.”
Honestly, I wish people would just answer questions properly when I ask them.