Patrick is starting to look frightened and there’s a pink patch forming on Jane’s cheeks. “You don’t like it?” she says, her forehead creasing in the middle. “You don’t like modelling?”
I think about going to Russia, and jumping around in the snow, and walking down that catwalk, and the butterfly girls. I think about how much fun it can be and how I feel when I’m doing it. I think about Dad’s excitement, Annabel’s pride and Nat’s selflessness. “Actually, I do like modelling,” I say in surprise. “But I don’t want to be somebody else to do it. I still want to be me, and if that means wearing a suit and doing my trigonometry homework ten days before it’s due then that should be OK.”
“But if you hate fashion—”
I shake my head because I’ve suddenly realised that’s not true either. “You know, Jane, cavemen used to wear different skins and bones to differentiate themselves from each other and from other tribes.”
“Erm…”
“So if fashion’s a creative way of showing the world who you are and where you belong, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? But if who I am is a Winnie the Pooh jumper then I should be allowed to wear it.” I pause and look into the dark where Toby is standing. “Or a T-shirt with electronic drums.” I look at Dad and Annabel. “Or a robot T-shirt or a pinstripe suit.” And then I look at Wilbur. “Or a pink top hat for no reason at all.”
“But—”
“But they’re still just clothes. They can’t make you something you’re not. They can only help to say who you are.”
Stop talking, Harriet. Stop talking right now.
I think I’ve sort of forgotten I’m on television. I’m having my little epiphany on air, in front of five million people. But at least I’m not lying any more.
Patrick is sweating and one of the cameramen is making a winding motion with his finger. Nick leans forward. “I disagree,” he says and I flinch. Of course he does. He’s Yuka’s nephew.
Jane smiles at him. “You do?”
“Piglet is far superior. Harriet’s made quite an error of judgement.”
I gape at him. What is he talking about?
“Piglet?” I snap. “What has Piglet ever done of any importance?”
“Helped to pull Winnie out of Rabbit’s door, for one thing.”
Nick and I look at each other for a few seconds and something passes between us. Except – yet again – I’m not quite sure what that thing is.
“Well,” Jane says finally, breaking the silence. “That was a very interesting insight into…” she thinks about it, “something, wasn’t it?” She glances at Patrick and puts her finger to her ear. Does she have a microphone as well? Is anybody round here just saying what’s in their own heads? “Sadly, that’s all we have time for. Coming up after the break, how to compost the hair from your pet brush.” Jane grins at the camera and picks up her script again.
“And cut,” the cameraman shouts.
And I’m done. Finished. Actually, considering what I just said on live television, I think that’s probably true in more than one sense.
“Sorry for ruining your interview,” I say in a small voice to nobody in particular. Or, you know. Everybody.
And I pull the microphone out from under my bottom, whisper, “Sorry, Yuka,” into it and run to the back of the room.
t’s not hard to see where my family is, even in dim lighting.
Dad’s doing his dance again. Toby’s bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet and Nat’s standing on a chair and clapping. Even Annabel’s nodding her head to what looks suspiciously like an internal beat. Wilbur is sitting on the edge of a box with his head in his hands and his hat off.
“Whoop!” Nat shouts across the room.
“Whoop,” agrees Toby gravely. “And again, what Nat said: whoop.”
“My daughter!” Dad cries as soon as I get close. He punches the air, scruffs my hair up and then folds me into a bear hug in one seamless movement. “Feminist, pioneer, trailblazer, general bottom kicker.”
Annabel nods. “Harriet Quimby would be proud,” she says approvingly, leaning forward and touching my face.
“As would Harriet the tortoise,” Dad adds, nodding up and down. Annabel rolls her eyes. “What, Annabel? She would.”
“I’m glad you guys liked it,” I say, my face going pink with pleasure. “I think that might be it for my modelling career, though. I’m so sorry, Wilbur. I let you down.”
Wilbur looks up with a pale face. “No, you didn’t,” he says in a quiet voice. “That was really brave, Harriet. Don’t worry about Yuka. I’ll deal with her.”
“Nobody deals with Yuka,” a sharp voice says from behind us and we all spin round. Yuka Ito is standing in the middle of yet another spotlight, totally in black lace, but this time with bright red lips.
OK, does she just carry the spotlight around with her or does she just stop when she gets to one?
Yuka looks straight at me. “I do not appreciate being sat on, Harriet. Don’t do it again.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “This time I’m definitely fired, right?”
“Why would you be fired? If I had known you would say that, I wouldn’t have given you an earpiece in the first place.”