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Once I’m lying flat on my bed, though, I start to feel ever so slightly ashamed of myself. The thing is I broke the plans myself before I’d even got down the stairs. I’ve been thinking about Nat all morning. It was the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and that’s what I was doing for fifteen snoozes. Picturing Nat’s face when I tell her where I’ve been today. Imagining Nat’s expression when she realises I’ve stolen her dream, for all the wrong reasons. Not because I love fashion, but because it’s my short cut out of this.
And I can’t get it out of my head.
So, yes, I’m pretty irritated with my parents for going on about insects, and I’m also a bit frustrated that the inherent style I was hoping I might have is either not there or is so inherent that it’s never going to come out. Like the last bit of toothpaste.
But mostly I’m just angry at myself.
“Harriet?” Annabel says as I’m huffing and puffing and helping myself to one of the chocolate bars I keep stashed in my bedside table. “Can I come in?”
She never normally asks, so this must mean she’s feeling quite sheepish.
“Whatever,” I say in a sulky voice.
“Now you know ‘whatever’ isn’t a grammatically correct response to the question, Harriet.” Annabel puts her head round the door. “Try again.”
“If you must,” I correct.
“Thank you. I will.” Annabel comes into the room and sits down on the bed next to me. Her arms are full of plastic bags and despite myself I’m curious. Annabel likes shopping about as much as I do. “Sorry we wound you up,” she says, brushing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “We didn’t realise you’d be so nervous about today.”
I make a noise that is intentionally ambiguous.
“Is something wrong?” she sighs. “You’re all over the place at the moment. You’re normally so sensible.”
Maybe that’s the problem. “I’m fine.”
“And there’s nothing you want to talk about?”
For a few seconds all I can see in my head are thirty hands in the air. “…No.”
“Then…” and Annabel clears her throat, “I’ve bought you a present. I thought it might cheer you up.”
I look at Annabel in surprise. She rarely buys me presents, and when she does, they absolutely never cheer me up.
Annabel unfolds a large bag and hands it to me. “Actually, I bought this for you a while ago. I was waiting for the right moment and I think this might be it. You can wear it today.” And she unzips the bag.
I stare at the contents in shock. It’s a jacket. It’s grey and it’s tailored. It has a matching white shirt and a pencil skirt. It has very faint white pinstripe running through the material and a crease down each of the arms. It is, without any question of a doubt, a suit. Annabel’s gone and bought me a mini lawyer’s outfit. She wants me to turn up looking exactly like her, but twenty years younger.
“I guess you’re an adult now,” she says in a strange voice. “And this is what adults wear. What do you think?”
I think the modelling agency are going to assume we’re trying to sue them.
But as I open my mouth to tell Annabel I’d rather go as a spider with all eight legs attached, I look at her face. It’s so bright, and so eager, and so happy – this is so clearly some kind of Coming of Age moment for her – I can’t do it.
“I love it,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back.
“You do? And you’ll wear it today?”
I swallow hard. I don’t know much about fashion, but I didn’t see many fifteen-year-olds last week in pinstripe suits.
“Yes,” I manage as enthusiastically as I can.
“Excellent,” Annabel beams at me, shoving some more bags in my direction. “Because I bought you a Filofax and briefcase to match.”
By the time I’m dressed up like some kind of legal assistant and my parents have stopped fighting about Dad’s T-shirt (“It hasn’t even been washed, Richard,”; “I won’t bow down to the rules of fashion, Annabel,”; “But you’ll bow down to the rules of basic hygiene, right?”), we’ve missed our train and we’ve also missed the train after that.
When we eventually get to London, there isn’t time for a pain au chocolat or a cappuccino, and apparently, even if there was, I wouldn’t be allowed to have one.
“You’re not having coffee, Harriet,” Annabel says as I start whining outside the window.
“But Annabel…”
“No. You are fifteen and permanently anxious enough as it is.”
To make matters worse, when we finally locate the right street in Kensington, we can’t find the building: mainly because we’re not looking for a blob of cement tucked behind a local supermarket.
“It doesn’t look very…” Dad says doubtfully as we stand and stare at it suspiciously.
“I know,” Annabel agrees. “Do you think it’s…”
“No, it’s not dodgy. I saw it in the Guardian.”
“Maybe it’s nicer on the inside?” Annabel suggests.
“Ironic, for a modelling agency,” Dad says, then they both laugh and Annabel leans over and gives Dad a kiss, which means they’ve forgiven each other. Honestly, they’re like a pair of married goldfish: squabbling and then forgetting about it three minutes later.
“Well,” Annabel says slowly and she squeezes Dad’s hand a few times when she thinks I won’t notice. She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “I guess this is it then. Are you ready, Harriet?”
“Are you kidding me?” Dad says, ruffling my hair. “Fame, fortune, glory? She’s a Manners: she was born ready.” And – before I can even respond to such a shockingly incorrect statement – he adds, “Last one in is a total loser,” and runs to the door, dragging Annabel behind him.
Leaving
