Picture Perfect (19 page)

So I start out optimistically.

The address Wilbur has given me is only six blocks away from Grand Central station, and according to Google it should take eight minutes to walk there.

I walk down 42nd Street humming a tune, staring at the tops of the buildings and the glitzy shops and the food stands and the inexplicably gold fire hydrants.

I pat a dog on the end of an orange rope, buy a pen that says ‘I HEART NY’, a pencil that says ‘You have NY heart’ and a triangular slice of extremely hot pizza.

I say hello to somebody dressed up as a Mario Brother.

I watch an enormous red truck drive past with slabs of pavement attached by ropes to the back.

I take an arty photo of myself in a shop window reflection and then send it to Nat with a carefully constructed, breezy message:

Wearing the red dress! New York is AMAZING. Such a shame you can’t be here! Hxx

Then I hit the river.

Which means I’ve gone the wrong way.

So I start walking back: past the shop window and the food stands and the hydrants and Mario.

Except at some point I must have turned off 42nd Street, because now I’m standing outside a shop I don’t recognise.

It turns out that if you don’t actually know New York, there is no way of telling which direction you’re heading in. Uptown or downtown. East or west. North or south.

It’s like being Alice, falling through the rabbit hole. Except when you come out the other end, it’s not even properly signposted.

“Excuse me,” I say politely to a woman walking past with bright lilac hair and a fur collar.

She blinks a few times.

“Umm. Could you tell me which way is
up
, please?”

“
What?
”

“Which way is up and which way is down?”

She leans close and squints. “What
language
are you speaking?”

“Umm. English?”

“
English?
Where are you
from
?”

“England.”

I’ve been to two non-English-speaking countries in the last six months, and at no stage has anyone queried whether I speak my own language. “I promise I am,” I add, because she still looks doubtful.

“Right. Well,
that
way is up.” She points to the sky. “And
that
way is down.”

She points to the pavement.

I flush so hard I can actually see the tip of my nose turning purple. I obviously look like the kind of person who doesn’t understand three dimensions.

“Errr,” I say, bobbing a little curtsey. “That’s very helpful. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, sniffing slightly.

And I’m forced to walk slowly away, pretending to be inordinately interested in a passing cloud until she’s gone.

At which point I turn my map around and try again.

Forty minutes.

It takes
forty minutes
to get to what Google says is an eight-minute walk away. On the bright side, I manage to find the Rockefeller Center which is:

1. nowhere near where I’m supposed to be
   
2. even bigger than everything else
   
3. nowhere near an ice rink
   
4. on my To Do List, which is handy.
   

I also go past a nice green park with lots of people playing chess and draughts, a carousel with pink and white horses, an enormous H&M, the headquarters of Facebook, a theatre showing
The Lion King
and a Lego shop with an enormous Lego dragon bursting out of the ceiling.

Getting lost is actually quite an educational experience. Which is good, because if this morning is anything to go by, it looks like it’s going to happen quite a lot.

Finally I arrive outside a huge, shiny skyscraper with enormous windows and a big, revolving glass door. LA MODE it says in big silver letters on a plaque next to the door.

I take a deep breath.

Then I wipe my clammy hands on my dress and push through the revolving doors.

Back into the world of fashion.

s we know, I’ve been a model – on and off – ever since Nick found me under that table at The Clothes Show Live. But as I walk into the vast, glittering reception of one of the biggest fashion magazines in the world, it suddenly hits me that I haven’t been.

Not really.

Two months ago, Yuka Ito told me that I didn’t understand the fashion world because I’d never actually been part of it. That she and Wilbur had held my hand throughout the entire journey: from the moment I was spotted in a pile of broken hats in Birmingham to the second I ended my contract with her.

For the first time, I truly understand what she was talking about.

This is my first time in a magazine reception. I’ve never been on a normal casting or a go-see. I’ve never competed for a job or been rejected. I’ve never had a portfolio to carry around or a card with my photo on it.

I’ve never had to prove myself.

I’ve just stumbled through modelling as I stumble through everything: from one catastrophe to the next, optimistic that things will turn out all right in the end.

A schoolgirl with absolutely no idea how lucky she was or how much of a fairy tale she’d been handed.

This time, everything is different.

I’m going to be treated like everyone else, and I have to prove I can do it. This is
New York
. I’m just one of ten thousand girls who want the same thing.

I can suddenly hear Yuka’s voice:
Fashion is hard work, fickle and unforgiving. It eats girls like you for breakfast.

And I know I should be scared.

But I’m not.

This is what I want: to carve my own adventure, instead of being handed it ready-made and wrapped in a big pink bow.

“Yes.” The man at reception doesn’t look up: he keeps tapping away at his computer.

“Umm.” I straighten out my dress and then realise one of the straps has snapped and is hanging down my back. I quickly grab it and start unsuccessfully attempting to tie it on to the front. “I’m here to see Wilbur?”

“Wilbur?”

“Wilbur …” I pause, and then flush. I’ve just realised I don’t actually know Wilbur’s last name. He’s like Madonna, or Jesus. “He’s about this high.” I hold my hand just above my head. “A little bit …” I don’t want to be unkind, so I stop. “He’s probably wearing sequins. Or feathers. Or both. And wellies.”

The man finally looks up and stares at me coldly. “I know who Wilbur is.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Take a seat,” he says, pointing to one of the enormous white sofas. “He’ll be down in a minute.”

I nod in the most sophisticated way I possibly can while holding my dress together with my hands, and do exactly that.

I’d forgotten this world even exists.

Everyone and everything inside looks like it’s been buffed and polished. Every time the glass doors revolve, somebody exciting enters the building. A woman in an unseasonably heavy fur coat. A man in tight trousers and pointed shoes. Three young models: beautiful, thin, wearing black from head to toe with enormous handbags.

There’s a stupidly good-looking blond boy roughly my age sitting on the sofa opposite me. After fifteen minutes the silence is starting to get awkward, so I shuffle forward on my bottom and smile at him as brightly as I can.

“Hello,” I say cheerfully. “How are you?”

He glances up, looks at me with piercing blue eyes and then goes back to texting on his phone.

“Did you know,” I say in my most casual voice, “that the word ‘skyscraper’ was originally a nautical term referring to a small triangular sail set above the skysail on a sailing ship? We only adopted it for buildings quite recently.”

The boy grunts slightly and presses a few more buttons.

I’m just trying to work out if I know any more relevant facts about New York landmarks when the doors of the lift open and somebody I know walks out.

Except it’s not Wilbur.

It’s a girl. She’s tall and has long brown curly hair and an incredibly pretty face: heart-shaped, with a tiny pointed chin and wide brown eyes. She’s wearing a pale blue dress, and her white platform heels are so chunky she looks like a baby horse. As if they’re the only things anchoring her to the ground.

She adjusts the straps of her handbag on to her shoulder and starts clomping through the reception, towards the entrance.

Then she sees me and stops.

“Harriet?”

I stand up, blinking. The last time I saw this beautiful girl I was holding her hand. A few minutes before that, I was knocking her on to the floor of a catwalk in front of a room full of people in Moscow.

I didn’t think I’d see her ever again. Except apparently when the world gets bigger, it also gets a whole lot smaller at the same time.

“Fleur?”

And I don’t even think about it.

I run across the reception and throw myself around her neck.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” I squeak happily, kissing her cheek. “No idea at all.”

leur and I talk about
everything.

We talk about what we’ve been doing, and my Japanese job with Yuka, and how I’m now in America with my parents and my baby sister. We talk about how far away England is, and about how bad the turbulence can be on the flight over. We talk about the stars on the ceiling of Grand Central station, and the layout of American roads, and how weird it is that the fire hydrants are painted gold.

At least, I do.

Because as the conversation progresses, I realise Fleur’s not really saying much.

Or anything, in fact.

Her eyes are flicking around the reception, and she’s getting pinker and pinker.

Slowly, I grind to a confused halt.

Finally, she says, “I’m sorry, Harriet, but I have to go. I have a casting to get to.”

She gives me a swift hug.

“Oh,” I say, because suddenly grabbing on to her ankles and screaming
Please be my friend I don’t have any left
doesn’t seem a very dignified option. “OK.”

“Let’s do lunch sometime?” she says, starting to head towards the door.

I beam at her.

I
knew
I would find a friend in New York City, and I’ve only been here an hour. This is
so
much better than Greenway.