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Praise for

CLEAN

Written with verve and wit …

it’s one to just enjoy – STYLIST

An emotional freight train of a novel – HEAT

Addictive – THE POOL

As bold and gritty as it is fabulously

glossy and readable, it’s a provocative,

important read – OBSERVER

Compulsively readable – GUARDIAN

Gossip Girl goes to rehab…

Clean hits the spot – i NEWSPAPER

Sharp, gripping and tender – ATTITUDE

Compelling – FINANCIAL TIMES

Hard-hitting and unapologetic – SUN

ALSO BY JUNO DAWSON

FICTION

Margot and Me

All of the Above

Under My Skin

Say Her Name

Cruel Summer

Hollow Pike

Clean

NON-FICTION

The Gender Games

Mind Your Head

This Book Is Gay

Being a Boy

What Is Gender? How Does It Define Us?

‘Fashion should be a form of escapism,
and not a form of imprisonment.’

Alexander McQueen

–  OK, it’s filming.

–  What am I supposed to say?

–  Well, why did you want to make this film?

–  It’s time, I think.

–  Why now?

–  I dunno. A lot of people have a lot of opinions about me. About who they think I am. About what happened. It’s time to tell my side of the story.

–  Cool.

–  God. Where do I begin?

–  Just start at the beginning.

–  Erm …

–  Take your time. There’s no rush.

–  ‘Once upon a time, I was born …’

–  OK, maybe not the actual beginning.

–  I feel dumb.

–  You’re doing great, I promise. Go on …

–  I guess… I guess it started that day at the theme park.

–  So start there.

SCOUT

Why are men such trash?

I’m pretty sure we’re being followed. I take another look over my shoulder, and, yes, sir, he’s still there. What a creep. I first noticed him when we come out the loos and he’s been lurking behind us all the way towards Stealth. Gross. Like, we’re blatantly on a school trip. Fuck is wrong with you? Skanky bastards, honestly.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket. It’s Ferd. They’ve gone to Swarm instead of Stealth.

‘They’ve gone to get in the queue for Swarm,’ I tell Laurel. The others went on ahead of us while we went to the loo. Laurel has a bladder the size of a pea, I swear.

Laurel nods. ‘OK …’

We change paths at Tidal Wave – giving it a wide berth so we don’t get soaked – and Laurel continues to babble on and on. I flick another look over my shoulder, pretending to play with my hair.

What the actual fuck? The lurker has changed route too.

OK. Little worried now.

‘…I mean,’ I try to focus on what Laurel’s saying, ‘why does she have to be so obvious? Like, I get it, she’s seeing Harrison now, but the way she’s always touching his hair and rubbing herself against him like a dog in heat. Has she never heard of dignity?’

I peek again. He’s still following us. Shit. He looks about thirty. Not old enough to be my father, but not far off. We turn down the path that leads right to the queue entrance. It’s supposed to look like an alien invasion: there’s a burning ambulance, police sirens and a charred phone box. It’s pretty cool but …

‘Jana, are you listening to––?’

‘OK,’ I interrupt, pressing myself to her hip, ‘do not look back, but I think we’re being followed.’

‘What?’ Of course, the first thing she does is turn right around.

‘Laurel!’

She turns back. ‘Which one? The hipster guy?’

‘Yes,’ I hiss. ‘Swear he’s been right behind us since we come out the loo.’

‘Really? Ew! What a freak.’ This time, Laurel pretends to swish her waist-length hair off her face and sneaks another look. ‘OMG, Jana, he’s coming over.’

‘What?’

‘Hi there! Excuse me!’ he shouts.

What fresh hell? ‘Keep walking,’ I say. Sometimes builders or whatever shout crap at us from off scaffolding and stuff, but I’ve never been actively followed before. Scary. You’d think you’d be safe at Thorpe-fucking-Park, right?

‘Sorry to bother you, can I just have a minute?’

‘Let’s see what he wants. Maybe you dropped something.’

‘Laurel, no …’

But it’s too late. He strides right up to us. ‘Crikey, you walk fast … I’ve been trying to catch up with you.’ He talks directly to me. ‘Hi, my name’s Tom Carney and I’m …’

Swarm pelts by overhead and whatever he says is drowned out by the screams of the people on the ride. Ribbons of hair fly across my face. ‘What?’ I shout.

‘I asked how old you are.’

Laurel grimaces. ‘Too young for you, you skank.’

The man, Tom, smiles and slips a hand in his rucksack. He produces a business card and holds it in front of my face.

PRESTIGE MODELS

Tom Carney

Head of Scouting

I blink. The ride soars by again and all I hear are screams while his lips silently move. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘I said, have you ever done any modelling?’ he repeats. He don’t look like a paedo, although I figure only very unsuccessful ones do. He looks like a gay Shoreditch hipster: beanie hat, plastic glasses, lumberjack shirt and ginger beard. Bet he’s got a fold-out bike.

‘Seriously?’ Laurel says. ‘Jana?’

I ignore the tone in her voice. Shade. ‘No,’ I mumble. I hate my voice when I’m nervous; it goes so deep. I sound like a giant man. Hagrid realness.

‘Have you been approached by an agency before?’

‘No.’ Man voice. Is he for real? A modelling agency? Hold up, is this a porn thing? Cos literally no one wants to see my flat arse in porn.

‘Wow. That surprises me,’ Tom Carney says. ‘How old did you say you were?’

‘I’m sixteen,’ I say. It’s a scorching, factor-fifty day in June. My thighs are sticky in denim cut-offs, and I’m wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and filthy Converse that ain’t been white for a long time. We’ve just finished our exams and school has brought us to Thorpe Park as a treat. The air is creamy with Hawaiian Tropic, candyfloss and hot dogs, mustard and ketchup.

‘Don’t tell him that,’ Laurel says, tugging on my hand. ‘He might be a paedo. We should find a teacher.’

‘You’re absolutely right to be wary – there are fake scouts out there – but I swear this is legit. Prestige is one of London’s best model management agencies. You can call the office or visit the website. What’s your name?’

I know nothing about fashion and stuff, but I’ve heard of Prestige. They represent Clara Keys. We love Clara Keys. She’s our homegirl. ‘I’m Jana. Jana Novak.’

‘That’s cute. Where are you from?’

‘Battersea.’ My name always solicits that question. ‘But my parents are Serbian.’

‘Awesome. Do you know how tall you are?’

Too bloody tall. ‘I dunno,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Maybe five-eleven?’ I hope. I don’t want to be six-foot tall. I always hunch just in case.

Another train car of screamers flies over. ‘Listen,’ Tom says, ‘take my card – the number is on the back. No pressure but, if you want, talk to your parents and we’ll arrange a proper meeting at the office.’

Laurel sort of steps between us. ‘Are you for real, mate?’

‘Hundred per cent. This is my job.’ He smiles and his teeth are like little Monopoly houses – too perfectly square to be real. ‘I know, right? I go to festivals and theme parks or anywhere where there are lots of teenagers to find new faces.’

‘Cool job,’ Laurel says, eyes wide. ‘What about me? Do you think I could be a model?’

Oh, Laurel, hon, no. Awks. Playing along, Tom steps back to get a look at her. Laurel is much prettier than me. She’s got a little button nose and allergic-reaction lips that boys seem to bust a nut for. ‘What’s your name?’

‘I’m Laurel Ross.’

‘Well, Laurel, you’re definitely a very pretty girl. But how tall are you?’

‘Five-five.’ Her voice drops. ‘But taller in heels!’

He smiles sympathetically. ‘To be honest, we wouldn’t consider anyone shorter than five-eight.’

‘Kate Moss is five-seven …’

Tom smiles. ‘Kate Moss is Kate Moss.’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘But, Jana, I’d really love for you to give us a call. Seriously.’

Laurel’s face changes. Her mouth hangs open and she frantically texts someone. I look to Tom. I shake my head. ‘Me? You sure?’

He grins. ‘Jana, frankly I’m amazed you haven’t been scouted before today. Get your parents to give me a call, yeah? Enjoy the rest of your day. Wear sunscreen.’ He walks away and gets sucked into a mass of Spanish tourists and I wonder if the whole thing was a weird hallucination. Country air, man.

‘Oh my god, Jana! Did that actually just happen?’ I guess if Laurel saw it too, it must have. She hops from foot to foot like she needs another pee. ‘Quick! We have to go find Sabah and the others!’

I shrug. I look at the glossy little card in my hand. My thumb traces the embossed letters. It feels expensive somehow, and I think about that chocolatey bastard Charlie and his golden ticket.

–  That was it. That was the BIG MOMENT.

–  Why was it so big?

–  Because … everything changed.

–  For better or worse?

–  Jana?

–  Better. To begin with.

PRESTIGE

We are all proper tall in my family. Dad is tall, Mum is tall-ish, Milos is tall. I was always gonna be tall.

As such, I have to stoop a bit in front of my mirror because my bedroom is the attic room and it has stupid sloping ceilings. Swear I can only stand up straight right in the centre of the room.

I wonder if I’m going mad. I really can’t imagine anyone would want me to model anything. Yes, I am mad tall, and I understand that fashion models, traditionally, are tall, but I also look like a big lanky freak. At school, I pretend I don’t hear people calling me Giant, She-Hulk, Madame Maxime, Tranny, Goliath, Lurch, Slenderman (which even I thought was pretty funny, to be honest), Beanpole, Olive Oyl, Queen Kong. I’ve heard ’em all. If it’s not my height, it’s my weight: Oh, she must be anorexic. Look how skinny her legs are! They’re like twigs! So I make a big song and dance of eating cheesy chips. Maybe it’s bulimia, then.

I’m in the one bikini I own: it’s violet with navy blue pin-dots. I wore it once – two years ago in Mykonos – but felt too naked to wear it in public and didn’t take my T-shirt off all week. I came back as goth-lite pasty as I went. Today I will have to strip in front of strangers. I’ve been pre-warned. I guess it’s fair enough that they’d want to see my body. It’s such a weird body, though. It’s not a sexy Kardashian body. I don’t have boobs or a booty, I’m all bones and jagged joints, like I’m a walking bag of knuckles. I’m not even cupcake pretty – I’ve got Dad’s beaky nose.

Boys at school fancy Emily Potter (D cup) or Tiana Blake (DD), not me, which is fine because I have Ferdy anyway and as long as he likes me, I couldn’t give two shits.

Sigh. What the hell are you meant to wear to go to a modelling agency anyway? I have no nice clothes. Nice clothes don’t fit me. I have to buy from the ‘Tall’ section or sleeves end halfway down my arms. I select some skinny jeans and my stripy black and white T-shirt because Laurel says it makes me look French and that’s, I think, quite fashionable. I stick my grubby off-white Converse on my feet.

I trot downstairs for breakfast, although I’m pretty nervous and my stomach has shrivelled up like a raisin. I was the same during my exams. I got through them on Imodium and wishes.

‘Look, it’s the model,’ says Milos. Sarky little twat.

I slap him around the head as I pass. ‘Shut up.’

‘Mum! Did you see? She just assaulted me.’

‘You deserve it,’ says Mum, handing me a bagel on a plate. ‘Eat, please.’

‘Probably got brain damage, but whatever.’ Milos dumps his plate in the dishwasher and goes to get ready for school. For him, school don’t finish for another two weeks. Too bad, asswipe.

I smear some Nutella on the bagel and wonder if my growling stomach is hungry after all. ‘You want tea? Coffee? Juice?’ Mum never sits still; she flits around the kitchen like a moth on crack. I wonder if that’s why we’re all so skinny – none of us can relax.

‘Juice, please. Ooh, is there any apple?’

‘Milos finish it. Just orange.’

‘Mum, the apple is meant to be mine! Milos drinks it on purpose! He don’t even like it!’

She throws her hands up. ‘I get more later.’

‘Where’s Dad?’ The door at the end of the kitchen leading into our little garden is open and I wonder if he’s having his breakfast outside. It looks like another lovely day. Hottest June on record, so they’re saying.

‘He gone already.’

‘Oh. I thought he was coming with us?’

‘No, he has early shift.’ He drives the trains on the Bakerloo line. Damn. At least he’s on my side. Sure enough … ‘Jana. Are you sure you want to do this?’

I roll my eyes and take a big gulp of orange juice. ‘Ew, is this the kind with bits? Gross, why do you always—’

‘Jana Katarina.’ Oof. That’s me told.

I sigh. ‘Dad agrees …’

‘Never mind your father. What do you think?’

‘I think …’ I choose my words carefully because Mum never forgets and will use anything I say as evidence at a future date ‘… it’s worth going along and seeing what they’ve gotta say. Don’t you?’ She purses her lips like she’s got a whole lemon wedged in her mouth. That’s her NOT-HAPPY face. ‘Mum?’

‘I think if you want to be model, you can be in two years, after exams.’

She don’t get it. I usually bite my tongue, but this is different. This ain’t like when I wanted to play violin on a weird whim when I was twelve. She’s got a point, though. It’s not like this was my childhood dream or nothing. That was to be an air hostess or a dinosaur. But this has landed slap-bang in my lap and I can’t pretend it hasn’t. ‘Mum. What if this is it? What if there’s one shot to do this amazing thing and I turn it down and then it’s, like – poof – gone for ever? What if this is something I can only do now? What if they don’t want me in two years? What if I grow up with a load of what-ifs? I don’t want to die with a load of what-ifs hanging over me. This is the only way to find out.’

Mum smiles. ‘You know what is your problem?’ She squeezes my chin gently. ‘Much too clever.’ I laugh. She goes back to loading the dishwasher. ‘Is what your grandfather used to say to me.’

She so, so rarely talks about my grandparents. Milos and I know not to ask about the war.

I finish my bagel, shoving half in my mouth at once. ‘They might not want me anyway,’ I say. ‘Maybe Tom Carney had sunstroke when he saw me.’ He was wearing a beanie hat in twenty-five-degree heat.

From Clapham Junction, it’s pretty easy to get to Oxford Street. After breakfast, and also after I’ve brushed my teeth and done a nervous poo, Mum and I cut through the Winstanley Estate to get to the station. Mum says when she and Dad first came to the UK this estate was a police no-go area and there was a stabbing or a shooting every week. Now, although the blocks are ugly as sin, I think it’s a pretty nice place to live: there’s the green to play on with some swings and a slide, there are trees on the sides of the road and the Caribbean café always smells like jerk chicken. What’s not to like?

We catch the overground to Vauxhall where we switch to the Victoria line. I’m too anxious to even play with my phone so I stare out of the window while Mum reads the Metro. Mum don’t like us coming into central by ourselves (even if it’s with Laurel or Sabah or Ferdy or Robin) because she worries about terrorism and murderers, but I know how to get to Big Topshop on autopilot. Even after all these years, Mum ain’t sure about London. She says it stresses her out. She still sometimes talks about ‘going home’. I don’t know any different.

Mum has had many phone conversations with Tom already and he’s given us thorough, idiot-proof instructions to find the agency, even though it shows up on Google Maps anyway. She took some coaxing to even let me go meet them: I think she thought they were trying to sell me as a sex slave or something. It was only the phrase, ‘Mrs Novak, we represent Clara Keys,’ that convinced her they’re legit. Even my mum has heard of Clara Keys. Of course she has; she’s off the estate. At least she was, many moons ago.

We get off at Oxford Circus, ignoring a creepy man with teeth missing on the Tube who tells me I’m ‘a lovely pretty’. London, innit. Never dull. The Prestige office is just a short walk from the Tube station down Marshall Street, which we find easily. It’s not rush hour, but Londoners charge the pavements, hardly looking up from their phones.

I can tell Mum’s nervous too. She looks like she’s going to a wedding or something, wearing her floral summer dress, which she bought for her twentieth-anniversary party two years ago. She’s even wearing make-up. She never wears make-up. I guess refugee care-workers from Serbia don’t naturally mesh with fashion people. I don’t think I do. I hope there ain’t a test about clothes and designers and stuff. I’ll fail.

‘OK. I think this is it,’ Mum says, stating the obvious. It says, PRESTIGE MODEL MANAGEMENT on an expensive-looking glass plaque above the door. It looks like any old office. I was expecting something more … nuts, I guess.

‘Mum, I feel a bit sick.’ Swear to god, I’ve never thought about being a model. Ever. But it feels like the sort of thing I should definitely want to be. Like, who wouldn’t want to be a model? The clue, I figure, is in the name: you’re a model human; what a human being is supposed to look like.

‘You’ll be fine. They ask you here, remember? They want you already.’

Good point. Let’s get it over with. Why am I so nervous? I hope I don’t have sweat patches under my arms. Not cute. I feel pure embarrassed, like me coming here is me saying, ‘Hi, I’m Jana, I definitely think I’m pretty enough to be a model,’ when actually I am fully aware I am a bit of a moose.

It was Ferdy, on the coach back from Thorpe Park, who made my mind up when I filled him in on what had happened. I’d pretty much ruled it out on the basis of it being fully ridiculous, but he told me: ‘Models aren’t supposed to be pretty, they’re supposed to be captivating. And you are.’

Love that boy.

It got me thinking, though. From the top of Ferdy’s tower block, you can see over the Thames to the posh side of the river: Fulham and Chelsea, and the swanky glass apartments with the balconies and roof gardens. Shall I tell you who probably lives in them? Fucking models, that’s who.

Rich and famous. Everyone wants to be rich and famous, right?

Mum enters the agency first and I follow her in.

I hold my breath. Beyond the door, it’s bright, very bright; toothpaste-ad white. It’s like I’m stepping into another dimension. Time stops and then …

Then it starts again. It’s an office. Could be a dentist or a vet, to be honest. There’s a little reception desk just through the door. The receptionist must be a retired model – she’s about eighty-seven per cent cheekbone. That said, I guess a modelling agency probably ain’t gonna hire a munter to sit in the threshold. ‘Hello there,’ she says with a warm smile.

‘Hello,’ Mum says, and I’m glad I don’t have to talk. Bricking it. Mum uses her very best Queen’s English; a voice she uses only on the phone or at parents’ evening. ‘We have an appointment. It’s Jana Novak.’

I clock the recognition in the receptionist’s face. ‘Ah, yes. For Tom? Let me check he’s ready for you. I think they’re in a meeting. Just one sec.’ She picks up the phone and dials.

They’re expecting me. It’s not a weird joke. I didn’t daydream the encounter at Thorpe Park while off my tits on cherry slushie sulphates.

‘He’ll be down in one second. Just take a seat.’

It’s well posh. As we sit on a minty-green love seat, I glimpse a busy office beyond reception. There are two large white desks like islands and both are hives of activity: phones ring and ring, staff babble away in French and English. There’s a little coffee table in front of us, stocked with Vogue, Elle, Tatler, Harpers. A flatscreen TV on the wall scrolls through Prestige models’ latest assignments. I don’t recognise most of them, but every once in a while I’m like, Oh, her. Mostly they look alike – golden blonde, golden tans, golden legs, golden gold. None of them look a thing like me.

From nowhere, the most random memory pops into my head. I’m six and Year One has to do family assembly, where all the mums and dads come to watch us do a performance. Miss Skipsey, our teacher, made us sing ‘English Country Garden’ and we all had to be flowers and moths and hedgehogs. Except me. No. While Laurel was a daffodil and Sabah was a butterfly, I had to be a weed. I wore green tights, one of Dad’s old jumpers in swamp brown and painted my face the colour of moss. A fucking weed.

Clara Keys – this month on the cover of Vogue Australia, apparently – pops up on the TV. She’s like a black Barbie doll: impossible Disney eyes, full lips and famously flawless skin. I mean, it’s the fairy tale that made her as much as her face (and legs): tragic foster child bounces around the care system until she gets scouted in McDonald’s, Clapham Junction, while quietly enjoying a cheeky McFlurry, the same way I have a million times. Within weeks she’s walking in London Fashion Week, with everyone saying she’s the new Naomi. But, beyond her skin colour, she’s not Naomi. She’s Cinderella.

A girl sits on the other side of the coffee table in an armchair. Now she looks like a model. She cradles a Prestige portfolio in toothpick arms, racoon eyes peeking out from curtains of lank, sandy hair. She’s tall but also somehow very tiny, sort of birdlike, as if she’s just plummeted out of a nest in a very high tree. She looks about my age, but also like she ain’t slept in a month.

If that’s what they’re looking for, I’m shafted.

‘Jana! Hello!’ Tom strides through the office, proper jaunty, arms wide. I stand to greet him and he gives me a hug. Hmm, no. I like my personal space. Not a hugger. ‘How are you? Thanks for coming in.’

‘That’s OK,’ I mutter. Talking to grown-ups who aren’t teachers is weird. Talking to teachers is also weird. I try not to. ‘This is my mum.’

‘Hello, Mrs Novak. It’s nice to meet you in person. Do you want to follow me? Everyone is dying to meet you!’

I want to ask how many people I have to meet but that sounds mental. I was hoping it’d just be him. Am I gonna have to stride around in a bikini for a whole room of strangers? I do not want to do that. Ever.

‘This way. We’re just in one of the meeting rooms upstairs.’ I follow him and the rest of the office hardly looks up from what they’re doing. A woman with blonde and blue hair is screaming in French down the phone, a million words a minute. Someone in France has fucked up big time.

At the next workspace, a young woman screeches at a stupidly beautiful guy with floppy ginger hair. ‘I mean for crying out loud, Seamus!’ she yells, grasping at her hair. ‘I’m trying to make you money! The least you can do is TURN UP!’

Seamus, I reckon, is too stoned to care. He couldn’t look less bothered.

Tom leads us up a narrow staircase to the first floor where there’s another workspace with little offices off to the side. One looks like the boardroom off The Apprentice, but we go past that one and into a less scary meeting room with armchairs around another coffee table. Ooh, there’s a bowl of decorative green apples I bet no one ever eats. ‘Have a seat.’

There are already two women on a settee. One is a very cool-looking Asian woman with a turquoise pixie crop and the other is another retired-supermodel type. Her clavicle could have your eye out. ‘Hiya!’ says Pixie Crop, standing to greet us. ‘I’m Ro, Head of New Faces. Nice to meet you, Jana.’

‘Hi.’

‘Hello, Jana, I’m Cheska DeBrett, Head of Women.’ To be fair, she does legit look like she could be the actual Head of All Women. She’s a goddess – about my height with flowing golden curls. ‘Sit down. Can we get you tea or coffee?’

I shake my head but Mum asks for tea. Tom sends an intern to fetch it before joining us.

‘How are you feeling?’ Cheska purrs in a very sexy, husky voice. She looks one hundred per cent organic Chelsea. I’d put money on it.

I force my hands to sit still on my knee. I cross my legs like an adult lady. ‘I’m nervous. Sorry,’ I say, voice all thud.

‘Don’t be!’ Ro says. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about, hon. It’s just a chance to meet you in person. We’ve already seen the pictures you emailed, so you’re not on trial, I promise!’ I see the portraits I sent – one face on, the other profile – are flat on the coffee table.

The intern returns with a jug of water and Mum’s tea on a tray.

‘Tom has not shut up about you since he saw you at Thorpe Park,’ Cheska says.

‘I really haven’t! I’m sorry, Jana, I just can’t believe you haven’t been scouted before now. You’re the find of the decade!’

I feel my cheeks burn.

‘Tom! Don’t freak the poor girl out,’ Cheska says and pours me a glass of water.

‘Jana, my love,’ Ro says, ‘you are quite special. Do you know that?’

I mean, fuck are you meant to say to that? ‘Uh. OK. Thanks.’

Cheska smiles. ‘Let me guess. At school, people make fun of how you look … right?’

Awkward. I avoid Mum’s gaze. ‘Sometimes. I get called Giraffe and stuff. And I’m not even good at netball.’

Everyone chuckles. ‘Can you see that wall?’ Cheska points through the glass to the wall opposite. There are rows and rows of glossy cards with faces on. ‘Each and every one of those girls was called Freaky or Beanpole or Stick Insect … and nearly all of them Giraffe. And now they’re making thousands and thousands of pounds with us.’

‘Jana, you have, like, a super unique look.’ Ro finishes her latte with a slurp and clatter of ice cubes. ‘I’ll be totally upfront – your face might not be a good fit for very commercial beauty campaigns, but for editorial and catwalk, OH MY GOD, the sky is literally the limit.’

She means figuratively, not literally, but whatever. ‘You think?’

All three of them chant, ‘YES,’ in unison. There’s a tap at the door. It BURSTS open, and a cloud of dyed-red corkscrew curls blows into the room. Immediately Tom, Cheska and Ro sit up straight in their chairs. ‘Hello, hello, hello. Don’t mind me.’ She’s older than the others … in her late forties, maybe. Her clothes are nuts but amazing: a pinstripe dress, with Gucci (it says on them) loafers and more jewellery than I’ve ever seen on one person at once. ‘I just had to come get a look at Tom’s new obsession.’

‘Jana,’ Tom says, ‘this is Maggie Rosenthal, the director of Prestige.’

I catch a gasp before it pops out. She’s changed her hair colour since I last saw her on TV. She pops up on the news talking about the fashion industry a lot. It was Maggie Rosenthal what was passing our Maccy D’s while Clara Keys was eating her McFlurry in the window.

‘Hello there, dearie. Is this your mum?’ She shakes her hand.

‘I’m Rita. Rita Novak.’

‘Nice to meet you. Right, then, Jana. Let’s get a look at you.’ I’m brought back to earth with a clatter. What? ‘Up you get. Stand up!’

I do as I’m told.

‘Stand up straight, lovely. Good girl. Excellent height. Five-eleven?’

‘I think so.’

She circles me, scanning me like one of those things at the airport. ‘Marvellous. Have you got a hairband, sweets?’

‘Um … no. Sorry.’

‘Oh, here’s one.’ Cheska hands me an elastic tie.

‘Can you tie your hair back for me, darling?’

‘Sure.’ I scrape all the hair off my face and secure it in a knot at the nape of my neck.

‘Excuse my French, dear, but your bone structure is fucking immense. I’ve got a mouth like a sailor – sorry, Mum.’ She gives Mum a theatrical wink. ‘Ro. What do you think? Haircut?’

Ro nods sagely as if she had some masterplan the whole time. ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

‘What size feet have you got, babes?’

‘Six.’

‘What’s the intern called?’

‘Nevada,’ Tom says.

‘Nevada!’ Maggie screams out of the door. ‘Heels, size six, please!’ She gently takes hold of my chin and turns my face side to side. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sweet, but you’re quite masculine. Brow, profile. I fucking love it. You’re very androgynous. Androgyny is very fashionable.’

I’ve been told I look like a man many times, but no one has ever said it as a compliment before. Nevada scurries in carrying a pair of terrifying patent leather stilettos with a red sole. I know what’s gonna happen next. ‘Do I have to walk in those?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I … I, um, can’t walk in heels.’ I don’t wanna go into what happened at the prom, but it involved me, a pair of heels, and falling on a wheelchair user.

‘Not yet you can’t. Get ’em on your feet, babes, and give us a strut.’ She squeezes my arm.

My face flushes again as I clumsily sit and pull my Converse off. My socks have little hearts on. State of me. I have faint pink rings around my ankles. The shoes say ‘Louboutin’ on the insoles. They have Louboutins hanging around the office for dressing up. Casual. Sabah and Laurel will weep when I tell ’em about this.

I slip them on and take a deep breath.

‘Just give it your best shot,’ Cheska says. ‘I never wore heels until I started modelling. Why would we when we’re so tall, right? The good news is, we can teach you to walk; we can’t teach you to be tall and gorgeous.’

‘Give us a little back and forth,’ Tom says. ‘Don’t try to be model-y. It’s easy: just walk.’

Another deep breath and I push myself out of the armchair using my arms to get upright. Immediately my toes are like, Hey, why are you squishing us into a triangle? Your foot is not triangular. I’ve seen fashion shows on TV and stuff. I’ve seen Next Top Model. I know models do not walk like regular humans do. When Clara Keys did Victoria’s Secret, she did this leg-crossing thing as she walked. Do I try to do that? Or just try to not break a leg?

I turn around and walk towards the door. My ankles feel like they’re wobbling. One shoe is a little big and feels like it might fall off. Suddenly, I’m at home, in my Peppa Pig nightie, aged four, wearing Mum’s massive stilettos. I’m laughing my head off. The photograph is still on the mantelpiece.

‘Look up, not at your feet, dear,’ Maggie says as I get to the door.

I turn and make my way back towards them. My left ankle rolls in and I stumble.

‘Unclench your fists, babe. You look like you’re about to start a fight.’ I didn’t even realise I’d screwed both hands into balls. ‘Let your arms swing. Relax your face.’

I do another lap and relax a bit. I even go a bit faster.

‘All right, love, that’ll do,’ Maggie says. ‘Jesus loves a trier.’

‘Was it that bad?’

Tom smiles. ‘It was fine. We’ve seen much, much worse.’

‘Totally,’ Ro agrees. ‘Hundred per cent fixable.’

Finally Mum says something. ‘Does this mean you want to … hire Jana?’

Tom, Ro and Cheska look to Maggie, who soaks up a dramatic pause. ‘Mrs Novak. I don’t say this very often, so let me enjoy the moment. I am not letting your daughter leave these offices until she’s signed with us. I will barricade the doors, if need be.’ Maggie smiles and her eyes twinkle. She leans over the coffee table and takes both my hands in hers. ‘Jana, darling, we would be fucking honoured if you’d sign with Prestige Models. What do you say?’