Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(35)
He’s right. “I would not,” I snap back because climbing out of windows isn’t a very elegant image for him to have of me, and then – to regain a little bit of dignity – I toss my head as angrily as I can. Although it’s pretty hard staying mad when you’re standing in the middle of a fairytale in front of a castle with somebody who looks just like a prince.
Not that I think of Nick like that. We’re just colleagues.
Dad, in the meantime, is sucking the attention up as fast as physically possible. “My daughter,” he’s saying to anyone who will listen. “The strawberry-blonde one. Can you see?” He keeps pointing to his own hair. “Genetically mine. It’s actually a recessive gene so she was very lucky because her mother was a brunette.”
“Dad,” I whisper again and roughly four more ways to kill him race through my head. “Please.”
“Harriet, this is all so… so…”Dad sighs happily while he looks for the right word, dusting off his nineties vocab. “Rad,” he finishes and I have to put my hand over my face to hide my embarrassment.
It’s not enough to ruin this moment, though. I’m in Red Square. To my left is the Kremlin, which houses Lenin’s Mausoleum, and in front of me is St Basil’s Cathedral, one of the most amazing and famous pieces of architecture in the entire world. There’s the GUM department store, and the State Historical Museum, and the Kazan Cathedral. There’s even a bronze statue of Kuzma Minin and Dmitry Pozharsky, although it’s so covered in snow I can’t see who is who.
It’s stunning, which shouldn’t really be a surprise. It’s not called Red Square because it’s red. It’s because the Russian word for red – KpacHaЯ– also means beautiful. This is their beautiful square.
There are so many people making so much noise – so many objects I don’t really recognise – that it takes me quite a few moments to realise that Nick has disappeared completely again and the crowd is starting to part in the middle, like the Red Sea except Black.
It slowly gets quieter and the parting widens until there’s a distinct snowy pathway up the middle. Even Wilbur stops talking and the only sound left is the kitten, who now and then makes a small squeaking sound like a door shutting.
“Here she comes,” somebody whispers in what sounds a lot like terror, and all heads turn in one direction.
Stalking up the pathway on the highest black heels I’ve ever seen is Yuka Ito. And she’s staring directly at me.
ow I could be wrong, but Yuka Ito appears to be wearing exactly the same outfit, except with bright orange lipstick instead of purple. For somebody so high up in the fashion industry, she seems to have even fewer wardrobe options than I do.
Yuka stops two metres away from where we’re all standing, totally mesmerised. She doesn’t look happy. Although obviously I’m not sure what happiness looks like for Yuka Ito. Let’s just say the snow on her shoulders doesn’t appear to be melting in the slightest.
“Wilbur,” she says in a voice so appropriately icy it’s like it’s coming from the sky. “What, precisely, do you think your job is?”
“Other than being generally fabulous?”
“Debatable,” Yuka snaps. “Would you say that your job entails getting my models to me at the time I’ve asked you to get them to me?”
Wilbur thinks about this for a few seconds. “I would say it’s definitely on the list, yes.”
“Then could you explain why they’re both forty-five minutes late?”
“Darling,” Wilbur sighs, rolling his eyes. “Turning up on time is so keen. Not cool. Plus –” and he makes a little gesture and lowers his voice, as if telling us a secret –“it’s snowing.”
“Yes, I was vaguely aware of that. Although everybody else managed to get here on time because in Russia snow is not, shall we say, unexpected.” Yuka’s lips press together in a straight line and then she looks at me. “Could you also explain why the female face of my new collection is sporting some kind of head accessory?”
Head accessory? What is she… Oh. My whole being goes bright red. She’s talking about the spot. If there was a light above my head, I suspect it would be turned off about now.
“If you cast a teenager,” Wilbur says patiently, “that’s a risk that comes with the territory. They’re skinny, yes, but just full of hormones and pus. It’s like employing a tiger and then complaining because it has whiskers.”
Yuka looks at me impassively. I’ve definitely felt prettier. She makes a clicking noise with her tongue. “Fine,” she says in a snipped voice. “We’ll digitally enhance her beyond recognition anyway. Take her to the hotel to get ready while we set up and do Nick’s solo shots. You’ve got an hour and a half.” And then she clicks her fingers at a handful of people standing directly to her right. “There’s a list. Follow it exactly. Let me make this clear: this is not your time to shine creatively.” She scowls at the crowd in general. “Now,” she adds. “Why are you all still standing there? I’m finished.”
And then she walks back through the black sea, which closes neatly around her.
I look at Wilbur in bewilderment.
“List?” I say finally. “What list?”