Geek Girl (Geek Girl, #1)(68)

Jane leans forward. “Self-exp?” she prompts.

“Self-expression,” I say in a small voice. Then I stare into the black space where my family are sitting. There’s a commotion behind the camera and somewhere in my ear I can hear Yuka starting to panic.

What the hell am I doing?

I’m sitting here, in front of five million people, repeating someone else’s lines about self-expression. I’m harping on about individuality in a dress somebody else put me in, with a haircut somebody else gave me, wearing make-up somebody else did. I’m talking about self-belief when I became a model because I didn’t have any.

Have I learnt nothing?

I take the microphone out of my ear and abruptly sit on it. Underneath my bottom, I can hear the tinny sound of Yuka yelling.

“It’s not true,” I say, taking a deep breath.

Jane flinches and I can see Patrick furiously reading the autocue.

“I didn’t dream about being a model,” I say firmly, refusing to look at Nick. “I dreamed of being a palaeontologist. I didn’t do any twirling when I was a child, my favourite subjects are maths and physics, nobody at school has ever liked me and I don’t think this is going to help much.”

“Well,” Jane says, laughing nervously, “isn’t that just…”

“And I don’t love fashion,” I say because I can’t stop now; this suddenly feels like the most important thing I’ll ever say. “It’s just clothes.”

There’s a gasp from around the studio and even the microphone under my bottom has stopped vibrating.

“And self-belief and self-expression and individuality are really important,” I continue, looking into the dark and talking too fast, “but if you’re wearing what everyone tells you to wear and saying what everyone tells you to say and thinking the way everyone tells you to think then – well… you don’t have any of those things, do you?”

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.