Читать книгу Picture Perfect - Holly Smale, Холли Смейл - Страница 9

eriously.

Just once I’d like to start an important day without being covered in the partially digested contents of somebody else’s stomach.

This was so not on the pie chart.

Anyway, while I’m scrubbing baby sick out of my hair I may as well update you on what else has happened in the last seven weeks:

1 I still haven’t turned sixteen. My birthday is the last possible day of the academic year, which according to recent newspaper reports means I am statistically likelier to fail in life.

2 I’ve had quite a lengthy go at my father for making me statistically likelier to fail in life.

3 My Best Friend Nat and I have spent plenty of time together, despite me being in my First Ever Relationship. This is because friends should always come first.

4 And also because my model boyfriend spends quite a lot of time working abroad and isn’t around very much.

5 Toby has spent a lot of time with us too. Despite not always being invited. Or encouraged.

6 Or actually seen for big chunks of it. His stalking skills are really improving.

7 Dad is still out of work. Unless you count playing ‘Galloping Major’ with a baby as employment.

8 My grandmother, Bunty, left. She managed five days of Tabitha screaming, and then found a Buddhist retreat in Nepal and decided she might be more ‘useful’ in a ‘country very far away’.

9 Which surprised nobody, least of all Annabel.

10 I haven’t done any modelling.

Since quitting my job with fashion designer Yuka Ito, I’ve done nothing even vaguely related. Nada. Zilch. Zip.

It turns out Yuka and my flamboyant agent Wilbur were single-handedly keeping my career alive between them, like two Emperor Penguins raising their runty, dependent chick. Without them there to feed it every few hours and protect it from Giant Petrels, it couldn’t survive.

Except in this situation the Giant Petrel is less an enormous arctic bird of the Procellariidae family, and more an agent called Stephanie who replaced Wilbur at Infinity Models six weeks ago. She’s very stern, very professional and she doesn’t remember who I am.

I know this because she rarely answers any of my calls and the one time she did I heard her say “Who?”.

I haven’t heard from the agency since.

Honestly, I hadn’t realised quite how much I enjoyed getting painted gold, or wrestling octopuses, or jumping around in the snow, or pretending to be the world’s most elegant Sumo wrestler until it was taken away from me.

Literally.

Infinity Models told me to send back by FedEx the gold shoes Yuka had let me keep.

But there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ve got other things to focus on. Sixth form starts in ten days and I am so ready for it.

I have a brand-new red satchel.

I have an expensive calculator that does graphs and integration and quadratics and natural logarithms, whatever they all are.

I have a set of non-uniform clothes bought to be worn to my new classes. Almost none of which have cartoon animals on them.

I’ve stalked all of my new teachers on the internet and created a bullet-point summary for each of them, so I can win them over and/or force them to like me.

And – most importantly – I have a brilliantly conceived and carefully structured plan.

I have four A levels to ace, and a boyfriend and Best Friend to juggle properly for a healthy and balanced lifestyle. I have a stalker to keep away from bushes with thorns in them. I have my one and only sixteenth birthday to organise. I’m going to be the busiest I’ve ever been, so I’ve planned it all in minute detail.

The only problem is: every single bit of it depends on how I’ve done in my exams.

Which is exactly what I’m about to find out.