Free Model Misfit by Holly Smale

balloons and turning my bedroom into an impromptu home cinema.
    I promise to ring them as soon as I arrive and then focus on:
Studying for the entire car journey.
Trying not to get knocked out by Bunty’s pink dream-catcher, swinging merrily from the rear-view mirror.
    By the time we reach the airport, I’ve managed to distract myself completely by acquiring a good ten to fifteen Japanese words
and
working out a detailed itinerary. Shrines I want to light incense at and theatres I want to visit and food I want to eat and parasitological museums I want to take photos of and show to Toby.
    So when my grandmother and I walk into the airport departures lounge and there’s a high-pitched squeal, I don’t even turn around. That’s how much I’ve forgotten what it is I’m actually supposed to be doing here.
    “Co-eeee, my little Monster Munches!” a voice shouts. A man in a leopard-print onesie and pink wellies starts stomping enthusiastically towards us. “I’ve been waiting for minutes and minutes and I was spectacularly bored so I went to the Duty Free.
Smell me!
Close your eyes and I’m unwanted Christmas soap!” He wafts in a jutting, pigeon-like circular motion, and then holds his hand out to my grandmother. “
Enchanté
,” he adds, curtsying deeply. “Which is French for
enchanted
because they obviously stole it from us, the naughty little Munchkins.”
    I stare at Wilbur in bewilderment. “Erm, they didn’t,” I say. “Both
enchanté
and
enchanted
come from the Latin verb
incantare
, which means
to
cast spells
. Hello, Wilbur. Are you coming with us?”
    I can’t decide if I’m delighted or not. I love Wilbur, but in combination with my grandmother?
    “Wilbur,” he says, pushing me aside and kissing Bunty’s hand. “That’s with a
bur
, and not with an
iam
. I’m agent to this little chicken-monkey.” He points at me, just in case anyone gets confused with all the other chicken-monkeys in the immediate vicinity.
    “Bunty,” my grandmother smiles, totally unfazed.
    He points to my grandmother’s pink floral dress with lace trim, beige, fringed blanket and mirrored waistcoat. “I am
loving
this. What are we calling it?”
    My grandmother’s eyes twinkle. “Spangled Nepalese goat-herder disco-dances by river in moonlight?”
    “Oh my
holy dolphin-cakes
!” Wilbur shouts at the top of his voice. “That is superlatively
fantabulazing
! Could I borrow the waistcoat one day?”
    “You can have it now, if you like,” Bunty says, taking it off and handing it over. “I have dozens.”
    “
You!
” Wilbur squeaks, putting it on over his onesie and spinning around in little circles. “If you were liquid I would just pour you all over ice cream and sprinkle you with hundreds and thousands and gobble you up! You would be
hell
on my waistline and
laden
with calories but
I just wouldn’t care.
”
    See what I mean?
    “Are you coming with us?” I repeat politely as my grandmother beams and then wanders towards some fluffy key rings in a nearby shop.
    “No, my little Turkish delight. I’m just here to prep you.”
    I frown. “Wilbur—” How do I put this nicely? “At no stage at any point in my entire modelling career have you ever prepared me for anything. Ever.” I pause. “Like,
ever.
”
    Wilbur’s eyes open wide. “I am
hurt
,” he says with his hand on his chest. “Nay,
wounded
. Nay – what’s another word for hurt, my little Carrier-bag?”
    “Offended? Stung? Aggrieved?”
    “
Précisement
. How can you say I am ever anything but one hundred per cent professional?”
    “For my last photo shoot you sent me to your dentist.”
    “They had
very
similar business cards and I thought I’d just seen Sting walk past and it was all very confusing.” Wilbur tries to look indignant, and then sighs. “OK. I’m a terrible, terrible agent. But this time it’s mahoosive, Sugar-plum. Like, Calvin Klein mahoosive. Like,
mamoosive
mahoosive. Yuka’s broken away from Baylee to start