Kelly hung up, then looked at me in a very disapproving way. ‘You’re only hurting yourself, Nik,’ she said to me, shaking her head. ‘You’re only hurting yourself.’

Inexplicably, my eyes filled up with tears.

I know! I was crying, over FINGERNAILS.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. But I don’t understand anything. I thought I was going to a photo shoot. What do my fingernails have to do with anything?’

‘You’re going to take part in a photo shoot with Mr Stark,’ Kelly said sharply. ‘For a profile Vanity Fair is doing on him. You’re the face of the new Stark — the young, vibrant Stark — so of course he wants you in the shoot. You and Brandon, of course.’

Brandon’s scowl had, if anything, only deepened at the sight of my tears.

‘But,’ I said. I couldn’t believe I was crying. I really couldn’t. I don’t cry. I mean, except over important things, like Christopher thinking I’m dead.

This whole time, through this whole thing, I’d never once cried… except about Christopher. Not over the loss of my former body. Not over the loss of my former life. Not even over the loss of my former self.

Because up until that moment, I hadn’t felt as if I’d lost my former self.

All it took, apparently, was one publicist yelling at me about my fingernails, however, to make me realize how very, very lost my former self really was.

It wasn’t just the fingernails of course. Part of it was what had happened just before the fingernail abuse. The whole thing where I’d had to say goodbye to my parents, and how I’d left things with my sister — why hadn’t I just been more supportive about the cheerleader thing? In retrospect, it wasn’t that big a deal. Maybe cheerleading is a sport. They have gymnastics in the Olympics after all — and then I’d come out of the hospital and been besieged by photographers, all screaming someone else’s name, but pointing their cameras at me, and gotten into a limo with a guy who couldn’t have been meaner to me and a publicist who seemed to think everything I did and said was wrong…

This photo shoot was going to be a disaster. I could already tell.

‘I can’t do this,’ I said, trying to hold back my tears. I didn’t mean I couldn’t do the Nikki Howard thing. Obviously I couldn’t do that.

And I definitely couldn’t do this, what Kelly wanted me to do. Because suddenly, I’d remembered something. Something really important. And that was Lulu asking me if I knew what a Manolo tip was. And I realized I didn’t. I had no idea. Modelling, easy? How could I have been so arrogant? Why hadn’t I read Frida’s issues of COSMOgirl! more carefully?

‘I–I don’t remember how to do this!’ I wailed.

‘Well, you’d better damned well remember how,’ Kelly said in a hard voice. ‘Because your future is riding on it. Not to mention mine… and about thirty make-up artists, stylists, art directors, photographers, lighting technicians and personal assistants, all of whom are waiting for you… and that’s not including whoever they’re bringing in to cater. You’d better get over whatever it is you’re going through, missy. People’s jobs are depending on it. We’ve been plenty patient this past month while you’ve been going through whatever it is you’ve been going through, but it’s time to get back to work. Brandon, I told you, you leave that Red Bull alone. You know how you get.’

‘We’re here,’ Brandon said, pointing out of the window. ‘And we’ve got company.’

Kelly turned her head to look out of the window. Then she swore, and turned on her Stark-brand headpiece.

‘Yeah, Rico?’ she barked. ‘Get security outside 520 Madison. We’ve got protestors. Again.’

I had no idea what she and Brandon were talking about. The truth was, I didn’t really care. I was still trying to absorb what Kelly had just told me. I’d had no idea so many people depended on Nikki Howard for their livelihood. Sure, I’d known it was important to Stark Enterprises that she continue as the Face of Stark.

But I hadn’t even begun to comprehend just what that entailed.

Until now.

Two million dollars? That was how much they’d paid for my brain transplant to keep Nikki alive? I was starting to think they’d gotten off cheap…

Then Kelly was saying, ‘Go. Go, go, go, go,’ and she was shoving me out of the limo…

… and into the arms of a waiting security guard, who was trying to shield me from the hordes of protestors gathered in front of the entrance to the massive Madison Avenue skyscraper we’d just pulled up in front of.

‘Hey,’ I heard someone scream ‘it’s her!’

A second later, my shoulder was seized and I was spun around to face a woman holding a sign on a stick that said, Stark Enterprises Kills!

‘It’s NIKKI HOWARD!’ the woman — who I now saw was wearing combat fatigues and a beret — blew a whistle, and all the other protestors surged towards me. The minute they saw me, their faces contorted with anger.

‘How do you justify being the public face of an organization that is putting the small-business owner out of work?’ a man in overalls screamed at me, while a woman pushing a baby in a stroller yelled, ‘You’re what’s wrong with America!’

I actually thought this was a little harsh, and not just because I wasn’t who they thought I was. Well, technically.

But I didn’t get a chance to tell them this, because the burly security guard was already hustling me away from the hands that were reaching out, trying to clutch me. He more or less barrelled through the crowd, using his elbow as a battering ram, until we’d ducked through a revolving door, into a vast, green-marble lobby, where we were joined a few seconds later by Brandon Stark and Kelly Foster-Fielding.

‘Good Lord,’ Kelly said, brushing herself off like a cat thats fur has been ruffled. ‘They get worse every day.’

‘Good to see you, Miss Howard,’ the burly security guard who’d shielded me from the protesters’ wrath said with a nod to me. ‘Been a while.’

I smiled at him tremulously, my tears forgotten in my shock over what had just happened. ‘Th-thanks… ’

‘Martin,’ he said to me with a toothy grin. ‘You really did lose your memory, just like they said on the news!’

I was about to assure him I really had, when Kelly grabbed my arm and said, ‘Enough chit-chat, people, we’re running late as it is. Let’s go.’

And then I was being dragged towards an elevator. And I realized I was about to meet Mr Robert Stark himself.

Which was a relief. Because I realized I had a thing or two I wanted to say to him.

Except that I didn’t get to. Say what I wanted to say to Mr Stark, I mean. At least, not right away.

That’s because the minute I stepped off the elevator into Stark Corporate headquarters, a swarm of hairstylists, make-up artists and wardrobe assistants descended on me. Kelly snatched Cosabella away from me, assuring me she’d look after her for the duration of the shoot. And then I — not my dog — was the one swept away for grooming.

At first I didn’t know what was happening. All I knew was that these total strangers were coming up to me, and this one guy kept pulling on my hair and going, ‘Honey, what happened? They run out of product… on the entire island of Manhattan?’

And a woman kept peering into my face and being like, ‘So… we’re going for the natural look, are we?’

And this other woman grabbed my hand — this was all as I was being pulled down a hallway — and went, ‘Yeah, it’s as bad as Kelly said. Get the drill file!’

Drill file? And were those product and natural look remarks of a snarky nature?

They were. Soon I was being berated by Norman for my haircare technique (‘So we fall and bump our heads and lose our memory, and suddenly we don’t know how to deep condition any more?’) as well as my skincare regimen by Denise (‘Honey, what happened to that exfoliant I got you last month? You have to use it for it to actually work.’) and, of course, my nail-biting (‘No! Oh, for the love of God, no. Why would you do this? Why, why, why?’) by Doreen. It wasn’t until the guy doing my hair gave it a bit too hard of a tug and I was like, ‘Ow!’ and Norman was like, ‘Oh, did the widdle baby get an owie?’ with all this fake sympathy, that I went, ‘Yeah, actually, I did,’ and I grabbed his hand and ran it along the raised scar at the base of my skull.