‘Get it off! Get it off!’ she gasped, ice water sloshing around every bit of her body. She was sure she’d be hypothermic within minutes.
‘How? How?’ the poor strongman asked, panicking at the look in her eyes.
Her voice had fled again, but she proffered her back to him and he easily ripped the long Velcro tape apart, having to jump back himself as the water inside rushed out, splashing the people at the front of the crowd and making them scream with excitement. Nettie stepped out of the unwieldy suit as quickly as she could, her T-shirt and jeans drenched, and her teeth already chattering. She could see Jules at the bottom of the plinth holding up one of the giant White Tiger towels for her – safety! Warmth! – and she scooted down the ladder to a hero’s welcome, everyone clapping and cheering.
She felt a hand on her sodden shoulder and she turned gratefully. ‘Jules, thank God! Give me that towel!’
But when she turned, it wasn’t a friendly face that she saw.
‘Do you have the requisite licence for public performance in this space, madam?’ the policeman asked, his radio already in his hand.
‘What’s my dad going to say?’
‘He’ll laugh.’
‘He won’t.’
‘Babe, you’re twenty-six. What’s he gonna do? Stop your pocket money?’
‘This is serious! I’ve got a criminal record.’
‘No, you haven’t. They gave you a caution. Stop being so dramatic,’ Jules said without looking up from her phone.
There was a pause. Nettie didn’t think she was being dramatic. She’d spent all afternoon in Charing Cross Police Station. ‘Well, that’s the end of it now. I mean it. I nearly died on the first thing and got arrested on the second. Really, I’ve done my bit for charity. I’m bowing out while I still can. I don’t care if they fire me.’
‘Nets, you can’t just jib out after the first day. We’ve promised White Tiger a carefully coordinated twelve-day campaign.’
‘
You
promised that. Not me.’
Jules rolled her eyes. ‘Look, Daisy and Caro have been working on the marketing already. You can’t let them down . . .’ Her voice trailed off, her brow furrowed as she continued with her text.
Nettie huffed and looked mournfully out of the window as the bus trundled up Portland Street. She pulled her coat closer to her neck, tightening her scarf, but it was no good – she couldn’t stop shivering, and looking out at all the frost-pinched after-work shoppers wasn’t helping. She turned back to face in to the rest of the bus again, resting her shoulders against the glass.
‘Plus I nearly fell off the plinth. Can you imagine the headlines with that? “Giant Bunny Girl Leaps to Death from Fourth Plinth.”’
‘Now you’re being completely over the top. If you’d fallen, you just would’ve . . . bounced. Besides, the big fella caught you.’
‘Yes! And as for him – can you believe the way those blokes just legged it as soon as the police arrived and left me to get the blame?’
‘They did text to apologize. They said they didn’t want to create bad PR for White Tiger. You can’t really blame them. They were in all the gear.’
‘But
why
did no one get a licence? Surely Daisy would have known we needed one? That’s her area. She must have gone to school with someone who slept with the cousin of the housemate of the person in charge of Trafalgar Square licences?’
‘With what time, exactly? Flashmob, remember? We’re flying by the seat of our pants here. This is barely controlled chaos. It’s guerrilla-style. We had to get in, do it and get out.’ Jules looked back down at the Twitter page on her phone and gave a low whistle. ‘Oooh, and check this out. They’re eating it up.’
‘Who are?’
‘Your public, sweetie.’ She passed over her phone. Nettie’s Twitter page was almost glowing from the amount of activity on it. Her number of followers was now up to 51,000, and the post that had today’s short-film link pasted into it had been
‘How? How?’ the poor strongman asked, panicking at the look in her eyes.
Her voice had fled again, but she proffered her back to him and he easily ripped the long Velcro tape apart, having to jump back himself as the water inside rushed out, splashing the people at the front of the crowd and making them scream with excitement. Nettie stepped out of the unwieldy suit as quickly as she could, her T-shirt and jeans drenched, and her teeth already chattering. She could see Jules at the bottom of the plinth holding up one of the giant White Tiger towels for her – safety! Warmth! – and she scooted down the ladder to a hero’s welcome, everyone clapping and cheering.
She felt a hand on her sodden shoulder and she turned gratefully. ‘Jules, thank God! Give me that towel!’
But when she turned, it wasn’t a friendly face that she saw.
‘Do you have the requisite licence for public performance in this space, madam?’ the policeman asked, his radio already in his hand.
‘What’s my dad going to say?’
‘He’ll laugh.’
‘He won’t.’
‘Babe, you’re twenty-six. What’s he gonna do? Stop your pocket money?’
‘This is serious! I’ve got a criminal record.’
‘No, you haven’t. They gave you a caution. Stop being so dramatic,’ Jules said without looking up from her phone.
There was a pause. Nettie didn’t think she was being dramatic. She’d spent all afternoon in Charing Cross Police Station. ‘Well, that’s the end of it now. I mean it. I nearly died on the first thing and got arrested on the second. Really, I’ve done my bit for charity. I’m bowing out while I still can. I don’t care if they fire me.’
‘Nets, you can’t just jib out after the first day. We’ve promised White Tiger a carefully coordinated twelve-day campaign.’
‘
You
promised that. Not me.’
Jules rolled her eyes. ‘Look, Daisy and Caro have been working on the marketing already. You can’t let them down . . .’ Her voice trailed off, her brow furrowed as she continued with her text.
Nettie huffed and looked mournfully out of the window as the bus trundled up Portland Street. She pulled her coat closer to her neck, tightening her scarf, but it was no good – she couldn’t stop shivering, and looking out at all the frost-pinched after-work shoppers wasn’t helping. She turned back to face in to the rest of the bus again, resting her shoulders against the glass.
‘Plus I nearly fell off the plinth. Can you imagine the headlines with that? “Giant Bunny Girl Leaps to Death from Fourth Plinth.”’
‘Now you’re being completely over the top. If you’d fallen, you just would’ve . . . bounced. Besides, the big fella caught you.’
‘Yes! And as for him – can you believe the way those blokes just legged it as soon as the police arrived and left me to get the blame?’
‘They did text to apologize. They said they didn’t want to create bad PR for White Tiger. You can’t really blame them. They were in all the gear.’
‘But
why
did no one get a licence? Surely Daisy would have known we needed one? That’s her area. She must have gone to school with someone who slept with the cousin of the housemate of the person in charge of Trafalgar Square licences?’
‘With what time, exactly? Flashmob, remember? We’re flying by the seat of our pants here. This is barely controlled chaos. It’s guerrilla-style. We had to get in, do it and get out.’ Jules looked back down at the Twitter page on her phone and gave a low whistle. ‘Oooh, and check this out. They’re eating it up.’
‘Who are?’
‘Your public, sweetie.’ She passed over her phone. Nettie’s Twitter page was almost glowing from the amount of activity on it. Her number of followers was now up to 51,000, and the post that had today’s short-film link pasted into it had been
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