The Look (16 page)

W
hen I get home, Ava’s sitting at the folding table, dosing up on ice cream to take away the metallic taste that chemo always leaves in her mouth.

“Ava,” I ask, “you couldn’t possibly do me a favor, could you?”

She looks at me suspiciously. “No, you can’t.”

“What?”

“Borrow my mascara. You’ll only get it all gooey and forget to put the lid on. You’ve got some money now, T. Get your own.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” I say. Although I was rather hoping she might relent about the mascara. Apart from that skirt, and her camera of course, she never did fully master the art of sharing. “Actually, I was wondering if you could pose for me. You know I’ve got to do this thing called Still Life —”

“Oh, not the stupid fruit again!”

“Yes, that. Well, I was wondering if you could pose
with
the fruit. After all, Mum keeps buying it to make you better, and hopefully it’s working, and your head is such a beautiful shape …”

“Really?”

“Really. I think it would look interesting next to a pile of strawberries and raspberries and papayas and —”

“It would look surreal,” she says with a frown.

“Yes, it would,” I agree. “Very.”

“Hey!” Her frown transforms to a grin. “That’s not bad, T! Coming from you. Positively artistic.”

I simper modestly. “So you’ll do it?”

She worries at her fingernail for a while, then nods. “But this time you have to help
me
out.”

“OK,” I say nervously, hoping it isn’t anything needle-related. “How?”

“When I was in the hospital on Monday, the nurses said I looked different.” She laughs. “Apart from being bald, I mean. Different in a good way. They thought I’d be a mess after I lost my hair, but I told them about what you did, and Vince, and the whole experience. They want me to share it with some of the other girls, because they’re worried about it, too. Will you come with me? The whole point was that there were two of us.”

She gives me a casual smile, as if this isn’t a big deal. And I give her a casual “Sure” back, because she’s not into big emotion at the moment, and I don’t want her to know how I feel. But I feel stunned. It
is
a big deal. This could be the first time she’s ever asked me to do anything for her because I might be good at it, and not just to help her out of a hole. In fact, this time it’s me that goes off to the bathroom for a while, just to be by myself and get my head around it. If the guidance counselor were to ask me how I was feeling right now, I’d say that despite everything, I was feeling … elated.

After supper I borrow Dad’s computer and have another look at the website where Nick Spoke and his friends discuss photography. I’m sure Nick won’t remember me — after all, he had other things on his mind when we met — but I want to say thank you to him for the ideas he’s given me.

Actually, I don’t know why I’m trying to contact him. He will be rude and busy, and he’ll probably think I’m cyberstalking him. Just because he can draw, and we have a common interest in backgrounds, it hardly explains why I’m opening myself up to potential ridicule from Mr. Abstract Impressionism. Even so, I write a comment to say how much I like one of his pictures, and how I’m using photography in my school art project. Then, before I post it, I delete the bit about the school project, because he’s going to art college and it makes me sound so childish.

He must have a smartphone or something, because he e-mails me back before I’ve shut Dad’s computer down.

Oh my goodness: He does remember me. He remembers Seb’s shoot and everything. Maybe it’s because he had to look at those pictures of Sheherezade. I explain that I’m not cut out for modeling, and he sends another instant reply.

I think we’ve just started an e-mail conversation. Though what did he mean by “good call”? He certainly seems anti-modeling, so I wonder what would impress him — short of having your own art show at a gallery, maybe. Meanwhile, knowing something about Man Ray and Ansel Adams might be a start.

I’m on my third biographical website when Dad finally tells me to shut down his computer and go to bed, because somehow the whole evening has disappeared in a moment. I’m not so sure about Ansel Adams — endless rolling deserts, and personally I like lots of trees with leaves on — but Man Ray’s eccentric portraits and eerie lighting are exactly what I need to inspire my new project. In fact, if I ever got a puppy, I wouldn’t mind calling it Man Ray. Then I could smirk knowledgably if anyone asked me why. Not that Nightmare Boy would need to ask, of course: He would just know.

N
ext day, I spend some time in the school library, poring over books on the Old Masters of painting and also on portrait photography, looking for more useful images for my art project. I have in my mind the detailed, glowing paintings of fruit and flowers that Dutch painters did in the seventeenth century, and also bold, modern portrait photographs. I want Ava’s head to look strange and magnificent, the way it does to me.

I make a list of artists and photographers who might be helpful, but this is just the start. It will take a lot of research to find the perfect inspiration. Plus, I have to “illustrate my journey.” The school board doesn’t make it easy for you in these final-grade projects. Miss Jenkins is going to want postcards and printouts, sketches and plans. But it just so happens that the National Gallery, which is crammed with old masters, is right next door to the National Portrait Gallery, which is bursting with photos of famous people, so that’s my Saturday morning taken care of. I’m really looking forward to it.

Ava wanted to come with me, but after a couple of trial days at school, by the weekend she’s wiped out. We postpone the trip, but on Sunday she’s no better. Besides, the day dawns drizzly and gray: a proper autumn morning, with even more of a nip in the air than before. Ava decides instead to catch up on some of the
Xena: Warrior Princess
DVDs we ordered on Amazon. She’ll be on her own, because Mum is off to work soon at the store and Dad is off to meet with the TV researcher he made friends with on my “very nothing” day.

I’m not too thrilled to hear about this meeting. For a start, I don’t like being reminded of that day, and also I think that however much Dad likes to hear about how TV shows are made, it’s not very nice for Mum if he takes time off from writing to have coffee with attractive young women. Not that I’m telling Mum how attractive that production assistant was. But she was — very. If they’d put her in five-inch platforms alongside Sheherezade, she wouldn’t have been “very nothing” at all.

On top of everything, I noticed Dad making a real effort with his appearance before he went out. He hasn’t done that for ages. He tried on all his jackets and most of his ties, and even got out his old fedora and checked himself out in it in the hall mirror. He left the hat behind in the end, though.

On impulse, I grab it from the hall table as I head out. It might make me look suitably arty for my gallery tour. And it will be an awful lot more comfortable than the R-Patz, which is getting increasingly itchy on top of my new hair growth. With relief, I leave the wig behind. It sits peacefully on the hall table, the spitting image of a long-haired guinea pig, waiting for me to return.

I spend a happy hour in the National Gallery, examining various Dutch painters’ takes on fruit, vegetables, flowers, plates, vases, and basically anything they could fit on a table. It’s mostly what I was expecting, except that they seem to delight in imperfections. They love painting mottled surfaces on peaches, or apples with insect holes in them, or flowers with torn petals. Somehow, it makes them seem more alive. But the best bit is the shop, where I stock up on postcards to show Miss Jenkins my working process, as required.

After a quick walk around the corner of Trafalgar Square, I get to the National Portrait Gallery, where they happen to be holding a special exhibition of Richard Avedon photographs. The posters show stunning portraits of strong faces: exactly what I’m after. I can’t afford the ticket for the exhibition, but I buy a couple of beautiful postcards. One of them shows a modern-day princess with daffodils in her hair — arranged in such a way that they seem suspended around her head, like the flowers on the wallpaper behind her. I love that effect.

I keep thinking about it as I head for the Underground at Charing Cross station. In fact, I’m just getting the postcard out of the paper bag to have another look when a sudden gust of wind whips Dad’s fedora off my head and straight into the road in front of me. I rush forward to grab it, when a pair of strong arms reach out from nowhere and hold me back. An enormous, bright red London double-decker bus zooms past, missing me by millimeters.

Oh my God. I nearly died to save a hat.

I turn around to say thank you to the arms that just saved my life. They belong to a businessman in a pinstripe suit, who gives
me a very odd stare. Maybe this is how people look at you when they know it’s thanks to them you’re alive at all. I stare back, dumbstruck, and after an awkward moment he strides off, just as another bus rolls by, squashing Dad’s hat as flat as a pancake.

Suddenly, this day isn’t turning out so well.

For five minutes, I wander down the street in a daze. I can’t face going into the Underground quite yet. Or the thought of telling Dad about his fedora when I get home.

Gradually, I notice that lots of people are heading in the same direction as me — more than usual. I could even swear I recognize a couple of the faces, although I can’t think where from. Still dazed, I follow the crowd. Then lots of the people turn through a big stone archway, which is manned by security guards. You need a pass to get through and I don’t have one, so I stop.

I look beyond them. There’s a large stone building on three sides of a courtyard, with a massive white tent in the middle. It’s surrounded by colorful banners announcing London Fashion Week.

Oh wow. I wonder if any of the girls I did go-sees with will be there today, walking for designers. I hope so: It’s such a big deal if you get a catwalk show. Meanwhile, I can’t even take care of one lousy hat.

I lean against a pillar and remember the rush of wind when that bus passed me. I never did say thank you to that man in the suit. I wonder why he stared at me like that.

And then I notice someone else staring. A little woman, just a few feet away. She’s the most extraordinary sight, but she’s looking at me as if
I’m
the strange vision.

“JEANS E-BERK,” she says loudly as soon as she catches my eye.

Is she talking to me? Is she trying to sell me jeggings? Is she deranged? Looking at her, it wouldn’t be too surprising.

She is wearing a calf-length dress made out of leather patches held together with orange zippers, a gold silk Puffa jacket, a skull-print scarf so famous that even I now know it’s by Alexander McQueen, and boots with four-inch metallic gold platform heels.

“Please tell me you’re a model,” she drawls in an exotic, American-type accent that I can’t place.

“Er, well, I suppose I used to be,” I say. I’m not sure I should be talking to escaped psychiatric patients in the middle of the street, but her eyes are holding me in a hypnotic grip.

“Thank God. Of course you are. Jeans E-Berk. Do you know her?”

“Personally?”

“Oh sweet mercy! Of course not personally. She was an actress. In the sixties.
Á Bout de Souffle
.
Breathless
to you. Jean Seberg!”

“Oh! Jean Seberg!”

“Ah! So you know her?”

“Not really.”

She sighs, very, very deeply. “This is going to take a long time. You don’t have a show, do you?”

“What, here? No. I don’t even have a pass.”

Her eyes widen. “Perfect!”

She puts a firm hand on my elbow and guides me into the doorway of a gatehouse to one side of the archway. It’s quieter here. She seems slightly less crazy now.

“Delicate face. Killer hair. Jean’s who you remind me of right now, but there are so many others. Sinéad, Aggy. Of course, Aggy … But you’re unique. And so young. What are you? Fifteen — nearly sixteen? How long have you had your hair like that?”

She got my age right to the month, practically. Nobody does that.

“Er, about two weeks,” I admit. “Except it wasn’t this long before.”

Oh sweet mercy indeed. I’m explaining the obvious about hair growth to some French-movie-obsessed, age-guessing weirdo. Why? Shut up, Ted. I wish Ava were here.

It’s only at this point that I fully realize what the woman’s looking at. I’ve been so busy thinking about the bus and the fedora, then being accosted by a lunatic, that I’d forgotten how I must look now that the hat’s not there. My hair is still less than a centimeter long. I must seem a bit … freaky.

“You’re incredible,” the woman says. “Who are you signed with?”

“Model City,” I say, “but —”

“Ah! Cassandra! How is she? We haven’t spoken in a while. She must be ENCHANTED with you. What have you done?” She looks at me accusingly.

“Er … nothing?”

“Nothing? No shoots? No campaigns?”

Oh!
That
kind of “what have you done?” Not the kind Dad gets from Mum when the answer is “I didn’t mean to, and anyway I can fix it.”

“No,” I answer. “I tried, but it didn’t work out. Then I got my head shaved and school started, so —”

“Wait! Does Cassandra
know
about this? Did you tell her?”

I shrug.

“My GOD! I’m a GENIUS! I’ve got you all to myself, you DARLING! Don’t tell anyone. Don’t say a word. I’m going to tell them. No, I’m going to
show
them. Stand there. Not there — in the light.
There!
”

She shoves me around until she’s got some daylight on my face, whips out the fanciest phone I’ve seen in my life, and takes a couple of headshots of me. I know by now not to try and pose. This is one of those “just stand there” moments. Plus, I don’t really have any idea what’s going on.

When she’s done, she shoves her phone back in her bag, which is a vast, leather, studded affair, and holds out her hand.

“Tina di Gaggia. I make the next trends happen and, baby, YOU are the next trend. What are you doing right now?”

“Er, going home.”

“Are they expecting you? Is it urgent?”

“Not exactly, but —”

“Have you ever seen a catwalk show?”

“No.”

“Baby, this is Somerset House and I’m on my way to see the most DARLING show. The highlight of the week. Laslo Wiggins. You know him?”

Finally! Words that make sense to me. Laslo Wiggins is one of THE names to look out for at Fashion Week. He’s responsible for the latest volume trend that Ava’s missing out on.

I nod. “I know who he is.”

“Well, he’s huge. HUGE. And he’s huge because I made him huge. People practically need oxygen equipment to scale him. And
in a year, he’ll be BEGGING you to walk for him. Trust me — I never lie. Come with me and see the show. It’s right there.”

She points over toward the tent.

“But I don’t have an invitation.”

“You do if you’re with me.”

I stare at her skeptically. Another thing I’ve learned is that catwalk shows are notoriously hard to get into, which is why the security guys are there. People guard their invitations like Golden Tickets to the chocolate factory. They don’t just let in fifteen-year-old girls who happen to show up with some woman they met off the street. Even if she’s wearing what I strongly suspect are next-season Charlotte Olympia platforms. Sabrina would have killed for those.

“Come on,” Tina teases. “It’s only half an hour. And it will BLOW YOU AWAY, I promise you.”

“I wish I could, but …”

She ignores me. She’s on her phone.

“Cassandra? Darling! I’m with one of yours.” She turns to me. “What’s your name, baby? It’s Ted. Yes, her. She’s had a makeover and I just want you to know I saw her first and I OWN this girl! Now — are you in the tent for Laslo? If I bring her in, can you meet us at the guest entrance and assure her I’m not some psycho? Love you, darling. LOVE. YOU.” She turns back to me. “See? Perfectly safe. It’ll be the best fun you’ll have all year. Come and see the pretty dresses. Cassandra can’t wait to see your new look, but remind her: I found you this time. I want first rights on EVERYTHING.”

For a moment, I try to pretend I’m Ava. Ava would know scary stories about gold-jacket-dressed women who lure young
girls into Somerset House and do strange and terrible things with them. But the thing is, I know Tina’s telling the truth about Fashion Week. And the security guards are
right there
to keep out the riffraff and paparazzi, so if anything did happen I could grab one of them. If Cassandra isn’t in the tent after all, I’ll turn around and go straight home. But if she is … maybe I’ll get to see a fashion show. I’ve heard so much about them recently. I wouldn’t mind seeing just one.