The Look (5 page)

A
s soon as I can on Tuesday morning, I tell Daisy about my conversation with Ava.

“She wants you to do
what
?” she asks, dropping her backpack on her desk with a thump.

“I know. It doesn’t make sense.”

“So what was her argument?” Daisy asks. “Why did she think you’d be interested?”

“Something about life being precious,” I mumble. “
Carpe
-ing the
diem
, I suppose.”

“Whiching the who?”

“Seizing the day. It’s something that Dad says.”

“By standing around in your undies?”

“I know. But Ava says you get to go on planes and stuff. And you get paid loads of money. And it would keep her happy.”

“When have you ever wanted to keep your sister happy?” Daisy scoffs.

“Since she got lymphoma?”

“Good point.”

As we unpack our bags, I wait for Daisy to remind me about the drugs and anorexia. She feels the same way about fashion
and modeling as I do — which is that there are fashion victims and there are real people like us, with better things to think about, like who is cooler out of The Kills and The Vaccines, or passing math.

But she doesn’t. People tend to clam up when you mention cancer. I must remember that. It’s a bit of a conversation stopper.

“Actually, I thought I might as well,” I say, as casually as I can.

“What?”

“Apply.”

“Where?”

“To Model City. You know, as a laugh.”

Daisy jerks her head up in shock and spills her books all over her desk. I help her pick them up and pile them neatly.

“
As a laugh
?”

“Yes,” I say defensively. “They have a form on their website. I could just fill it in and see what they say. Ava’ll be pleased. If they say no, then that’s fine. I’ll stop thinking about what that guy said on Carnaby Street. If they say yes, then it means …”

I pause. Daisy watches me, curious to see what I’m going to say next. I’m not sure myself.

“… It means … Well, it’s just a laugh, really. It’s mostly about humoring Ava.”

Daisy says nothing, but her expression says
Oh yeah?
She’s right, of course. It’s true that it’s
mostly
about humoring Ava, but another reason has crept up on me — one that I simply can’t mention out loud.

If they say yes, it means I won’t feel so bad the next time Dean thinks of a nickname for me. It means that just once,
somebody, somewhere, thought the freak with the unibrow looked OK. It would be a little secret I could hug to myself.

Daisy can stare at me like that all she likes, but her dad plays bass in a Blondie tribute band and she’s got Debbie Harry’s autograph. I have … a pressed leaf collection. Besides, I wouldn’t actually
do
any modeling, because that would be crazy. And anyway, Mum wouldn’t let me. And I’d look really stupid in my undies.

“It’s post-traumatic stress,” Daisy says, patting me on the arm. “You’ve gone a bit gaga. It’ll pass. Are you sure you’re up to school today?”

She doesn’t get it, but I don’t care. Ava will help me with the photos for the form when I get home. It’ll be fun and silly and exactly what we need right now. All I have to do is send two snapshots and some basic details about myself. How hard can it be?

Harder than I thought.

After half an hour of rummaging through my half of the closet, Ava looks around at me in despair.

“I thought this would be fun,” she complains. “I thought it would be like dressing Barbie. But my Barbie didn’t have a whole closet of nothing but hiking shorts and baggy cargo pants and … ugh! What’s this?”

She pulls out a crumpled, green, tentlike thing.

“It’s my Woodland Trust supporters T-shirt,” I say defensively. “I had to get the big size, because the others only came down to my —”

“It’s offensive. Throw it away.”

“It’s saving the planet!”

She sighs. “You can wear that blue tank top you use to sleep in. It’s the least hideous thing I’ve seen. And what about skinny jeans?”

I shudder. She sighs again.

“What if they want to see your legs?” she asks.

“Believe me, they don’t want to see my legs.”

“But what if it matters?”

I shrug. “That only makes it worse.”

We settle on my least baggy cargo pants and the blue tank top. Which leaves us with the hair problem. Ava spends ten minutes “styling” the bird’s nest until it looks like a tornado’s passed through it, then gives up.

“Let’s just take the pictures. Sit on your bed. The website says we have to do one full-face photo and one side-on. Ow!”

She briefly squeezes her right hand into a fist. After several hours of scans and tests at the hospital, the backs of both her hands are punctured and bruised from all the needles that have gone in. But we’re not thinking about that. Mum’s spending most of her time on the phone to well-wishers, telling them we don’t know any details yet, and it gets very boring. Making me look like a supermodel is much more entertaining. Making me look like a supermodel is all we’ve got.

Ava points her phone at me and I stare into the tiny lens, trying not to laugh.

“You look like a serial killer, T. Smile slightly.”

“They said not to.”

“Well, try not to look as if you’ve just been arrested for something disgusting.”

“Like this?”

She takes a picture and shows it to me. Not only do I have more than a hint of serial killer about me, I also have an ash tree growing out of my head.

“I can’t sit in front of the window. How about if I move around? Like this?”

I now have Snoopy lying on my bird’s nest, thanks to the poster above my bed. I used to have it in my bedroom in Richmond and somehow I can’t bear to replace it with anything more age-appropriate.

“And you look blurry,” Ava says, examining the pictures more closely. “I don’t think my phone can cope with these light levels. Let me find my proper camera.”

After a five-minute search in three drawers, two keepsake boxes, and four old handbags, she finds it in the pocket of her winter jacket. I shift around our bedroom, perching on every bit of furniture and trying to look casual. But there doesn’t seem to be a single spot that provides the blank background we need.

It’s a relief when Mum goes out, so we can try other places in the flat. We try to keep our voices down, though, because Dad’s still busy in their bedroom, working on the latest draft of his Civil War novel. It’s called
Leather and Lace
, and Dad reads bits of it to us occasionally. I’m not sure he’s the next Stephenie Meyer, plus Ava says that the title sounds like a 1970s porno, but hopefully someone will like it.

“How about if you balance on the back of the sofa?” Ava asks. “We can take down that seaside print. Then you’ve just got white space. Well, green space, anyway.”

She takes a picture. I now have a dark gray shadow beside my jawline and blinding white light from the camera flash bouncing off my cheek. Alternatively, when I stand with my back to the kitchen door, its avocado paintwork makes me look vaguely purple. How does anyone who doesn’t live in a palace ever manage to look good?

Ava scowls at the pictures, then at me. “They’ve already seen you. Why don’t you just call them?”

Oh, dear. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask this. The simple reason is that I have some pride. I don’t want to be told over the phone that Simon was having an off day when he found me, or that they have no idea who I am after all, and will I please stop bothering them? I’d much rather hear it by e-mail.

“Because they say to use the form,” I tell her tetchily.

Dad comes out of the bedroom, en route to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

“What are you up to, girls? I keep hearing a lot of giggling. Are you all right, Ted? You look a bit odd. And are you wearing your pajamas?”

It’s that avocado background. And my stupid outfit.

This is ridiculous. I totally give up.

“We’re not up to anything,” I snap. “Shall I just make the tea?”

“Would you, love?”

Ava looks disappointed. It was a nice idea. We tried. But my supermodel days (or, to be strictly accurate, forty-five deeply frustrating minutes) are most definitely over.

F
or the next week, the sun gets hotter by the day. At school, the grassy knoll fills up with people sunbathing between exams. At home, the leaves have turned pale on the ash tree and it looks almost as pretty as the trees in Richmond. When she’s not working, Mum has her head buried in recipe books for nutritious summer salads using red fruits and green leaves. Apparently the dark colors are full of antioxidants and they’ll help Ava get better — along with the vat-loads of chemicals they’re about to start injecting into her. Personally, I don’t see how a few raspberries are going to compete with chemotherapy, but Mum’s prepared to give anything a try. This seems to be her way of coping.

Dad’s way is researching Hodgkin’s disease on the internet, in between manic bouts of writing and trying to get his watch fixed. Mine is … staring out the window, mostly. Often Daisy has to prod me at school because I haven’t heard what she’s just said.

Of us all, Ava is the most relaxed. Her biggest concern is that Jesse has two more A-level exams and a big sailing race to train
for, so he can’t come and visit her yet. Other than that, she seems to be coping amazingly well. Perhaps it’s Dr. Christodoulou’s reassuring attitude. Perhaps it’s having most of the hot boys in her grade asking after her whenever she’s out of school for more tests. Perhaps it’s just that she’s not very good at math. (I still can’t help remembering about the ten percent, but maybe she didn’t notice.) Above all, she just wants to carry on as normal.

I come home from school a week after our snapshot fiasco, and she’s in the middle of a raging argument with Mum.

“I refuse to let you come with me!”

“But you can’t go on your own, darling. You’re very
ill
!”

“I don’t feel it. And you’ll just cry everywhere. I
hate
it!”

“I promise not to cry.”

“You’re doing it now!”

Mum rubs her nose. “I’m not. Look, darling, this is a very important appointment.”

“It’s totally routine!” Ava sighs loudly and sees me standing in the living room doorway. “Tell her, Ted. I’ve just got to pop into the hospital on Saturday to check everything’s working properly. I can do it in a couple of hours by myself. She’s turning it into a major expedition.”

By “everything,” I assume she means the thin plastic tube she had inserted into her chest yesterday, called a Hickman line. One end sticks out so it can feed the chemo into her bloodstream when it starts on Monday. Ew. Disgusting. Actually, when she showed me last night it looked rather neat. Not as bad as I was expecting — a bit like earphones for a mega-iPod taped to her skin. But still … No wonder Mum wants to go with her to check it’s working.

“Er …”

“I can walk, Mum. I can take the Underground. These things don’t weigh anything. Besides, you need to work. Tell you what, Ted can come with me. How about it, T?”

“Well, actually, Daisy invited me round to …”

Ava puts on a hangdog expression. It’s a fake hangdog expression, I know, not even designed to make me feel that guilty, but when your sister has lymphoma …

“OK. I’ll come.”

Mum sniffs. “All right, then. If you’re sure. I know you don’t like me fussing, darling.”

Ava sighs. “Exactly.”

When Ava got the diagnosis, all we wanted was news, details, and explanations. Then the test results came in and they just seemed to make things more confusing. Apparently, the disease has reached Stage 2B, which enables them to know what type of chemo to give her and how long for. But why are they starting next week, for example, and not this minute?

Dad instantly pounced with the inevitable “2B or not 2B” joke from
Hamlet
. His face was like granite when he said it, but Ava and I laughed anyway. Mum didn’t. Sometimes, I sit beside him at the computer so we can try and make sense of it all. The stage refers to how much the disease has spread. It seems Stage 2 is worse than Stage 1, but a lot better than Stage 3 or 4. The B means Ava gets night sweats. They have a letter for it and we have a washing machine for it. Whatever.

Stage 2B. To me, it sounds like a venue at a music festival. Staring at Dad’s computer screen that evening, the words circled around my head until they meant nothing at all.

Ava seems to be right about this latest appointment being routine, though. When we get to the hospital on Saturday, it’s a totally different experience from the last time I was here. Ava knows her way around the shiny corridors pretty well by now, and a nurse only takes a few seconds to fiddle with her Hickman line and check that the insertion point is OK. Everything’s set for Monday, when they’ll hook her up for the first bout of life-saving chemicals. That’s it. We’re done.

Outside, the sky is still wrong: It’s blue and cloudless. It hasn’t rained for three weeks now. There’s a sort of café-style, Mediterranean feel to the city and the streets are full of tanned legs and smiling faces.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s go for a wander. We could check out the British Museum.”

“We co-ould …”

“Only joking. There are some nice shops on the Tottenham Court Road. We could walk down to Oxford Street.”

This is Ava’s part of town, not mine. I tend to go where there are gardens and trees, like Kew, or art galleries, like Trafalgar Square. But it’s nice to wander around in the summer sun with Ava, checking out the window displays. In the end, it gets so hot that we decide to walk down one of the side streets, where it’s shadier.

I’m in the middle of admiring a selection of French pastries in a bakery window, arranged by color in a rainbow of edible perfection, when suddenly Ava stops dead and grabs me.

“Oh my God!”

She points across the road. We’re opposite one of the uglier buildings on the street. Plain brick walls. Small windows. No
shop fronts. Two people outside on their iPhones, sharing a cigarette.

“What?”

“See the logo?”

Above the plain front door is a sign: a jagged black
M
inside a pale blue
C
. Ava recognizes it from the website I showed her. I recognize it from Simon’s card, and from
Marie Claire
: Model City.

“We could just go in, you know,” she says.

I am having a cold flush. I didn’t know you could get them, but you can, and I’ve got one.

“No, we couldn’t.”

“We’re right here, T. You never sent in that form. Why don’t you just walk inside and ask them?”

The girl is bonkers.

“And then they can tell me
to my face
,” I point out, “that I must be joking.”

“They would,” she says, standing her ground, “except one of their scouts said you looked amazing.”

She’s remembered the exact word.
Amazing
. All I know is that I’m
freezing
, despite the sun. I’ve got actual goose bumps on my forearms.

“I’m going home.”

But Ava’s still holding my wrist. “Please? For me? You said you’d give it a go, T, remember?”

A brief image of Dean Daniels flashes in front of my eyes. Not a pretty one. But it would be so cool to be able to tell him I was a model. She senses my hesitation.

“Look, we’ll just go in and ask them if you’ve got potential. We’ll mention that scout guy and stay for five minutes, OK?
Then we’ll go home. And I promise I won’t bug you about it again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Since her diagnosis, I would swear Ava’s brain has gone wonky. There’s a dangerous glitter in her eyes. It’s as if she’s heard the worst, and now only good things can happen. I hope this is true in her case, but I’m pretty sure bad things can still happen to me. She looks so excited, though, that I can’t bring myself to say no.

“Oh, all right, then.”

I know, absolutely, that it is the wrong thing to do, but this is the effect Ava has on me. I’m about to enter Buzz Lightyear territory all over again.

She opens the door and I follow.

“Wow!” she mutters under her breath. “How gorgeous is
this
?”

If by “gorgeous” she means “terrifying,” then this is utterly gorgeous.

We are in a luxury reception area, with black-and-white wallpaper, a shiny modern desk, a black leather sofa, and a coffee table smothered in glossy magazines. The ceiling is sprinkled with spotlights. The walls are plastered with photos of super-stunning men and women, most of them underdressed. On the desk there’s an arrangement of blue hothouse flowers the size of a baby elephant. Everything is fresh and gleaming and glamorous and intimidating.

Behind the desk, a bored-looking girl with long brown hair and heavy bangs is typing on her computer. She totally ignores
us. Ava and I stand there, not sure what to do. Moments later, the smokers from outside come back in and whisk past us, heading for a door at the back, without giving us a second glance. I’ve never felt so invisible. Ava, meanwhile, plucks up the courage to speak.

“We’re here to see someone about … modeling.”

The girl at the desk glances briefly at Ava from under her bangs.

“Oh, yeah?”

“My sister’s interested.”

This is
so
not true after the snapshot disaster. The girl flicks her eyes to me for half a second. Then she picks up the phone, mumbles into it for a moment, and goes back to ignoring us.

Ava looks at me, and smiles encouragingly.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“In a minute. Let’s see what happens.”

She sits on the sofa, leaning forward to grab a glossy magazine from the table in front of her. I perch next to her and hear a grunt from the floor beside me. A small black dog looks up at me from his curled-up position in a brown leather dog bed with
L
s and
V
s printed on it. I reach down to stroke his nose.

“Don’t touch Mario,” the receptionist says, without looking up. “He doesn’t like it.”

“Sorry?”

“The labradoodle? He’s called Mario? After Mario Testino?” Now she’s staring at me from under her bangs as if I’m mentally challenged. “Like, the photographer?”

“Oh, right.”

She can see I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s Linda Evangelista all over again. I decide to leave the dog alone. I’m just about to suggest to Ava — for one last time — that we leave, when the front door swings open and a new guy walks in, complaining loudly about the heat.

I recognize him instantly, partly because of the orange backpack slung over his shoulder. To my surprise, he smiles as soon as he sees me.

“Tambourine Girl? Hi! It’s Simon.”

Ava’s looking up from her magazine now, smiling her movie-star smile. Simon ignores her. She frowns. I get up and shake his outstretched hand. “Yes … I remember.”

“So — you’re here! Are you seeing Frankie?”

“I don’t think so,” I whisper. “We just popped in —”

He calls across to the receptionist. “Is she booked in for Frankie, Shell?”

Bangs Girl pouts and flaps her hands. “I called her, but she was busy.”

So basically, she was happy to let us sit on that sofa indefinitely, while nobody in the office knew that we were here. Thanks, Bangs Girl. I am so not enjoying this moment.

“Frankie does New Faces,” Simon explains. “Come with me.” He spots Ava at last and remembers her from last time. “D’you want to come in, too? Loving the hairstyle, darling. Very retro.”