The Look (9 page)

S
eb spent ages working on those pictures of Mireille before Dad came to pick us up. I wonder how long he’ll have to spend on the ones of me. Sunday’s supposed to be for studying, but I spend most of it picturing Seb working on his computer, then sending the results off to Model City for inspection. I wonder what they’ll all think.

On Monday, Mum takes Ava to the hospital for a new dose of chemo through her Hickman line.

“Tell me the minute you hear anything,” Ava says.

All day, I illicitly check my phone for messages. Nothing. There’s no news on Tuesday or Wednesday. By Thursday it’s obvious that they’ve decided to spare me by not telling me directly. I’d love to get a copy of that last photo, but I don’t think I can face asking Frankie for it. Ava said just to call her and get it over with, but for once, I’m not doing what my big sister tells me. I shall just get on with my life and pretend this mad detour into modeling never happened. I find that usually works, eventually.

On Friday after school, I’m shopping for shoes with Mum in one of the local thrift shops when my phone goes off in my backpack.

“Er … hello?” I say, scrambling to get to it in time.

“Is that Edwina?” The voice is smooth, posh, and confident. “It’s Cassandra Spoke. We got your test shots back yesterday and we’ve been having a good look. I try to call all our new girls myself. How do you feel?”

“Who is it?” Mum asks, waving a pair of hideous purple sandals at me. How come she always manages to emerge from these places looking like Audrey Hepburn, but the only things we can ever find to fit me look like they were designed for Shrek and Princess Fiona?

“Daisy. Homework problem. Excuse me?”

This last bit is to Cassandra Spoke. How do I feel about what exactly? About how much of a laugh they’ve all been having at my photos? What?

“We’re taking you on, darling! I always like to be the bearer of good news. We really only pick the girls we think can make it to the top. Are you thrilled? We’re so excited about you.”

“Can you tell her to call back later?” Mum says in exasperation. “I don’t want to be long here — I still need to get those eggplants.”

“Er, thrilled,” I whisper to keep Cassandra happy, although actually I’m just numb. I go over to a rack of lace-ups, far away from Mum, and pretend to be interested in men’s formal footwear.

“I must say, you don’t sound it!” Cassandra laughs. “I know the news can be a bit of a shock but, really, the world is open to you now. Frankie will arrange some lovely castings and go-sees for you, so you can build up your book. And who knows? One day you could be doing a campaign!”

“What?
That?
” Mum says.

I nearly jump out of my skin. She must have sneaked up behind me. I look at my hands, which happen to be clutching a man’s oxford wingtip the size of a supertanker.

“It looks a bit large, even for you. What about this?”

She shows me something beige and cloglike, with a thick sole and a sensible leather strap around the back. Whatever. I sink onto a plastic chair and slip off my falling-apart sandals so I can try it on.

“Edwina? Are you there?”

“Yup, that sounds fine,” I say. “Great. I’m really sorry, but —
shshshshshshshsh
…” I try to make a sound like a dodgy signal, or like I’m on a train going into a tunnel, and press the button to end the call.

That probably doesn’t happen to über-agents very often. I wonder if she’ll ever talk to me again.

“Goodness, Ted, you’re pink,” Mum says. “It is hot in here, isn’t it? Did she get what she wanted?”

“Who?”

“Daisy.”

“Oh, yes. It was something confusing about … French.”

I’m quite proud of myself for making that up on the spur of the moment, especially under the circumstances. I think it’s because I didn’t understand about a quarter of what Cassandra was saying.

That evening, when we’re alone together, Ava perches on the edge of her bed and asks me to describe exactly what happened during the call.

“Well, actually,” I admit, “a lot of it was confusing. It’s like learning a new language.”

“Tell me about it,” she sighs. “Hickman line. Phlebotomist. Prednisone.”

“Ha! How about go-see? Book? Campaign? I think they mean an ad, but it sounds like a war.”

“How about bloods? Meaning my blood. Lots of it, in little bottles.”

I can’t help giggling.

“Mario Testino.”

“Kyrillos Christodoulou.”

“Kyrillos?”

“His first name,” she says. “It’s Greek.”

“Linda Evangelista.”

“See! You
do
know who she is.”

“No, I don’t. Who is she?”

“God, T! She’s a supermodel from the eighties. Canadian. She was superfamous.”

“Oh. Then what happened to her?”

“No idea. She might still be doing it.”

I wonder — what does happen to models, usually? You hardly ever see pictures of old ones. Maybe they end up on yachts in the Bahamas, drinking tea with designers and going out with rock stars. What else would they do?

“So?” Ava asks teasingly.

“So?” I answer, pretending I don’t know what she means.

“Why are you blushing? Why won’t you catch my eye? Why aren’t you stomping around the room, telling me how crazy they are? What are you thinking?”

I’ve been thinking a lot since that call — partly about my shoes. Ava says models wear nice clothes, which means their footwear doesn’t come from the thrift shop. Also, I’m thinking
about Dean Daniels and Cally Harvest. Cally, who’s wanted to be a model since she was ten. Imagine if I actually was one. She’d probably explode.

I have
no idea
why Model City picked me. I don’t understand it. But the fact is, they did, and it all feels different now. If I tried modeling over summer vacation, I need never be “the girl with the knickers” again. In fact, that would make up for a whole summer stuck in London, posing in front of brick walls and lying to my parents.

Oh, yeah. Forgot about that bit. Ava’s still watching me, waiting for a reply.

“I’m thinking about permission,” I sigh. “I’d need actual, real approval from Mum and Dad, not just you pretending over the phone.”

“True,” Ava agrees. “So, you’ve changed your mind? You want to go ahead with it?”

I nod. I’m so easy to persuade. I’d like to be more cool and decisive, but I’m more a “swim with the tide, see where it takes you” sort of person, and it’s taking me in an interesting direction. Or rather it would be, if Mum and Dad weren’t like a dam at the end, waiting to stop me.

“Don’t worry about them,” Ava says confidently. “I have it all worked out. Trust me.”

And yet again, despite everything, I do.

T
he weak point in the dam, according to my sister, is Dad. On Saturday morning, as soon as Mum’s gone out to work, we set to work on him together. I go first.

“Er, Dad,” I say, wandering into the kitchen where he’s washing dishes. “I may need your help.”

He looks around and smiles. “What is it, love? If it’s math again, I don’t think there’s much I can do. Those statistics are way beyond me now.”

“It’s not math, it’s modeling.”

I explain about Cassandra’s call. He swears loudly, his fingers fumbling in his ridiculous yellow rubber gloves, and drops a plate. It breaks. We decide to continue the conversation at the dining table, out of range of fragile china. Ava joins us, looking pale and woozy this morning, but determined to back me all the way.

“But listen, my loves, are you
sure
they’re real?” Dad asks suspiciously.

Ava steps in. “Model City are the best, Dad. I know Ted’s not your … typical beauty queen, but she’s got what it takes for modeling. She’s just lucky that way.”

He smiles and takes my hand. “We could do with some luck in this family. But your mum would never let you, of course. You know what she thinks about models.”

“Yes,” I admit, “but she doesn’t actually know any. I met one last week, and she was lovely. She didn’t take a single drug the whole time we were there.”

He laughs.

“We were thinking … er,
I
was thinking … that I could try it out. Maybe do a few jobs — small ones. Earn some money. See for myself if it’s OK,
then
tell Mum.”

I see him falter for a moment, and look at him pleadingly. It was when I mentioned earning some money that he wobbled. Dad hates the fact that Ava and I don’t have an allowance anymore, and he still tries to slip me a five occasionally. Simply breathing in a city like London seems to cost money. My original plan was to apply for a waitressing job over the summer, but they’re hard to get around here because everyone wants one and even if you get one, you have to work a whole day to earn enough for one meal out with your friends. Dad knows this.

Ava gives him a winning smile. “It would keep Ted busy.”

He nods, still faltering.

“And it would be safe, I promise,” I tell him. “They sent me an e-mail about it this morning. I’ll show you. It says I have to have a chaperone at all times until I’m sixteen. Either you could do it, or they’ll provide one. And I’d always tell you exactly where I was going, and give you contact numbers and everything.”

He sighs and doodles absentmindedly in the margin of the newspaper.

“When I was your age, Ava,” he says, “I needed some vacation money. A friend’s dad had a farm. He offered me and some mates free board and lodging and a little money if we could help pick lettuce. We took a look around the farm: nice, rolling countryside, friendly farmer’s wife. The town was famous for its summer music festival. So we said yes.” He turns to us with haunted eyes. “And, girls, I have never worked so hard, for so little money, in my life. It’s backbreaking, pulling up lettuce, and it never ends. Hours and hours and hours of it. Those fields just went on and on …” He doodles some more and says grimly, “I hate lettuce. Don’t tell your mother, but I can’t abide the stuff … So, Ted, you’d just be wearing nice clothes, like a proper fashion model?”

I nod.

“I’ve always been partial to Claudia Schiffer, you know.”

I do know. Schiffer:
That’s
the name of the Claudia girl who’s the other model I’ve heard of, apart from Kate Moss. She’s German and has blonde hair and also lives in London. I know all of this because if ever Dad sees a picture of her he gives a happy sigh and Mum punches him affectionately — well,
quite
affectionately — on the shoulder.

“It would be just like that,” Ava says confidently, with a hidden wink to me.

“And how do you propose to do all this without Mum finding out?”

“By telling her that Ted
has
got a waitressing job. At that hotel near Daisy’s. Just until she works everything out. Then she can show Mum it’s safe, and that she’s enjoying it.”

“And I only want to do a few jobs anyway,” I add. “
Please?
”

He runs a hand through his mad-professor hair.

“What exactly would I have to do?”

“Well, Stephen, if you can just sign
there
… and
there
. That’s lovely. I must say, we’re thrilled Ted said yes. She’s going to be a real star. And she takes after you, doesn’t she?”

“I suppose.” Dad smiles in a confused sort of way, looking around the Model City offices and wondering what two wild-haired, caterpillar-browed freaks like us are doing in the middle of them, signing permission forms.

As if she’s reading his mind, Frankie says, “We’ll book her in for hair and beauty before she starts. She needs to lose the … you know.”

She draws a finger across her forehead, and I wonder exactly how they’re going to get rid of my facial fuzz. I’m not sure I want to know. The last time Ava tried to tweeze it, years ago, it was agony and I paid her to stop.

“Has Mireille been in yet?” I ask to take my mind off it.

Frankie looks embarrassed. “Actually, no. She was very commercial, but she didn’t have what we were looking for.”

“But I don’t understand …”

Mireille was categorically the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

“We need girls with an edge. Something fresh, to catch people’s attention,” Frankie explains. “She’ll do very well. But not in high-fashion editorial.”

“Where, then?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

“Underwear catalogs?” Frankie suggests. “Anyway, let me show you your book.”

I’ve been wondering about this. Cassandra Spoke mentioned my book, too, and it sounded really important. Do they expect
me to read a particular novel? Is it a textbook about modeling? That would be great, as I keep discovering there’s a lot I don’t understand. How to avoid modeling in underwear catalogs, for a start — I’m trying to get
away
from being “the girl with the knickers.”

Instead, what Frankie pulls out from under a pile of paperwork isn’t a book at all — it’s a large black binder with the Model City logo stamped on the front, and clear plastic pockets inside, most of which are empty. She turns it around to face us and opens it up. Inside the first pocket is the last picture of me that Seb took: the one with my arms above my head and the surprised look on my face.

“What do you think?”

Oh. O-kaaaay. Despite all the time he took over it, Seb hasn’t magically morphed me into Kate Moss, or Linda Evangelista, or Claudia Schiffer for that matter. It’s still just me and my brick wall. And Mum was right: Her yoga pants do look ridiculous on my spindly legs. But it’s an interesting picture. Seb’s good. Behind it are two more photos of me from the shoot where I would say the brick wall definitely outshines me. Frankie seems happy, though.

“We have lots to talk about,” she says.

Dad looks at his watch. It’s after school and we are technically at the hotel in Richmond, talking about waitressing. Mum will be expecting us home for supper soon, and after that I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. But I’m starting to enjoy myself. I keep glancing at Dad’s signature on the permission forms and it looks so official, somehow — like I’m really supposed to be here.

“I’ll book in some time for you to come in and discuss
nutrition and finance,” Frankie continues, sensing this visit needs to be short.

“Finance?” Dad asks. Math is not his favorite subject.

“Taxes, savings, and a retirement plan,” she says. “Ted will be self-employed, but obviously we’ll help explain what she needs to do.”

I’ll need a retirement plan? I might be earning so much I need to
pay taxes
? This is so exciting!

“Meanwhile,” Frankie is saying, “here’s the plan, angel. I’m going to line you up for go-sees during the first few weeks of the summer, while things are still busy. Don’t worry about the book being small at first. Once you get a few tear sheets under your belt it’ll start looking healthy. You’ll need a comp card as well, but that’s fine, because we’ll sort it out for you, OK?”

“Right,” I agree. “Great.”

I can tell I still have some major vocabulary issues to address. I have no idea what she just said, but it sounded like the kind of thing you pay tax on, which is SO COOL.