The Look Read online

  “Oh!” Mum flushes and puts a hand to her cheek. Dad goes pale. They both look guilty and stare at the phone. I suddenly wonder how Tina manages to get such great reception on a BEACH somewhere, but nothing about her will ever surprise me. And it’s nice to think I’m an incredible young lady. Mum didn’t seem so impressed with me in the kitchen earlier.

  “We know Ted’s precious,” Mum says crossly.

  Tina laughs, unperturbed. “Listen, you’re a special family. Can I confide in you? You think I was always like this? I was a wreck, people. A sad, pathetic fat girl from Brooklyn with no friends, no life, just a passion for vintage Vogues. When my brother saw me finally start to pull my look together and emerge from my chrysalis … well, the happiness it gave him. The pride. I bet your big girl’s proud of her little sister.”

  “Oh, she is. In fact, Ava’s been very supportive,” Dad says.

  “So, go, Ava! But Ted’s more amazing than even you know. This is her one big chance and I’d hate for her to blow it. I know the dates aren’t perfect, but these things are out of our control. Sometimes we have to make compromises to get the bigger prize. It’ll be worth it, I promise you. And if she comes to New York, I’ll look after her like she’s my own.”

  Mum stares at me. Dad stares at me. Then they both stare at the phone.

  “Thanks, Tina,” Dad says. “We’ll think about it.”

  “You got it,” Tina says. “Gotta go now. They’re starting the fireworks.”

  When Mum’s sure the call’s over, she stares at Dad again.

  “Stephen, tell me that woman’s not real.”

  “Apparently, she’s totally self-made,” Dad says. “I asked Cassandra Spoke about it when we were waiting for our taxis in the lobby of Claridge’s, and she said the story goes that she was a teenager named Sue and suddenly decided she was going to be Tina one day — and here she is. She got the name Gaggia from a coffee machine, apparently. Explains a lot about her energy levels.”

  Mum nods.

  “But what she can do in fashion is real,” Dad goes on. “Cassandra said she’s a legend. If she backs a designer, they make it to the top.”

  Mum turns to me with a worried, guilty expression in her eyes. She sounded cross on the phone, but I think what Tina said to her had more of an effect than she’d admit.

  “I don’t want to hold you back, darling. You’ve grown up so much over the last few months. And I haven’t been able to look after you how I wanted.”

  She holds me to her and runs her hand over my tightly cropped hair. I can actually feel her teardrops running through it, but she doesn’t need to cry. Yes, it’s true, I’ve been feeling in the background at home, but Tina made it sound worse than it felt. I wouldn’t have said Mum and Dad were holding me back, necessarily. However, Mum’s tearful hug suggests that Tina has managed to persuade them to live without me for a few days.

  I think this means I’m going to New York.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Positive. Stop talking about it.”

  “Are you sure you’re sure?”

  Ava looks at me crossly. “For God’s sake, Ted. Go. To. New. York. Do something interesting with your life. I don’t need you at the hospital. It’s all sorted out — it’s just a bunch of haircuts after all. I’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, but … are you sure?”

  “Shut up!”

  I’m feeling guilty — now that it’s all arranged and Cassandra’s thrilled and they’ve moved me onto a later flight.

  Ava catches the look on my face and her expression softens.

  “Vera Wang,” she says, shaking her head at me. “I don’t think you get what a big deal this is, T. You might get to meet the actual Vera Wang. She is totally the wedding dress designer. Then if you do run off with Eric Bloch, she could make your dress.”

  “I’m not going to run off with Rudolf’s assistant!”

  “So you say,” she teases, pulling all of my stuff out of the closet and throwing it on her bed. “But think what’s happened to you recently. You never know.”

  I open the suitcase that Dad has lent me. I have no idea what to pack, apart from the shaggy thing. Thank goodness Ava does.

  “New York will be cold,” she says. “Bitterly cold, so pick out all your best sweaters. Not that one — it’s a crime against fashion. Oh God, they all are, aren’t they? Look, I’ll find some of mine.”

  Sharing. She is totally sharing. She really must want me to do this. As she rummages around for knitwear that meets her high standards for transatlantic travel, she runs through some of the designers I’ll need to look out for on Fifth Avenue.

  “… and if you could bring me back one thing by Marc Jacobs — just any tiny thing, but preferably a bag — that would be good.”

  “Of course,” I agree. Then it hits me, not for the first time, by any means, that the wrong girl is going to New York. “I wish you could come with me.”

  “So do I,” she says lightly, folding a thin woolen sweater into a neat package. “But don’t worry. I’ll be busy. Oh, and Jesse’s coming.”

  “Jesse’s coming?”

  “Yes. Didn’t I tell you? He called this morning. He wants to see me.”

  “But you told him not to. Not till the treatment’s over.”

  She cocks her head to one side. “I did. But he says he can’t wait. He says the chemo’s over and the radiation doesn’t count. Ha! He should try booking himself in for some radiotherapy. It beyond counts.” Her voice is suddenly brittle. “Anyway, he says we have lots to talk about, so that’ll be nice.”

  Ava’s last cycle of chemo finished a few days ago, but radiotherapy starts next week: the final stage in the treatment. According to the brochure they gave us, it involves high-energy X-rays, which they’ll beam at the bits of Ava’s body where they’re worried that cancer cells might still be lurking. Dad’s done his usual research on the internet and it says helpful things like “Don’t worry, you will not become radioactive during this treatment.” Which is perhaps less reassuring than they mean it to be. Ava found a NO RADIATION antinuclear T-shirt in the thrift shop and wears it with a certain flamboyant irony.

  She shoves the sweater at me and starts folding another one, not noticing that it’s inside out. The way she said “nice” just now makes me nervous.

  “Er, what kind of ‘lots to talk about’?” I ask.

  She hands me the second sweater. “Who knows? There was that Barbie Girl from the yacht who put fifteen pictures of him on Facebook. Her, perhaps?”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  And I don’t. Jesse just isn’t the sort of person to say he’s got a new girlfriend to someone about to be zapped with X-rays.

  “I’m just being realistic,” Ava says briskly. “Have you figured out which jewelry to take?”

  But I refuse to be distracted. “Listen. I think it’s great that he’s coming. It won’t be about another girl. I bet he just wants to see you. And soon your treatment will be over and you’ll be able to go back to —”

  “What?” she flashes at me, expertly folding up a pair of jeans. “You know, I’ve been thinking about the treatment for so long that I can’t imagine when it’s over. Anyway, I can’t go back to anything. I’ve changed — I know I have. When Jesse sees me, I won’t be some carefree surfer chick anymore.”

  “No,” I agree. “You’re different, but better, maybe.”

  “Rounder.”

  “Better.”

  “Balder.”

  “No. Better.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m lending you my parka.”

  “Partly,” I agree.

  But it’s so much more than that. I’m quite certain that no boy like Jesse could possibly be mean enough to split up with a girl like my sister at a time like this. Surely he wants to be with her? That must be it. He can help her out with the head-shaving ceremony while I’m in New York, and it will be wonderful. Then she’ll have him back in her life properly again. Though I�
��ll miss us being warrior princesses together, because it’s been very special for me. Not that I would ever have wished things to happen this way, but some of the side effects have been … strangely good.

  “What?” she asks, chewing on her fingernail.

  “I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

  “Oh, right,” she says, breaking into her movie-star smile and shaking off her Jesse mood. “I’ll miss you, too, T. But you’ll have such a fabulous time while you’re gone. Imagine — Ralph Lauren! Vera Wang! My si-ister is a supermod-el!”

  She does her dance around the room, waving a pair of leggings over her head.

  I wonder if life was ever this complicated for Lily Cole.

  Ava calls it NYC Day. The day I finally go to New York.

  It starts with not much sleep, increasing panic, huge discomfort, and a lot of excitement — so basically, it’s a typical day in fashion, as I’m learning. Frankie has arranged for me to travel with one of their more experienced girls, named Alexandra Black, so I’ll have a guide and some company. But Alexandra arrives horribly late to pick me up. We get to the airport with minutes to spare, have to run past all the amazing airport shops with the snazzy makeup I was hoping to look at, and our seats end up being the worst on the plane, jammed up against the loos at the back. I guess non-super models travel coach. Alexandra then spends seven of the almost eight hours of the flight telling me exactly how evil her latest boyfriend is for possibly going out with a girl named Rain who opened for Prada in Milan last season, and by the time we land at JFK we are both hobbling after being crammed into tiny seats with no legroom.

  At least there’s a limo, sent by the agency, to pick us up. It whisks us through a knot of expressways until the road rises up and suddenly — over to the left — there it is: the Manhattan skyline. Suddenly, I can’t quite believe that after all the stress and rush and drama, I’m really in New York. For the first time, I start to breathe normally and take it all in. I peer closer at the view, just to make sure it’s not a mirage.

  Alexandra yawns and stretches over to see what I’m looking at.

  “Oh, that,” she says.

  “Do you ever get used to it?”

  She yawns again. “Nope, not really. But now it always reminds me of jet lag. What are your plans, by the way? There’s a club in the Meatpacking District I thought I’d check out. You can tag along if you want.”

  I drag my eyes away from the magnificent skyscrapers outside my window. “I don’t think I’d be allowed,” I point out.

  She smiles. “I’m sure something could be arranged. You could pass for twenty-one with the right jacket. I’ve probably got one you could borrow.”

  “No, thanks; I’m meeting Tina di Gaggia,” I explain, grateful that Mum and Dad weren’t around to hear that little conversation. If they had been, I’d be on the next plane home.

  Alexandra’s eyebrows shoot up. “Tina? Oh my God. You’ve got Tina looking after you? That explains everything.”

  The limo takes us straight to Model City’s apartment in Manhattan. Alexandra says it’s not far from Washington Square Park. This doesn’t help me at all, as I’ve never heard of Washington Square Park, but she says it in such a way that I’m clearly supposed to look pleased, so I do.

  I’m expecting something a bit like Cassandra’s house, perhaps, except laid out horizontally in an apartment building. I picture rich velvets, fabulous paintings, and stunning views of famous places, like the Empire State Building. However, once we’ve squeezed ourselves into the tiny lift I discover that I’m wrong. So wrong.

  The apartment consists of a small sitting area and three bedrooms, with two bunk beds in each, and a view of another building’s fire escape. No velvet or paintings, just basic furniture, which you can’t really see because every spare surface is covered in clothes.

  “Welcome!” Alexandra says. “Isn’t it great? Awesome location. Who’s here, honeys? Alexandra’s home! And guess what? I’ve brought a girl who’s in with Tina di Gaggia! Woo!”

  I stay rooted to the spot for two solid minutes while I look around. It’s like being on a school trip, but without the teachers. The place is chaotic and smells strongly of boiled hot dogs, deodorant, and hair spray. The bathroom door swings open and inside is a girl standing at the sink, brushing her teeth, while, oh, totally naked. She turns around and waves a friendly “hi” to me. Naked. Totally. Apart from a scrunchie holding back her hair. I miss my mum.

  But I’ll bet one thing: It probably was like this for Lily Cole — and Linda Evangelista — at least to start with. Wait till I tell Ava. This is so not what she described when she tried to picture the model life. It makes our bedroom at home look positively palatial.

  “Message for you,” Alexandra calls out. “It was on your pillow. This is your bed, by the way.” She indicates a bottom bunk with a relatively uncrumpled duvet, which somebody is using as a temporary closet at the moment. It’s covered in miniskirts, jeans, ribbed tops, loose sweaters, and belted jackets. I’d happily wear almost any of it, but in the meantime I’m wondering how I’m supposed to sleep under it.

  I read the message, which is written on thick white paper decorated with a shocking pink picture of a shoe:

  WELCOME TO NEW YORK, PRINCESS!

  MEET YOU AT THE HELPMAN AT 3.

  TAKE A CAB.

  LOVE YOU!

  TINA

  I check my watch. The time difference is confusing. It already feels like evening to me, but when I look at the time it’s 2:30 PM in New York. That just gives me time to change into a fresh pair of jeans, touch up my lip gloss, and find a taxi that knows what and where The Helpman is. By the time we pull up outside a smart redbrick building, I have one minute to spare.

  In a way, it’s good to be in a rush, because it takes my mind off what’s happening tomorrow and the day after. Constantine & Reed. Rudolf Reissen. Viper. A bath full of snakes. I know I told Mum and Dad I was fine, but it’s pretty scary if I think about it, so I try not to.

  Instead, I take a quick breath and admire the building. It is not, in any way, a New York skyscraper. It’s only five stories high and, in fact, it looks like an old-fashioned warehouse, or a large school, maybe. It has arched windows, lots of ironwork, and a grand set of steps leading up to its double doors. I wish I had time to take a picture on my phone, but I don’t. Any second now I’ll be late, and that would be unprofessional.

  As I go up the steps, a young man in a green uniform appears from nowhere to open the door for me. Oh, I see. Not a school or a warehouse. The Helpman is a hotel. Of course.

  Inside, the lobby is dark and luxurious, smelling of sandal-wood and spices. In the middle of it, Tina is waiting for me, dressed in a black wool cloak and what look like purple yak-hair boots. There is a large, dark mauve shopping bag beside her, with MULBERRY printed discreetly in one corner. As soon as Tina sees me, she flings her cloak back over both shoulders and reaches up to air-kiss me.

  “DARLING! You made it! Welcome to my city! Oh my God! What is that on your shoulder? You need this.”

  We perch on a couple of nearby armchairs while I open the dark mauve bag. Inside it is a matching cotton bag, and inside that is the latest, must-have Mulberry tote.

  “It’s just a little something,” Tina says, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t thank me. I worked with them on it. It’s a little present for being so INCREDIBLE. And now — YOU. Today we prepare. Tomorrow we shoot. Then we do some go-sees and have fun, OK? Or rather, you do. I’ve got to fly to LA first thing because Tyra needs to talk to me, but you’re sixteen and you’ll be fine, princess, won’t you? You’ll have the TIME of your LIFE.”

  As she talks, she leads me across to the elevators and up to the fourth floor of the hotel. We emerge into a corridor that appears to be completely lined with marble. Marble floors, marble walls, even marble wall lamps. It leads to a marble-lined room furnished with six chrome-and-leather chairs facing a bank of mirrors. A hair salon. The poshest salon I could ever begin to ima
gine.

  “Meet Jake,” Tina says. “Jake Emerson. He’s doing you tomorrow so we’re coloring you today. You are going to be MAGNIFICENT.”

  Jake Emerson is small, like Tina, with big hair, tight jeans, a skinny blazer, and a wide grin.

  “Loving your bag,” he says, admiring my new tote. “Off you go, Miss G. She’ll be done in ninety minutes. Now, Ted, let me look at you. What a lovely face you have.”

  I like Jake. I like him a lot. He explains that his plan is to turn my hair into a particular shade of gold to match the Constantine & Reed logo. Then he gets a couple of assistants to apply chemicals and foil to my head under his guidance. At the moment, my hair is about an inch and a half at its longest. I wouldn’t have said there was enough to dye, but he seems confident that it will look good. His own hair is about six different shades of blond, styled into a messy pompadour, and looks great, which is encouraging. Meanwhile, he chats away about all the models he’s styled recently, and they include most of the girls I’ve heard of and several I haven’t. It is totally like sitting through an episode of America’s Next Top Model.

  The results are incredible. My hair is shining gold, glossy, and gorgeous. Very short, sure, but styled close to my head like a snug-fitting, burnished helmet. The best it’s ever looked in my life. I’m so grateful for my fabulous new head that I hardly know how to express it. Funnily enough, when Jake sees the happy, shocked look on my face, he’s the one with tears in his eyes.

  “I know, gorgeous, I know,” he says, hugging me in front of the mirror.

  The girl looking back at me is … quite arresting. Even better than I looked for the cover of i-D. I wonder what Tina has in mind for me next.

  She reemerges at the perfect moment and guides me down into the basement, where there’s a luxury spa. A woman in a pale green, Oriental-style jacket and cropped trousers leads me into a room playing soothing music, where I’m exfoliated, massaged, and generally pampered until I’m light-headed with the fabulousness of it all. That, and the hunger that comes from not having eaten since I was on the plane. In fact, I’m starting to get so hungry it’s even helping to take my mind off the thought of posing for Rudolf Reissen, which I suppose is a good thing.