The Look Read online

  Even so, when Tina comes to collect me this time I point out that I could really do with something to eat.

  She looks surprised, then checks her watch.

  “OK. I guess it’s later than I thought. Let’s go find something.”

  That’s a relief. The cab passed loads of yummy-looking little restaurants, cafés, and diners on the way here. I can’t wait to explore.

  “What do you feel like?” Tina asks.

  I shrug. “Anything. Honestly. A burger, maybe?”

  She shudders slightly. “How about a chicken club sandwich? I used to live on those in Brooklyn.”

  “Brilliant,” I agree.

  “I know the perfect place.”

  We head out of the hotel at top speed, back down the steps and past all the places I spotted on the way here, where yummy smells keep making my tummy rumble. Finally we get to a narrow, glass-fronted building with no sign on the door.

  “Marcus’s,” Tina says with a triumphant smile. “Opened last month. EVERYBODY is trying to get in here. Follow me.”

  This doesn’t look like my idea of a restaurant. Apple store, possibly, but not the sort of place you might find food. Inside, there’s a tiny reception area and a sweeping staircase leading downward. I peer over the banister to see a vast room sprinkled with small tables, uniformed waiters, and customers in suits and expensive dresses. The air is full of the sound of tinkling glasses and loud conversation.

  “Isn’t it FABULOUS?” Tina shouts at me over the general noise.

  It looks daunting. I would so much rather be in McDonald’s, but that would be ungrateful. I stick with Tina as she wangles us a table, and wait while she orders.

  “Two chicken club sandwiches,” she says to the waiter who’s in charge of our table. He’s dressed in a dinner jacket and bow tie, and looks ready for a night at the opera. He doesn’t look like the sort of man to serve sandwiches, and sure enough, his lip curls as he points out that the chef doesn’t do them.

  Tina flicks a hand dismissively.

  “He does for me. Tell him it’s Tina, and I want them the way he did them at Soho House. But extra arugula, only heirloom tomatoes, and hold the mayo. And this place is GORGEOUS. I’m telling all my friends about it. This is Ted Richmond, by the way. She’s going to be the next hot thing in New York. Don’t you just LOVE her?”

  The waiter gives me a second glance, and this time his look lingers. I think he’s admiring my hair. It is truly amazing tonight and I don’t blame him. I give him a friendly smile and not long afterward he reappears bearing plates piled high with several layers of chicken, toast, and salad in a complicated arrangement. By now, my grin is dazzling. I really need this food.

  “Isn’t it heavenly?” Tina says, picking the chicken out of her sandwich with her fingers. “I always love it when a new place opens. It’s almost impossible to get a table here, but you’ll be able to, princess, because they’ll remember you now. Don’t eat that.”

  She takes my sandwich from my hand (where I’ve rather inelegantly been trying to squish the thing together — but how else are you supposed to eat it?) and removes the toast, piece by piece. She puts the pieces on her side plate, and puts the chicken and salad back on my plate with her fork.

  “Why?” I ask. It’s not as if I have a gluten intolerance or anything. I assumed she did. I mean, we’re both super-skinny. It’s not as if we need to lose weight.

  “Carbs,” she says simply.

  “But I need them,” I explain. “I’m starving.”

  “You won’t be after all that chicken.”

  “I will.”

  I don’t like arguing with Tina, but I hate arguing with my stomach even more, and a few bits of chicken and tomato aren’t going to keep it happy right now — not at all.

  Tina puts her fork down and sighs. “I don’t want you to have a little pouch for Rudy tomorrow. God forbid. And you’re going to have to learn to eat in moderation, princess. Look over there.”

  She indicates a woman at a nearby table with slightly wide hips in tight wool trousers, and shudders.

  “But I have to eat,” I explain. “I’m still growing.”

  “Sure,” Tina says, waving the waiter over to take the plate of toast away — it’s obviously bothering her. “But one day you’ll stop. And then you’ll have to manage every pound. Hours at the gym. Total carb awareness. It’s best to start now, so you get into good habits. There’s nothing wrong with being a little bit hungry. Cuts down on the gym time. We don’t want you obese.”

  She makes it sound so reasonable, but my stomach strongly disagrees. In fact, I’m not really sure what else we talk about for the rest of the meal because mostly I’m trying to keep it from rumbling. I’m even distracted when she bids me good-bye, wishes me good luck for tomorrow, and reminds me to get an early night. And the second I get back to the apartment I race to the kitchen and eat half a pack of Oreos that I find at the back of a cupboard.

  Then, suddenly, everything feels much better. I find my bed, dislodge the clothes on it and park them on someone else’s duvet, and change into a comfy sweater. In the living room, a couple of girls are watching America’s Most Wanted on TV. I wonder if it’s going to be like America’s Next Top Model, but it turns out to be about serial killers. Even so, there’s something relaxing about being with the other girls, sitting quietly, not doing much. It reminds me of all the times I’ve sat next to Ava watching detective shows and old movies. She was seeing Jesse tonight. I wonder how they’re getting on.

  I hug my knees and shiver. It’s hard to believe I’m doing this in New York.

  Eventually one of the girls looks around crossly. Somebody’s phone keeps ringing. It has a familiar, high-pitched tone and I’m surprised that nobody gets it, but it’s only after about thirty seconds that I realize it’s mine. Not the new, fancy iPhone that Model City lent me for my stay here, but my old, half-broken Sony, buried in the bottom of my old bag. Mum’s already called me on the new phone to check I’m OK, so I wonder who’d be calling me on this one. With all the international codes tossed in, I don’t recognize the number.

  “Daisy?” I ask, amazed that she would risk spending so much money on a long-distance phone call.

  “Hi, Ted? It’s Nick. Nick Spoke.”

  “Nick? Nick? Er, hi.”

  Oh wow! He’s phoning me in New York. I mean, why? But wow! I try to slow my heart rate and sound cool and sophisticated, not panicked and confused.

  “I’m sorry it’s so late,” he says, after a pause.

  I check my watch, confused as ever. “It’s not that late.”

  “It’s one in the morning!”

  “No it isn’t.” I say. “It’s eight at night.”

  “What? Where are you?”

  “New York,” I explain. “Why —?”

  “New York? You’re in New York?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a shoot in the morning.”

  “Oh. Right.” He sounded anxious before. Now he sounds totally cold. Absolutely Nightmare Boy again. “I see. I was calling to find out why your sister split up with Jesse just now. He’s staying here and he just told me. But I guess if you’re in New York, that doesn’t concern you very much.”

  “What? No! You’ve got it wrong,” I insist, quickly going into the bathroom of the apartment where I can get a bit of privacy. I lock the door and crouch in the shower stall — there isn’t a bathtub — hunched down in the corner with my knees around my ears. “Jesse must have split up with Ava. How could he do that to her?”

  There’s another pause on the line. “No,” Nick says in a clipped, hard voice. “I think Jesse got it pretty straight. The bit where she said to him, ‘I’ve changed. We can’t do this anymore.’ Plus the bit where she told him not to call her. I’d say that was her splitting with him, wouldn’t you? He’s in pieces here. I had to find out what her problem was.”

  Oh, no. I see it clearly now. Poor Ava. She’s been fending Jesse off all this time, worried that he’ll be put off by
her puffy face and tired bones. And now she’s taken it too far.

  “She didn’t mean it,” I start to explain. “When she says she’s changed, she means she thinks he won’t love her anymore. She’s just frightened. But I’m sure she’s wrong. Surely he’s —”

  “Hang on,” Nick says. “So, you’re in New York?”

  “Yes. I said so.”

  “Which means you’re not going to be around for this head-shaving ceremony thing Ava’s doing? Jesse told me all about it. I thought that was partly your idea. D’you know what? I was pretty impressed by that. I thought you were different …”

  “Well, I —”

  “… and you are, come to think of it. I’ve met some pretty evil models in my time, but you totally take the cake. I mean, not being there for a bunch of kids with cancer? That’s a classic. Congratulations.”

  He laughs. He actually laughs.

  I am so angry by now that I can’t even speak. I have to breathe deeply for a second or two before I can get any words out.

  “Listen, Nick. It was Ava who wanted me to come here. She loves that I got this job. The timing was rubbish, but that’s not my fault. And what right do you think you have to tell me what to do —?”

  But I’m pretty sure he hung up on me after “Listen, Nick.” The line is empty. I’m pouring my fury into nothingness somewhere halfway across the Atlantic.

  I sit for ages in the shower stall, shaking, until somebody knocks loudly on the door and makes it clear the bathroom is public property. Then I crawl into my pajamas and under my borrowed, scratchy duvet smelling of someone else’s perfume, and lie there, still shaking, while Alexandra climbs into bed above me, and her breathing gradually modulates into sleep.

  Or at least, it does to start. Soon she’s snoring like an express train going through a tunnel. Normally I’d mind, but tonight it doesn’t make any difference. Nick’s rudeness and bitterness and pigheadedness are infinitely more annoying than any noise she could make.

  Who does he think he is? He doesn’t understand how small my role was at the hospital. He doesn’t get how important this job is for me. It’s my big chance to prove myself — to do something creative and be a real part of the world where people make jackets out of kite tails and dress up like Mongolian warriors. To find myself as a person, Tina said.

  If I have a successful career, I can help everyone. Sure, I wish I didn’t have to do it right here, right now, but I don’t have any choice. I want to be amazing and make my sister proud of me. She wrote me a note and put it in my bag: “Carpe Diem” — Seize the Day. What else was I supposed to do? I didn’t know she was going to do something stupid like break up with the love of her life the minute I stepped on an airplane.

  I hate Nick Spoke. More than Cally Harvest and Dean Daniels squared. I truly loathe him.

  Eventually, I hear two of the girls come in from a club, giggling and wondering how it can already be 2:30 in the morning. I can guarantee I’m not going to be looking my best first thing tomorrow, and it’s entirely Nick’s fault.

  “My God, I have a pair of Prada stilettos this color, and it’s not pretty under your eyes. Electric blue. What were you doing last night?”

  Miranda, my makeup girl, is not impressed.

  “Trying to sleep,” I say. “I wasn’t out clubbing, promise.”

  She purses her lips and checks her supplies for a thicker concealer. “Boyfriend trouble, huh?”

  I shake my head violently.

  “Oh, yeah?” She smiles. “I know that look. That’s the look that says, ‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ And that definitely means boyfriend trouble.”

  She laughs in a friendly way and doesn’t seem to mind my grim expression, which means she’s got it so wrong about me and Nick. Not that I’m going to tell her about Nick. How could anybody be that cruel? Anyway, Ava sent me a good-luck text this morning, saying how happy she is for me and how FABULOUS it’s going to be today, which only goes to show how wrong Nick Spoke is about everything.

  Ava’s right. I’m in New York, in the studio of a top photographer, surrounded by makeup people, stylists, perfume-marketing people, assistants, technicians, and even a girl whose sole job seems to be to make sure I’m topped up with chocolate-covered strawberries to keep my energy levels going. I was whisked here first thing this morning by another chauffeur-driven limo, which arrived with fresh bagels, courtesy of Frankie’s counterpart at Model City New York. (Pure carbs. Thank goodness Tina wasn’t in the car with me.) There’s jazz on the sound system, I can see the Statue of Liberty through the window if I crane my neck slightly from the makeup chair, and everybody LOVES my hair. Even the dark circles under my eyes are nothing that several layers of Touche Éclat can’t cure. I am Xena again — I’m about to go on billboards and the back of every magazine you’ve ever heard of.

  I am, it’s true, slightly in awe of Rudolf Reissen. He met me at the door of the studio and radiated the gorgeous male beauty of Tom Ford combined with the boundless energy of Tom Cruise. He should really be in a magazine himself, or on a movie screen. In real life he’s just too … big … somehow. He looked me deep in the eyes, kissed my hand lingeringly, and murmured, “Oh, yes. I can’t wait to work with you, Viper Girl.”

  I had to resist the urge to giggle. But the urge soon disappeared when I saw the size of Rudolf’s studio — bigger than our whole flat put together — the number of people moving around, the amount of expensive equipment and cables everywhere, and the massive oval bathtub at one end of the room. It’s set up on a stage with ladders around it, so Rudolf can capture it from every angle. Perfect for Rudolf, but a bit intimidating for a schoolgirl from South London who would have quite liked her mum to hold her hand at that point and tell her it was all going to be OK.

  Luckily, Eric Bloch came over, wandering across the cable-covered floors in a typical crumpled shirt and bare feet, and greeted me like an old friend. It was so good to see him. He introduced me to Miranda and she brought me to the dressing area at the back, where everything seems quieter and not so, as Tina would put it, INSANE.

  Miranda has a mood board that she created for Rudolf showing how my viper makeup will look. It involves a lot of shimmery lipstick, green and gold eye shadow, and fake lashes. I watch in the mirror as my face is gradually transformed into something glittering and beguiling. A girl called Candy comes in to paint my nails to match. While they work, we chat.

  “So, who else have you worked with?” Miranda asks.

  “Hardly anyone,” I admit. “My first proper shoot was for Eric and that was only a few weeks ago.”

  “Really?” Miranda muses. “My God, what happened? Who did you … I mean, you must know some pretty influential people to get this gig.”

  “I do. Tina di Gaggia.”

  She nods. “Gotcha. That is one seriously crazy lady.”

  “Did you know she used to be just a nerdy kid from Brooklyn?” Candy chimes in.

  “Uh-huh, she told me,” I say, remembering the conversation from the yacht with a smile.

  “She went to high school with my cousin,” Candy goes on. “One day: geeky girl in glasses; next day: hello, Vogue. She was like Ugly Betty, but in, like, one episode, not four seasons.”

  “She said her brother loved it when she transformed herself,” I add.

  Candy pauses and squints at my freshly green-painted thumbnail. “Brother? What brother?”

  “The one who died.”

  She purses her lips. “Nuh-uh. No brother.”

  “Oh, yes, there was one,” I assure her, surprised she doesn’t know this bit of the story. “He had a brain tumor. It was awful.”

  “Not sure where you got that one from, sweetie.” Candy frowns, starting the next nail. “My cousin knew her for years. Totally an only child. Can’t you tell?”

  “Now, close your eyes,” Miranda interrupts, “’cause I’m going to dust some stuff onto you.”

  I sit there with my eyes closed, feeling confused. How could I possibly have misun
derstood something as basic as whether Tina had a brother or not? She seemed to say it so clearly. I thought that conversation was important. It was all about me coming out of my chrysalis, wasn’t it? Finding myself as a person. Now I’m not so sure what it was about at all. I wish Tina wasn’t in LA right now, so I could check.

  By the time Miranda and Candy have finished, my own mother would have to look twice to be sure it was me. I’m green and gold, glittery and dangerous. I look slightly reptilian, but in a hot way. It’s otherworldly and absolutely NOT like my Uncle Bill the Royal Marine, or anyone who could possibly have the surname of Trout, or the nickname of Friday. I look like an artwork. Miranda is very, very good at what she does.

  Jake Emerson arrives, accompanied by an assistant, and proceeds to burnish my pale gold hair to an extra shine, adjusting almost every strand. When he’s working on it, a woman with scraped-back hair, in head-to-toe Armani, comes over to introduce herself. She’s named Diane, and she’s in charge of Viper’s advertising campaign. She’s very quiet and very intense, and everyone else in the room seems as scared of her as I am. She is the client today and the most important person in the place after Rudolf. However, even Diane seems to love my hair and makeup. Good.

  Next, a much younger girl in an old sweatshirt and jeans comes over. She’s Jo, the chief stylist, whose job is to look after my outfit. With a smile, she holds out a fairly small, flat box.

  “You’re gonna love this,” she says. “It’s from Myla, it’s pure French lace, and it cost a couple hundred dollars. And you get to keep it!” She removes some tissue paper and lifts it carefully out of the box. It is flesh-colored, delicate, and, in its way, very beautiful. There is only one teeny problem with it.