The Look Page 22

  IT is teeny. It’s a thong. I could easily fit it in the palm of my hand.

  There’s a slight pause while the model (that would be me) does a double take. This season was all about volume. Everything I’ve worn on shoots so far has involved large amounts of voluminous fabric. This scrap of lace would fit through a buttonhole of a Miss Teen coat.

  “I think there must be a mistake,” I whisper.

  “No mistake,” Jo says. “Sexy, no? Shame no one’s going to see it. It’ll be covered in snakes. I’ve just seen ’em out there. Buckets of them.”

  This is a big relief.

  “Are you sure? I mean, sure? I’ll be covered up completely?”

  “Oh, yeah. This is just to give you the right feeling.”

  O-kaaay. What sort of feeling is a lacy thong supposed to give you? Apart from discomfort. I keep staring at it in the box. It will categorically be the smallest thing I have ever worn.

  Jake announces he’s finished with my hair for the time being. It’s time to get dressed. In the thong. There is nothing else.

  “Want me to help you on with it?” Jo asks.

  “NO!” I cough. “I mean, no, thank you. I’ll manage.”

  “Be careful with it. That lace is delicate, you know?”

  How does anyone help someone on with a THONG? I really don’t want to know. There seem to be loads of people hanging about in the changing area, so I slip into the bathroom and put it on there, very carefully, all by myself. Then I wrap myself back up in the huge terry-cloth bathrobe they gave me and wonder how on earth people like Cally Harvest wear thongs to school every day for pleasure.

  It would be so great if Ava were here now, to tease me about it and show me how to make it marginally less uncomfortable. I’ll just have to remember the moment, so I can describe it in all its gory detail when I get home. Hopefully it will cheer her up a bit after the whole Jesse fiasco. I wonder how she’s feeling about it now.

  But I don’t have time to think about it too much. By the time I’m ready, Rudolf has got the set prepared to his satisfaction. I go over to the bathtub, which is now half full of thin, rubbery snakes, with another couple of buckets of them on standby. Certainly enough to cover me up. I have never been so glad to see so many fake reptiles. Only trouble is — how do I get under them without everybody staring?

  Jo senses my embarrassment, and somehow manages to get Eric, Rudolf, Diane, and the technicians to wait on the other side of the room. I like her slightly more now. She holds up the bathrobe for me as a screen while I step in and snuggle under the snakes, then she heaps more of them on top of me until I’m pretty much buried in them. Actually, now it’s not so bad. They’re warm under the lights and they cover me like a comfortable duvet. After my rubbish night, it would be fabulous to just lie here and go to sleep. But you don’t get paid this much money for falling asleep in the bath.

  “Ready?” Eric calls.

  “Uh-huh,” Jo calls back.

  Gradually, everyone heads back to the set. I keep snuggled while Eric checks the light levels and Rudolf orders his assistants around, barking instructions.

  I’m in a studio in Manhattan, lit by a dozen lights and hi-tech reflectors. Miranda is on hand to check that my face has the perfect level of shimmer. Jake is watching my hair like a hawk, in case a strand gets out of place. Jo is carefully arranging snakes around me. Now Rudolf is having a muttered conversation with Diane, occasionally glancing in my direction.

  So this is what it’s like to be a top model. Hot, nerve-wracking — and quite smelly; those rubber snakes are getting ripe under the lights. In fact, I’m just starting to wonder whether I can do it when Eric calls for the sound track to be changed. It switches from jazz to a familiar New Wave drumbeat. Oh my goodness: Blondie — just for me. The room is suddenly filled with Debbie Harry singing “Rapture.” Eric catches my eye and winks at me. This is exactly what I needed: New York and Daisy combined. He’s a seriously lovely guy.

  We’re ready. Diane sits by the monitor, poised to check the shots as Rudolf takes them.

  “OK!” he says. “Ted, this is where you give me that viper stare. Show me why you’re the hottest girl in New York. Sit up a bit. More shoulder. Let’s have some fun here.”

  It’s tricky, propping myself up among the snakes, making sure the right amounts of knee and shoulder are showing, and ensuring my eyes are reflecting the lights properly. When I’m ready, I empty my head of everything except Xena and flash him the warrior look.

  Rudolf smiles back, but his expression is polite, rather than ecstatic. Oh.

  After a few shots, he goes to join Diane at the monitor. She looks very prim in her smart jacket and French-braided hair. She should try sitting in a bath in a thong. She and Rudolf talk in low voices for a moment or two. They don’t sound like happy low voices.

  “OK, people, we need to get rid of some of the snakes,” Rudolf announces. “Ted looks like she’s drowning in oil here.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t my fault. Eric comes over, smiles at me apologetically, and gently scoops a few snakes out of the bath. Rudolf checks through his viewfinder.

  “More. More. Still looking like oil.”

  Eric scoops. The pile of snakes on the floor beside him keeps growing, and another technician quickly moves in to get them out of the way. My rubber duvet becomes more of a blanket. My upper chest starts to show, as do my legs, up to the thigh, and some of my stomach. I take a quick peek at my body. It’s the equivalent of being in a bikini. A strapless bikini. At least no one can see the thong. I think. But now Eric’s gone and I’m looking at the camera again for Rudolf, trying to give him that magic shot of my eyes.

  Concentrate. Concentrate, Viper Girl.

  We get through several Blondie songs, but Rudolf still isn’t really happy.

  “OK, I’m bored now, baby. Don’t glare at me, smolder. This Viper Girl isn’t an ice queen, she’s a volcano. Smolder at me, baby.”

  I pause, confused. I’ve never been a volcano before, and when I try and imagine it the first image that comes to mind is too-spicy Thai takeout. Surely that’s not what Rudolf’s after. “Volcano” feels a lot like “vamping,” and that wasn’t exactly my finest moment. This isn’t what it felt like with Eric. This is bigger and more complicated and altogether more … exposed. I wish Tina were here to give me inspiration. And maybe she could explain about her brother. Surely she wouldn’t lie to my parents about something that important? It’s still bothering me.

  “Focus!” Rudolf calls. “Where are you, Viper Girl? Look at me. Come on, honey — smolder! What’s the problem?”

  I’m glad he’s asked. “Actually,” I say, “I imagined this girl more like a warrior than a volcano. You know — brave, and hot, of course, but not too …”

  Sleazy. I mean sleazy. Can I say sleazy?

  “Not too what?” Rudolf asks in very clipped tones. He’s not showing his teeth for once because he’s not smiling at me now. Not at all.

  “Too … smoldery.”

  Smoldery. What a stupid word. No wonder he’s frowning.

  “OK,” he says, in a tone I haven’t heard before. “We’ll do it your way. How you imagined her. Because the editor of Elle hired you to do a shoot last month, didn’t she? Because you’ve just got back from shooting ten pages for Russian Vogue in Siberia. Oh wait, no. That was me.”

  He laughs, and the crew laughs with him.

  I feel exactly the way I felt back on Knicker Day. Or, actually, a thousand times worse. My eyes are stinging. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever feel that way again. Where is Xena when I need her? Miranda comes over and pretends to fiddle with my glitter.

  “Ignore him,” she whispers. “He gets very sensitive. But you need to go with his vision. It’ll be lovely, promise.”

  So I go back to trying to smolder, ignoring the fact that snakes are falling off me left, right, and center, and that the smell of hot rubber is making me feel slightly sick, and that if only I could do my
warrior stare properly, I’m sure we’d get a much better picture. Rudolf runs off a few more frames, but he keeps going over to the monitor and looking disappointed.

  “I’m sorry!” I call out. “I’m sorry. I’ve lost it. Can … can we stop for a minute?”

  He sighs, checks his watch, and puts the camera down. It’s obvious that I’m wasting everyone’s very valuable time.

  Jo, the stylist, comes over. “What do you need, babe? Can I get you anything?”

  I shake my head. “Just my robe.” She holds it for me while I climb out of the tub and head for the changing room. Diane joins us there, smoothing down her Armani skirt and looking worried.

  “What’s the problem? Aren’t you feeling well?” she asks.

  “This isn’t what I expected,” I explain. “He wants something … different. I know how to be a warrior, but not a volcano. I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Of course you can!” Diane says firmly. “You can do more than one expression, surely? You really shone in those test shots. You’re perfect for the brand. You’ve just got to be professional, that’s all.”

  There’s an edge to her voice now, too. But she sees the look in my eyes, and the wobble on my lip, and somehow she squeezes out an encouraging smile.

  “Come on! You’ll enjoy it.” She stretches out a hand to flick a tear from the corner of my eye. “Thousands of girls would crawl over their grandmothers to work with Rudolf. I know it feels like he’s pushing you, but that’s because he wants a great picture. It’s not just an ad campaign — it’s art. You just have to be brave and take a risk, Ted. That’s how you get noticed.”

  Five minutes and three chocolate-dipped strawberries later, I’m back under the lights, having my hair and makeup tweaked, and being professional. The snakes are rearranged over me. Not so many snakes now. Maybe a string bikini’s worth. A crotcheted string bikini. I look down to check that nothing’s showing and it isn’t — just. But even Dad hasn’t seen me in this little covering since I was small. If Dean Daniels could … Ew. Sick, definitely. The thought makes me nauseous. And they want to put the picture on the back of a million magazines …

  Eric gives Rudolf a thumbs-up. Blondie goes back up to full volume.

  “Better,” Rudolf says. “Go again. OK now, gorgeous, I’m getting the scary glare. Enough of that. I need more smolder. Think of your boyfriend. Think of that good-bye kiss he gave you …”

  Out of nowhere, I think of Nick. I instantly remember every word of his call last night, and how wrong he was about Ava, and how furious he made me. Rudolf looks up from his camera, horrified. “OK, not him. We need something … someone … Who’s hot around here?”

  “Hey!” Diane giggles, still staring straight into the monitor. I had no idea she could giggle. She’s so not the giggling type. “No need to ask, Rude.”

  Everyone laughs. I wonder why. Then I catch sight of Eric out of the corner of my eye. He’s shrugging and looking slightly embarrassed, but only slightly. He’s clearly used to being told how cute he is, and I’m not surprised, because he really is the most adorable —

  “THERE! That’s IT!” Rudolf whips the camera back into position and starts snapping. “How does that look, Diane? Hold it there, baby.”

  He goes over to check the monitor again, while I try to maintain my expression. I do my best. I really do. I think of the money. I try to pretend I’m not staring at the fiancé of some supermodel I’ve never met, and that a room full of fashion professionals now know that I secretly fancy him. And that I’m not doing semi-naked in a bath of smelly fake reptiles. While wearing a lacy thong. And pretending to be a volcano. And that I’m not TOTALLY MORTIFIED.

  I want to be professional. I tell my brain to tell my eyes to smolder. Instead, my brain goes off on its own and thinks about Ava. She said exactly the same thing to Jesse that she said to me: Go do what you want to do — it’s better this way. But she didn’t mean it about Jesse — she missed him desperately while he was away. So of course she didn’t mean it about me, either. She’s frightened and alone right now, and she needs me more than ever. And instead here I am, practically nude, in a bath full of hot snakes, “smoldering,” because I somehow got talked into “finding myself.” I mean, honestly. Where was I?

  And then suddenly it hits me.

  From the moment I put that thong on, I’ve been disappearing.

  I’m in a room full of people and they’re all staring at my face and body as if their lives depended on it (and maybe their jobs really do), and none of them understands how I feel. This isn’t like working with Eric, or the kite-tail designer. I might as well be a piece of expensive fruit.

  Meanwhile, my sister is coping with chemo, radiotherapy, that terrible “ten percent,” and a broken heart, with only my parents for company. Mum will no doubt be crying. I can hardly bear to think what Dad will have broken by now. Without Jesse, I’m all Ava has. The warrior princesses. We were starting to make a real team.

  “Oh, COME ON!” Rudolf says, coming back from the monitor and looking through his viewfinder again. “Concentrate! It’s one simple expression, baby. Surely even your tiny brain cells can process it for ten shots!”

  My “tiny brain” is getting angry now, but I can’t help more tears of frustration from forming. The lens picks them up instantly. Rudolf hands the camera to an assistant and storms off, exasperated. “Deal with her and tell me when she’s ready.”

  I think I just found myself.

  I ask Jo for my robe again. Turns out Daisy was right about “standing around in your undies” after all. I loved being Xena, but Xena doesn’t do this. Any day that starts with a self-conscious girl and a lacy thong is liable to end badly. Diane was right, too: I just have to be brave and take a risk.

  An hour later, I’m on a ferry that goes around Liberty Island, with sea spray in my hair and tourists staring first at my green-and-gold face, then at the Statue of Liberty, then back at me. It’s New York. Anything goes.

  I get out my fancy new iPhone to dial Ava’s number. But she’s not answering, so I call home.

  “Hello?” Dad’s voice. I could cry with relief.

  “Hi,” I say, sounding as cheerful as I can.

  “Ted? Is that you? How’s it going?”

  “Fabulous,” I lie firmly. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. “Where’s Ava?”

  “She went out,” Dad says. “Ages ago. She seemed very … Don’t worry about it. Have a great time, love.”

  Oh, God — Ava’s so bad that he’s trying to spare me by not talking about it.

  “Will do. Tell her … Give her lots of love from me and tell her I’ll see her as soon as I can. And Dad? She’s got this new thing for butterscotch ice cream. Can you make sure we’ve got some in the fridge?”

  “Of course. Butterscotch. Bye, love,” Dad says, sounding puzzled. He doesn’t like long-distance phone calls. I think a part of him still lives in Civil War times. Complicated technology makes him nervous. Plus, why did I call him from New York to talk about ice cream? Poor Dad. I can’t explain it to him right now. Ava needs a whole lot more than the right flavor of ice cream, but from this far away, it’s the best I can do.

  I put the phone back in the new Mulberry tote that I so haven’t earned, and slump back into my seat on the ferry. I’m not Xena anymore. I’ve used up all her energy and she’s gone. Instead, I start replaying the last hour’s worth of conversations in my head.

  Me finding Rudolf and explaining, very politely, that I can be a warrior princess, but I can’t be a sexy volcano, because I don’t know how and I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into, and I really have to get home because my family needs me.

  Rudolf storming off again and shouting at Eric, someone, anyone to deal with me.

  Diane, desperate, reminding me about my contract and trying to get Model City on the phone. Then Diane, disgusted, explaining exactly how much money the shoot is costing and how much I’m costing them with my “silly, selfish, juvenile,
unprofessional” attitude.

  Eric telling me earnestly that thousands of girls would run through fire for the chance of this shoot, and assuring me that it’s “artistically valid,” or he wouldn’t have put me up for it. Me agreeing to every point. It’s just a shame that Rudolf’s idea of “artistic” is my idea of “sick.” In a bad way.

  Rudolf, storming back in, seeing me still in my robe, threatening to sue Model City and me, and shouting at me that he’ll personally see to it that I never work again. I’m just a model. I do what I’m told. Without the photographer, the model is nothing. He can’t have his whole schedule turned upside down because the stupid girl wasn’t listening when the shoot was explained to her.

  Diane, on the phone, already trying to book another model at short notice.

  Miranda saying, “This way.”

  She guided me back into the changing room and found my clothes for me. She offered to help take the makeup off, but I was too desperate to get out of the building to wait. As I dragged my jeans and sweater on, she was full of reassuring noises about how I’d get over it, and so would Rudolf, and it was just his temperamental genius that made him do all that shouting. Then she hugged me to her, just like Mum, and kissed the top of my head.

  If I ever worked in New York again — which I never will — she’s the makeup girl I’d ask for. She’s the one who told me about the ferry, slipped me some dollars, and suggested I sneak out the back door to get some air. She was right. I really don’t need the others flapping around me right now, reminding me how much trouble I’m in.

  The ferry trip is just what I need to start breathing again after what happened in the studio. The sea spray cools my face. The chugging noise of the boat is reassuring. And Lady Liberty herself reminds me that a woman can look bold and brave and inspirational without having to smolder, or do it in a thong. I’d look ridiculous in a bikini anyway: three triangles on a plank of wood. What was Simon thinking when he spotted me?