The Look Page 4

  “I can’t believe that Shane Matthews is trying to hit on Ava at a time like this,” she mutters, disgusted. “Doesn’t he know she has a boyfriend? What did the consultant say, by the way? She is coming back to school, isn’t she?”

  I nod. “She’s just taking a few days out to get used to it and have some tests. He said to keep living as normally as possible.”

  “Like you feel so normal right now,” Daisy says, oozing with sarcasm.

  She’s right. I can’t even remember what normal’s supposed to feel like. All I feel now is empty, as we wait for the next piece of information, so we can figure out what to do.

  In class this morning our homeroom teacher, Mr. Willis, told everyone what had happened while I was taken to the guidance counselor for a chat about my feelings, which was a bit of a waste of time for us both, because emptiness is a difficult feeling to describe. However, it added a new one — which was guilt about feeling empty, instead of whatever feelings I’m supposed to have. I could have talked about that, but I didn’t, because by then it was time to go back to class, where everyone stared at me with their mouths literally hanging open. It wasn’t the best start to the day.

  Meanwhile, more cute boys pass by the grassy knoll to pay their respects. Thank goodness I’m sitting here in Ava’s borrowed skirt and not my micro-mini. I feel like a walking condolence-book-cum-dating-site. I suppose I could try and describe that to the guidance counselor next time, but I don’t think it’s the kind of feeling she was looking for.

  The bell rings. Daisy and I get up. We have a math exam any minute. Why they take the month of June, the most glorious in the whole English calendar, and fill it with exams every year of your school life, I can’t begin to imagine.

  “How’s Ava coping, by the way?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s pretty quiet. She seems so calm but she must be feeling so … It’s like she’s avoiding it. I heard her telling Jesse how much she’ll miss the beach this summer, but that’s all. Mum’s in tears every five minutes, though. And Dad accidentally broke his watch.”

  “And you?”

  I use the fact that we’ve arrived at our math room as an excuse not to answer. Because when we got back from the hospital on Saturday, I was distracted. Perhaps I just didn’t want to think about the bad news conversation, but I couldn’t help remembering that logo in Marie Claire, and Simon the not-a-scammer-after-all, and what he said to me on Carnaby Street.

  I keep trying to make sense of the whole “have you thought about being a model” thing, and I still can’t do it. Mum caught me staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, and wondered if I was getting a zit. I said I was, because it was easier than explaining that I was trying to find any passing resemblance between me and Kate Moss. Or the girl on the cover of Marie Claire. Or indeed anyone in a magazine who’s not there as the “before” picture in a cosmetic surgery ad.

  I know it’s selfish and irrelevant, but I just wish I knew what Simon meant, and why he picked me of all people to say it to.

  At night, Ava can’t sleep. Neither can I. I hear her constantly changing position in bed on the other side of the room. Her skin itches and makes her uncomfortable. One of the symptoms we didn’t pay enough attention to, like the fevers and night sweats. Her body has been trying to tell her something for a long time.

  “Are you hot?” I whisper.

  “A little.”

  There’s silence for a while.

  “Ava?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you OK?”

  Long sigh. “What do you think?”

  More silence, while I make a mental note not to ask my sister if she’s OK. Ever. Again. Idiot.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  She shifts about to face the closet next to her bed. “Just don’t talk to me about it, OK? Talk to me about something else. Tree hugging? Daisy’s latest band obsession? I don’t know — anything.”

  Oh, right. Fine. I wasn’t going to mention it, but since she asked …

  “Er, actually, there was something. Ava, what if that Simon guy turned out to be for real?”

  “Simon who?” she grunts crossly.

  I lean up on one elbow and whisper more loudly.

  “Simon from Carnaby Street. The scout. What if he actually meant it — that stuff about me? What if it wasn’t a scam?”

  There’s a sudden rustle, then a click. The bedside light comes on. Ava’s sitting bolt upright in bed and staring straight at me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. I mean, he might have been having a joke or something. But his agency’s real — Model City. I checked out their website. It’s got this famous girl called Isabelle Carruthers who’s on loads of magazines and … I dunno … not Lily Cole, but other people you’ve heard of.”

  “What? Really? That never occurred to me.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Sorry. It’s just … Holly went on about those scammers last year. And I just assumed …”

  “I know,” I sigh. I don’t blame her. Of course, if he’d picked on Ava, we’d both have assumed he was real.

  “I guess every once in a while they must be genuine,” she goes on. “Or how would they find people? I used to dream about modeling, you know. A bit. Secretly. Before I met Jesse.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Her smile widens. “Me and Louise. Imagine the clothes … The makeup. Looking your best all the time. Getting your hair done. Meeting celebrities. Traveling on private jets. Practically living in Paris. The clothes …”

  “You said the clothes.”

  “I know. Practically living in Milan. Practically living in New York. The money. The clothes …”

  It sounds exhausting. All that changing outfits, apart from anything else.

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, first of all, I discovered surfing. After you’ve had that rush, nothing else compares.”

  She pauses, clearly thinking back to last summer and remembering the rush.

  “And?”

  “Oh, and Jesse said he’d never date a model in a million years.”

  “Why?”

  She ponders for a minute. “He never said. I didn’t ask him. He just seemed pretty certain about it. Besides, he said that although I’m perfect in every way — for him — I’d be too short for anything top-modelish. You have to be at least five foot nine or something, and I’m five seven.”

  This is odd. Jesse is a surf dude who lives in Cornwall. “How does he even know?”

  She shrugs again. “No idea. He knows lots of weird stuff.”

  Her goofy smile returns. Now she’s thinking about the surfing rush and the Jesse rush. Then her expression changes again and she looks at me, head cocked, thoughtfully.

  “Anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. Come to think of it, it all adds up. I watched a program about models once, and they said the girls they pick aren’t necessarily the ones you’d think of. They need people who are … unusual. They have to have a special look. And they did mention the minimum height thing. You must be five eleven by now.”

  “So Simon picked me because I’m freakishly tall.”

  “And freakishly thin. And didn’t he say he thought you looked gorgeous?”

  “No. He said ‘amazing.’”

  “Whatever. Get over yourself, T!”

  “You were just saying I could be a model!”

  There’s silence again. Ava’s plotting something while she examines one of her perfect fingernails.

  “Yeah, actually,” she says eventually, with rising excitement in her voice. “If that guy was for real, you could! It would be SO COOL. You could get lots of free stuff and give me some of it. You could tell me about the celebrities, what they’re like behind the scenes, the tricks of the trade —”

  “And take drugs and get anorexia,” I remind her, thinking of Mum.

  She snorts. “They can’t all do it. Besides, Mum would never let
you get anorexia. She practically force-feeds us as it is. Anyway, you eat like a horse. If you had to go more than twenty minutes without a cookie, you’d keel over.”

  This is true. However, Ava has put her finger on the other flaw in her plan, apart from the fact that I am neither beautiful nor clinically insane: Mum. She’d totally forbid me to even try. I point this out.

  “I’m sure I could persuade her,” Ava says, worrying at her fingernail. “Think of the money, Ted. Linda Evangelista didn’t get out of bed for less than ten thousand dollars a day.”

  “Who’s Linda Evangelista?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! Anyway, imagine what Mum could do with ten thousand dollars.”

  I can’t. I can imagine what I could do with ten thousand dollars, though — converted to pounds, obviously. I’d get our old cottage in Richmond back. The garden. My own space … I didn’t appreciate it enough while we were there, not nearly. Oh, and I’d buy a couple of school skirts. Long ones. And lots of new underwear.

  “But there is another option,” Ava suggests. I’m not sure she really believes Mum would be won over by the money argument.

  “Oh. What?”

  “Not tell her. Not to start with, anyway. Not until you were super-successful. Nobody minds when you’re super-successful.”

  “Brilliant. Genius,” I say. I’m not often sarcastic with my sister, but honestly. Of all the rubbish ideas I’ve ever heard …

  “Listen.” She sits up again, with her arms clasped around her knees and her head resting against them. She looks exhausted. Those dark circles under her eyes were another clue. It seems impossible that someone you live with every day can have cancer and you don’t even see it. And here we are talking about modeling: We must both be crazy. “I’m going to be … busy this summer. Lots of hospital appointments and … you remember Nan. Chemo is tough. You need something fun to think about. We both do. You can’t rely on me to provide your entertainment.”

  This is true. I know I rely on her too much, but she’s always been there — thinking up mad stuff to do — and I guess I’m just used to it. Sure it’s annoying sometimes, but I don’t want anything to be different. Certainly not like this. If the guidance counselor were to ask me how I was feeling right now, I’d say I was upset: upset and frightened.

  Finally, Ava turns out the light and I lie there in the darkness, wondering. About Ava, about me, about Simon. About having your whole summer taken away because your dad noticed a lump in your neck. About earning ten thousand dollars a day. Is that honestly possible? And who is Linda Evangelista, anyway?

  As 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 ju
st 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.