The Look Read online

  “Because they say to use the form,” I tell her tetchily.

  Dad comes out of the bedroom, en route to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

  “What are you up to, girls? I keep hearing a lot of giggling. Are you all right, Ted? You look a bit odd. And are you wearing your pajamas?”

  It’s that avocado background. And my stupid outfit.

  This is ridiculous. I totally give up.

  “We’re not up to anything,” I snap. “Shall I just make the tea?”

  “Would you, love?”

  Ava looks disappointed. It was a nice idea. We tried. But my supermodel days (or, to be strictly accurate, forty-five deeply frustrating minutes) are most definitely over.

  For the next week, the sun gets hotter by the day. At school, the grassy knoll fills up with people sunbathing between exams. At home, the leaves have turned pale on the ash tree and it looks almost as pretty as the trees in Richmond. When she’s not working, Mum has her head buried in recipe books for nutritious summer salads using red fruits and green leaves. Apparently the dark colors are full of antioxidants and they’ll help Ava get better — along with the vat-loads of chemicals they’re about to start injecting into her. Personally, I don’t see how a few raspberries are going to compete with chemotherapy, but Mum’s prepared to give anything a try. This seems to be her way of coping.

  Dad’s way is researching Hodgkin’s disease on the internet, in between manic bouts of writing and trying to get his watch fixed. Mine is … staring out the window, mostly. Often Daisy has to prod me at school because I haven’t heard what she’s just said.

  Of us all, Ava is the most relaxed. Her biggest concern is that Jesse has two more A-level exams and a big sailing race to train for, so he can’t come and visit her yet. Other than that, she seems to be coping amazingly well. Perhaps it’s Dr. Christodoulou’s reassuring attitude. Perhaps it’s having most of the hot boys in her grade asking after her whenever she’s out of school for more tests. Perhaps it’s just that she’s not very good at math. (I still can’t help remembering about the ten percent, but maybe she didn’t notice.) Above all, she just wants to carry on as normal.

  I come home from school a week after our snapshot fiasco, and she’s in the middle of a raging argument with Mum.

  “I refuse to let you come with me!”

  “But you can’t go on your own, darling. You’re very ill!”

  “I don’t feel it. And you’ll just cry everywhere. I hate it!”

  “I promise not to cry.”

  “You’re doing it now!”

  Mum rubs her nose. “I’m not. Look, darling, this is a very important appointment.”

  “It’s totally routine!” Ava sighs loudly and sees me standing in the living room doorway. “Tell her, Ted. I’ve just got to pop into the hospital on Saturday to check everything’s working properly. I can do it in a couple of hours by myself. She’s turning it into a major expedition.”

  By “everything,” I assume she means the thin plastic tube she had inserted into her chest yesterday, called a Hickman line. One end sticks out so it can feed the chemo into her bloodstream when it starts on Monday. Ew. Disgusting. Actually, when she showed me last night it looked rather neat. Not as bad as I was expecting — a bit like earphones for a mega-iPod taped to her skin. But still … No wonder Mum wants to go with her to check it’s working.

  “Er …”

  “I can walk, Mum. I can take the Underground. These things don’t weigh anything. Besides, you need to work. Tell you what, Ted can come with me. How about it, T?”

  “Well, actually, Daisy invited me round to …”

  Ava puts on a hangdog expression. It’s a fake hangdog expression, I know, not even designed to make me feel that guilty, but when your sister has lymphoma …

  “OK. I’ll come.”

  Mum sniffs. “All right, then. If you’re sure. I know you don’t like me fussing, darling.”

  Ava sighs. “Exactly.”

  When Ava got the diagnosis, all we wanted was news, details, and explanations. Then the test results came in and they just seemed to make things more confusing. Apparently, the disease has reached Stage 2B, which enables them to know what type of chemo to give her and how long for. But why are they starting next week, for example, and not this minute?

  Dad instantly pounced with the inevitable “2B or not 2B” joke from Hamlet. His face was like granite when he said it, but Ava and I laughed anyway. Mum didn’t. Sometimes, I sit beside him at the computer so we can try and make sense of it all. The stage refers to how much the disease has spread. It seems Stage 2 is worse than Stage 1, but a lot better than Stage 3 or 4. The B means Ava gets night sweats. They have a letter for it and we have a washing machine for it. Whatever.

  Stage 2B. To me, it sounds like a venue at a music festival. Staring at Dad’s computer screen that evening, the words circled around my head until they meant nothing at all.

  Ava seems to be right about this latest appointment being routine, though. When we get to the hospital on Saturday, it’s a totally different experience from the last time I was here. Ava knows her way around the shiny corridors pretty well by now, and a nurse only takes a few seconds to fiddle with her Hickman line and check that the insertion point is OK. Everything’s set for Monday, when they’ll hook her up for the first bout of life-saving chemicals. That’s it. We’re done.

  Outside, the sky is still wrong: It’s blue and cloudless. It hasn’t rained for three weeks now. There’s a sort of café-style, Mediterranean feel to the city and the streets are full of tanned legs and smiling faces.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go for a wander. We could check out the British Museum.”

  “We co-ould …”

  “Only joking. There are some nice shops on the Tottenham Court Road. We could walk down to Oxford Street.”

  This is Ava’s part of town, not mine. I tend to go where there are gardens and trees, like Kew, or art galleries, like Trafalgar Square. But it’s nice to wander around in the summer sun with Ava, checking out the window displays. In the end, it gets so hot that we decide to walk down one of the side streets, where it’s shadier.

  I’m in the middle of admiring a selection of French pastries in a bakery window, arranged by color in a rainbow of edible perfection, when suddenly Ava stops dead and grabs me.

  “Oh my God!”

  She points across the road. We’re opposite one of the uglier buildings on the street. Plain brick walls. Small windows. No shop fronts. Two people outside on their iPhones, sharing a cigarette.

  “What?”

  “See the logo?”

  Above the plain front door is a sign: a jagged black M inside a pale blue C. Ava recognizes it from the website I showed her. I recognize it from Simon’s card, and from Marie Claire: Model City.

  “We could just go in, you know,” she says.

  I am having a cold flush. I didn’t know you could get them, but you can, and I’ve got one.

  “No, we couldn’t.”

  “We’re right here, T. You never sent in that form. Why don’t you just walk inside and ask them?”

  The girl is bonkers.

  “And then they can tell me to my face,” I point out, “that I must be joking.”

  “They would,” she says, standing her ground, “except one of their scouts said you looked amazing.”

  She’s remembered the exact word. Amazing. All I know is that I’m freezing, despite the sun. I’ve got actual goose bumps on my forearms.

  “I’m going home.”

  But Ava’s still holding my wrist. “Please? For me? You said you’d give it a go, T, remember?”

  A brief image of Dean Daniels flashes in front of my eyes. Not a pretty one. But it would be so cool to be able to tell him I was a model. She senses my hesitation.

  “Look, we’ll just go in and ask them if you’ve got potential. We’ll mention that scout guy and stay for five minutes, OK? Then we’ll go home. And I promise I won�
�t bug you about it again.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Since her diagnosis, I would swear Ava’s brain has gone wonky. There’s a dangerous glitter in her eyes. It’s as if she’s heard the worst, and now only good things can happen. I hope this is true in her case, but I’m pretty sure bad things can still happen to me. She looks so excited, though, that I can’t bring myself to say no.

  “Oh, all right, then.”

  I know, absolutely, that it is the wrong thing to do, but this is the effect Ava has on me. I’m about to enter Buzz Lightyear territory all over again.

  She opens the door and I follow.

  “Wow!” she mutters under her breath. “How gorgeous is this?”

  If by “gorgeous” she means “terrifying,” then this is utterly gorgeous.

  We are in a luxury reception area, with black-and-white wallpaper, a shiny modern desk, a black leather sofa, and a coffee table smothered in glossy magazines. The ceiling is sprinkled with spotlights. The walls are plastered with photos of super-stunning men and women, most of them underdressed. On the desk there’s an arrangement of blue hothouse flowers the size of a baby elephant. Everything is fresh and gleaming and glamorous and intimidating.

  Behind the desk, a bored-looking girl with long brown hair and heavy bangs is typing on her computer. She totally ignores us. Ava and I stand there, not sure what to do. Moments later, the smokers from outside come back in and whisk past us, heading for a door at the back, without giving us a second glance. I’ve never felt so invisible. Ava, meanwhile, plucks up the courage to speak.

  “We’re here to see someone about … modeling.”

  The girl at the desk glances briefly at Ava from under her bangs.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “My sister’s interested.”

  This is so not true after the snapshot disaster. The girl flicks her eyes to me for half a second. Then she picks up the phone, mumbles into it for a moment, and goes back to ignoring us.

  Ava looks at me, and smiles encouragingly.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  “In a minute. Let’s see what happens.”

  She sits on the sofa, leaning forward to grab a glossy magazine from the table in front of her. I perch next to her and hear a grunt from the floor beside me. A small black dog looks up at me from his curled-up position in a brown leather dog bed with Ls and Vs printed on it. I reach down to stroke his nose.

  “Don’t touch Mario,” the receptionist says, without looking up. “He doesn’t like it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The labradoodle? He’s called Mario? After Mario Testino?” Now she’s staring at me from under her bangs as if I’m mentally challenged. “Like, the photographer?”

  “Oh, right.”

  She can see I have no idea what she’s talking about. It’s Linda Evangelista all over again. I decide to leave the dog alone. I’m just about to suggest to Ava — for one last time — that we leave, when the front door swings open and a new guy walks in, complaining loudly about the heat.

  I recognize him instantly, partly because of the orange backpack slung over his shoulder. To my surprise, he smiles as soon as he sees me.

  “Tambourine Girl? Hi! It’s Simon.”

  Ava’s looking up from her magazine now, smiling her movie-star smile. Simon ignores her. She frowns. I get up and shake his outstretched hand. “Yes … I remember.”

  “So — you’re here! Are you seeing Frankie?”

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper. “We just popped in —”

  He calls across to the receptionist. “Is she booked in for Frankie, Shell?”

  Bangs Girl pouts and flaps her hands. “I called her, but she was busy.”

  So basically, she was happy to let us sit on that sofa indefinitely, while nobody in the office knew that we were here. Thanks, Bangs Girl. I am so not enjoying this moment.

  “Frankie does New Faces,” Simon explains. “Come with me.” He spots Ava at last and remembers her from last time. “D’you want to come in, too? Loving the hairstyle, darling. Very retro.”

  Ava blushes and puts a hand to her shoulder-length curls. We follow Simon through the door at the back, into a large, open-plan office, where about twenty men and women look around to stare at us. It’s as if our invisibility shields have suddenly disappeared. In modeling, you obviously have to know the right people, and I suppose that means people like Simon.

  The only ones to ignore us now are a blonde-haired woman sitting at a large desk in the far corner of the room, and the slim-backed boy sitting opposite her, leaning forward intently. They seem to be busy arguing about something. Everyone else is openly staring at us. I am a walking bundle of nerves.

  “Frankie!”

  Simon grins across at a pixie-haired girl with a patchwork of Polaroid pictures arranged in neat rows on the wall behind her. She looks up from her computer and grins back. She doesn’t look much older than Ava, but even though her desk is the messiest I’ve ever seen and you can only just see her above all the paperwork, she somehow seems more organized than we’ll ever be. Perhaps it’s because she’s on the phone, talking fluently in some language that isn’t French while simultaneously typing, fast, on her computer keyboard. Perhaps it’s because she can do this and also flirt with Simon, making funny faces and batting her eyelashes at him.

  She puts the phone down. “Two secs.” She smiles, flicking her eyes back to her screen. “Just e-mailing Milan. Nightmare. There. We’re done. Who’s this?”

  She eyes me up and down and I can feel everyone else do the same. Frankie’s eyes come to rest on my pale spaghetti legs. Oh, why couldn’t I have worn cutoffs, like Ava? Why did I have to pick today to wear my trusty hiking shorts? Perfect for visiting old battlefield sites with Dad. Less perfect in a roomful of designer T-shirts and skinny jeans.

  “It’s Tambourine Girl,” Simon explains. “Remember I told you about her? What do we think?”

  Frankie tips her head to one side, half-closes her eyes, and nods. “We think interesting. Nice bone structure. Unusual features. How old are you, er …?”

  “Ted. Ted Trout.”

  “Seriously? Anyway — how old?”

  “Fifteen and a half,” I mutter.

  “And a half! You’re so sweet! And so you want to be a model?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, which is a polite lie for “No — frankly I would rather be a skydiver.” I look to Ava for reassurance, but she’s distracted by a large photo of a guy in skimpy underpants next to the door where we came in.

  “How about we take some pictures and see what you’ve got?”

  How about we don’t? This was all so much easier when it was just about filling in a form. But Frankie has poked around under her paperwork and is holding a Polaroid camera like Simon’s, ready to go.

  I suppose now that I’m here, we might as well get this over with. Actually, it should be educational for her. Just wait till she sees how terrible I look in pictures — even the simplest snapshots. Then she can have a good old laugh and Ava and I, and my shorts, can all go home and recover in private.

  Ava tears her eyes away from the guy in his underpants and squeezes my arm excitedly. By now, luckily, most of the office people have lost interest in me and are watching the whispered argument going on at the desk in the corner. Frankie gets up and leads us through to a smaller room next door. It has a row of filing cabinets at one end and a white screen next to some freestanding spotlights at the other. She checks out my shorts and gray tank top.

  “That’s fine. You’ll do, angel,” she decides. “No makeup, which is great. Just stand over there, would you?”

  By “over there,” she means in front of the screen, with lights shining at me. Please not. I stay rooted to the spot.

  “Go on,” Ava whispers. “It’s fine, trust me. You just have to stand there.”

  That’s easy for her to say. What if I’m supposed to pose and pout like those models in all the pictures? Wh
at if other people poke their heads around the door and start watching? What if I self-combust with humiliation?

  She gives me a gentle shove, and I somehow shuffle over to the screen and wait while Frankie fiddles with a shiny, round silver reflector attached to another stand. Luckily, Simon followed us in and Frankie’s too busy chatting with him to pay me much attention.

  “He’s on his final warning at school. He’s driving her insane. He’s supposed to be in these study periods, but he won’t go because he says he ‘needs visual stimulation.’”

  Simon laughs. “Cheeky so-and-so.”

  “So she brought him into the office today to keep an eye on him. But he keeps using office phones to call this friend of his in Tasmania. He’s a nightmare. Total nightmare. Last week he ran up fifty pounds on her cab account to visit the White Cube gallery.”

  “Is that the boy talking to the woman at the big desk?” Ava interrupts. My sister has no shame.

  “Yeah,” Frankie laughs. “She’s Cassandra. She owns this place. And he’s her son. Total nightmare. We pretend not to listen, but of course you can hear every word.” She looks up at me. “There you go. I think we’re ready. Relax! Think gorgeous, OK?”

  Simon hands her the camera and she takes the first picture.

  Of course. Cassandra Spoke. I remember the silky hair from the Marie Claire article.

  “It’s since Sheherezade, isn’t it?” Simon asks. “She messed him up big-time.”

  “You wouldn’t believe,” Frankie agrees. Click. “Don’t get involved with the girls. Rule One.”

  She throws her head back and laughs as if it’s the stupidest rule ever invented — or at least the one least likely to be obeyed.

  Which girls? Who’s Sheherezade?

  “There you go, angel. All done,” Frankie says to me. “Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”

  But how can we be all done? I haven’t posed or stuck my chest out or anything. I just stood there while she chatted with Simon and moved around, taking pictures from a couple of different angles. I thought she was testing the camera.