The Look Read online

  I nod.

  “I’ve always been partial to Claudia Schiffer, you know.”

  I do know. Schiffer: That’s the name of the Claudia girl who’s the other model I’ve heard of, apart from Kate Moss. She’s German and has blonde hair and also lives in London. I know all of this because if ever Dad sees a picture of her he gives a happy sigh and Mum punches him affectionately — well, quite affectionately — on the shoulder.

  “It would be just like that,” Ava says confidently, with a hidden wink to me.

  “And how do you propose to do all this without Mum finding out?”

  “By telling her that Ted has got a waitressing job. At that hotel near Daisy’s. Just until she works everything out. Then she can show Mum it’s safe, and that she’s enjoying it.”

  “And I only want to do a few jobs anyway,” I add. “Please?”

  He runs a hand through his mad-professor hair.

  “What exactly would I have to do?”

  “Well, Stephen, if you can just sign there … and there. That’s lovely. I must say, we’re thrilled Ted said yes. She’s going to be a real star. And she takes after you, doesn’t she?”

  “I suppose.” Dad smiles in a confused sort of way, looking around the Model City offices and wondering what two wild-haired, caterpillar-browed freaks like us are doing in the middle of them, signing permission forms.

  As if she’s reading his mind, Frankie says, “We’ll book her in for hair and beauty before she starts. She needs to lose the … you know.”

  She draws a finger across her forehead, and I wonder exactly how they’re going to get rid of my facial fuzz. I’m not sure I want to know. The last time Ava tried to tweeze it, years ago, it was agony and I paid her to stop.

  “Has Mireille been in yet?” I ask to take my mind off it.

  Frankie looks embarrassed. “Actually, no. She was very commercial, but she didn’t have what we were looking for.”

  “But I don’t understand …”

  Mireille was categorically the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.

  “We need girls with an edge. Something fresh, to catch people’s attention,” Frankie explains. “She’ll do very well. But not in high-fashion editorial.”

  “Where, then?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

  “Underwear catalogs?” Frankie suggests. “Anyway, let me show you your book.”

  I’ve been wondering about this. Cassandra Spoke mentioned my book, too, and it sounded really important. Do they expect me to read a particular novel? Is it a textbook about modeling? That would be great, as I keep discovering there’s a lot I don’t understand. How to avoid modeling in underwear catalogs, for a start — I’m trying to get away from being “the girl with the knickers.”

  Instead, what Frankie pulls out from under a pile of paperwork isn’t a book at all — it’s a large black binder with the Model City logo stamped on the front, and clear plastic pockets inside, most of which are empty. She turns it around to face us and opens it up. Inside the first pocket is the last picture of me that Seb took: the one with my arms above my head and the surprised look on my face.

  “What do you think?”

  Oh. O-kaaaay. Despite all the time he took over it, Seb hasn’t magically morphed me into Kate Moss, or Linda Evangelista, or Claudia Schiffer for that matter. It’s still just me and my brick wall. And Mum was right: Her yoga pants do look ridiculous on my spindly legs. But it’s an interesting picture. Seb’s good. Behind it are two more photos of me from the shoot where I would say the brick wall definitely outshines me. Frankie seems happy, though.

  “We have lots to talk about,” she says.

  Dad looks at his watch. It’s after school and we are technically at the hotel in Richmond, talking about waitressing. Mum will be expecting us home for supper soon, and after that I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. But I’m starting to enjoy myself. I keep glancing at Dad’s signature on the permission forms and it looks so official, somehow — like I’m really supposed to be here.

  “I’ll book in some time for you to come in and discuss nutrition and finance,” Frankie continues, sensing this visit needs to be short.

  “Finance?” Dad asks. Math is not his favorite subject.

  “Taxes, savings, and a retirement plan,” she says. “Ted will be self-employed, but obviously we’ll help explain what she needs to do.”

  I’ll need a retirement plan? I might be earning so much I need to pay taxes? This is so exciting!

  “Meanwhile,” Frankie is saying, “here’s the plan, angel. I’m going to line you up for go-sees during the first few weeks of the summer, while things are still busy. Don’t worry about the book being small at first. Once you get a few tear sheets under your belt it’ll start looking healthy. You’ll need a comp card as well, but that’s fine, because we’ll sort it out for you, OK?”

  “Right,” I agree. “Great.”

  I can tell I still have some major vocabulary issues to address. I have no idea what she just said, but it sounded like the kind of thing you pay tax on, which is SO COOL.

  After this, it’s quite difficult to concentrate at school. But at least I’m not the only one. With exams over, almost everybody starts thinking about their vacation plans, including most of the teachers. Sadly, there are a couple of exceptions who still insist on following the curriculum. Even more sadly, one of them is Miss Jenkins, our art teacher, who is generally my favorite, but possibly takes her subject just a little bit too seriously.

  The last art teacher wore swirly skirts, crocheted vests, and mismatched earrings, and went on about the Renaissance. Miss Jenkins is different: She wears crimson lipstick and pencil skirts, with her hair in a bun held together with a drawing pencil, and she takes us on outings to the biggest exhibitions at the Tate Modern museum and makes us have opinions about conceptual art and stuff. Her style is interesting, for a teacher. In a rare (for me) moment of fashion forwardness, I did try adapting my (pre-shrunken) school skirt once, with safety pins, to make it look more pencil-ish, but I could hardly walk. Anyway, I’ve always been a fan of Miss Jenkins — until now. She seems to have this mad idea that we all want to spend our vacation thinking about our school certification exams.

  “As you know,” she says at the end of our final class before summer break, “you have to submit three projects next year. They all have to be thought through, with full illustrations of your working process. The biggest one’s due by Christmas, but I’m going to let you choose your subject now so you can do plenty of preparation over vacation. Even so, you’ll be stretched, believe me. Here are the subjects to pick from.”

  She writes them on the whiteboard in blue marker:

  Still Life

  Interior/Exterior

  Self Portrait

  Beside me, Daisy sighs disappointedly. In a society where pop stars go to awards ceremonies dressed in raw meat, how can exam boards be so utterly devoid of imagination? Across the room, Dean Daniels yawns loudly, stretches his arms out, and then collapses on his desk in a mock coma. This is one of those moments when I have to agree with him. Miss Jenkins pretends she hasn’t noticed the general reaction.

  “You need to think deeply about what your chosen subject represents. Go to galleries — get inspiration. Read books. Use the internet. Find artists who’ve played with the genre. Remember some of the stuff I’ve taught you. Consider the media you’re going to use, how you’re going to combine them … There’s more to it than drawing a couple of apples and a glass of water.”

  Daisy nudges me. She’s read my mind. I’ve already picked my subject — Still Life — and a couple of apples and a glass of water is exactly what I’m planning to do.

  “She won’t be happy if you just do a lot of shading,” Daisy mutters.

  I shrug. “But I’m really good at shading. It’s my favorite thing. And besides, I might be too busy to do … all that other stuff.”

  “What, sitting around in your undies all summer?”

  The
bell rings, and we start to pack up.

  “I would not be in my undies!” I tell her, offended.

  “Sorry, someone else’s undies.” She does the frown. She is still not remotely convinced by my vacation plans.

  “That’s underwear catalog modeling and it’s commercial,” I explain. “I’m high-fashion editorial.”

  “Just listen to yourself, Ted!”

  I do. I sound ridiculous. I shut up.

  “Anyway,” she says, changing the subject, “did I tell you about Hamburg?”

  “No,” I sigh.

  Daisy’s dad’s tribute band is going on tour to Germany in August. Daisy and her mum are joining them so Daisy can practice her German. Every day they seem to add a new date and Daisy will be away for longer. Today, she seems particularly excited about Hamburg, for some reason. Maybe it’s the tribute-band touring equivalent of “high-fashion editorial.” At least now I’ll be busy while she’s away.

  On the way back to our homeroom, we nearly crash into Cally Harvest rushing along the corridor, hair flying, accompanied by some of her “glossy posse” friends.

  “Is it true you’re going to Germany?” she asks Daisy. “On tour?”

  Daisy nods and fills in the details about Hamburg. Cally looks even more impressed. She thinks Daisy’s so cool. They’ve been hanging out together more since … well, since I started staring out the window a lot and not answering Daisy’s questions. I guess I haven’t been such a brilliant friend recently.

  “And what about you, Friday? Any plans for summer break?” Cally asks. Every tiny scintilla of impressed-ness has vanished from her face. The glossy posse hang around behind her, arms folded, looking equally bored. What could Freaky Friday possibly be up to that was interesting?

  “Well, actually, I’m going to be a model.”

  Silence.

  Cally stares at me for five seconds. Nobody in the glossy posse even breathes. This is possibly about to be the best moment OF MY LIFE.

  Then Cally cracks up laughing. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

  And of course I can’t. So I stand there looking stupid, as usual.

  Cally turns on her heel and walks off, trailing glossy posse members in her wake, still laughing. Daisy shrugs.

  I can feel a tear forming. “At least you could be happy for me,” I say bitterly.

  She turns to me with a surprised frown, then laughs.

  “Happy for you? There you are, with your perfect skin, never a zit, and legs up to your armpits … You just stand around and people make you into a model. And I’m supposed to be happy for you?”

  She walks off, shaking her head and leaving me in shock. I hardly recognize the girl she was talking about. I’m Freaky Friday, remember? Her best friend? The one Cally just laughed at? This is not how it was supposed to work out at all.

  “She’s just jealous,” Ava assures me back at home. “You may not think so, but she is. You have to be kind and gracious. It’s a trick you’ll pick up.”

  Me? Gracious? I can’t picture it somehow. Queens and princesses are gracious. Field hockey–playing, gorgeous Ava is gracious. Gawky, accidental panty-flashing freaks don’t have the luxury of being gracious. Or at least I didn’t think so, but maybe the girls who sign with Model City do have to, regardless of how they feel. Thank goodness I’ve got my sister, because I think I might be losing my best friend.

  However, Ava isn’t feeling so great, either. After two weeks’ rest, she’s back on the chemo again, and this time it’s harder. More dizziness, more tiredness, and a body that’s remembering it didn’t really like it last time, apart from the steroid rush, and please can it not have to do it again? Except it does have to. Two weeks on, two weeks off. This is the second cycle of six.

  The good news is that Jesse has finally finished his A-level exams, as well as the big sailing race he’d been training for, and he can finally come up and visit. In our old cottage in Richmond, the sofa folded out into a bed and he could have stayed with us, but here that just isn’t possible, so he’s staying with a friend. He’s only in town for the weekend and Ava is planning it like a … well, like a military campaign: what she will be wearing at every moment of each day, what makeup she’ll be using, which perfume, where they’ll go, what they’ll eat, whether there will be any snogging opportunities, and, if so, how she will snuggle up to him in such a way that he won’t be put off by the tubes sticking out of her chest.

  When she finds out my plans for the weekend she even factors me in, which is just another symptom of her Jesse-related good mood. Despite the chemo, Ava has a sort of sparkle about her whenever she thinks about him. It reminds me of the way she was when they gave her the steroids. Hormones, Mum says. Very similar to steroids, but with fewer side effects. However, whereas the steroids are supposed to help her eat, the hormones seem to have put her off her food almost entirely. She can’t face anything more than mozzarella and tomato salad, which is her new comfort food. Meanwhile, all Mum’s exotic fruits are piling up in the corner of the kitchen, slowly changing shape and color in a way I don’t like the look of at all, like they’re about to melt into some sort of Salvador Dalí Surrealist heap.

  Jesse arrives the Friday before school ends. Although it cuts out a couple of hours of potential snogging time, Mum and Dad insist on having him over for dinner. As soon as he walks through the door, it is perfectly clear how Ava has managed to withstand a whole year of Shane Matthews’s persistent attempts to date her at school. He’s changed from last summer and is, if anything, even more beautiful. His hair is bleached blonder by the sun, his eyes dance and twinkle, his body is still tall and slim but filled out to become solid and reassuring. He is utterly, meltingly gorgeous.

  Even Mum can’t help batting her eyelashes as she offers him pre-dinner chips and peanuts. I don’t pretend I’m not impressed, too, because it’s pointless. He must know how amazing he is, but unlike the cool boys at school, he doesn’t show it. Whereas Shane Matthews always wears his rugby scarf or jersey to remind you he’s on the school team, there’s nothing to indicate that Jesse is a top-class sailor. Maybe his tan and his super-antiglare sunglasses would give him away — but Ava had to point the glasses out to me on the last photo he sent. You’d probably assume he was an actor. In fact, he’s planning to be an accountant when he graduates university. The hottest accountant in the southwest of England, as Ava often points out with a sigh, but an accountant nevertheless. Ava loves how multitalented he is.

  He’s good at conversation, too. Knowing what Ava’s going through and not knowing how to talk about it, most people struggle to know what to say in our house at the moment, but Jesse’s full of tales about his sailing competition, how his boat nearly capsized, and how they won despite massive cheating by the opposing teams. Dad asks him lots of technical questions about race tactics, and Mum and I join Ava in simply admiring his face. Altogether, he copes with it pretty well.

  “Are you sure about tomorrow, darling?” Mum asks Ava eventually, dragging her eyes away from Jesse for a moment. “Taking Ted, I mean. I’m sure you two have better things to do than babysit your sister.”

  “No, that’s fine.” Ava smiles. “We’re just going to do some window-shopping. It’ll be nice.”

  Mum shakes her head. She knows about dates and boyfriends, and that younger sisters aren’t usually invited. “Well, you’re very kind.”

  “It’s nothing,” Ava says modestly.

  Actually, it’s subterfuge — but Mum’s right, it’s still very kind. This weekend, Ava’s pretending to take me with her so I can secretly go and have the hair and beauty sessions that Frankie has booked for me in central London. Meanwhile, Ava doesn’t want me anywhere near her during her snog-fest with Jesse, but they’ve arranged to meet up with me afterward, so we can all agree what we supposedly did together and get our stories straight.

  As planned, at half past ten on Saturday, they bid me good-bye at the Covent Garden Underground station. Ava and Jesse head for the shops, while I follow Frank
ie’s careful instructions to a hairdresser’s called Locks, Stock, and Barrel, where I’m supposed to have the bird’s nest seen to. My castings, or go-sees, or whatever they are, start next week, and Frankie wants me to look my best.

  The place seems normal from the outside — a little boutique with a black door. So far, so good. But once through the door, it opens into something strange and modern and unexpected.

  After weeks of school, homework, and exams, I have to take a deep breath and tell myself I’m supposed to be here. It doesn’t look like a hairdresser’s — more like a giant spaceship with hair dryers. It’s all polished steel, white floors, bright lights, and shiny surfaces. The staff look cool and trendy, and the customers are rich, confident, and … old. All of them seem to be in their thirties, at least.

  Frankie has told me to call her if I have any problems, and I’m tempted to do it now and explain that I really don’t think teenagers belong here. I even get my phone out of my backpack to do it. But Ava would tell me not to be so pathetic, so I go up to the desk and introduce myself.

  Sure enough, they’re expecting me. After a shampoo and head massage, a girl called Hannah fiddles about with scissors to bring out “texture” and “interest.” Personally, I can’t see much difference when she’s finished: I’d say it looks like a smaller nest, made by a bird who likes really shiny twigs. But this may be a good thing, as it means that with any luck when I get home, Mum won’t even notice what she’s done.

  Down the street from Locks, Stock, and Barrel is a little beauty salon, which is also on Frankie’s list. I’ve never been into one before, but the warmth and pervading smells of rose and lavender might tempt me in again. Just when I’m starting to think that this place is infinitely nicer than the hairdresser’s, a woman called Nirmala in a white coat sets to work removing the middle of my caterpillar.

  How wrong can a girl be? All Ava’s previous tweezer attacks on my forehead pale in comparison.