The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  Miss Jenkins gives me a sad, crimson-lipped smile, as if I’ve just joined an opposing team. Mr. Anderson is more tongue-tied than ever and asks me to do more singing demonstrations than in the whole of last year put together. Even the headmaster calls me into his office for a long chat about academic success and fallback careers.

  It takes Ava several nights of talking after lights-out to persuade me that all this is only temporary, and that anyway it’s totally worth it for those moments when I’ll get to meet the big designers and photographers. Not to mention earn some serious money. But I’m starting to realize why so many of the girls I met at castings weren’t in school anymore.

  The perfume shoot is set for the end of November. I’ll have to miss a day of classes, but Mum agrees to this as a one-off, never-to-be-repeated exception to the rule, because I’m so excited and Dad has put it to her that it would be educational for me to see New York.

  Mum will go with me, because Dad has some meetings lined up. I hope they’re not with the attractive TV assistant, but it’s not the sort of thing you can ask, and there’s too much else going on at the moment to worry about it. Hopefully, when Ava’s better and our lives are back on track, Mum will be less über-stressed and Dad can take her out for coffee instead.

  Ava and I don’t talk about that sort of worry. What we mostly talk about is me and Manhattan, and the money, and the glamour, and all the free Constantine & Reed stuff they’ll probably give me, and whether any of it will fit Ava, and if so how much of it she can have, and how excited the patients in our head-shaving group at the hospital will be when we tell them. Which, when we do, is very.

  Then, with a week to go, Cassandra Spoke calls me.

  “Hi, my darling girl. Are you thrilled about your job? Listen, I need to talk you through some details. Can we do it at my place? It’s much nicer than the office. I’m free this evening. Can you make it over?”

  “Sure,” I say nervously. Why is the head of the agency talking to me, not my normal booker? “Er, what happened to Frankie?”

  “Oh, the usual. She’s busy sorting out some lost passport in Stockholm. Besides, this is such a big deal for you, Ted. It could be the launchpad for your career. I always love to take a personal interest when it’s something special.”

  Cassandra explains where she lives, which is a house not far from Buckingham Palace. I guess to many people that could sound like a perfectly normal address in London, but when you live here you learn that nobody has a HOUSE not far from Buckingham Palace. The area is full of abbeys, the Houses of Parliament, several other palaces housing various royals, and the Prime Minister. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you get to live in a tiny flat squeezed in next to one of these places, but a house? This I have to see.

  “Absolutely, fine,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

  “And call a cab,” she adds. “I don’t want you wandering around in the evening on your own. We’ll pick up the tab.”

  I could really get to like this job.

  Mum is out, Dad is writing, and Ava’s asleep. Dad offers to come with me, but I don’t want him to leave Ava on her own. He agrees I can visit Cassandra as long as I’m back by nine thirty.

  And so, at seven o’clock, I draw up in my paid-for black cab outside a classic, tall Georgian house with five floors of glimmering windows. It is indeed so close to Buckingham Palace that I bet they get woken up by the sound of horses’ hooves clopping by first thing every morning to guard the Queen.

  I step out in my new skinny jeans and the long, shaggy vest they gave me at the Miss Teen shoot. I know I look a million times better than my hiking shorts days, but I’m still not sure I’m ready for Cassandra “at home.” I mean, I’m not wearing anything made out of silk, or gold, or by a famous designer. This must be the house that houses the über-wardrobe. It looks as if it could house several. It also houses Nick Spoke, of course, but I tell myself to assume that he won’t be there, because he’s probably at art college by now, or out with his mates, or painting, or “dabbling in photography.” And besides, he’s not interested in me. So it wouldn’t make any difference if he turned out to be the person who opened the door.

  I stand there for ages after ringing the bell. Have I got the right house? Is anyone coming? Then I hear the sound of bolts being drawn. The door opens. He’s standing there. In paint-spattered shorts made out of an old pair of jeans cut off at the knees, an old polo shirt, and bare feet. He makes me look positively overdressed. He sees it’s me, with my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, and smiles slowly. I guess at least I’m not semi-naked this time. It’s a start.

  “Come in.” He turns back and shouts, “Eugenia! Guest for Mum!” Then he stands aside so I can enter the large hallway, which is lined with paintings. Away from his mother, he’s more relaxed and positively polite. “Sorry. Big house,” he says. “Nobody ever hears the door. Got a meeting?”

  I nod. I am so articulate.

  Nick looks at his watch and nods to himself. “She’s working late again. Haven’t seen her all evening.” He hesitates and looks at me through his owlish glasses. “I like —” He stops.

  “Yes?” I ask hopefully. I’ve never heard him say he likes anything before. Except Abstract Expressionism. And natural light.

  He laughs. “I like your … shaggy thing.”

  I can’t help smiling. He perhaps has an eye for fashion, despite himself, but certainly not his mother’s vocabulary for it.

  “Thanks. I like your …”

  He stares at me. What was I going to say?

  “Paint.”

  I indicate the artful spatter on his top and shorts. I am pointing at his shorts. I just said I liked his paint. Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God.

  His smile turns to a grin. Not Nightmare Boy at all, right at this moment. Although I am possibly Nightmare Girl. I like your paint. Honestly.

  “Come on up,” he says.

  I follow him up a grand, curving staircase, so close we’re almost touching. I can hear the sound of running steps on the landing above us. A woman in a comfy T-shirt and track pants meets us at the top of the stairs.

  “So sorry!” she echoes. “I was doing the ironing —”

  “No problem,” he tells her. “Ted, this is Eugenia. She’ll take care of you. Eugenia, this is Ted Trout. Actually, you’re Ted Something Else now, aren’t you?”

  “Trout will do,” I say. Knowing what I know about him, I’d rather he thought of me as Ava’s sister than “aspiring model.”

  As if reading my mind, he looks concerned. “About your sister … Is she …?”

  “She’s …” I shrug. I’m not going to tell him she’s fine when she spent most of the afternoon trying to eat a tiny bowl of salad without throwing up.

  He understands, and nods sympathetically.

  From a nearby room, Cassandra’s voice booms out. “Is she here yet? Show her to the study, would you?”

  “Right,” Nick says to me, with a small, awkward pause. “Anyway. See you.”

  “Yes. Great,” I say — keeping up my reputation for witty conversation.

  He heads on up the next set of stairs. I watch him go. Note to self: Do not point at the shorts of any boy you find interesting and admire their decoration. But definitely do wear the “shaggy thing” again. With a sigh, I turn to Eugenia, who leads me down the corridor to a wood-paneled room, furnished with leather armchairs and green velvet sofas.

  Mario the labradoodle looks up at me from a Louis Vuitton dog bed beside the fireplace. By now, he’s a friendly face, but I’m glad I know better than to try and stroke him. Besides, I’m too busy taking in my surroundings. I wasn’t really concentrating before, but now I can’t help noticing. Wow. Oil paintings in vivid colors. Furnishings that wouldn’t look out of place in Claridge’s. A massive brass coffee table in the middle, smothered in the latest magazines. Even the magazines probably cost more money than my family spends in a month. I’m grateful when Eugenia offers me a chair. All this luxury is making my knee
s go weak.

  Cassandra comes in soon afterward, wearing glasses on her head and reading a document that she quickly finishes and folds with a sigh.

  “Constant work! It never ends,” she says by way of hello.

  “It’s worth it, though,” I suggest, looking around. “I mean — this place is like a museum.”

  She sighs even more. “That’s what Nick says.”

  “In a good way, I mean. Sorry. It’s gorgeous.”

  I imagine Nick upstairs somewhere. In a house this size, he probably has a room he can just use as an art studio. Maybe he’s doing another of those huge, splattery paintings …

  “Thanks.” Cassandra smiles. “But it’s not all down to me. My husband’s a banker and he works harder than I do.” She looks around at it all with tired eyes for a moment, then puts her smile back on and pulls herself together. “But you have to make sacrifices if you want the best. And thank goodness for Eugenia. If it weren’t for her, I couldn’t function. Oh, here she is.”

  At this moment, Eugenia returns with a tumbler of clear liquid with ice in it for Cassandra and a choice of drinks for me. I pick an orange juice and Cassandra says, “Right. To work. The shoot. Rudolf’s office has been on the phone and we have a lot to talk about. First things first: You’re not snake-phobic, are you?”

  I smile. “No. I don’t like spiders, but snakes are fine. Why? Are they going to drape them round me?”

  That would be quite exotic. I quite like the idea of posing with a python. I’ve always been a fan of snakes — ever since Ava threw one at me during a “meet the animals” visit to the zoo and I discovered they’re not slimy, but smooth and dry, with delicate scales, and most of them can’t kill you with a single bite, contrary to what horror movies tell you. Snakes on a Plane has a lot to answer for.

  “No. You’re going to be in a bath of them.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I take it all back. Who do they think I am — Indiana Jones? Are they crazy?

  Cassandra laughs. “A bath of fake ones. Rubber ones, right up to your shoulders. Like bubbles, but much edgier. The perfume’s called Viper, and the snake is the symbol of Constantine & Reed. They’ve got one winding round the perfume bottle. Here. Look.”

  She goes over to a side table and hands me a green glass bottle with a gold snake wrapped around it. It looks potentially poisonous. When I open the stopper, the smell is rich and pungent, like overblown flowers.

  “They’re going for a sensual, nighttime image,” Cassandra says. “You know fragrance ads. They’re not exactly selling milk and cookies. It’s more … exposed … than you’ve done before.”

  “Er, exposed? How exposed? Because I —”

  “I know you’re still new to this,” she interrupts me, flashing me a smile, “but you’ll see when you get there: It will be gorgeous. Totally tasteful. And in a way, it will be easier, because you can focus on yourself, not the clothes. Besides, Rudolf is a photographic genius. He’ll get shots of you that no one else could imagine. It’ll be a master class.”

  I nod, not entirely convinced. But “gorgeous” and “tasteful” sound good. So does “master class.” Actually, “master class” sounds great. How could I miss it?

  Cassandra sips at her drink. “There’s just one tiny detail,” she adds. “He needs to reshoot a piece for Russian Vogue. They gave him the wrong kind of caviar to use and some caviar billionaire’s gone crazy. The whole thing’s been set back by a week, but that turns out to be a godsend, because between us, Tina and I have managed to organize some incredible go-sees for you straight afterward. Honestly — they’ll set you up for New York Fashion Week next season. Then, as Tina says, your career will take off like a rocket.”

  “Er.” My brain is frantically whirring. Cassandra seems to think this is all good, but I have a bad feeling about it. While I try to work out why, I ask who the go-sees are with. Cassandra lists them for me.

  “Ralph Lauren. Zac Posen. Proenza Schouler. Rodarte. Vera Wang. If you walk for any of these houses in February, we can start naming your price.”

  Oh my goodness. After my summer fashion education, I recognize all these names. They are big. They are huge. So huge you need oxygen equipment to scale them. But I’m supposed to be busy with school next term, and anyway, I’ve just remembered why I can’t see them.

  “I’m sorry, but if you’re talking about two weekends’ time, I have to be in London then. I’m doing this thing with my sister.”

  Cassandra peers at me.

  “But … Ralph Lauren. Zac Posen. Vera Wang.”

  I nod. I get that they’re big names, but it doesn’t change the problem.

  “We’ve organized this head-shaving ceremony at the hospital. Four people are doing it. Vince from Locks, Stock, and Barrel has agreed to come and shave them for us. I promised I’d be there.”

  Cassandra takes another sip of her drink and frowns while she thinks. “And what would you be doing, exactly?”

  “Well, nothing specific, but I’ve been telling them what it feels like, and how good it is to have people there to support you. And it was me who asked Vince if he’d come.”

  Cassandra smiles. “But that’s wonderful! It sounds as though you’ve done your bit already. And look where your head shaving has got you! Now you can go to New York and celebrate!”

  “I could, but not then. Couldn’t we try and …?”

  “Darling, you’re booked.” Her voice is harder now. “Tina’s had to call in huge favors to get you those go-sees. But they’ll be worth it, you’ll see. You’ve got to get known transatlantically or no one will take you seriously. Other girls would do anything for this chance. Believe me — anything.”

  I picture telling Daisy that I’ve got to get known transatlantically. She’d stick her fingers down her throat. Or Dad. He’d probably just look it up to see if it was really a word. Ava would grin with delight, though. New York … Milan … Paris … the clothes …

  “Can I think about it? I need to talk to my family.”

  Cassandra looks tired again. “I don’t think you get it, darling. Go and talk to your family if you need to. But just think who you’d be letting down. Some of the biggest names in fashion.” She pauses. “Call me as soon as you’ve decided, OK?”

  “You’re not going. It’s simple,” Mum says briskly, clearing up the remains of the supper I’ve just missed. “You’ve got commitments. And besides, I’ve already booked two days off work next week and I can’t change them. If I tried, they’d probably fire me and I really need that job, Ted.”

  “OK, but if I did go, I’d earn more money than you get in a year.”

  She whips around to face me.

  “That’s enough! How dare you? Don’t you think it’s bad enough for your father, with you going on about the money and getting Rose Cottage back? We don’t want to live off our children, thank you very much.”

  I’m not sure what I want, but it’s not this. I may be nearly six feet tall, but I feel about six inches. I hand her a tissue. She needs it.

  Ava comes into the kitchen. She still doesn’t look great. Thank goodness the chemo’s nearly over and she doesn’t have to go through this much longer. I don’t think she’d have the strength for another cycle.

  “It was ringing,” she says, holding out my phone. “I answered it. I think it’s Tina.”

  “Good,” Mum says as I take the phone from Ava. “Tell her what we’ve decided, would you, Ted?”

  I go into the living room, where it’s quiet, and take the call.

  “Princess?” Tina says. “Cassandra called me. Oh my God — drama! Where are we up to?”

  She sounds bouncy and lively, but there’s an edge to her voice, too. I can hear party noises in the background, and her shushing people who come too close.

  “Um … I’m not sure,” I tell her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that. Are you EXCITED? Are you AMAZED? Have you any IDEA how incredible this trip is going to be?”

  “It’s
just that … the dates have changed …”

  “But we got you go-sees, princess. Go-sees with RALPH LAUREN! With DONNA KARAN! The other girls are going to be so jealous they’ll want to scratch your FACE off. Hey, wait. They’ll let you off school, right?”

  “Yes, I think so, but —”

  “Because that’s what matters. School first. Then your career.”

  I have a sudden image of Nick Spoke saying, “I mean, it’s life and death, right?” and the hard, cynical look he had when he said it.

  “Yeah, maybe. But my mum can’t come with me then, and things are complicated at home, and —”

  “Complicated how?”

  “My sister’s got cancer and —”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Frankie told me. WAIT. Wait right there. Just let me get out of this crazy place. If I just walk down this gangplank …”

  Oh my God. She’s on a yacht. She’s at a party on an actual yacht, like the one Jesse crewed on, I can only imagine. And I’m sitting in a flat above a travel shop.

  “You still there, princess? Get your parents. Put me on speakerphone. This is important. This is your LIFE we’re talking about here. Get your mom and dad and we’ll talk. I’ll hold.”

  So I guess she hangs around on the dock of whichever beach cove she’s in, and meanwhile I call Mum from the kitchen and Dad from his computer and sit down with them in the living room to listen.

  “You there, Trouts?” Tina calls over the speaker. “OK. I need your attention. It’s hard right now. I know that, and I don’t want you to do anything for a MOMENT that isn’t pure you. D’you think I don’t get it? I totally get it. Mom and Dad, I know the story. You have someone precious who’s sick, and you care about her, and you’re focusing all your resources on her, and working to support her, and that’s INSPIRATIONAL.”

  Mum looks at Dad as if to say, “Is she always like this?” and Dad shrugs, as if to say, “Usually worse.”

  “With my brother,” Tina goes on, “it was a brain tumor. Inoperable. I can’t tell you. Two years of sheer … But we won’t talk about that. I want to talk about YOU. The thing is, you have someone else precious to take care of. She has to take a backseat sometimes, sure, but meantime, she’s turning into an incredible young lady, and she needs to find herself as a person. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”