by Celia Hayes
“Do you think it could have been him?” I ask him, staring into space.
“Who?”
“My… nothing, forget it,” I say. “Just a colleague.”
“Have we got any hairspray? Daph… oh where is that damn girl, where has she got to?” he mutters.
“Who knows why he called?” I ask no one in particular, pulling on a bead.
“Whoever it was can wait,” says Lou, sticking a dozen hair grips that have appeared out of nowhere into my hair.
“Be gentle, please!” I beg him, without an ounce of strength.
“Another few seconds and you will be in front of millions of viewers. You can’t turn up in front of an international jury with a cinnamon bun if it is not absolutely impeccable!”
“A cinnamon what? Where? Who?” And, don’t ask me why, even though I’ve been here for hours it’s only now that I suddenly realise I’m actually going to be appearing on TV. A realisation that by itself is enough to make me forget Tim, The Chronicle and even Dave. Right now there is a door in front of me. It’s always closed and I usually try not to think about it. Usually… but I can’t pretend it’s not there forever, can I? I raise my eyes, and for the first time, after weeks spent behind the scenes, I see that it’s open. There is no way out now, I’m seconds away from having to walk out there. And I panic.
What the hell am I doing here? Why? I’m not a model. I’m not a model, I’m just Sam. Sam ‘if my mom knew about this she’d demand a maternity test’ Preston.
“Lou… what am I doing?”
“You’re staring into space with a catatonic expression on your face and giving off defeatist vibes. But, I have to admit it, you’re almost passable,” he concludes with a wink, before putting his comb back in his pocket. High on adrenaline and in the grip of performance anxiety, he doesn’t seem to have noticed how I’m really feeling.
“From here on in, you’re on your own. I can’t come with you, but don’t despair. To get through to the next round, you only need three tens. But remember: your speech, and…” and he looks me straight in the eyes and becomes very serious, “take no prisoners! You’re here to win, not just to take part, like I’ve been telling you right from the start.”
“No prisoners,” I answer, without much conviction. “No prisoners. Yeah. Okay. Right. I can do it, don’t you worry.” I try to appear calm, but when I send him away I can hardly feel my knees any more from how hard they’re knocking. No prisoners. No prisoners. Repeating it to myself as though it’s all I need to do to win, I go and stand with the others. There’s a group of five girls in front of me, two of them off on their own and another two who seem to be having a fight.
“If you actually think you’ve got a chance…”
Hmmm, they seem pretty worked up. I can’t see what’s going on so I crane my neck to get a better view.
“And if you think that all you need to do is sleep with half the jury…”
Oh-oh. They’re really going at it.
The first comment was from Dorothy Houston. I remember her name because she was right next to me during the last round. The other is Sienna Moore and I wouldn’t be able to forget about her if I tried: the walls of the Ritz backstage are plastered with photos of her. You can’t help but notice her – she’s one of those people who’s able to attract the attention of everyone they encounter, for good or for bad. And in the case of Sienna Moore, completely intentionally: she’s so terribly snobby, presumptuous and arrogant, the complete opposite of Angelina. It’s weird that Mary isn’t her consultant, they’d have got on like a house on fire.
“What are you trying to insinuate?” I hear her mutter in her shrill voice as I approach.
“That either they’ve lowered the entry requirements or those,” says the other, pointing to a cleavage which does look slightly unnatural, “were the best investment of your life! So which is it?”
“I’ll sue you!” threatens an enraged Sienna. “At least ten of my close personal friends are lawyers, and I cannot wait to drag your ass to court!”
“I’m surprised you only know ten, but then I suppose you’ve probably run out of space under L what with all of the Los Angeles Angels being in there.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. Terrified, I try to cover my mouth with both hands before they realise, but it’s too late. They both turn round simultaneously to look at me, and I find myself between them wondering who’s going to look after Samson after they’ve murdered me.
“And who the fuck are you?” says Sienna elegantly.
“I… erm…” I stammer.
She takes a few steps toward me and studies my clothes, my hair and my make-up with an expression that doesn’t bode well. She’s one of those people you sense would be capable of anything. Maybe it’s the way she acts, or maybe it’s those perennially glaring eyes and that Cruella de Vil expression.
I’m saved at the last minute by one of the staff popping his head around the wings and announcing, “Sienna, you’re up.” There isn’t much time for each of us and they run a very tight ship. “Sienna…”
“I’m coming!” she trills. And seeing that she will have to go, she hisses to me, “I’ll deal with you later,” and at that moment, still clinging to the wall, I vow to avoid any further interaction with the other contestants.
Once Sienna’s out of the way, though, the atmosphere relaxes and I even find the courage to join the others. The floor managers tell us the timetable for the programme and get us into line by the strips of tape that separate the corridors from the stage. I notice that nobody seems to want to talk any more – nobody has the energy to argue, so there is an electric silence. Maybe because from now on many of us will be taking home our suitcases of dreams and hopes, and many of the girls around me have invested everything in this opportunity. That’s the difference between me and most of the other competitors. My fear is that I will disappoint Al, because I can’t see how I can possibly win the contest, so I can’t really share the worries of those who have helped me to get to this point. And yet their anxiety is so alive, so real, that I’ve somehow let it infect me too, almost jumping when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey!”
I spin round and see one of the five remaining contestants standing behind me. It’s a girl with red hair, her nose covered with freckles. She smiles at me – and around here, that counts as pretty strange behaviour. Maybe she’s not quite right in the head, or it’s part of some strategy to get me out of the way. I can’t decide, I’m still new to this world of beauty pageants.
“Hey, I’m number twenty-six,” she introduces herself.
“I’m…” I look for my rosette, because I can’t remember.
“What did Sienna say to you?” she asks, clearly not interested in my number even when I show it to her.
“Nothing, actually,” I answer. “She didn’t have time, it was her turn to go out there.”
“Hmmm… Don’t trust her,” she warns me. “And try not to get on the wrong side of her. Nobody takes on Sienna Moore,” she whispers, being careful not to be overheard.
“Oh, but I…”
“She’s just a bitch,” number twenty-six says with a sneer, “and everybody hates her, but we can’t say anything.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Her dad is Anthony Moore. Do you have any idea how much money they have?”
“That doesn’t seem like a good reason for…”
“Believe me, she can take you out if she wants!”
“Oh, come on, ‘take me out’?!”
“I’m serious,” she says, moving closer. “Last year she took part in the Face for L’Oréal contest. One of the finalists posted a picture of backstage showing Sienna without make-up,” she whispers in my ear. “And do you know what happened?”
“I’ve got no idea,” I admit.
“You’re not the only one – nobody does. She disappeared!”
“Oh my God.”
“Shhh! I didn’t tell you anything.”
“But…”
“Be careful of Sienna Moore.”
“But…”
“And don’t look at her nose – ever!”
“Why?”
“Just don’t do it!”
“But why not?”
“Sam Preston? Next up is Sam Preston.” They’re calling me. “Wasn’t I supposed to go on last?”
“It says Sam Preston here,” answers the cameraman. “Come on – you’re on in three… two…” he says, counting down the seconds on his fingers.
“Didn’t you hear him? Move, come on!” Number twenty-six pushes me unceremoniously towards the door and almost without realising it, I find myself on the line between the backstage and the studio.
At the very same moment I arrive, Sienna comes off the stage. Perfect timing. She has finished her presentation and can go back to the dressing rooms to get ready for the next part of the show. Unlike the rest of us, she acts as though she’s in her element. She wears her dresses with incredible panache and moves with the skill of a professional among other professionals. I can’t look at her without a pinch of envy. And not because she’s slimmer than I am, because she’s much closer to me than she is to a cover model, but because she seems so comfortable with herself. I stand there staring at her like an idiot while she runs her fingers through her hair and looks around for the members of her team. And then – I don’t know whether deliberately or not – just as she is walking past me, she bangs into me.
“Look what you’re doing!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I jump out of her way and when I meet her gaze I suddenly remember number twenty-six’s words.
Don’t look at her nose. Don’t look at her nose. Don’t look at her nose. But why not? I have no idea, but on a sudden impulse I lower my eyes and try to keep them on the carpet. Don’t look at her nose, Sam! I try to control myself, but I can’t, the urge is too strong…
“What is it?” she snaps, raising an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”
“Me? Nothing, I swear… nothing…” I babble, but if there’s one thing I’m terrible at it’s coping with an intimidating glare. “Don’t make me disappear like that other girl, please,” I beg her desperately.
“Sam Preston, you’re up, goddammit!” shouts the floor manager. Two solid hands grab hold of my arms and thrust me out onto the stage without even time to take a deep breath. I find myself catapulted into another world, one I usually just watch as a spectator – and at that point it’s too late to even get slapped by Sienna Moore.
Chapter 32
Open Your Eyes and Dream
I wouldn’t know how to describe the sensation, it all happens so fast. One moment I’m hidden away in the shadows of the wings, the next I’m standing on a catwalk surrounded by photographers, stylists and journalists. And the awareness that if the world made any sense at all, I’d be down there with them and not up here
One question keeps popping into my head: is this a dream? I feel as though I’m fluttering away into the sky right up until the moment I arrive in front of the jury. Behind me there are only the lights, a white backdrop, and, in blue, the name of the contest. Beautiful Curvy, lit up by a row of spotlights. And at that moment it’s as if I suddenly wake up. With my eyes on the stretch of stage I still have to cover, I find a line of girls waiting for me, clad in swimsuits, modelling the latest styles of one of the sponsors. They’re so… perfect. So different from me, with different life stories and, I imagine, and different goals. I follow them, wondering if I’m the only one who feels like she doesn’t belong here, whether to the outside world I look, or will ever look, like that. Meanwhile, they reach the edge of the stage, where they pause for a few seconds in front of the photographers – just long enough for them to snap a couple of pictures of the swimsuits, and then they turn round and go back, walking past me and heading off in opposite directions, vanishing through the side exits. And I find myself standing by myself in front of a distracted looking jury with a pop song playing in the background that gradually fades into a jazz track. Just a saxophone, bass and some occasional piano riffs.
And at that moment, hidden away where no one can see it apart from me, a light comes on behind the wings warning me that it’s time to start…
Another little trick to make the fiction almost seem real. It took me a while to catch on – you always have to know where to look, because none of it is actually spontaneous or off the cuff: everything is being organised by technicians and soundmen and floor managers: the chaotic reality behind the camera of which the world outside knows nothing.
The light starts flashing again, this time even more hysterically: “Get a move on, Sam!” I can’t make it wait any longer and so at the umpteenth flash I nod to myself and force myself to go out onto the platform, pretending to ignore the spotlights, the critics and all those people looking at me and wondering who the heck I am.
I’m wearing a gorgeous dress tonight. Emerald green. God alone knows what expression must have appeared on my face when I first saw it! It’s certainly a big step forward from the anonymous baggy black sweaters that make up most of my wardrobe. The more I looked at it, the more I said, “This isn’t me.” And yet here I am in front of them all, and I think to myself that what they’re seeing isn’t some insecure journalist but a girl in a gorgeous silk dress covered with sparkling jewels. Not Sam, but someone closer to Sienna Miller, maybe. At least, I hope so, because I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’ve rehearsed it a thousand times, but it’s one thing to pretend to know how to walk in these shoes when there are only Lou, Tim and Al watching, and something else entirely to do it in front of more than two hundred strangers. So I smile and, in the interest of survival, try and stop thinking for two seconds. When I find myself near the jury’s table, I have no idea how I got there or if I’ve already messed everything up.
I once heard Margaret say there were almost two hundred thousand requests to enter Beautiful Curvy. Did you hear that? Almost two hundred thousand! There are two hundred thousand people out there who would do anything to be in my place now, wearing this dress. And instead, here I am. And what’s the first thing I do when I stop? I pray.
Please God, help me, stop me from being a total disaster!
“Contestant number 204, Sam Preston. Twenty-six years old, animal lover and professional journalist…”
Well, I had to write something on the presentation card, didn’t I?
“Sam, do you want to tell us something about yourself?” It’s the voice of the presenter, I recognise it straight away. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but he must be here somewhere.
I freeze.
“So, Sam.” He comes closer still and I can finally make him out. He’s a good looking guy, though a little too tanned for my taste – like most of the people here, he looks as if he’s made of plastic and his manners are too smooth. He puts a hand on my back and pushes me gently towards the jury, doing what he can to help me out when he realises that I’ve been temporarily struck dumb. I doubt it’s out of altruism, though – it’s because I’m slowing down the pace of the show. “So why do you think you should be the new face of Curvy?”
Ah, right, the speech…
“Erm… I…”
Oh God, what was it?!
“I…”
I knew I would forget it. I knew it!
“First of all…” I say, trying to wing it and desperately attempting to come up with something that will take me back to the speech Lou wrote. “First of all I’d like to thank the jury for allowing me to have come this far…” Where the hell did that come from? I’ll be a laughing stock, Dave was right. “I have a normal job, I do normal things.” He was right and I didn’t listen to him – I’m not a model, I’m a journalist. “I decided to take part because I’ve always dreamed of feeling free to be myself…” and at that point I can’t think of anything else to say. Again.
The jury stare at me uncomprehendingly, unsure about the reasons for my silence. And
in the meantime I think, what was it that Lou said? You have to believe it?
I stand there staring into the audience. Dozens of people who aren’t even listening to me. I mean, come on, when have I ever done ‘normal’ stuff? Like skipping school to hang out with guys, smoking in the bathroom, stealing my parents’ credit card to buy that cool top that I can’t live without. Never, and I know it very well – and they know it too. You can tell just by looking at me. So I decide to do the only sensible thing: confess, but at least with a bit of healthy intellectual honesty. If I have to go home, I’m going home as Sam Preston and not as… well, whatever they want to make everyone believe I’ve turned into.
“That’s not actually true,” I admit with a sigh, causing perplexed expressions to appear on the faces of more than a few of those watching me. “I’m sorry, but it’s not true, I was lying. I should have told you I love what I am, but to be honest, I don’t. I should have tried to convince you that I’m absolutely convinced that I’m normal, but that’s not true either. The thing is that I don’t feel normal at all – I feel different. And not special, just… well, wrong. Because I’m not the right size and I don’t have the right hair cut or the right personality. There’s absolutely nothing about me that I wouldn’t change without thinking twice about it.
“I didn’t sign up for this competition because I wanted other people to believe that you can be incredibly happy simply by accepting yourself but because I was hoping that sooner or later I would start believing it myself. And when you ask why I think I should be this year’s ‘face of Curvy’, the only thing that comes to mind is that I don’t know. I really don’t know.” I turn to face the jury. “The truth is that I don’t feel like the face of Curvy, and I don’t really know why all those people out there should identify with me, but I do know that since all this… all this craziness began, my life has changed. I’ve changed. And I don’t feel like I’m willing to settle for less than what I really want any more. I can’t give you a reason to vote for me, I can’t think of anything that makes me better than any one of the many girls here with me this evening. I’m not even sure there is anything, because they all look beautiful to me. I’m not still here because I want to win, I’m still here because I don’t want to give up, not any more. And I don’t know where my feet will end up taking me tomorrow, but this time I want to decide on the itinerary with my real self. This time, I want to give the real me a small chance, so the only thing that I can say is that if I did happen to win and become the face of Beautiful Curvy, we’d discover what it meant together, one step at a time.”
