The Look (19 page)

“Yes, princess! Go, baby!”

I may not have gold armor on, but I have the scarf. I try to move my shoulders so the silk knot catches the light. Even my fingers feel natural today. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Dad, Frankie, and Cassandra all watching. But it’s OK. They’re watching Xena, and Xena is cool, confident, and in control.

“Here, princess. Right at me,” Tina says, clicking away.

I stare into the lens. I stare right down it and through it. It’s not so frightening anymore. In Tina’s hands, I’m pretty sure it understands me, too.

After the photographs, she gets me to do a quick video. I just have to say my name, and where I’m from, and mention Model City. Then I have to turn from left to right, to show off my profile. It feels a bit silly, so Tina suggests I do a practice version. When it’s done, she grins.

“Perfect! You were so natural, princess. We got it on the first take. That’s what we’ll use.”

Only Tina can get me to relax this way. There’s no doubt: We
do
have an understanding. After a whole summer of being “very nothing,” I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve got … something.

“That’s it,” she says. “You guys chat while I boot up the Mac in the bedroom and check the film.”

“Is it over?” I ask. My other test shoots lasted hours.

“Could be,” Frankie says with a grin. “Tina knows what she wants, and she gets it. Oh, excuse me.”

She gets up to answer a knock at the door.

“Nick, hi! Come in.”

She moves aside and he steps into the room. I recognize the old, faded pink T-shirt, worn under a scruffy blazer. My heart stops beating for a moment, then makes up for it by pumping like the rhythm section of a big brass band. He’s glowering from behind new glasses — with cool round frames — and his fingers are stained with ink. Please let him notice that I’m wearing sky-blue silk that matches my eyes, and not that I’m half-dressed. Please let him ask me something about Man Ray, so that I can answer intelligently and show I’ve done my homework. Please let him at least look in my direction.

But he doesn’t. He avoids checking out my side of the room entirely and heads straight for the sofa where Cassandra’s sitting next to Dad.

“Look, Mum, I haven’t got long. The guys are waiting downstairs.”

He hasn’t even seen me. This is pretty crushing. I sink into the nearest chair and pretend I wasn’t expecting to say hello.

Cassandra sighs. “Wait a minute. The keys are in my bag somewhere.”

Her bag is enormous — suitcase-sized handbags are in this season. While she roots around at the bottom, Tina emerges from the bedroom, beaming.

“DARLINGS, I am QUITE FABULOUS. Oh. Hello, Nick.”

Even Tina seems a bit subdued by Nightmare Boy. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But from the way he glares at her, I’m guessing they have a history. She flicks her eyes away from him and gathers herself.

“It’s there. It’s all there. She’s got the LOOK. That’s all I’m saying.”

Cassandra abandons her handbag search and looks up.

“Really? Can I see?”

“Of course.”

The two of them go back into the bedroom to check the pictures on the computer. Frankie flashes me a grin and goes to join them. I sit like a lemon in my chair, wondering what to do. Dad, who is utterly oblivious to awkward moments, stands up and introduces himself to Nick.

“Hi. I’m Stephen Trout. Ted’s dad. Pleased to meet you. Sorry to keep your mother busy on an evening like this.”

Nick shakes Dad’s hand at least. He shrugs.

“Don’t worry. It’s normal. Mum’s a slave to her job.” He gives a sarcastic laugh and glares in the direction of the bedroom. “But, you know, modeling comes first. That’s what we always say. I mean, it’s life or death, right?”

Dad coughs. He’s finally picked up on the atmosphere. Dad doesn’t like atmospheres. We’re all embarrassed and silent for a moment.

Then Nick shakes his head.

“Hang on. Did you say Trout? Ted Trout?”

Dad smiles awkwardly and corrects himself.

“Ted Richmond. Sorry. Always forget that.”

Nick waves his hand as if he’s not remotely interested in my new surname. Then he finally looks in my direction, raises his eyebrows, and takes me in from head to toe: the hardly-there hair, the makeup, the makeshift top, the unzipped dress. I am not at all what he saw last time, in Seb’s kitchenette, in Mum’s baggy yoga pants.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, surprised, staring at me for the longest time. But not only does he not look impressed, he looks thoroughly disappointed. “So they got you in the end, did they? When Mum talked about this new girl, I didn’t realize it was you.”

I try and force a smile. I really, really want to take off this stupid scarf and zip up my dress. I wish I could have been wearing jeans and Dad’s fedora and doing something artistic. I want to tell him it isn’t real — it’s only an experiment and I’m just a normal teenager. But I’m in the middle of a photo shoot in a suite at Claridge’s. It kind of
is
real.

“So, you’re Ted
Trout
?” Nick goes on. “Ava’s sister? I thought I recognized her when I saw you both that day, but I couldn’t place her. I should have, though. The number of photos Jesse’s shown me …”

“Wait,” I say, getting up and holding my dress around my waist like some sort of loincloth. “You know Jesse?”

“Yeah, he’s an old mate. I met him in Cornwall years ago. He’s a good man, Jesse. Anyway, how’s your sister? I haven’t heard since he hit the Mediterranean.”

Now that he’s talking about Jesse and Ava, Nick’s face is totally different. His scowl has softened. Behind his glasses, I get a glimmer of what he’s like when he’s not being angry with
his mum, and her career, and everything to do with it. He looks tender and vulnerable. The kind of boy you just want to curl up with and have conversations about Man Ray. Or anything, really.

“So Jesse told you about Ava?” I ask.

Nick smiles a slow, funny smile. “All the time. We Skype. He’s usually very, very boring on the subject. Her talent for surfing, her jokes, some funny, cute thing she does with her fingernail … God, it’s endless.”

Dad smiles back, and so do I. Frankie, Tina, and Cassandra return from the bedroom, chatting. They stop dead when they see Nick’s new expression, and the fact that he’s addressing me like a civilized human being.

“Anyway, he told me what she’s going through,” he says, turning serious again and ignoring them completely. “Is she still … on track?”

I nod, and gulp. Normally, I’ve got my “She’s fine” line all ready when people ask about Ava, but he’s taken me by surprise.

“She’s finding the chemo pretty tough. She was great today, though. She helped me do my eyeliner. Sorry …”

The eyeliner has just started to smudge. Suddenly thinking about Ava has confused me. Nick’s concerned expression makes it worse.

“Give her my … whatever. Fond regards,” he says quietly. “And …”

“Yes?”

He’s looking at me now as if he’s about to wish me luck, or say something nice. But then his eyes drift down past my makeshift
scarf, my bare midriff, and my loincloth dress, and he just looks sad.

“Nothing. Good-bye.”

He sees Tina hovering behind me and gives her the full force of his nightmare glare. Cassandra hands him the house keys, and he’s gone.

“Well!” she says, staring after him. “You wouldn’t know it, but he’s not as bad as he seems.”

“He didn’t seem bad,” I say.

Despite everything, I’d like to meet him one day when I am not half naked, in my mother’s bougie dress, or being made to “walk.” I think he’d understand about Ava: the good bits and the bad bits. I think he’d understand most stuff, actually, like I get how soft he is, under that nightmare coating. Next time, if there is a next time, I promise myself I will be so … amazing that he’ll take proper notice of me. Maybe he’ll see Xena, like Tina did. Maybe he’ll be impressed. You never know.

“Come and get dressed,” Tina offers. “I’ll help you.”

When we’re alone, she gives me a wry smile.

“You’re wondering how he got that way, aren’t you, princess? And why he blames me?”

I don’t try to deny it. The woman is a mind reader, and we both know it.

“Is it to do with Sheherezade Scott?” I ask.

“Aha!” she says, handing me my bra and carefully untying the scarf, “Got it, princess. So, you know Sheherezade? She is Gor. Geous. Like you, but a different energy. They dated for a few weeks. Total love-fest. Then I sent her to Tokyo and — LIKE I’D SAID SHE WOULD — she became a big star. She did a
couple of campaigns out there and one of them was with Emilio Romano. The Calvin Klein boy. No doubt you’ve seen him in his briefs. Oh. My. God. Anyway, she and Emilio had a little thing going on. It happens. Two beautiful people, alone in a big city — hello? Nick thinks it’s my fault because I made her big in Japan, and, princess, he’s TOTALLY RIGHT. But we don’t have time for him now. We only have time for YOU. Cassandra agrees with me. You. Have. It. We have to manage this carefully, because it’s going to go INSANE.”

A
ppropriately enough, it’s in choir on Monday that Dean Daniels first spots something unusual about me. Mr. Anderson has shifted us around this term and now Dean’s in the row behind me. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still slightly in shock from my evening at Claridge’s, or because I forgot to use wig tape this morning and the R-Patz is wonky, but Dean gives me a lingering stare when I walk up to my place.

Daisy nudges me. “I think he may be onto you,” she whispers.

This term, Mr. Anderson has got us practicing Handel’s
Messiah
full-on, and it’s really complicated. I’m in the middle of a loud, tricky high note when I first feel something poking the back of my head. I look around sharply. Dean’s standing there, acting innocent, clutching a pen. When I turn back, I can feel the pen gently nudging the R-Patz sideways and I can hear the slow bass note of Dean’s gathering laughter rumbling under the music. After a good shove, the wig slips a good inch sideways, lolling at an angle over my right ear.

Before I can grab it, it topples onto my shoulder, and from there onto the bench behind me. The music stops. Mr. Anderson
is staring. So is half the choir. There is a general sharp intake of breath and a few nervous giggles. Everyone is wondering what will happen first: Dean cracking a joke, or me crying.

The thing is, this may be a shock to Mr. Anderson, but it’s more of a relief to me. I look at the R-Patz, curled up on the bench, and catch Daisy’s eye.

“Anyone seen my guinea pig?”

There is a long pause while everyone tries to take in what’s happening. Was it really me who made the joke this time, not the class comedian? Even I’m not sure for a moment, until I hear Daisy’s laughter. Everybody else is too shocked by the sight of my scalp to say anything.

“Are you OK?” Dean asks, looking pale.

I smile at him. “Fine, thanks. Absolutely fine.”

He looks relieved. Perhaps he wondered for a moment if I’d “caught” cancer from my sister, but he seems glad I’m OK, and now he’s the one who’s embarrassed. I’m not, though. Not at all. Not now that my warrior princess self is out in the open, for all to see. The others may be shocked for a while, but they’ll get used to it.

Meanwhile, Dean bends down to pick up the wig and hands it to me like a gentleman, definitely precious. I keep smiling, because I’m grateful to him for helping me make up my mind about my hair, even if my mother really isn’t going to appreciate my decision.

Finally, Mr. Anderson regains his speech.

“I see! Goodness. Edwina. Are you …? That looks rather … Right. OK, everybody. Why don’t we …?” But nobody’s listening, and even he can’t stop staring. “Actually, are you all right, Edwina? I mean, that looks a bit …”

“I’m honestly fine,” I tell him, stroking the smooth whorls of my real hair, which is glad not to be stuck under the sweaty wig. “It’s just something I did with my sister.”

“Oh, I see.” He takes a deep breath, then seems to calm down a bit and smiles. “Well, that was a noble gesture. Would you like someone to help you put your … hair back on?”

I grin at him. “No thanks, Mr. Anderson. I’ll keep it for special occasions. I don’t think I really need it anymore.”

Mum isn’t happy, as I expected, but there’s another advantage to keeping my new look on a permanent basis, apart from the slight rebel edge it gives me. When I go in with Ava to the day ward at the pediatric oncology unit over the weekend, I feel like one of the gang. We meet up with boys and girls who are worried about losing their hair, and some who’ve already lost it. With Ava’s help, they’re creating new looks for themselves: learning makeup techniques, designing scarves and hats, and sharing tips about what stays on your head most easily, looks cool, and keeps the heat and cold out.

I love it how Ava’s staying in control of her life and helping other people, even during the tough times. I’m so proud of her, but of course I can’t say so. I just go along. Here, I don’t stand out at all. I’m just the girl with the camera, ready to take pictures of kids in various types of headgear and makeup, so they can see if it works.

I’m learning so much about faces. We all agree that, collectively, we look like half a dozen eggs in a basket. But individually, we look very different. Ava has a knack for bringing out the most in someone’s eyes or smile, or finding a hat that gives them
the cool vintage vibe they were after. I’m getting good at capturing it on camera, so they can appreciate the full effect.

When we’re not at the hospital, Ava helps me with my new art project at home, as promised. I’m a bit behind, so there’s lots of work to do. Three weeks later, I’m in the middle of taking some experimental pictures of her when Tina calls.

“Ted, BABY! You thought I’d forgotten you!”

“No! Not at all.”

In fact, to be honest, in all the bustle of school and the hospital, I’d almost forgotten her. Or at least I assumed she might not get back to me until Christmas. The summer taught me that things don’t necessarily happen overnight.

“You did, and you were WRONG, princess, WRONG. I’ve been working my gorgeous, tiny BUTT off for you, and it’s all coming together. Listen. Are you listening?”

I apologize to Ava, who’s currently nestling her head between an enormous pile of grapes and a pineapple, and mouth “Tina” at her. She grins at me and extracts herself from the fruit while I take the call.

“OK,” Tina says in a businesslike tone. “Don’t thank me yet, but there’s an ad campaign for a fragrance that will LAUNCH YOU SKYWARD, baby girl. If you do it, you’ll OWN New York. Not just New York, anywhere with any sense of fashion. It’s so hush-hush I can’t even tell you who it’s for, but it’s incredible, and you’ll LOVE the brand. When I tell you who it is, you’ll literally DIE.”

“Wow,” I say, ignoring the “literally.”

“The casting director already has another girl in mind, but don’t worry about that. She’s wrong and you’re better. The
campaign’s being shot by Rudolf Reissen and he’s my FAVORITE photographer right now. He’s breaking through and he’s so hot you’ll SIZZLE. He already wants to see you, but I want more than that. I want him to WANT you.”

“Fine. Er, how will he do that?”

“His chief assistant will tell him. His name’s Eric Bloch and he’s in London next week, casting for a magazine job. Eric’s a photographer in his own right. He’ll see you, he’ll use you, he’ll love you. Then he’ll tell his boss about you, Rudolf will go CRAZY for you, and persuade the casting director for this campaign to change his mind. That’s how it works. Voilà!”

I laugh. “That sounds complicated.”

“My darling, it’s IMPOSSIBLE. It requires MAGIC,” Tina agrees sternly. “Only I can do this. But watch me. I see the future. You just have to be fabulous, OK, princess? And you’ll love Eric — he’s DIVINE. But don’t touch. He’s engaged to a supermodel. She’ll never forgive me if she loses him to my next discovery.”

I promise I’ll try to be fabulous and guarantee that I won’t steal the divine photographer from his supermodel girlfriend. These people really do live in a different world. Meanwhile, I wonder if Tina can possibly be right about the hush-hush campaign. I don’t like the idea of taking someone else’s job, but I don’t know Tina well enough yet to tell her. I’ll have to do it later, when I’m not so new and she’s more likely to listen to me.

When I explain it all to Ava, she gives me one of her megawatt movie-star smiles.

“Told you this would happen! I’ve heard of Rudolf Reissen. He could be the next Testino.”

I nod knowledgably. I wish that when people said “Testino” now, I didn’t automatically picture a black labradoodle in a basket, but at least I know who they’re really talking about. And I know that I’m supposed to be impressed at this point, and I am.

A few days later, Frankie calls to book me for the casting with Rudolf’s assistant.

“Eric’s in town next week. He’s got a shoot lined up for
i-D
and he’s only seeing three girls. You’re one of them. It wouldn’t pay much, I’m afraid, but you know
i-D
…”

Nowadays, I do. It’s a totally cool magazine and everyone wants to be in it. It’s edgy and funky and it gets you noticed. I have several copies at home that various people have given me.
i-D
: seriously wow.

Wait a minute.

“Next week?”

“Uh-huh. Problem?”

“What about school?”

Frankie’s voice is warm and reassuring. “Don’t worry. School comes first. We’ll work around it. But you’re allowed a
few
days off, you know.”

“Really? I’ve got my general certificate exams this year. I don’t think I could —”

“Be calm, angel. I’ll see what I can do. Eric gets here on Saturday, so I’ll ask if he can see you on Sunday. You’ll love him. He’s adorable. I’ve got a few people interested in seeing you after that, but I’m just working out with Cassandra who’s best for your profile. Leave it with me, OK?”

Frankie somehow gets Eric Bloch to agree to see me on Sunday morning. Even better, Ava’s feeling well enough to be my chaperone today. We show up at a beautiful house in Bayswater. We are, of course, on time, and I’m “appropriately dressed,” with spare shoes in my bag, my book (updated with some of the warrior princess photos that Tina took), and my unibrow freshly threaded by a professional, having recovered from Mum’s emergency tweezer session.

Eric greets us in cutoff jeans, bare feet, and a rumpled linen shirt. He is short, French, with a slight American accent to his English, intense, addicted to strong espressos, unaware of the invention of the hairbrush, and, as promised, adorable. I don’t sit in a damp, drafty waiting room this time: Today it’s just him, me, and Ava. We lounge around a big scrubbed-pine kitchen table and he makes coffee for Ava and tea for me. We talk about movies —
À Bout du Souffle
is his favorite. Also music — he’s a big fan of Blondie and is impressed I know all about New Wave (thanks to Daisy). After an hour of chatting, he sits me casually next to a tall window, with only natural daylight on my face, and takes a few pictures.

He doesn’t give me much direction. “I just want to see what you can do.”

I do some smiley faces, because he’s supercute and it’s easy to smile at him. However, I think I ought to show him the warrior princess, too, because that’s what Tina wanted and it looked extraordinary in the photos afterward. It was like seeing pictures of another girl — maybe not what you’d call a traditionally beautiful one, but somebody fascinating, with a powerful story to tell. So I summon up Xena again and stare down the lens.
This is better. When I’m Xena I feel more in control. I know my eyes are doing the work and drawing attention away from my fat ankles. Not that I’m convinced they’re so fat anymore.