The Look (25 page)

“Focus!” Rudolf calls. “Where are you, Viper Girl? Look at me. Come on, honey — smolder! What’s the problem?”

I’m glad he’s asked. “Actually,” I say, “I imagined this girl more like a warrior than a volcano. You know — brave, and hot, of course, but not too …”

Sleazy. I mean sleazy. Can I say sleazy?

“Not too what?” Rudolf asks in very clipped tones. He’s not showing his teeth for once because he’s not smiling at me now. Not at all.

“Too … smoldery.”

Smoldery.
What a stupid word. No wonder he’s frowning.

“OK,” he says, in a tone I haven’t heard before. “We’ll do it your way. How
you
imagined her. Because the editor of
Elle
hired you to do a shoot last month, didn’t she? Because
you’ve
just got back from shooting ten pages for Russian
Vogue
in Siberia. Oh wait, no. That was me.”

He laughs, and the crew laughs with him.

I feel exactly the way I felt back on Knicker Day. Or, actually, a thousand times worse. My eyes are stinging. I honestly didn’t think I’d ever feel that way again. Where is Xena when I need her? Miranda comes over and pretends to fiddle with my glitter.

“Ignore him,” she whispers. “He gets very sensitive. But you need to go with his vision. It’ll be lovely, promise.”

So I go back to trying to smolder, ignoring the fact that snakes are falling off me left, right, and center, and that the smell of hot rubber is making me feel slightly sick, and that if only I could do my warrior stare properly, I’m sure we’d get a much better picture. Rudolf runs off a few more frames, but he keeps going over to the monitor and looking disappointed.

“I’m sorry!” I call out. “I’m sorry. I’ve lost it. Can … can we stop for a minute?”

He sighs, checks his watch, and puts the camera down. It’s obvious that I’m wasting everyone’s very valuable time.

Jo, the stylist, comes over. “What do you need, babe? Can I get you anything?”

I shake my head. “Just my robe.” She holds it for me while I climb out of the tub and head for the changing room. Diane
joins us there, smoothing down her Armani skirt and looking worried.

“What’s the problem? Aren’t you feeling well?” she asks.

“This isn’t what I expected,” I explain. “He wants something … different. I know how to be a warrior, but not a volcano. I’m not sure I can do this.”

“Of course you can!” Diane says firmly. “You can do more than one expression, surely? You really shone in those test shots. You’re perfect for the brand. You’ve just got to be professional, that’s all.”

There’s an edge to her voice now, too. But she sees the look in my eyes, and the wobble on my lip, and somehow she squeezes out an encouraging smile.

“Come on! You’ll enjoy it.” She stretches out a hand to flick a tear from the corner of my eye. “Thousands of girls would crawl over their grandmothers to work with Rudolf. I know it feels like he’s pushing you, but that’s because he wants a great picture. It’s not just an ad campaign — it’s art. You just have to be brave and take a risk, Ted. That’s how you get noticed.”

Five minutes and three chocolate-dipped strawberries later, I’m back under the lights, having my hair and makeup tweaked, and being professional. The snakes are rearranged over me. Not so many snakes now. Maybe a string bikini’s worth. A crotcheted string bikini. I look down to check that nothing’s showing and it isn’t — just. But even Dad hasn’t seen me in this little covering since I was small. If Dean Daniels could … Ew. Sick, definitely. The thought makes me nauseous. And they want to put the picture on the back of a million magazines …

Eric gives Rudolf a thumbs-up. Blondie goes back up to full volume.

“Better,” Rudolf says. “Go again. OK now, gorgeous, I’m getting the scary glare. Enough of that. I need more smolder. Think of your boyfriend. Think of that good-bye kiss he gave you …”

Out of nowhere, I think of Nick. I instantly remember every word of his call last night, and how wrong he was about Ava, and how furious he made me. Rudolf looks up from his camera, horrified. “OK, not him. We need something … someone … Who’s hot around here?”

“Hey!” Diane giggles, still staring straight into the monitor. I had no idea she could giggle. She’s so not the giggling type. “No need to ask, Rude.”

Everyone laughs. I wonder why. Then I catch sight of Eric out of the corner of my eye. He’s shrugging and looking slightly embarrassed, but only slightly. He’s clearly used to being told how cute he is, and I’m not surprised, because he really is the most adorable —

“THERE! That’s IT!” Rudolf whips the camera back into position and starts snapping. “How does that look, Diane? Hold it there, baby.”

He goes over to check the monitor again, while I try to maintain my expression. I do my best. I really do. I think of the money. I try to pretend I’m not staring at the fiancé of some supermodel I’ve never met, and that a room full of fashion professionals now know that I secretly fancy him. And that I’m not doing semi-naked in a bath of smelly fake reptiles. While wearing a lacy thong. And pretending to be a volcano. And that I’m not TOTALLY MORTIFIED.

I want to be professional. I tell my brain to tell my eyes to smolder. Instead, my brain goes off on its own and thinks about Ava. She said exactly the same thing to Jesse that she said to me:
Go do what you want to do — it’s better this way.
But she didn’t mean it about Jesse — she missed him desperately while he was away. So of course she didn’t mean it about me, either. She’s frightened and alone right now, and she needs me more than ever. And instead here I am, practically nude, in a bath full of hot snakes, “smoldering,” because I somehow got talked into “finding myself.” I mean, honestly. Where was I?

And then suddenly it hits me.

From the moment I put that thong on, I’ve been disappearing.

I’m in a room full of people and they’re all staring at my face and body as if their lives depended on it (and maybe their jobs really do), and none of them understands how I feel. This isn’t like working with Eric, or the kite-tail designer. I might as well be a piece of expensive fruit.

Meanwhile, my sister is coping with chemo, radiotherapy, that terrible “ten percent,” and a broken heart, with only my parents for company. Mum will no doubt be crying. I can hardly bear to think what Dad will have broken by now. Without Jesse, I’m all Ava has. The warrior princesses. We were starting to make a real team.

“Oh, COME ON!” Rudolf says, coming back from the monitor and looking through his viewfinder again. “Concentrate! It’s one simple expression, baby. Surely even your tiny brain cells can process it for ten shots!”

My “tiny brain” is getting angry now, but I can’t help more tears of frustration from forming. The lens picks them up
instantly. Rudolf hands the camera to an assistant and storms off, exasperated. “Deal with her and tell me when she’s ready.”

I think I just found myself.

I ask Jo for my robe again. Turns out Daisy was right about “standing around in your undies” after all. I loved being Xena, but Xena doesn’t do this. Any day that starts with a self-conscious girl and a lacy thong is liable to end badly. Diane was right, too: I just have to be brave and take a risk.

A
n hour later, I’m on a ferry that goes around Liberty Island, with sea spray in my hair and tourists staring first at my green-and-gold face, then at the Statue of Liberty, then back at me. It’s New York. Anything goes.

I get out my fancy new iPhone to dial Ava’s number. But she’s not answering, so I call home.

“Hello?” Dad’s voice. I could cry with relief.

“Hi,” I say, sounding as cheerful as I can.

“Ted? Is that you? How’s it going?”

“Fabulous,” I lie firmly. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. “Where’s Ava?”

“She went out,” Dad says. “Ages ago. She seemed very … Don’t worry about it. Have a great time, love.”

Oh, God — Ava’s so bad that he’s trying to spare me by not talking about it.

“Will do. Tell her … Give her lots of love from me and tell her I’ll see her as soon as I can. And Dad? She’s got this new thing for butterscotch ice cream. Can you make sure we’ve got some in the fridge?”

“Of course. Butterscotch. Bye, love,” Dad says, sounding puzzled. He doesn’t like long-distance phone calls. I think a part of him still lives in Civil War times. Complicated technology makes him nervous. Plus, why did I call him from New York to talk about ice cream? Poor Dad. I can’t explain it to him right now. Ava needs a whole lot more than the right flavor of ice cream, but from this far away, it’s the best I can do.

I put the phone back in the new Mulberry tote that I
so
haven’t earned, and slump back into my seat on the ferry. I’m not Xena anymore. I’ve used up all her energy and she’s gone. Instead, I start replaying the last hour’s worth of conversations in my head.

Me finding Rudolf and explaining, very politely, that I can be a warrior princess, but I can’t be a sexy volcano, because I don’t know how and I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into, and I really have to get home because my family needs me.

Rudolf storming off again and shouting at Eric, someone,
anyone
to deal with me.

Diane, desperate, reminding me about my contract and trying to get Model City on the phone. Then Diane, disgusted, explaining exactly how much money the shoot is costing and how much
I’m
costing them with my “silly, selfish, juvenile, unprofessional” attitude.

Eric telling me earnestly that thousands of girls would run through fire for the chance of this shoot, and assuring me that it’s “artistically valid,” or he wouldn’t have put me up for it. Me agreeing to every point. It’s just a shame that Rudolf’s idea of “artistic” is my idea of “sick.” In a bad way.

Rudolf, storming back in, seeing me still in my robe, threatening to sue Model City
and
me, and shouting at me that he’ll
personally see to it that I never work again. I’m just a
model
. I do what I’m
told
. Without the photographer, the model is
nothing
. He can’t have his whole schedule turned upside down because the stupid girl wasn’t
listening
when the shoot was explained to her.

Diane, on the phone, already trying to book another model at short notice.

Miranda saying, “This way.”

She guided me back into the changing room and found my clothes for me. She offered to help take the makeup off, but I was too desperate to get out of the building to wait. As I dragged my jeans and sweater on, she was full of reassuring noises about how I’d get over it, and so would Rudolf, and it was just his temperamental genius that made him do all that shouting. Then she hugged me to her, just like Mum, and kissed the top of my head.

If I ever worked in New York again — which I never will — she’s the makeup girl I’d ask for. She’s the one who told me about the ferry, slipped me some dollars, and suggested I sneak out the back door to get some air. She was right. I really don’t need the others flapping around me right now, reminding me how much trouble I’m in.

The ferry trip is just what I need to start breathing again after what happened in the studio. The sea spray cools my face. The chugging noise of the boat is reassuring. And Lady Liberty herself reminds me that a woman can look bold and brave and inspirational without having to smolder, or do it in a thong. I’d look ridiculous in a bikini anyway: three triangles on a plank of wood. What
was
Simon thinking when he spotted me?

When we return to the ferry terminal, I still feel the need for fresh air. I decide to walk up through Manhattan, following my nose toward the model flat. I buy a hot chocolate to keep the cold out, and after about fifteen minutes’ walking I stumble across a little patch of grass and trees, where I can sit down and finish drinking it.

There’s a woman already sitting on the only bench, with an enormous plastic bag beside her. She’s enormous, too. Her hair is matted, her face isn’t tanned, as I thought at first, but ingrained with dirt. There’s an “interesting” smell coming from her direction and I’m guessing it’s not Viper. She’s guarding the plastic bag with dogged determination, probably because it contains everything she owns.

I ask if I can sit beside her, and she nods. We recognize each other: two strange people in a strange city, making our own choices — sometimes wrong ones — and not taking grief from anyone. She even smiles.

“Nice hair,” she says, passing the time.

I offer her what’s left of my hot chocolate.

“Nice socks,” I tell her.

They’re long, with multicolored stripes. Over them, she’s wearing red shorts that come down to her knees and electric-blue clogs. She should be wearing a coat in this cold weather, but instead she’s making do with several hoodies, worn in layers, and matching scarves. I don’t know where she found them, but they match the colors of the stripes on her socks and even — when I look further — in the right order. Nestling in her hair is a small felt hat with a flower. She looks like a very well-put-together clown.

“Nice outfit altogether,” I admit.

She stares at me.

“You German?”

“No.”

“French?”

“No.”

“Italian?”

“No. English.”

“Uh-huh.” She stares at me. I can’t believe my accent sounded French or Italian, but I guess you never know. Whatever it is, I’m not what she expected.

“Easy on the eyes,” she adds.

“I’m sorry?”

But she doesn’t answer. She said it as if it was a warning. Does she mean I’m easy to look at and that’s a problem? Or that I should do something about my eyes? I suddenly remember that they’re still covered in glittery snake makeup. I probably look like I should be clubbing, not going for a walk in the park.

She finishes the hot chocolate, shifts closer to her bag, and stares resolutely ahead. There’s something grand about her. Undefeated.

“Erm, I hate to be rude,” I say, “but would you mind … Could I possibly take your picture?”

I pull out the iPhone that Model City gave me. It has all the latest features and a great camera.

“Be my guest,” she says with a low, rumbling laugh. “They do it all the time.”

I crouch down a short distance away and take a few shots of her with the bag and the bench, but mostly trying to bring out the incredible way she plays with color.

“Nice meeting you,” I add. Simon and Tina have very narrow vision. If I were picking someone to take photographs of today, it would definitely be this lady, not me. “And if you don’t mind me saying, I think you look … amazing.”

“Right on, sister,” she says, smiling.

I put the phone back in my bag and, to my surprise, find I’m grinning. It’s just occurred to me that I spent most of today at the wrong end of the camera. But at least I managed to rescue it in the end.