The Look (2 page)

A
s the shock fades, Ava dumps her flute and gives me a hug. “Are you OK? Look, let’s just give up and go home.”

I nod. I’m shaking. That whole experience was just too weird for me to handle.

“Do you think he said it as a joke? What did he expect me to do?”

“I think he was a scammer,” Ava says, staring angrily after him. “There’s a lot of them about. They’ll go up to anyone and say you could be a model, then next thing you know they’re charging you five hundred pounds for photographs. Then they disappear. It’s fairly evil.”

“How do you
know
this stuff?”

“Happened to a girl named Holly last year. She had to miss the volleyball trip to France because she’d spent all her travel money on the photos. Turns out they were useless for proper modeling, but it was too late.”

“That’s terrible!”

“Yup. But don’t worry, you’re safe now. Come on — let’s go.”

I look at her gratefully. “But what about the money? Do you want to do another song?”

“No, it’s fine. I’m tired anyway. Didn’t sleep too well.”

“Were you hot again last night?”

She nods and rubs her neck. It looks a bit swollen.

“And sweaty. My pj’s were soaked again this morning. Exam stress, Mum says.”

“You don’t look stressed.”

“I’m not.”

And it’s true — she doesn’t look it. Ava doesn’t really do stress. Whereas I’ve just been doing it enough for both of us.

We collect our bags and head for the subway. Now that we’re not standing around in front of a bunch of strangers, I can start to enjoy myself. It’s not often I get to wander around town with my big sister. Carnaby Street is full of trendy boutiques with pastel-painted shop fronts, and cafés with tables spilling onto the sidewalks. On the corner, a group of shopgirls from Liberty’s are standing around in their chic black outfits and scarlet lipstick. They must be on a coffee break. I wonder if they know how cool and sophisticated they look.

Ava follows my gaze again.

“Lucky things. Mind you, that could be me in a few weeks.”

“Really? You’ve applied for a summer job at Liberty’s?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “Constantine & Reed.”

She pauses, waiting for me to be impressed. I’m sure I would be, but I’ve never heard of Constantine & Reed.

“Who?”

“Oh, come on, T. It’s the biggest new fashion company in America. They’re opening their first UK store in July. Everybody’s talking about it.”

“Not to me.”

“Big surprise,” she says, sighing at my T-shirt-and-shorts combo.

Ava is the fashionista of the family, and I’m the … well, I’m the normal one. I’m interested in all sorts of things. Trees. Drawing. Music (as played by actual musicians). People. But not shopping. It’s too complicated. Finding jeans long enough to fit me is a nightmare.

“Anyway, this is by Constantine & Reed,” Ava says, pointing at her bag, which has green and white stripes, with a logo of a snake in the middle. “Jesse bought it on the internet for my birthday. They’re opening this shop in Knightsbridge, and Louise and I applied. It pays OK and they give you a discount. If we get the job, I can afford to go surfing with Jesse for at least two weeks in August, and Louise can pay for driving lessons. It’ll be brilliant.”

“So, you mean we didn’t have to go busking after all?”

She looks uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t know if I’ve got it yet, do I? And besides, it was fun.”

She can see from my expression that “fun” is not how I’d describe the last half hour of my life.

“Tell you what, you can have all the takings, to make up for the creepy guy accosting you like that.”

“Takings? But there aren’t any.”

“Aha! Well, that’s where you’re wrong. One of the wrappers still had a Starburst in it. Strawberry. Your favorite. It’s yours.”

She hands it to me as we reach the Underground station. It’s hot and sticky and half unpeeled. I stick it in the pocket of my shorts, along with the card from Simon the scammer.

On the bright side, at least we didn’t get arrested.

All the way home — standing in the crowded Tube train while Ava smiles at the man who gave up his seat for her — I try to work out why I was the girl Simon chose.

On the wall outside our bedroom there’s an old clip frame stuffed with snapshots of my sister and me. Mum’s favorites, mostly. Occasionally Ava sticks something in there, too. I know each one by heart.

In the top left-hand corner, I’m a baby in Ava’s arms. She’s two and she’s sitting in a big green armchair, proudly holding me up like a school project. She is dark-haired and gorgeous, with long bangs over her big violet eyes. A toddler-sized Suri Cruise, without the designer shoes. I am round. And hairless. And crying. Why Mum chose that particular one, I don’t know. I have a feeling it’s the only one she’s got of the chair.

In the middle: school photos. Ava looks like a fresh-faced beauty queen. I look like a frightened blob. Then something changes. I’m about ten. This would be the start of my judo phase. Now I look like a blob with purpose.

Party shots: me and my friends at various birthdays, all with our arms around one another’s shoulders. Then I hit twelve and start shooting up. Now my friends have their arms around my waist.

Bottom right-hand corner, recently added: Ava’s seventeenth birthday. I’m stooping down so my eyes are level with my sister’s. From the side, I look like a question mark — Mum always threatens to make me take ballet if she catches me like this. Ava, meanwhile, looks like a young Elizabeth Taylor. I know this because she’s been told it so often that we looked up Elizabeth
Taylor on the internet, and she was hot. She had the same violet eyes, the dark, wavy hair with its own special luster, and the perfect curves. Afterward, I googled a load of other movie stars from the same kind of time: Ava Gardner, Vivien Leigh, Jane Russell. My sister looks a bit like all of them, but with a better handle on eyeliner.

I know what true beauty is. I’ve grown up with it all my life and … well, that Simon guy must have been on drugs or something. Or else I look like the most gullible idiot in history.

W
hen we get home to our flat in South London, Ava goes straight to our room to put her flute away and makes some noises about studying for exams. I’m about to follow — I have exams, too — but the man who is genetically responsible for my freakiness calls to me from his bedroom, where he’s at work on his computer. He leaps up as soon as I come in, with a worried expression under his bushy unibrow.

On Dad, the height and the hair and the gangly limbs just about work. He looks like a mad professor — which is what he would have become if his university hadn’t suddenly sacked half the history department last summer in a fit of cost-cutting. To be more accurate, he looks like a mad professor crossed with an eager collie. He has so much pent-up energy. He used to get rid of some of it by bounding around the lecture hall, inspiring his students with the delights of the English Civil War. Now he spends most of his time at home, writing a novel about Cavaliers and Roundheads, or working on job applications. I’m pretty sure the energy will turn into actual electricity if he doesn’t do something soon. Maybe we’ll be able to use him to power the apartment.

His worried look makes me nervous. My father is not a man to be left alone in a place with electrical equipment, or indeed any equipment. It’s why I like to “help” him with stuff. Otherwise, somebody usually gets hurt.

“How are you, love?” he asks innocently.

“Fine.” I hold my breath. “What happened?”

He scuffs a toe on the carpet. I sniff for smoke. The air smells clean enough. Nothing’s blown up this time, then. That’s good.

“So … is there a problem?”

“Ah. Well, I thought I’d help your mother with the laundry while she was working today. Your sister’s sheets were soaking this morning. That’s the second time this week. She’s not hiding a Jacuzzi in there, is she?”

“She said she was sweaty. Oh, and her neck’s a bit swollen.”

“Anyway,” Dad sighs, looking guilty again, “I got a bit distracted and twiddled a few knobs I probably shouldn’t have.”

This sounds bad. Really bad.

“Is something broken?”

“Not exactly.”

He’s still scuffing the floor with his toe.

“Do you want to show me?”

He nods. Like a guilty toddler, he leads me through the flat to the scene of the crime, which turns out to be the bathroom, where the washing machine lives. Placed over the bathtub is a clothes rack where various bits of laundry are hanging out to dry. So far, so good. Except I don’t recognize some of the things. They look vaguely familiar, but small, like dolls’ clothes.

“Sorry, love.”

I look closer. Oh.

Two of the little things are my school skirts. At least they were.

“The prewash got a bit hot. Shrinkage problem. Didn’t quite realize in time.”

I look at Dad. He grins bravely. “They’ll be OK, won’t they? I mean, you’re stick thin. You’re a string bean, you are. Anyway, Ava’ll probably let you borrow one of hers.”

Yeah, Dad. And then Rihanna will call and ask to sing a duet. My father may be an expert on the English Civil War, but he’s pretty rubbish at the history of his own family. Does he not remember that four years ago I went through a phase of being inspired by Ava’s outfits and she forbade me from dressing like her, or borrowing any of her stuff, EVER AGAIN? She’s recently made an exception for iTunes, but school uniform? I don’t think so.

We stand in front of the clothes rack for a moment, not saying anything. We’re both thinking that before Dad lost his job this wouldn’t have been much of a problem. We’d have gone to Marks & Spencer and got some new skirts. But we can’t do that anymore. Dad’s overqualified for most of the jobs he goes for. We don’t know how long his severance package will have to last, so every penny counts. It’s why Ava and I don’t have allowances anymore. He feels so bad about it that I can’t really say anything, so I don’t.

All the same, he senses my hesitation about approaching Ava.

“Tell you what, I’ll ask her for you, if you like.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

But he can’t — at least, not straightaway. When we finally track her down in the living room, she’s asleep with her head on a pile of untouched practice tests.

She’s still asleep when Mum comes in from work hours later, looking as glamorous as anyone can in a green nylon polo shirt and matching trousers — which, given my mum, is surprisingly glamorous. Imagine a middle-aged Elizabeth Taylor in a green nylon pantsuit.

Mum’s the one keeping us going at the moment. It was her idea to move out of Rose Cottage, our pretty, old home in Richmond, so we could rent it out, and find somewhere smaller. She got a job at a local superstore, as well as doing occasional translating work, which is what she’s qualified for. And she still cooks all our meals, like she used to. I think this might be because she doesn’t want Dad to break the oven.

“Suppertime soon,” she says, holding up a bag of fresh vegetables she picked up on the way home. “Can you set the table, Ted? Get Ava to help you. Goodness.”

She gently wakes Ava, who looks surprised to have drifted off.

“Oh, hi, Mum. I’ll do this later,” Ava says, yawning and looking at her blank tests. “I’m just going to Louise’s. She wants to hear all about Carnaby Street.”

“No, you’re not,” Mum says firmly. “Suppertime is sacred, as you well know.”

“But I can grab something at Louise’s.”

“A packet of crisps and raw cookie dough doesn’t count as ‘something,’” Mum insists.

Ava looks sulky. They have this argument several times a week. Ava claims that Mum’s stunting her social skills; Mum says if she misses a decent meal it will stunt her growth. I leave them to it. Mum learned French by working in a restaurant in
Lyon when she was young. I wouldn’t miss one of her meals if you paid me.

I only wish there was more of a table to set. After we rented our cottage out, we moved into this flat above a travel shop, on a main road in Putney, two bus rides away from school. No garden. Only two bedrooms, so Ava and I have to share. (She cried.) Green walls. Brown furniture. Tiny kitchen, which is why I’m setting out the knives and forks on a small folding table that we’ve squeezed into the back of the living room.

At least it’s beside a window. There’s a tree — an ash — in the messy, built-up yard between us and the house behind. Every day I look for signs of leaf growth and changing color. I miss the open spaces of Richmond Park so much it hurts. It’s May, so the ash tree’s feathery leaves are fully formed and starting to flutter in the gentle evening breeze. Tonight, I don’t draw the curtains, so I can keep watching it as the daylight fades.

They join me, one by one: Mum with a dish of ratatouille, Dad bearing a massive salad bowl, and my sister, bearing a grudge.

“I’m fine, Mum, honest. Why shouldn’t I go out later?”

“You had your head on the table when I got in. I think you need an early night.”

“It was a refreshing nap. I’m OK now.”

“Well, I worry about you.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Anyway,” Dad breaks in hurriedly, “tell us about busking this morning. How did it go?”

“Not as well as we hoped,” Ava sighs. “Ted got approached by a scammer with a camera, did she tell you? You can stop staring at yourself by the way, T.”

I look around guiltily. OK, so I was checking my reflection in the window. I happened to be thinking about what Simon the scammer said, and I wanted to see if anything had changed, but no. There’s still a blonde caterpillar where my eyebrows should be, and my hair still looks as though a half-finished bird’s nest has accidentally landed on my head. My face is as moonlike as ever, with wide-apart eyes and almost-invisible blonde lashes. Back when I was eleven, Dean Daniels said I reminded him of E.T. That was before my growth spurt. Then he started calling me Friday, short for Freaky Friday, which is short for plain Freak. Class comedian, that’s Dean. And I’m his favorite source of material.

“No,” Dad says. “We were talking about … other things. What’s a scammer?”

Ava rolls her eyes and tells him the story about Holly and the five hundred pounds. He looks horrified.

“They’re really convincing, these people.” Ava shrugs. “They advertise in local papers, too, and on the internet. They say you look totally stunning and you just need to pay for some photos or training or whatever. They charge you a fortune for it, then — bam!”

“What?”

“Nothing happens.”

“That’s ‘bam’?” I ask.
Nothing happens
doesn’t sound very “bam” to me.

“They run off with your money and don’t get you any work. Google ‘modeling scams.’ There’s millions of them.”

“You didn’t pay anything, did you?” Mum asks, hand on her mouth.

“No, of course not.”

“And they picked on
Ted
?” Dad says, astonished.

Thanks, Dad.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Mum says to me with a reassuring pat on the arm. “We’d never have let you go through with it. No way is any daughter of ours getting into the clutches of the modeling industry, is she, Stephen?”

“What?” Dad asks with a start. He was miles away, staring from me to Ava and back — from freak to fabulous — and frowning in confusion.

“I said,” Mum repeats, “we’d never have let her go through with it. It’s all drugs and anorexia, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, you’re right,” Dad says, still not listening. “Mandy, love, have you noticed Ava’s neck? I’ve been comparing it to Ted’s just now. That’s a real lump there.”

“My glands are up,” Ava grumbles, touching her neck gingerly. “It’s been like this for ages. Oh, it’s bigger now, though.”

“Goodness, you’re right,” Mum says, peering closely. Then she puts her fork down, looking grim. “No school tomorrow morning, Ava Trout. I’m taking you back to the doctor’s.”

“But, Mu-um, I’ve got volleyball tomorrow morning!”

“Tough. You’ll have to miss it. It’s only one practice — I’m sure they won’t mind.”

“If you don’t need it, can I
please
borrow your skirt?” I ask quickly.

Ava raises one eyebrow, to remind me of our many conversations on the subject. That would be a “no,” then.

I wait for Dad to back me up, but he’s forgotten already. His brain’s still elsewhere.

Mum catches me glaring at him. She doesn’t know about the laundry, so she assumes I’m cross with him for being so surprised that it was me who got scammed, not Ava.

“Never forget, darling,” she says, “you have your own inner beauty. You’ll always be lovely to me.”

“Thanks, Mum. Great.”

I was just about OK before, but when your own mother starts talking about your “inner beauty” you know you’re officially doomed.