The Look (21 page)

A
t school, I haven’t mentioned what’s been happening recently. Daisy and I talk about it at home — when we’re not on the subject of Ava — but it all seems too weird to bring up in class. And I haven’t forgotten Daisy’s first reaction when I told her about modeling. It wasn’t a good one. Anyway … since I found my inner Xena, I just don’t feel the same need to impress everyone. Actually, I quite like having a secret double life. Nobody saw my TV disaster, luckily, and none of the pictures I’ve done have been published yet, so I thought I’d wait until they did before I said anything. That way, I also avoid Cally’s “oh yeah?” look, which is good.

However, a few days after Tina gives me the news about the perfume campaign, a pair of long legs falls into step beside mine after school, as I’m walking to the bus stop. I look across. It’s Dean Daniels. Who “just happens” — for the first time in history — to be going the same way as me.

“Hi, Ted. You off home, then?”

Two things: First, what happened to “Friday”? And second, of course I’m off home. Where else would I be going? And why does he seem so tongue-tied?

He coughs. “Er … someone said … that you were …” —
cough
— “… a model now. Is that true … or something?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that Nathan King’s cousin’s temping at this model agency. And they’re really excited about this new girl. And she sounds like you. And she’s …” —
cough
— “… er, going to be, you know, like, famous.”

“Oh, right. That’s interesting.”

We reach the bus stop. I check for the bus, which doesn’t seem to be coming any time soon. Dean lingers.

“So?” he says.

“Sorry?”

“Is it you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Dean looks down and scuffs the ground with his foot. “You know …
models
…”

No, actually, I don’t. What does he mean, “
models
”? Which models? His face is scrunched up with embarrassment and he won’t meet my eye.

“What?”

“Well,
you
know.” His face scrunches up further. He looks almost as awkward as I did in choir last term. Then he catches my eye for a brief second and gives a dirty laugh. “You know … models. Sick.”

“Sick?”

“In a good way. You know …”

He does the dirty laugh again, but apart from that, Dean is actually lost for words — for the first time since I’ve known him. Apart from “sick,” obviously, which doesn’t count. This is bizarre. And embarrassing, for both of us.

“Well, I’d better be going,” I tell him, getting my bus pass ready.

Still no bus. Please don’t let him notice I’m staring down an empty street.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. Cool. See you tomorrow.” He trudges off, backpack bouncing on his shoulders.

I realize I never did answer his question, but it’ll be around the whole school soon. If anyone thinks to check the Model City website, it’ll be impossible to deny. Then I will officially be “Ted Richmond, model.”

Just as I was getting used to being “Xena, Secret Warrior Princess.” I was enjoying that. I wish I could hold that moment, but judging by the totally weird look on Dean’s face just now, it’s gone.

Sure enough, a couple of days later, thanks to Nathan King’s cousin, the news about my trip to New York is all around our class. Cally looks so jealous it’s like a physical pain, and lots of the girls aren’t talking to me. This isn’t the reaction I originally wanted at all. They seem to divide into the ones who are being bitchy about me behind my back, and the ones who are too stunned to say anything.

The boys are worse. “Models. Sick.” I wish it would wear off. I imagined them being impressed for two seconds, then going back to normal. I didn’t want them to ask for my autograph in math.

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?”