by Kris Pearson
Humiliation rushed through her as she read the crackling page. It was as bad as she’d thought.
Tracey Simmons and Debra Holt and Angela Clark had talked about this stupid contest endlessly. Boasted about how good they’d be if any of them won the prize. How it would lead to modelling contracts, and better boyfriends and their photos in the local newspaper.
They must have entered her name as a joke. Yet another cruel joke.
Izzy felt secretly thrilled they’d lost out, but devastated about winning. She scanned the letter again. She was to arrive with clean hair, no makeup, and four changes of clothes. Hopeless. Terrifying. Did she even have four changes of clothes? Four different coloured T-shirts maybe. Jeans and school uniform skirt and—what else? The flowery pink top her grandmother had given her for Christmas. The shiny red dress they’d made her wear to Abby’s wedding. Gross!
She’d never look good enough, even though the letter said her makeup would be professionally applied and her hair expertly styled for the portfolio of photos by Derek Royd. She stared at herself in the mirror. A pair of huge worried grey eyes stared back. What could they do about the braces on her teeth? Or the spots on her chin? Or her flat chest? Nothing. She wouldn’t go.
*
But on Saturday afternoon she stuffed some clothes in a bag and pedalled off, telling her mother she’d be at Mandy’s listening to music.
Maybe this was the miracle she needed to stop the bullying?
Just one good photo, she prayed.
Having parked her bike beside the Derek Royd Photography sign, she took a couple of tentative steps inside the opened door. The sound of someone throwing up and swearing nearby made her hurry through toward the big bright room at the end of the corridor.
Euuuw! Already nervous, Izzy now felt sick enough to join the vomiter. Her pony-tail pulled headachy-tight. Her fingers slid damply on the bag handle. She was so not looking forward to this.
A glamorous dark haired woman greeted her with, “Hello—I’m Anne, and you must be Isabella? Lovely name!”
But Izzy caught her slight frown. Obviously she didn’t think the rest of her was lovely.
“Pop your bag over here. Let’s see your clothes.”
Anne led the way to a curtained cubicle with a rack of empty coat hangers. Izzy hung up her meagre selection.
“Look, I’m sorry about this,” Anne began, only to be interrupted by another loud retching noise and the flushing of a toilet. She grimaced and closed her eyes. “That’s Derek, I’m afraid. Bad reaction to some oysters. Would it be okay if our son Michael took your shots? He’s very good—often works with his dad these days.”
Izzie’s heart stuttered. Mikie Royd! No!
Mikie Royd was two years ahead of her at college. Truly hot. Sulky-mouthed. Trouble all the way.
“Yes, fine,” she muttered. How much worse could things get?
“Let’s start with this pink cami, then. And leave the jeans on, although we mightn’t show them in the same shot.” Anne rattled the curtain closed and departed.
Izzy reluctantly pulled on Gran’s too-pretty top and emerged, eyeing the assortment of cosmetics in front of a big mirror.
“Sit here, dear, and we’ll have a little play.”
She shrivelled under the older woman’s gaze. “I don’t really wear makeup,” she admitted. “Mum doesn’t either.”
Anne smiled. “Maybe I can change your mind? Just a fluff of mineral powder and a lick of mascara, I think. And we’ll highlight those great cheekbones. You’ve a delicate little face.”
“Spotty,” Izzy mumbled.
Anne nodded. “But you’ll grow past that—and concealer-stick’s very helpful.” She dotted over several of the pinker blemishes before brushing on a dusting of powder and blusher.
“Now—lean your head back. Eyelashes very still for the mascara. Lovely long lashes. You really should show them off.” She dabbed on some peachy lip gloss and swivelled the chair so Izzy could see her reflection.
The girl in the mirror looked... better. Izzy swallowed.
“And let’s lose the ponytail elastic.”
Thick mouse-brown hair cascaded halfway to her waist.
Anne lifted it, coiled it, experimenting. “You’d look very pretty with this cut a lot shorter, you know. I can tell from the kink in the ends it would shape nicely.” She turned aside and took a shoulder length blonde-streaked wig from its stand, then twisted Izzy’s hair up and covered it. “See? What do you think?”
Izzy gasped at the change. “Could I be photographed in it please?”
“Of course you can. Part of the fun.” She set the wig stand aside. “Michael!” she yelled with surprising volume.
Mikie Royd ambled in half a minute later, black hair hanging in his eyes, jeans rubbed white over his knees and fraying at the hems, iPod cord dangling.
“This is Isabella,” Anne said.
“Hi,” Izzy managed, feeling a little better now she didn’t look like herself.
Mikie narrowed what she could see of his eyes. He nodded. “Have to lose the braces,” he said.
Izzy hated him instantly. “I can’t. The orthodontist has to do it.”
Mikie tossed his hair back. “Sure. But I meant just not show them, yeah? Maybe you don’t smile. Maybe you lean on your hand and keep your mouth closed. Hold a bunch of flowers or something in front of them...”
He motioned for her to follow him toward a tall stool in front of a white backdrop. “Or look over your shoulder at me. Stare me down like I’m pond-scum,” he continued as he adjusted a light on a stand. “Great eyes. We got any flowers, Anne?”
Izzy noticed he didn’t address her as ‘Mum’. Was she his stepmother, or was he too cool to call her Mum? And he liked her eyes?
Anne produced some artificial roses from a box of props.
“Yeah—flowers to go with the flowery thing you’re wearing. Turn sideways a bit and look down as though you’re smelling them.” Izzie heard the click of the camera. “Nice long neck, but jeez, you’re a nail-biter. Tuck your fingers around further.”
“Sorry.”
“No—me too. Look.” He stepped closer and held out a hand for her inspection. His nails were bitten down to the quick.
“I do it when I read,” Izzy admitted. “Get lost in the stories.”
“Harry Potter and stuff?”
“That’s for kids! Maria Snyder—” She froze as the camera clicked again. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. Gives your face some animation.” He popped off several more quick shots as Izzy stared at him, lips parted, puzzled.
He shrugged. “I bite mine when I’m into my music.”
She just knew it wouldn’t be One Direction or Justin Bieber...
After he was satisfied, he asked, “Okay—you got a T? Something grungy to go with the jeans? There’s an old brick wall out the back. And mess her hair up a bit, Anne.”
Izzy caught the surprised look on Anne’s face as Mikie opened a door and disappeared.
“Sounds like he wants a rock chick,” Anne said when Izzy returned in a crumpled grey T-shirt. “So maybe we’ll give him a treat...” She removed the wig, tousled Izzy’s long hair, and did some back-combing and spraying. “Final touch,” she added, taking her own chunky silver necklace off and slipping it around Izzy’s neck.
Izzy smiled, forgetting her hated braces, feeling a heap more confident. She practically bounced through the doorway.
Mikie slouched against the wall, earbuds in, head nodding to his music. His eyes widened, and he straightened, suddenly all business again.
“Great wig.”
The corners of her mouth curled up. “No—this is real.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“O-kaaaay.... Over here. Looking like you don’t give a damn.”
Izzy sent him her best ‘stuff you’ glare. The one she’d use on Angela and Tracey and Debra next time they started hassling her. Why hadn’t she done that before?
“Amaaaayzing, babe. Turn your shoulder.”
Babe?
Click. Click-click.
“Feet apart. Relax one knee. Give me real kick-ass attitude.”
Click. Click-click. Click.
“Jeez, these are going to be good. You got the bones. You got the long tall model look for sure.”
Izzy took a deep breath. Thrust her slight breasts out.
Click.
Pushed her hands up under her hair and fluffed it.
Click-click.
Pouted.
Click.
And burst out laughing.
Mikie grinned and lowered the camera.
“Good thing Dad ate those oysters, eh?”
“Not for him.”
“No. But good for you and me.” He hesitated a moment, did something to the camera, and came and stood slightly behind her. Izzy half-turned, puzzled, and then heard the camera click. A shot of them together? Her and Mikie Royd? So much more than she’d hoped for!
“Again?” he asked, checking the screen and re-setting the camera. This time she was ready, and angled her head up toward him, making the most of her mascara-thickened lashes.
Mikie grinned. “You’re a natural. I’ll enjoy playing with these. Can I drop them off tomorrow?”
Izzy bit her thumb-nail and then pulled it away from her mouth. “Number seven Windsor Street,” she stammered.
“Around three? I’ll bring coffees. Cappuccino? Long black?”
“Latte, thanks. I can make nachos if you like? Or toasties. Or something.”
“Cool.”
Click.
***
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
Jenny Plimmer drew her neatly plucked eyebrows together as she checked her emails. A message? On Facebook? For her?
She’d only joined it to view her niece’s photographic progress around Australia the previous year. She’d mostly got the hang of it, and since then there’d been the occasional ‘friend’ request, but not much else.
Alex Bernhardt had commented on her status. Who was Alex Bernhardt, and why was he commenting on anything to do with her? Her eyes shot wide open as she read the message.
*
So much for being friends! Not sure what your problem is but you definitely don’t deserve to be my friend with those immature actions. Is this a friendly thing to do to the person who probably treated you better than any other guy? Maybe the truth is you have another guy you dumped me for, which is fine. You are def waaaaay out there. Enjoy your life!
*
Her heart thumped like Chippie the Labrador’s tail with the sudden exhilaration of something new and exciting.
Who on earth was Alex Bernhardt?
He was young, she decided.
And he certainly had the wrong Jenny Plimmer.
Oh dear—the poor boy sounded heartbroken. What should she do about him?
She tapped her teeth with a fingernail as she stared at the screen. Well, for starters she’d upload her photograph instead of leaving the blank Facebook head there. Then if anyone accidentally dropped by, they’d see she was past forty and no Barbie-doll. Except—how was it possible he’d found her? Surely you had to be a ‘friend’ to get a message through?
She considered that as she uploaded the photo her wonderful Grant had taken only a week before he’d died.
It was on her website, too. In truth, Jenny was about as proficient there as she was on Facebook, but she’d filled some lonely winter weeks by taking an online design course and then bravely launched her creation into cyberspace.
She knew every aspiring writer should have their own website. Jenny aspired quite a lot, but she was rarely convinced her stories were polished enough to send to editors.
So. Alex Bernhardt. On impulse she typed a reply.
I’m not the Jenny you need. I’ve put my photo up so you can see this. I’m in New Zealand. Good luck with finding the right girl.
Jenny.
She smiled—that was him out of the way.
*
A fortnight later, as the sun was just setting, the double ding of the front door bell gave her the ideal excuse to stop deleting adverbs from her current work-in-progress. How did they sneak in everywhere?
‘No Jenny,’ she told herself, ‘Flynn did not grin ruefully or move lithely or wink wickedly. (Maybe he sent the lovely Sarah a wicked wink though?) And I’m not walking to the door quickly or opening it widely or smiling joyfully—because, good heavens, this is a nice-looking man...’
“Jenny Plimmer?” the nice-looking man asked. His voice sounded deep and pleasant and North American. Lively brown eyes inspected her from under a thatch of dark, silver-threaded hair. “My sister said I should call and give you these.” He produced two shiny new paperbacks from the pocket of his Burberry trench coat.
“Your sister?” She reached for the proffered books.
“Alice Harding.”
“Alice Harding!?” Jenny forgot to breathe for a few seconds and then closed her astonished mouth and invited her visitor in. “Alice Harding the novelist is your sister?” she asked in a reverent voice.
“Yup,” he agreed, following her up the hallway. He shouldered his coat off.
Jenny blinked. Perhaps Flynn should do that? If it gave the lovely Sarah a view of a broad chest in a white shirt with a glimpse of chest hair where the top buttons were undone, well, who knew what might follow in her current story?
“Jay Jellicoe,” he said, tossing the coat over the back of the nearest armchair, and reaching out to shake her hand. “On secondment to our local office for a while. From Edmonton, Canada.”
“Yes, I knew Alice was Canadian,” Jenny agreed, releasing his warm hand to glance down at the glossy covers. “But why do I deserve these?”
He shrugged his very nice shoulders. “She enjoyed your comments on the writers’ loop? And I was going to be in town...”
Jenny checked the covers and smiled. “I haven’t read either of them. Maybe they aren’t released here yet?”
Jay moved to stand close behind her. “‘Devil’s Highway’s been out a few months at home,” he rumbled, “but ‘Palaces of Ice’ is real new.”
Jenny felt his warm breath on the side of her face—the first warm masculine breath in all the months since Grant had died—and was hit by an awful urge to lean back against him, just to enjoy the nice solid feel of a man again.
Disconcerted by his effect on her, she drew away with a small sigh and asked, “Coffee? Tea? Or I have most of a bottle of New Zealand Chardonnay in the fridge?”
“You make great wines down here.”
“Chardonnay then.” She was oddly pleased. It would feel like a celebration. It wasn’t every day a tall dark stranger arrived bearing gifts from the other side of the world.
To her surprise, he followed her into the kitchen and leaned back against the breakfast bar, looking right at home.
She took the wine from the fridge and reached into the top cupboard for two long-stemmed glasses. Jay had the top off the bottle and was already tilting it as she set them down. She sent him a smile of thanks as he poured.
“And that’s Chippie,” he said, gazing out through the French doors as he took his first sip.
Jenny looked at him sharply. It sounded almost as though he’d been expecting the dog. “How did you know about her?”
“Huh! You caught me there.” His easy grin and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes were good-humoured. “I checked out your website.”
“Why did you think I’d have a website?” She was definitely a little on edge now.
“Lots of you writers have websites.”
“But how did you know my name to look me up?” She hoped the concern wasn’t obvious in her voice, but sure enough he caught the nuance.
“Stop panicking, Jen. My sister has a kid who’s giving her trouble—that’s how. Randy’s been fooling with some of her Facebook friends. Ring any bells?”
“Randy? No—but I did have a strange on
e from someone called Alex.”
“Yup, that’s her. Alex Bernhardt. She writes as Alice Harding.”
Jenny gave a small snort of relief and amusement. “I thought Alex was a boy.”
“And he was—my nephew Randy. Thirteen, and oughta know better than to send out stupid messages under his mom’s name.”
“Come and sit down,” Jenny said. This was interesting!
They settled side-by-side on the burgundy leather sofa. “So?” she encouraged.
Jay took another appreciative sip. Jenny watched the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Why were men’s throats different from women’s?
“So—he got to seven of her friends. Maybe he was messing about between her personal page and her author page. Teenagers are too darn clever with computers.” Jay rubbed his chin. “Alex noticed you were the only one who answered him kindly. And she and I were chatting...” He fell silent.
“Mmmm?” she encouraged.
“...and she said that as I was coming down to New Zealand why didn’t I bring you a couple of books and—see what happened.”
He had the good grace to drop his eyes and look embarrassed after that little bombshell.
A delicious frisson of pleasure rippled down Jenny’s spine. “You’ve come to romance me?” she couldn’t help teasing.
“No... maybe... no. Let’s just say I’m checking out how the land might lie.” He raised his dark twinkling eyes to hers again. “You sounded nice, dammit! I liked your face in the photo. I liked what you wrote about yourself. You were kind to Randy. I’m not attached, and I’m in a city where I don’t know a soul except the folks I’m working with.”
“Mixing work and pleasure’s not your thing?”
He rolled his eyes at that.
She took a sip and stayed silent for a few seconds.
“I’m dying here,” he muttered.
“No you’re not. You’re no shy schoolboy.”
Jay laughed—an uninhibited roar of enjoyment—and sank back into the cushions.
“Maybe not. Maybe not,” he conceded, still chuckling. “Dinner sometime?” he asked. “A movie maybe? You said you liked movies. And walks by the ocean. We could do any or all? I’m here for three months.”