by Melody James
Hardwired is Sam’s band and they were doing a gig while I was backstage, helping Will uncover Dave Wiggins’s stolen goods racket. Escaping from Wiggins’s thugs, I blundered onstage during Sam’s performance. Faced with a hooting crowd, I grabbed a tambourine and danced my way across the stage before racing into the wings to call the police.
Cindy’s busy texting back. ‘I’m telling him that your new look is a bit out there, even for London.’ She glances back at me and freezes. ‘Oh my God! Tell me you’ve got a comb.’
‘Combing just makes it worse,’ I mumble.
‘Can’t you damp it down or something?’ she presses.
‘It’s the damp that sent it berserk,’ I tell her. Despair washes over me.
Cindy turns back towards the windscreen and drops her head into a hand. ‘Try and stay in the background, Gemma.’
Mr Harris pipes up. ‘I think your hair looks quite splendid, Gemma. You remind me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles.’
‘Stig of the Dump more like,’ Cindy mutters. She smoothes a hand over her own bob, which is still as sleek as silk. I hunch deep into my blazer and watch the fields flash past.
Cindy starts texting again. Her phone jangles happily as it sends texts back and forth, her phone beeping and peeping as messages fire to and fro.
Are they all from Sam?
Is he missing her that much?
Sadness sits like a cold cheeseburger in my stomach. I’m disappointed. I thought Sam would see through her sugary act.
I close my eyes and soak up the warmth of the morning sun as it stripes the back seat. My early start catches up with me and I start to feel drowsy. I listen to the steady drone of the engine and drift into sleep.
The next thing I know, Cindy’s shaking my shoulder. I jerk awake, groggy. ‘Are we there?’
My door’s open and Cindy is glaring down at me. ‘Of course we’re there.’
Mr Harris is leaning against the bonnet. Behind him, rows of cars stretch towards a wide, ugly building.
‘Is that where we’re going?’ I unfasten my seat belt.
‘Yes.’ Cindy looks at her watch. ‘Teen Couture starts at nine-thirty, so if we hurry, we might have time to find a bathroom where you can tidy yourself up a bit.’
Mr Harris jangles his car keys. ‘I’ll be waiting when you come out. OK?’
‘You’re not coming in?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I’d rather do my crossword.’ Mr Harris points at a folded newspaper on his dashboard. ‘It’s more my scene. But I’ll be right here if there’s a problem.’
Cindy flicks back her hair. ‘There won’t be any problem.’ She steps aside, motioning me out of the car with a flap of her hand. I try not to notice her bracelet as I climb out.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gemma.’ Cindy sounds exasperated. ‘You’ve been leaning on the seat belt and it’s left a red mark on your cheek.’ She heads away, muttering.
I hare after her. ‘Thanks for bringing us, Mr Harris,’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Have fun!’ Mr Harris shouts.
My skirt feels shorter than ever and I tug at the hem as we near the building. My ripped tights have turned baggy after their soaking, streaked by mud where I fell, while my ballet shoes are stained with puddle water.
Cindy doesn’t even look at me as she pushes through the front entrance and lets the door swing in my face. I catch it just in time. Cindy’s already showing our invites to the security guard by the time I cross the thick carpet to the line of reception tables.
I gaze around, my heart racing. Ten-foot women are gliding around the foyer, groomed like show ponies. Men in immaculate suits are moving in packs. I feel like a mongrel at Crufts. There’s a poster at the back of the hall.
Anna De Vine
Beneath the golden words is a woman’s face. It’s thick with make-up and looks stretched, as though half of it’s been pulled into a knot behind her head.
‘This is your press ID.’ Cindy turns and slaps a laminated badge into my hand. She pins on her own and looks around. ‘Is there a bathroom we could use?’ she asks the woman behind the desk.
The woman points to a flight of stairs behind her. They descend into shadow.
‘Go and smarten yourself up.’ Cindy flaps me towards the stairs. ‘I’ll meet you in the show hall. Don’t lose your ID, you’ll need it to get in. OK?’ She fixes me with freeze-beam eyes.
‘OK.’ I head down the stairs, my shoes silent on the plush red carpet.
At the bottom, I scan the walls for signs. The wine-red walls are softly lit. I can’t see any sign of a bathroom, but there’s a white notice further down the hallway. I make it out as I approach. Models.
Perhaps the backstage loo is this way. I follow the sign, taking a left that leads me away from the carpeted hallway and into a narrow corridor. Neon strips flicker overhead. The tiled walls are chipped and the lino’s worn.
Ladies.
A large handwritten sign points towards a dark green door. This must be the loo.
I push my way in, rummaging through my bag for a comb. It’s warm inside. And noisy. I look up.
This isn’t a bathroom.
Mirrors line the walls. And women. They’re fussing around each other, heaving zips, pinning hems, bending to adjust straps on very high-heeled shoes. They’re tall and willowy and sharply beautiful.
I stare, not sure what to do. I’m an explorer who’s stumbled on a tribe preparing for battle.
‘Close the bloody door!’ A seven-foot Amazon, half wearing a quilted spacesuit, yells at me.
I close the door. Every gaze in the room swivels towards me like cats spotting a mouse.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror on the far side of the room. My heart sinks. I’ve been zombified. Ripped tights, crumpled blazer, smeared make-up. And my hair has doubled in volume. It’s frothing, cappuccino-style, round my face.
‘Hello,’ I croak softly as the room falls silent. Someone actually drops a pin and the noise deafens me.
A purple streak blazes towards me.
It’s a man. His hair is coiffed; his face is baby-smooth; his purple shirt clashes perfectly with his lipstick-red trousers.
‘Dar-ling!’ he wails excitedly.
I back away, pressing against the door as he rockets towards me.
‘You must be Radical!’ He stops right in front of me and kisses the air beside my cheeks.
‘Must I?
‘You are rocking that schoolgirl look, honey.’ He grabs my elbow and steers me across the room. The models part to let me through. I feel their gaze as I pass. They’re mentally slicing me up and I pray the purple man doesn’t let go of me. I’d be fish chum in a shark pool.
‘Sit here.’ Purple Man guides me to a chair and pushes me into it. ‘Comfy, darling?’ He spins the chair and it swings round to face a mirror. My streaked make-up and mad hair are even more terrifying close up.
Purple Man throws up his arms. ‘Come on, ladies! Give Radical a proper welcome!’
At his command, the models start clapping. Smiles grow on their faces and reach towards me, but their eyes remain fixed on Purple Man. Clearly, he’s tribe leader.
I blink at him in the mirror. Part of me is longing to confess. I’m not Radical. I don’t even know who Radical is. But another part of me – the part that controls my voice – seems to be frozen with shock.
As the clapping dies away, Purple Man starts waving. ‘Let’s get you ready. The show starts in thirty minutes.’
A gaggle of women herd towards me, waving hairdryers and make-up brushes.
‘Erm, there’s been a bit of a—’ but the models aren’t listening to me; they’ve all snapped back to dressing and chatting. Music throbs beyond the wall.
A dumpy woman with a razor-sharp haircut pulls at a strand of my hair and wraps it round a curling wand. A stick-thin blonde ducks in front of me and lathers cream onto my face. I shut my eyes and mouth, my heart racing.
‘I love your shabby-chic make-up,’ she s
ays huskily. ‘But it won’t match the look for this show. You hold still and I’ll have you beautiful in no time.’
I smell singed hair and feel another strand being tugged. A damp cloth flaps across my face and I emerge, pink and shiny, blinking like a mole seeing sunlight for the first time. What am I doing just sitting here? I have to tell her the truth.
‘I’m not Rad—’ Before I can finish, the stick-blonde slaps greasy foundation on my cheeks and works it in. I slam my mouth shut before I swallow Max Factor. The foundation obliterates my features until I look like a doll.
My wild hair is taking shape. The dumpy woman is working hard to tease the froth into curls.
Stick-blonde picks up a pallet of colours and starts painting me. ‘Open your mouth,’ she orders and starts tinting my lips.
‘Close your eyes.’
I obey and she sticks false eyelashes over mine.
‘Keep them closed.’
I feel a brush working on my eyelids.
‘Don’t open yet. The lashes need to dry.’
She starts work on my cheeks.
I sit still, mind whirling. I have to escape!
Perhaps I can slip out the way I came when no one’s looking.
Purple Man is suddenly behind me again. ‘Bellissimo!’
I open my eyes to see a model in the mirror. She’s beautiful. Her lashes are long and dark, her lips full and shimmering, her cheekbones look as though they’ve been sculpted from marble. And her hair! Piled high on her head, glossy, it looks like something from a magazine.
I stare in wonder. It’s me!
‘You look beautiful!’ Purple Man looms behind me. ‘Your dress is ready.’ He eases me to my feet and turns me round.
A gaunt brunette is holding up a dress. It shimmers like liquid gold.
‘It looks like a perfect fit.’ The brunette presses it against me. ‘It may need a few pins in the back.’
Glamorous, red-polished nails are tugging at my school tie. More are unbuttoning my shirt. Before I know it, I’m stripped to my underwear while the brunette holds the gold dress open.
Hypnotized, I step into it and stare wordlessly into the mirror as the brunette zips me up.
It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The gold cloth drapes my hips, while the embroidered corset hugs me stiffly like armour. It’s strapless and my shoulders look golden in the glow from the fabric. It lights my face and makes my hair gleam like polished copper.
‘But I’m not Rad—’ I reach for the words, half stunned by my reflection.
‘Shoes!’ The brunette beckons a young woman forward. She’s holding a pair of golden shoes with six-inch heels.
I stare at them, fear flooding me. ‘I can’t! I’m not—’
‘Now, now, dear.’ The brunette turns motherly and starts coaxing.
‘Really I’m not—’
No one’s listening. Models are flooding round me, making last-minute adjustments to their dresses. Hands grab my elbows and steady me while the brunette crouches and grabs my foot. She shoves it into the gold shoe and I get a flash of what it feels like to be Cinderella’s ugly sister.
‘It’s too small!’ I yelp.
‘Of course it’s not.’ The brunette straps me in and I feel my toes crush at the end. ‘Now the other.’ Like a sadistic shop assistant, she squashes my other foot into the second shoe. Suddenly I’m balancing, far above the world. I look down at the floor, way below. I’m nearly as tall as the other models. How do they get enough oxygen up here?
I’m breathing fast, close to hyperventilating. I force myself to slow down and concentrate. I glance back towards the door to the corridor. It seems a hundred miles away, past crowds of people. I’d never make it in these shoes.
Hands steer me forward. Ahead, models are disappearing past a curtain. Beyond it, cameras flash and music thumps, getting louder as I’m guided onward. I totter in my shoes and hands steady me.
‘I can’t do this!’ I wail as I’m guided forward.
Purple Man appears at my side. ‘Of course you can, darling! You’ll be fabulous.’ He thrusts me past the curtain. I glimpse a runway through flashing lights. Applause thunders round the hall.
I’m on the catwalk!
I stare in horror at the string of models strutting along the runway. One by one, they turn and head back.
My heart lurches as they advance on me like a freakish doll army.
Invasion of the Cindytrons.
I swallow as, one by one, they file past and disappear behind the curtain.
Suddenly I’m alone at the head of the runway. The applause thunders louder.
‘Go on!’ Purple Man hisses behind me. ‘You’re the star of the show.’ He shoves me and I stumble forward.
I’m onstage again and this time I don’t even have a tambourine.
Help me, please!
My high heels feel like stilts and it’s all I can do to balance.
What would Savannah say?
I quickly remember her lecture on the carpet catwalk in my bedroom.
You’re a supermodel not a tightrope walker. Hold your head up! And swing your arms!
I throw back my shoulders and put one foot gingerly in front of the other. The crowd stands. Bulbs flash.
I wish Sam were here. He’d find it funny.
Imagining his warm, friendly smile gives me courage. I lift my chin and swing my arms.
I’m the Gemmanator.
I begin to get the hang of walking and start to move to the rhythm of the music. The crowd clap me along. Terror flips into excitement. This is great! I press back a grin as I reach the end of the catwalk.
I’m doing it! I’m a supermodel.
I turn with a flourish and my heels rock beneath me.
No!
My heart jumps into my throat as the world suddenly reels. Gravity has hooked me. Panicking, I flap my arms. The momentum sends me backwards over the edge of the runway and, bum first, I fall into the front-row seats.
I land on something squashy.
It squawks in my ear.
It’s a woman.
I struggle from her lap and scramble to my feet.
‘I’m so sorry!’
The room hushes. The music stops. Cameras flash in the eerie silence. I spot Cindy, glaring from an aisle. She clearly recognizes me. And she doesn’t look happy about my new career choice. I drag my gaze from hers and stare at the woman I’ve just bombed. I recognize her from the picture in the foyer.
Anna De Vine.
Mortification sets in, burning my cheeks, then engulfing the rest of me. ‘Sorry!’ It’s the only word I can say. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Anna De Vine is staring at me. Her strange, stretched face is stiff with shock.
I wish I were back at home, lying on Ben’s bed, telling bedtime stories.
I’m the Gemmanator.
What would Ben expect me to do?
He’d want me to get up again.
I’m invincible.
I bend and unbuckle my deadly shoes. Slipping them off, I hook a finger through the ankle straps and I turn. Lifting my skirt, I clamber back onto the runway and face the audience. I flash them a huge smile and drop a curtsey. The crowd erupts into cheers. Music explodes from the speakers and the room is thumping again. I turn on the balls of my feet and, swinging my hips, pad back up the runway in bare feet.
‘Darling, darling!’ Purple Man rushes from behind the curtain. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me to him, firing squelchy air kisses at my ears. ‘Such style!’
I peer over his shoulder and see Anna De Vine. She’s on her feet, cheering with the rest of the crowd. Fashionistas clamour round her, squawking like excited peacocks. She looks up and catches my eye.
Was that a wink?
I grin and wink back.
My gaze flicks to Cindy. She stands in the aisle, scowling like a jilted bride. It’s time to leave.
Purple Man doesn’t notice me slide out of his embrace. He’s being swamped by models
who are streaming from behind the curtain to hug their leader. I dodge past them and burst into the dressing room. I’m relieved to see it’s empty. Everyone must be onstage.
I reach for the zip of my dress. In two minutes I’ve slipped out of it and am scrambling back into my school uniform. As I hook on my ballet shoes, I hear voices from the catwalk.
I escape into the corridor, so pleased to see the chipped tiles and dirty lino I could kiss them. I don’t. Instead, I charge back towards the red-carpet hallway and run for the foyer, taking the stairs three at a time.
As I screech to a halt beside the reception desk, I spot Cindy.
She marches from the show hall, her face thunderous. ‘What on earth were you doing?’
I smile, shrugging modestly. ‘I was modelling.’ I’m too happy to apologize. I’ve just swapped winks with Anna De Vine.
The woman behind the reception desk leans forward. ‘Is everything OK?’
I smile at her. ‘Everything’s wonderful.’ I head for the front door.
Cindy storms after me. ‘You were meant to be note-taking!’ she hisses.
I try and work out why she’s so angry.
She explains helpfully. ‘You humiliated me, you humiliated Green Park High and you humiliated yourself.’
‘No one knew who I was.’ I stroll past the rows of cars, enjoying the sunshine. I can see Mr Harris’s elbow poking out of his car window. ‘They thought I was a model called Radical.’
Cindy screeches to a halt. ‘Radical?’ She’s clearly heard the name before. She starts pointing at me with a jabbing finger. ‘How can you be Radical?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ I tell her breezily. Nothing is going to bring me down from the cloud I’m floating on. I just walked a catwalk, fell off it and climbed back on. If there were an Olympic medal for Cool, I’d be holding gold. ‘I tried to tell them I wasn’t Radical, but they just kept putting make-up on me and curling my hair.’
Cindy’s eyes bulge. Her mouth gapes. Eventually, she finds words. ‘Your hair doesn’t need curling.’
It’s a lame shot and it sails past me. I wave to Mr Harris. ‘Mr Harris! We’re finished.’ Ignoring Cindy, I walk to the car and climb in the back.