Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  Her mother certainly knew what work meant: it meant sewing, eight, nine, ten hours a day, in a sweatshop in Brixton, putting sequins, pearls, diamanté, frills, onto the bodices of the sort of evening dresses that still sold on great bushy rails in street markets. Sewing with an aching head and sore eyes, and for years and years a gnawing anxiety about her child, first with the childminder (all right, but not good – too many children, too few facilities), then at school (poor, not even all right – far too many children, hardly any facilities), and finally not at school at all, but bunking off, hanging around with her friends at McDonald’s and Burger King, making a milk shake and a cigarette last all day. She had tried so hard, her mother had, to persuade her to get her GCSEs, to get something behind her: ‘You’ll never get anywhere, Tilly, not without qualifications. I got my school cert and it made all the difference.’ And she had looked at her mother’s poor, weary, pale face, and been too kind, loved her too much to say what nonsense, it had got her nowhere. And of course she, Tilly, had got everywhere without them, both literally and figuratively, had travelled all over the world, in the company of the world’s most famous photographers and fashion editors, and appeared on the cover of every glossy magazine, had been, at only eighteen, signed by the Deep Blue jeans label company, for a rumoured half million to promote their new perfume, d’Accord, had been the star of fashion shows in London, in Paris, in Milan, in New York, with an annual income that ran easily into six figures. She owned a Ferrari (which she couldn’t drive), a large flat in Kensington, (which she seldom saw), a small roomful of designer clothes (which she rarely wore); was admired, pampered, quoted, sought after: all on the strength of (as she often said, laughing, in interviews, to the despair of parents of teenage girls everywhere) straight Es in third year; after which she had been spotted by Felicity Livesey of Models Plus in Ken Market one day, as she sat on the floor, endless legs stuck out in front of her, sharing a strawberry shake with her friend Mo, watching the world go by.

  ‘Excuse me, but I wonder if I could have a word with you?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Tilly. ‘What’ve I done now?’

  She was, at fourteen, constantly expecting trouble; she often found it. The woman looking down at her thoughtfully was young – well, youngish, probably a good twenty-five actually, and dressed a bit too trendy. People that age should stop trying so hard, thought Tilly, licking the straw with relish.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the woman. ‘Except look rather interesting.’

  ‘Oh puh-leeze,’ said Tilly. ‘What is this, a pick-up or something? Look, lady, I’m not interested.’

  ‘It’s not a pick-up,’ said the woman, looking at her calmly. ‘Well, not in the sense you mean. I’m from Models Plus. I thought maybe you’d like to come and see us.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ said Tilly, ‘and my name’s Cindy Crawford. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I really have got places to go, things to see.’

  ‘OK,’ said the woman, shrugging. ‘That’s fine by me. But take my card. Discuss it with your mother. And if you’re interested come and see me, preferably with her. I won’t tell her you were quite clearly bunking off school,’ she added, with the glimmer of a smile, and turned away and walked off in the direction of Kensington High Street.

  ‘Cheek!’ said Mo.

  ‘Gross,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Let’s see the card.’

  They looked at it. Felicity Livesey, it said. ‘Director. Models Plus. 748 Old Brompton Road. 071–467–0873.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Mo. ‘Hey, Tilly, do you think –’

  ‘Nah,’ said Tilly, her voice very firm. ‘It’s a fake. I know she’s some dyke.’

  ‘Yeah, probably. Still, you could ring.’

  ‘Mo, do me a favour. This is the oldest trick in the book. I wouldn’t even think about it. Got any money left? I could do with a ciggy.’

  ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing with some anguish that she had only two units left on her phone card. ‘Is Felicity Livesey there, please?’

  ‘I’ll see. Who is it calling please?’

  ‘Oh she won’t know me. She spoke to me in Ken Market yesterday. Tell her the black girl. Outside the jewellery store.’

  ‘Just hold on please …’

  Shit, thought Tilly, snooty cow. She watched her two units dissolve into one, and listened to the chatter on the other end. It didn’t sound like a put-up job, she had to admit. Come on, you bitch, get a move on …

  ‘Hallo? Can you ring back in half an hour please? Miss Livesey is interviewing at the moment.’

  ‘Oh – yeah, OK,’ said Tilly and put the phone down. Bugger. Phone card dead, no more money, now what did she do? Reverse the charges? No, they’d never take a call from her. Shit. It’d have to be Ron. She hadn’t asked him for a while. Well, not for two days. But it’d have to be lunchtime, so he’d think she was actually at school – better go home and put her uniform on – so she couldn’t ring back in half an hour. Well, if this Felicity person was on the level she could wait for her. She had better things to do than run around after her.

  ‘Hi, Ron. How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine thanks, love. How about you? I hope you’ve been at school this morning.’

  ‘Ron, course I have. What do you take me for? I’ll tell you what I did if you like, biology, we did the digestive system of the rat, it was gross, first we –’

  ‘OK, OK, girl, that’ll do. Why aren’t you there now?’

  ‘Because it’s lunchtime. I came out for a sarnie.’

  ‘Ciggy more like it,’ said Ron tartly.

  ‘Ron! Would I? Well-brought-up girl like me.’

  ‘Well brought-up, yes, but something went wrong along the way.’ He grinned at her over his stall, over the military-straight rows of vegetables, crisp white cauliflowers, gleaming peppers, shining glossy tomatoes, set out to tempt the customers, who were then given slightly less white, gleaming, glossy produce from behind the counter. ‘How’s Mum? Got over that cold yet? Here, have an apple.’ He handed her a big, golden russet; Tilly hated russets, but she bit into it obediently, to please him.

  ‘Yeah, she’s better. Tired though.’

  ‘Course she’s tired. She works too hard. Here, darling, mind the shop for me one minute, would you? Call of nature.’

  Tilly ducked under the stall, took up position behind it, gazing out at the market; it looked so different from this standpoint. She loved doing this: she’d begged Ron for a regular Saturday job, but he said he couldn’t afford her, and he wouldn’t exploit her, make her work for nothing. So she did the odd hour when he was really busy in the middle of the day, earned a couple of quid – ‘Now that’s not for fags, Tilly, understand?’ ‘Course not, Ron, what do you think I am?’

  He was back very quickly, grinning up at her with his little monkey face. He was at least nine inches shorter than she was.

  ‘OK, my love. Thanks. I needed that. You all right then?’

  ‘I’m fine. I must get back to school though. Ron, you couldn’t – well –’

  ‘Lend you a quid? Tilly, I’ve lent you five this month already. I’ll have to start keeping a slate. What do you do with them all?’

  ‘Buy chips. The school dinners are gross. And I get so hungry. Please, Ron, I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘Yeah, and pigs’ll fly. Oh – all right. But it’s the last one. For a long time. OK?’

  ‘Sure. Thanks, Ron.’

  She pushed the pound coin into her blazer pocket. It was about three sizes too small for her, the sleeves way up her wrists, the bottom hardly skimming her waist.

  ‘And bring your mum round Sunday, OK? I’ll do you a Chinese.’

  ‘Great,’ said Tilly. She dreaded Ron’s Chineses, greasy, slimy stir fries, usually ducked out of them, but she might have to eat this one. She’d pushed her luck with him lately.

  ‘Hi, this is Tilly Mills again. Is Felicity Livesey there?’ Now come on, you stupid cow, put me through.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but Felicity asked me t
o tell you to come in and see us. With your mother.’

  ‘Well – I don’t know. When?’

  She could hear the girl shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Tilly walked up and down the Old Brompton Road several times before she finally plucked up the courage to go through the door marked Models Plus. She had spent hours getting ready, washing and blow-drying her hair – God, it needed straightening again, already – ironing her only skirt and the blouse her mum had brought her home from the workshop, making up her face with great care, sticking on her false eyelashes. She had expected number 748 to be rather glamorous, some huge building like a film studio; it was actually a small entrance by a sweet shop. A sign told her to go to the second floor; she went up, feeling slightly sick, still half expecting the whole thing to be some awful hoax.

  It wasn’t. She found herself in a large room filled with an extraordinary number of people. A girl sat by the door, manning a switchboard; beyond her there was a big round table, seating about four more girls and two men, each with a telephone and a Rolladex; beyond them was a pair of sofas, each containing at least three girls with a couple of boys perched on the arms, all talking; and beyond that a desk, on its own, with its back to the window. It was empty.

  Tilly looked uncertainly at the girl by the door; she looked back, her eyes blank and slightly hostile.

  ‘Hi,’ said Tilly. ‘I’ve come to see –’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the girl. ‘We’re not seeing anyone at the moment. Books full. Got any pictures? You can leave them with me.’

  ‘No, I haven’t got any pictures,’ said Tilly, trying not to sound rude, ‘and I’m here because you told me to come.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the girl, sounding more bored still.

  ‘Tilly. Tilly Mills.’

  The girl looked at her diary, shook her head. ‘Sorry. Must be a mistake.’

  ‘Look,’ said Tilly, ‘there isn’t a mistake, and I rang yesterday. Felicity Livesey told me to come and see her.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the girl, looking slightly less bored. ‘Well – I’ll ask. She’s not here anyway. You can sit down over there.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thanks,’ said Tilly. She wasn’t going to be told what to do by this stroppy cow. She saw the girl raising her eyebrows imperceptibly towards the round table; another girl got up and walked over to her.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘you want to be a model? We’re not taking anyone on at the moment, but you can leave your pictures, if you like, and we’ll get in touch if –’

  ‘Look,’ said Tilly, ‘I don’t really want to be a model, but Felicity Livesey told me to come in and see her. If she’s not here and you’re not taking anyone on, that’s fine by me, but I’m going.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the girl, smiling at her, rather patronizingly, ‘fine. But it would be better to leave some pictures. You never know …’

  ‘I know, thanks,’ said Tilly and walked very swiftly, propelled by disappointment and hurt pride, towards the door. As she reached it, it opened and Felicity walked in.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘nice to see you. How are you? Where’s your mum?’

  ‘At work,’ said Tilly firmly. Well, it was true.

  ‘No school today?’

  ‘No. It’s a half-day. For – for study leave.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Felicity, smiling at her slightly conspiratorially. ‘Well look, I’ve just got a couple of calls to make, and I’ll be with you. Mary Anne, would you make two coffees please? One for this lady; could you wait there?’ she added, indicating one of the sofas. Mary Anne had the grace to look just slightly shamefaced.

  Tilly sat down, looked around, tried to pretend she felt all right. She felt terrible, dressed in her neat little skirt and blouse, as if she was naked and they were all dressed, as if they spoke a language she didn’t understand. The girl next to her on the sofa, a fragile whey-faced blonde in army trousers and DM boots, was saying to one of the boys, ‘I’ve been down at Petty France all morning, bastards won’t give me a passport till tomorrow and I have to leave tonight, or I’ll lose the booking.’

  ‘They suck,’ said the boy agreeably, retying his ponytail. ‘I lost mine last year, you should have heard the fuss. You got any gum?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ She offered him a stick and then one to Tilly; Tilly took it gratefully.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You new?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, maybe.’

  ‘You have a great look,’ said the boy, smiling at her. His eyes were very blue, his eyelashes very long. Tilly blushed.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The girl from the round table who had told her to go away came over; she looked just slightly awkward.

  ‘I’m Jackie. Could I just take a couple of Polaroids?’

  ‘A couple of what?’ said Tilly.

  ‘Polaroids. Photographs.’

  ‘Look, I told you, I don’t have any,’ said Tilly irritably. ‘I’m waiting to see Felicity.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Jackie, with immense, bad-tempered patience. ‘I’m going to take the pictures. With this camera. See?’ She waved it at Tilly.

  ‘You’re a bully, Jack,’ said the boy with the blue eyes. ‘Can’t you see she’s scared? Go on,’ he said to Tilly, ‘it really doesn’t hurt much.’

  ‘Oh, – OK,’ said Tilly, trying to look cool.

  Jackie took her onto the landing, told her to look into the camera, took one full-length photograph and one close-up, then walked back into the room without a word. Tilly followed her, slightly uncertainly. She longed to see the pictures, but didn’t like to ask.

  Felicity was waving to her from her desk. ‘Come over here. Sit down, and drink that coffee. Or don’t you like it? Sorry, I should have asked.’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah, thanks,’ said Tilly. She looked at the Polaroids which were in Felicity’s hand.

  ‘Right,’ said Felicity. She had a form, which she started to fill in.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Tilly. Tilly Mills.’

  ‘Just Tilly? What were you christened?’

  ‘Ottoline,’ said Tilly, embarrassed.

  ‘Ottoline. That’s a great name. I love it.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s a crazy name.’

  ‘It’s great. How old are you – Ottoline?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Uh-huh. Address?’

  ‘Fourteen, Gareth Road, Brixton.’

  ‘Right. And how tall are you?’

  ‘Five eleven,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Still growing?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’

  ‘Stand up,’ said Felicity, ‘and turn round slowly. Mm. Yes. Yes, that’s fine. Let me look at your hands. Oh, nice hands. It’s unusual, you know, in a girl your age. You obviously take care of them. I’d be a bit worried about that scar on your cheek. How did you get that?’

  ‘Fell off the swing,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Well – maybe it wouldn’t matter.’ She leant back in her chair again. ‘Sit down again, Tilly. Have you ever thought about modelling?’

  ‘No. Not really,’ said Tilly.

  ‘I think possibly you should. But I do need to see your parents. When could they come in?’

  ‘I haven’t got a dad,’ said Tilly, ‘and my mum works. Like all the time. She couldn’t come in here.’

  ‘Not even on a Saturday?’

  ‘Well – maybe. I’d have to ask.’

  ‘Of course. Because, you see, I can’t go ahead without her permission. I presume you do go to school sometimes? Or at least you’re supposed to?’ She grinned at Tilly.

  ‘Yeah, course I do. I’m coming up to my GCSEs.’

  ‘Good. Because we don’t like taking girls away from their studies. Until you were sixteen you’d only work after school or in the holidays.’

  ‘And you really think I could make it?’ said Tilly. She felt slig
htly dizzy suddenly as if the room was whirling, very slowly; she put her hand out onto Felicity’s desk to steady it.

  ‘Well, Tilly, I really don’t know. I never, ever make any promises. This is a funny fickle business, fashions change all the time. All I can tell you is you look pretty OK for now. And I can tell from these Polaroids you’re photogenic. But you may be awkward in front of the camera, you may hate the whole thing – and that shows – you may just not catch on. And it’s a long hard haul, Tilly, be warned. It’s not glamorous and it’s not easy. But I’ll say all this to your mum. Try and persuade her to come in next Saturday for a chat. I’d so much like to meet her.’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said Tilly, trying to stay sounding cool. ‘Yeah, I’ll try. Can’t promise anything though. Thanks,’ she added, standing up. Outside she had to resist a strong temptation to do cartwheels right down the street.

  Her mother was very unhappy about even going to see Felicity Livesey.

  ‘It’ll never come to anything, Tilly, and it’s an awful world. I wouldn’t want that sort of thing for you.’

  ‘Oh Mum,’ said Tilly, ‘don’t start on that sex and drugs and rock’n’roll thing. Listen, you should meet this woman. She’s cool. I liked her. You’d like her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like her,’ said Rosemary Mills firmly. ‘Filling your head with all that nonsense. It’s immoral.’

  ‘Mum, she was not immoral. She won’t even let me have my test shots done without talking to you.’ This was true; Tilly had tried to get away with telling Felicity her mother was going away.

  ‘What are test shots?’

  ‘The pictures they take to see if you’re going to be any good. Then they go towards making up your portfolio and your model card,’ said Tilly. She felt rather pleased with her mastery of all this technical jargon.