“I can’t believe I didn’t realize,” she says, squeezing her eyes closed and pressing her hands to her head. “My little girl … out there, surrounded by sharks …”
“They weren’t sharks exactly …”
“Come. Sit here.” She pats the sofa beside her. When I sit down, she looks at me wonderingly and reaches up to stroke my hair — which is a bit stiff and sticky because it’s still full of about a million hair products. She strokes my arm instead. Her voice is surprisingly gentle, now that the panic’s subsiding. “How was it? Really?”
“Really?”
The tenderness in her voice catches me off guard. For the first time since Ava got her diagnosis, she’s looking at me — really looking at me and wanting to know how I am — and this is so not a good time to ask. I wish she’d asked me after the day Cassandra called, or Kite-Tail Day, or the day Nirmala removed the caterpillar. I wish I wasn’t starting to cry.
“It’s been OK,” I sniff, moving into her open arms. “Well, nobody likes me, and I only got one job, and they said I was very nothing, and my ankles are fat, and all the other girls seem better at it than me …”
I’m crying quite a lot now. I can’t help myself. Mum passes me a tissue. She always has them on hand now, just in case.
“I bet they aren’t,” she says with a dawning smile. “Just so you know, darling, I thought you looked fabulous in those” — she starts shaking — “really, really silly platforms. And those suspenders! What was that stylist on?”
The smile creeps across her face. The panic has gone and instead there’s her old, familiar twinkle. She gets the craziness of Sandy McShand! And she thought I looked fabulous. I snuggle into her as closely as I can. Oh, I’ve missed my mum. It’s funny how you can share a flat with someone and still miss them so much.
“And I ought to say, Mandy —” Dad pipes up.
Mum glares at him to cut him off and remind him this is all partly his fault, but he stands his ground.
“— your daughter has been getting up on time, every day, and finding her way to God-knows-where around London, and sticking with it despite all the rejections, and never complaining. And she’s been poring over fashion books and learning about photography. You’d hardly recognize her.”
Thanks, Dad. I think that was supposed to be a compliment.
Mum pulls me even closer. “Just don’t do it again, darling, promise. Not without me there, anyway.”
I promise. Not that I stand much chance of doing it again — not after today.
Ava comes in from our room, where I guess she’s been hiding.
“Sorry,” she says to me sheepishly. “She switched channels when Gran called and I couldn’t stop her. How did it go?”
“Oh,” I sigh, just glad the whole thing is finally over, “it was nothing.”
Later, at the library, they find me last month’s copy of Dazed & Confused. I want to check if the head-banging girl with the extraordinary hair was Sheherezade. It’s not surprising Nightmare Boy felt uncomfortable that day in Seb’s studio if he was being forced to look at pictures of his ex-girlfriend. Was she really as stunning in the pictures as I remember?
I find the feature. And yes. Yes, it was her; and yes, she was stunning. Wearing painted silk hot pants and a tight cotton jacket, Sheherezade has an energy in her photos that’s electric. She hasn’t just mastered her fingers, feet, and elbows; she can fling her body in five different directions at once and still look amazing. No wonder he went out with her.
Amazing. Not my word anymore. Someone else’s.
What was I thinking? I could never, simply never, be this girl.
Ava blames herself. But I tell her not to worry. As Dad said — good things happened as well as bad this summer. I made friends with Sabrina. I know who Karl Lagerfeld is, and what brush to use for what type of blusher application. I can find my way around the weirdest corners of London. If nothing else, I could always get a job as a local tour guide now.
Meanwhile, there are less than two weeks left of vacation, and I’ve got my Still Life project to get on with before the start of term. Things are about to get serious at school. It’s better not to have any more summer distractions.
I call Frankie to let her know that I’m not available for go-sees anymore.
“Oh, are you sure, angel? It was just starting to go somewhere.”
“Not really,” I point out. “Sandy McShand didn’t like me.”
“Hmm. Did he tell you that? Well, that’s just an opinion. You’re gorgeous! Don’t let one little Scottish stylist get you down. Anyway, are you off somewhere nice?”
“What?”
“On your vacation?” she insists. “Isn’t that why you’re stopping the go-sees? Then you’ve got school, of course, but we can pick things up at fall break or Christmas —”
I see. That’s why she’s so relaxed about it. She assumes I’m jetting off somewhere glamorous for a few days, not giving up entirely.
“Well, actually, Frankie —”
“Oh, God, Rio. VIP.” I can hear her other phone ringing insistently in the background. “Sorry, angel, got to dash this minute. No problem about the go-sees. Call me when you’re back, OK? Have fun!”
I would so love to be the girl Frankie obviously thinks I am. The one who mixes modeling with posh vacations. The one whose school friends beg for details of her glamorous life. The one who thinks Freaky Friday is Lindsay Lohan’s finest moment, not a term of abuse.
“Yeah, right. Thanks,” I say. But she’s already hung up the phone. She’s talking to some VIP in Rio.
And I have a whole bunch of bananas to shade in this morning.
I’m on my third banana (having made the bunch smaller by eating two of them) when I hear an angry growl from the sofa. Ava’s watching the classic movie channel, which has become a recent favorite of ours. I assume that Spencer Tracy has said something deeply irritating to Katharine Hepburn.
“Idiot!” Ava calls out.
“What’s he done this time?”
“He’s invited me to a party.”
“Who? Spencer Tracy?”
“No, T. Honestly. He died decades ago. Jesse.”
I look around. She’s furious.
“Wait a minute. Your boyfriend has invited you to a party?”
“Yes,” she seethes. “Idiot.”
I’m not totally following this. I go over to the sofa to join her, so she can explain it to me.
“So what’s the problem?”
She rolls her eyes. “He’s planning a barbecue on the beach in Cornwall for when he gets back from that yacht in October. He wants to know if I’ll be well enough to go. Look at me. He still doesn’t get it.”
“Well, that’s because you don’t tell him,” I point out.
Ava has gradually cut herself off from all of her friends except Louise. She doesn’t want them to see her on her bad days, when she’s sick and exhausted from the treatment. She doesn’t want to hear the pity in their voices when they ask how she’s feeling. She doesn’t even like me knowing how bad it is a lot of the time, which is why I normally pretend not to notice.
“He doesn’t want to picture me like this. Think about it, T. He’s surrounded by cool sailor girls all day, with highlights and toned abs and red bikinis.”
“You’ve been checking out his friends on Facebook, haven’t you?”
She looks guilty.
“There’s one in particular who’s like a walking Barbie doll … He works with her every day, T. He says he misses me, but he’s just being nice. Long-distance relationships never work. Three Hollywood couples split last week because of it.”
I make a mental note to tell Mum to confiscate her celebrity magazines.
“And he always said I looked like a movie star. Well, I don’t anymore.”
In a familiar gesture, she puts a hand to her patchy hair. It’s lasted very well, but she’s on her third cycle now and the chemo is getting to it. She hasn’t cut it yet, which means long stra
nds on the pillow, in her hairbrush, in the shower … What’s left on her head is lank and tired, like the rest of her.
“You don’t at the moment,” I correct her. “Actually, you do at the moment. You look like Anne Hathaway doing an Oscar-winning performance of a girl bravely fighting cancer. Slam-dunk award. Promise.”
She looks at me with hollow eyes. Then her lower lip starts to wobble. Her upper lip joins it. They tilt up. I think she’s giggling. She IS giggling. Anne Hathaway did it. Finally.
“You’re sweet, T,” she says, “but the drugs have made me blow up like a balloon. Anne Hathaway never looked this pale and puffy.”
“You forget that you made me watch The Devil Wears Prada for fashion research,” I point out. “Pale, yes. Bony, rather than puffy. But even then, she still looked like a movie star, same as you do. Look, I’ll prove it to you.”
I go into the hall, where my modeling bag has been sitting untouched for the last few days, and come back holding Ava’s camera.
“We’ll turn our room into a studio. I know how to do that now. We just need to hang up a couple of white sheets to create a background and get the lighting right. I’ll make you look glamorous. You can do the makeup, because you’re better at that than me, but I can get you to do some cool poses. You saw what they did to me: You can turn anyone into anything with enough lipstick and mascara.”
She looks up at me, not angry now, but frail and confused, and really not like my big sister at all.
“But … why?”
“To show Jesse, if you insist on not seeing him in person. So he can be thinking about you instead of Barbie Girl.”
Actually, that’s not it exactly. It’s to show Ava herself that she doesn’t look as bad as she thinks. Different, yes. Patchy-haired, possibly. But still basically gorgeous. Some things you just don’t lose.
“Really?” She sounds almost convinced. “Not now, though. Honestly, T. Give me a couple of days. Right now I feel … Excuse me.”
She drags herself off to the bathroom again.
She may have a point. Just after a fresh bout of chemo is not her best time. Even in The Devil Wears Prada they never made Anne Hathaway look that bad.
Ava’s brave, but I can see now that she’s struggling more than I’d realized. She needs something to keep her going while Jesse’s away. Something fun. Something to take her mind off her body, and how everything’s gone out of control.
What’s Ava’s idea of the most fun thing you can do without a boyfriend? Then it occurs to me. Shopping.
More specifically, shopping for cute little tops, new handbags, and skinny jeans. She tried to cheer herself up by giving me a skirt, but it would be even better if I could get her one. Much more effective than the endless blueberry and nasturtium concoctions that Mum keeps feeding her.
I call Frankie again and ask if she can advance me some of my “very nothing” TV money. After all, I earned every penny of it wobbling about on those red platforms for Sandy McShand. Normally it can take months for the money to come through, but when I tell Frankie about Ava, she agrees to put some in my bank account straightaway.
“Give her a hug from me, OK?” she says.
I promise I will. Actually, I won’t, because hugging hurts Ava at the moment, but I know what she means. I’ll give Ava a spoonful of ice cream from her instead.
What we’re up to isn’t exactly illegal, but it isn’t encouraged by Ava’s doctors. Or technically allowed by Ava’s doctors. They don’t want her out and about in major public places so soon after her latest session of chemo, in case she gets an infection.
Does Constantine & Reed count as a major public place? Since opening in July, it’s now officially the coolest store in Knightsbridge, with bouncers at the door, like a nightclub, and lines of teenagers waiting to get in. It probably counts as a bit public. But it’s so amazing that I’m sure the doctors wouldn’t mind if they could see us drawing up outside in our taxi. Meanwhile, Mum thinks we’ve gone to the library, and Dad didn’t ask where we were going, which was perfect.
Inside, the store is exactly how Ava’s friend Louise described it: huge, dark spaces with spotlights in the ceiling, colored lights in the floors, and loud music pumping through the sound system. The good-looking staff wander about in shorts, high heels, and tans, and there’s a strong sense that if you went back outside you’d be on the beach in Miami or somewhere glamorous in LA, and the bouncers would be making space for J-Lo and Jay-Z.
I can’t believe I never took shops like this seriously before. I’ve always gone for places that sell things cheaply, on racks, in simple displays that I can quickly flick through. I could never understand Ava’s passion for wandering around, soaking up the atmosphere. Here, things are draped on quirky pieces of futuristic furniture. It takes ages to figure out what’s what, but as soon as you find something you like, you discover something even more desirable right next to it. It’s not about finding your size; it’s about being cool and fitting in. And I want to. Suddenly, I really want to. I wouldn’t mind a job here myself next year. I wonder if they hire ex-almost-models with TV issues.
Ava is happier than I’ve seen her for weeks. For half an hour, she wanders from room to room, with Louise in tow, picking out things to try on. There’s a massive line for the changing rooms, but this is when it helps to have your best friend working there. Louise has reserved the best room for us, so we just waft right up to it when Ava’s ready. There’s even space for me to sit down and admire her as she tries things on.
“Call me if you need me,” Louise says. “I won’t be far away.”
Once Ava’s inside, Louise catches me for a moment outside the curtain, puts a hand on my shoulder, her eyes wide with shock. She’s been so busy working recently that she hasn’t seen Ava for a little while and she obviously wasn’t expecting her to look so different. I suppose I’m used to it, because I’ve seen it happen gradually, day by day. I put my arms around Louise and give her a quick squeeze. I’m just grateful that she didn’t say anything. Ava hates people commenting on her new appearance, and Louise is a good friend for respecting that.
Inside the dressing room, Ava is struggling to undo a fussy top without interfering with the tubes in her chest. I help her out of it, then turn to admire the huge pile of other things she’s brought to try on.
“Pass me that dress, would you?” she asks.
It’s a stretchy floral number that slides over your head. No fussy buttons. I do as I’m told, then check out what else she’s chosen. There are lots of skinny jeans in different colors and styles, a few simple tops, some pretty dresses with ribbons for decoration, and lacy cobweb cardigans. Interesting: They’re all very much Ava’s style and they’ll look gorgeous on her, but I happen to know that they’re not the latest trend — as modeled at every go-see — which is more voluminous and luxurious and out there. I always assumed Ava was a fashionista, but really, she’s just a girl who’s comfortable with her own look. I love her confidence. I still haven’t got around to wearing my Woodland Trust T-shirt as a dress yet, and there’s a part of me that really wishes I would.
Suddenly, there’s a noise behind me. A sort of strangled shriek from Ava. It’s definitely not pleasure caused by the loveliness of the cardigans. I look up and catch her reflection in the mirror. Her face is drained and gasping. It’s poking out of the neck of the floral dress she’s got on, which has strange, dangly embroidery around the neckline that I don’t remember seeing before.
“Help me. Help me. Get it off!”
I stand up quickly and reach forward to help her. Which is when I spot it. The embroidery around the neckline isn’t embroidery at all. It’s hair. Ava’s hair. Lots of it. Pulling the dress over her head must have dragged it out, not in strands, but clumps.
We stay there for a moment, breathing fast, not talking. I didn’t know hair could do this. I can feel my panic rising, especially when I see the exposed patches on Ava’s scalp. This is exactly what she feared the most, and the sudden ap
pearance of her pale, exposed skin is shocking. I wonder if I’m going to be sick. Why did we stupidly go out without Mum? But the fact is, we did, and Ava’s only got me. Somehow, I’ll have to deal with this.
I calm my breathing and think. This is just one more surprise in a summer full of surprises. I have recently dealt with fat ankles, cartwheeling on wet pebbles, and looking like an idiot on daytime TV. Ava has coped with far worse. Of course I can deal with this.
“It’s OK,” I tell her gently, putting my hands on her quivering shoulders. “Close your eyes. Put your arms up. I’ll get it off. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Her breathing calms a tiny bit, too, and she does as she’s told. For once, it’s useful being so much taller than her. It makes it easier to pull the dress back over her head. I quickly brush as much hair off her shoulders as I can and wrap one of the cardigans around her.
“Get rid of it!” she whimpers.
I pick up the dress and I’m about to take it away when she squeaks, “The hair! I mean the hair.” Then, with a sob, she slumps slowly to the floor.
So, carefully I remove the hair, strand by strand, until the dress is back to its old state, ready to give back to Louise. Trust Ava to worry about the clothes. As I work, I steal glances at her head with its patches of bare scalp and remaining tufts of hair lying limply against the skin.
“You need to cut the rest off,” I say gently. “Before it gets any worse.”
“I know,” she says, biting her lip and shivering. “I was going to get it shaved soon. But I’m scared, T. I’ll look like a Buddhist nun. Or an alien. A big, fat, ugly alien.”
“A gorgeous alien. We could do it now. I’ll come with you.”
“I just want to stay here.”
She can’t stay here, in this dressing room. The longer she stays, the harder it will be to move.
“I’ll hold your hand,” I reassure her.
“Will you?”
“Yes.” Then I think of something. “And I know somewhere we can do it. You’ll be fine.”
The Look Page 12