The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  I look beyond them. There’s a large stone building on three sides of a courtyard, with a massive white tent in the middle. It’s surrounded by colorful banners announcing London Fashion Week.

  Oh wow. I wonder if any of the girls I did go-sees with will be there today, walking for designers. I hope so: It’s such a big deal if you get a catwalk show. Meanwhile, I can’t even take care of one lousy hat.

  I lean against a pillar and remember the rush of wind when that bus passed me. I never did say thank you to that man in the suit. I wonder why he stared at me like that.

  And then I notice someone else staring. A little woman, just a few feet away. She’s the most extraordinary sight, but she’s looking at me as if I’m the strange vision.

  “JEANS E-BERK,” she says loudly as soon as she catches my eye.

  Is she talking to me? Is she trying to sell me jeggings? Is she deranged? Looking at her, it wouldn’t be too surprising.

  She is wearing a calf-length dress made out of leather patches held together with orange zippers, a gold silk Puffa jacket, a skull-print scarf so famous that even I now know it’s by Alexander McQueen, and boots with four-inch metallic gold platform heels.

  “Please tell me you’re a model,” she drawls in an exotic, American-type accent that I can’t place.

  “Er, well, I suppose I used to be,” I say. I’m not sure I should be talking to escaped psychiatric patients in the middle of the street, but her eyes are holding me in a hypnotic grip.

  “Thank God. Of course you are. Jeans E-Berk. Do you know her?”

  “Personally?”

  “Oh sweet mercy! Of course not personally. She was an actress. In the sixties. Á Bout de Souffle. Breathless to you. Jean Seberg!”

  “Oh! Jean Seberg!”

  “Ah! So you know her?”

  “Not really.”

  She sighs, very, very deeply. “This is going to take a long time. You don’t have a show, do you?”

  “What, here? No. I don’t even have a pass.”

  Her eyes widen. “Perfect!”

  She puts a firm hand on my elbow and guides me into the doorway of a gatehouse to one side of the archway. It’s quieter here. She seems slightly less crazy now.

  “Delicate face. Killer hair. Jean’s who you remind me of right now, but there are so many others. Sinéad, Aggy. Of course, Aggy … But you’re unique. And so young. What are you? Fifteen — nearly sixteen? How long have you had your hair like that?”

  She got my age right to the month, practically. Nobody does that.

  “Er, about two weeks,” I admit. “Except it wasn’t this long before.”

  Oh sweet mercy indeed. I’m explaining the obvious about hair growth to some French-movie-obsessed, age-guessing weirdo. Why? Shut up, Ted. I wish Ava were here.

  It’s only at this point that I fully realize what the woman’s looking at. I’ve been so busy thinking about the bus and the fedora, then being accosted by a lunatic, that I’d forgotten how I must look now that the hat’s not there. My hair is still less than a centimeter long. I must seem a bit … freaky.

  “You’re incredible,” the woman says. “Who are you signed with?”

  “Model City,” I say, “but —”

  “Ah! Cassandra! How is she? We haven’t spoken in a while. She must be ENCHANTED with you. What have you done?” She looks at me accusingly.

  “Er … nothing?”

  “Nothing? No shoots? No campaigns?”

  Oh! That kind of “what have you done?” Not the kind Dad gets from Mum when the answer is “I didn’t mean to, and anyway I can fix it.”

  “No,” I answer. “I tried, but it didn’t work out. Then I got my head shaved and school started, so —”

  “Wait! Does Cassandra know about this? Did you tell her?”

  I shrug.

  “My GOD! I’m a GENIUS! I’ve got you all to myself, you DARLING! Don’t tell anyone. Don’t say a word. I’m going to tell them. No, I’m going to show them. Stand there. Not there — in the light. There!”

  She shoves me around until she’s got some daylight on my face, whips out the fanciest phone I’ve seen in my life, and takes a couple of headshots of me. I know by now not to try and pose. This is one of those “just stand there” moments. Plus, I don’t really have any idea what’s going on.

  When she’s done, she shoves her phone back in her bag, which is a vast, leather, studded affair, and holds out her hand.

  “Tina di Gaggia. I make the next trends happen and, baby, YOU are the next trend. What are you doing right now?”

  “Er, going home.”

  “Are they expecting you? Is it urgent?”

  “Not exactly, but —”

  “Have you ever seen a catwalk show?”

  “No.”

  “Baby, this is Somerset House and I’m on my way to see the most DARLING show. The highlight of the week. Laslo Wiggins. You know him?”

  Finally! Words that make sense to me. Laslo Wiggins is one of THE names to look out for at Fashion Week. He’s responsible for the latest volume trend that Ava’s missing out on.

  I nod. “I know who he is.”

  “Well, he’s huge. HUGE. And he’s huge because I made him huge. People practically need oxygen equipment to scale him. And in a year, he’ll be BEGGING you to walk for him. Trust me — I never lie. Come with me and see the show. It’s right there.”

  She points over toward the tent.

  “But I don’t have an invitation.”

  “You do if you’re with me.”

  I stare at her skeptically. Another thing I’ve learned is that catwalk shows are notoriously hard to get into, which is why the security guys are there. People guard their invitations like Golden Tickets to the chocolate factory. They don’t just let in fifteen-year-old girls who happen to show up with some woman they met off the street. Even if she’s wearing what I strongly suspect are next-season Charlotte Olympia platforms. Sabrina would have killed for those.

  “Come on,” Tina teases. “It’s only half an hour. And it will BLOW YOU AWAY, I promise you.”

  “I wish I could, but …”

  She ignores me. She’s on her phone.

  “Cassandra? Darling! I’m with one of yours.” She turns to me. “What’s your name, baby? It’s Ted. Yes, her. She’s had a makeover and I just want you to know I saw her first and I OWN this girl! Now — are you in the tent for Laslo? If I bring her in, can you meet us at the guest entrance and assure her I’m not some psycho? Love you, darling. LOVE. YOU.” She turns back to me. “See? Perfectly safe. It’ll be the best fun you’ll have all year. Come and see the pretty dresses. Cassandra can’t wait to see your new look, but remind her: I found you this time. I want first rights on EVERYTHING.”

  For a moment, I try to pretend I’m Ava. Ava would know scary stories about gold-jacket-dressed women who lure young girls into Somerset House and do strange and terrible things with them. But the thing is, I know Tina’s telling the truth about Fashion Week. And the security guards are right there to keep out the riffraff and paparazzi, so if anything did happen I could grab one of them. If Cassandra isn’t in the tent after all, I’ll turn around and go straight home. But if she is … maybe I’ll get to see a fashion show. I’ve heard so much about them recently. I wouldn’t mind seeing just one.

  When I get home, careful to avoid Dad, I catch Ava in the middle of a scarf-tying rehearsal in our bedroom — experimenting with the best fabrics and tying methods to keep them from slipping off at crucial moments. It’s for her first style session at the hospital.

  She looks pale, still recovering from a busy week, but when I tell her what happened at Somerset House she screams so loud with delight that Dad rushes in, terrified she’s had a seizure. He sees me and I have to explain about the hat. Not good. That takes a little while. He nearly has a seizure himself. Then he leaves us to it so he can get back to his book.

  I don’t tell him about Crazy Tina, and I don’t ask about his meeting with the TV research
er. Instead, Ava and I sit side by side on the edge of her bed, squished up in front of the mirror, checking out our bare heads.

  “Did she really say you were unique?” Ava asks. She has a point: Without our very different hair, our similarities shine through.

  “Yes. She says I have a Jean Shrimpton quality, combined with a Twiggy zing.”

  “Who’s Jean Shrimpton?”

  AHA! A model that Ava hasn’t heard of and I have! All that research over the summer has totally paid off.

  “She was a model in the sixties,” I say airily. “She modeled for Bailey.”

  “Bailey?”

  AHA AGAIN!

  Ava sees the grin on my face and rolls her eyes. “OK, OK. I get the picture. So? What did Cassandra Spoke say when she saw you? And what are you going to do?”

  I shrug happily. “No idea. Cassandra liked the look. She could hardly say she didn’t, the way Tina went on about it. I know I said I’d never touch modeling again, but there was something about Tina …”

  When she spotted me, it was as if she could see Xena standing there. I even told her about my warrior princess thing while we were watching the catwalk show, and she nodded, like that was perfectly normal. She got it, instantly. It was as if nothing could shock her.

  “There was something so exciting about her,” I say to Ava, passing her a new scarf to try. “She totally carpes the diem. And she knows everyone. She waved to Anna Wintour in the front row and Anna smiled back. I can’t wait to tell Mum.”

  “Yeah.” Ava grins. “She’ll be knocked out.”

  Which only shows how little we know our own mother.

  When she gets in from work, looking as tired and stressed as normal, I try to cheer her up by giving her the full story. From the look on Mum’s face, though, I might as well be telling her I just got arrested. She doesn’t scream delightedly. Instead, she drags Dad and me to the dining table for a family conference.

  “So let me get this straight,” she sighs. “Some stranger accosted you on the street?”

  “Yes.”

  “And told you she liked your hair?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Because it reminded her of a French actress?”

  “American actress,” Ava corrects her, wandering over to join us. “Jean Seberg — you know. She acted in some French films, though. And she had totally iconic hair.”

  Mum doesn’t look convinced. “And you followed this woman to a fashion show that just happened to be on right around the corner?”

  “Well, yes, at Somerset House —”

  “And now she’s telling you she’s going to make you a supermodel.”

  “Not exactly,” I correct her. “She just pointed out that she’s helped the careers of the last six girls to appear on the cover of Vogue. And of course I wouldn’t believe her just like that, but Cassandra Spoke agreed. She says Tina’s really famous in the fashion world. She gave Karl Lagerfeld ideas for the last Chanel collection.”

  Mum’s stress peaks at a new level. “But I thought you’d given all that up!”

  “Me, too.”

  “The last time we discussed this you were in tears, darling, because you said everyone was better than you.”

  “I did,” I agree in a very small voice. “But you said I was fabulous, Mum. And Tina agrees. She’s just … on a different level from everyone else. If she wants something to happen, she can make it happen. And she says she might never have spotted me if I had a full head of hair. It’s this” — I touch my head — “that makes the difference. I’m better prepared now, Mum. It won’t all be so new and confusing.”

  “And heartbreaking,” Mum adds.

  I move on quickly. I’d rather not remember the heartbreaking bits. “Before, they just sent me along for any old job. Tina says she’ll only send me for things she knows I can get, and she’ll tell them I’m coming.”

  Mum sighs. “What do you think, Stephen?”

  But Dad doesn’t answer. He’s looking at Ava in a way that instantly reminds me of the day he first noticed the lump on her neck.

  “Are you all right, love?” he asks.

  Ava nods. Her face is gray and there are dark blue shadows under her eyes. Her eyelids flicker for a moment. And then she sinks sideways out of her chair and onto the floor.

  Mum leaps up and rushes over to check her.

  “It’ll be her red-cell count,” she says, sounding panicked. “The nurses said they were worried.”

  Dad carries Ava gently to bed while Mum grabs the phone to call the hospital. They put her on hold while they try to find a nurse from Ava’s team to talk to her.

  “Ted, I haven’t got time for this,” she says to me irritably, phone in hand. “Your father seems to think you’re old enough to make up your own mind about what you do. He said something about lettuce recently that I didn’t catch, and frankly I wonder about him sometimes. You’re not old enough to make up your own mind, but I’m too tired to argue, so here’s the deal: You can try doing what this woman suggests for a while, as long as it doesn’t affect your schoolwork in any way. If you get a job, Dad or I will come with you to make sure you get treated properly. Hopefully you’ll get at least one happy experience out of these shenanigans. Hello?”

  A nurse speaks to her briefly down the line, then asks her to hold again. She sighs and forces herself to stay calm, but her shoulders are shaking and any minute now she’s going to need another tissue. I’d love to go up and hug her to say thank you, but I’m worried that if I touch her, she might crack. Somehow, my mother has a way of giving me what I want and making me feel extremely bad about it.

  “And if you do get any money,” she continues in the same irritable tone while she holds some more, “you can use the first payment to buy your father a new fedora. In the meantime, will you please go and put a bandana on, or something, if you refuse to wear that expensive hairpiece round the house? You look disconcertingly like Uncle Bill when he joined the Royal Marines, and it’s giving me a headache.”

  By the time Mum gets to talk to the head nurse overseeing Ava’s care, Ava has come to and she’s feeling weak, but OK. The hospital says to bring her in in the morning, when they’ll check red-cell count. They seem to think she’s better off in her own bed tonight, although I wonder. She’s hot and uncomfortable, finding it hard to sleep. As do I.

  At midnight, she wakes up from a fitful doze and puts the light on.

  “What’s the matter?” she asks.

  I don’t know how she can tell there’s a problem. I’m lying flat in bed, with my eyes closed, but I suppose when you share a room with someone for a year, you get to know them pretty well.

  “Mum.”

  Ava sighs. “She’s got a lot on her mind. Don’t take it personally.”

  I lie there not saying anything. Even so, Ava senses what I’m thinking.

  “She’s doing too much. She’s trying to hold the job down, and come to the hospital with me, and … all the other stuff. That’s why she gets so ratty. She doesn’t mean it.”

  “I know,” I sigh back.

  I open my eyes and turn to Ava. She looks dreadful: pale and sweaty. Even her lips are gray. No wonder the nurses were worried.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t push it,” I suggest. “Mum obviously doesn’t want me to.”

  “What did she actually say?”

  “She said yes, I could do some jobs. She said she wants me to get some ‘happiness out of these shenanigans.’”

  With difficulty, Ava leans up on one elbow and smiles at me. “Then that’s what you should do. Tina di Gaggia sounds fantastic. Listen — why don’t you give it until Christmas? See if she can really help you. I’ll have my results by then. We can compare notes …”

  Oh, right. I can find out if I’m a supermodel yet, and Ava can find out if she’s still alive. Brilliant. In fact, the more I think about it, the crazier it seems.

  “Ted? You’re not crying?” she asks.

  “No,” I admit. “I’m giggling. I w
as just thinking about us comparing notes.”

  Ava thinks about it for a minute and giggles, too, coughing with the effort. In fact, we both keep setting each other off even after she turns the light back off and the rest of the flat goes silent. Cancer gives you a really weird sense of humor. Either that, or there’s something wrong with both of us.

  As if I needed further proof after our first meeting, Tina di Gaggia is like nobody else I’ve ever met. On Monday — less than twenty-four hours after meeting me — she leaves me a voice mail while I’m at school. I love her unusual accent: sort of Italian, sort of American, with maybe a hint of Spanish. I wish I knew where she was from. Rio, maybe? Or Rome? I feel as if I ought to know, so I don’t dare ask. It’s like not knowing about Mario Testino.

  “OK,” the message says, “so here’s the deal, Teddy-girl. We HAVE to meet tomorrow, Tuesday. I’ve been talking about you, my hotness, and there is NEWS. I’m back to NYC Wednesday, so it’s now or never, and it has to be now. I’m sending a car to pick you up at six, so dress nice, do your face, and we’ll do some test shots at my hotel. Frankie and Cassandra will be there, so we’ll have a ball. LOVE. YOU.”

  Can she possibly be serious? I call Frankie to see if she has a clue what’s going on, and it turns out that everything’s arranged. Tina has a suite at Claridge’s, and we’re going to meet there. She’s told various people about me and they’re keen to see pictures, but of course there aren’t any decent ones of me with my new Jean Seberg hairdo.

  “When she said ‘dress nice,’ what did she mean?”

  “Oh, you know, cool and funky,” Frankie says, as if those aren’t two of the most unnerving words in the world.

  “And ‘do your face’?”

  “Light makeup. Nothing OTT. Focus on the eyes. Oh, and you might want to get your brows threaded.”