The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  She’s right. My caterpillar is impressively luxuriant at the moment, after a few weeks of being left alone. But I have SCHOOL tomorrow and we don’t have a team of stylists on tap at Richmond Academy.

  “And what’s she going to do, exactly?”

  “Oh, just take a few shots to show some people in New York. Let Cassandra see what she has in mind. See how things go.”

  “Please tell me this isn’t normal.”

  Frankie laughs. “No, Ted. This isn’t normal. Nothing to do with Tina G ever is. It’s why people love working with her. They say the G is for gold, by the way, because everything she touches … you know.”

  It reminds me of King Midas. He turned his own daughter into gold and she died. It wasn’t a happy ending.

  “Er, I’ll be all right, won’t I?” I ask.

  Frankie pauses for a second, but her voice is firm and bright when she answers. “Yes, angel. This is as lucky as it gets. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  When I get home, Mum’s in the hall, pulling on her coat over her green uniform.

  “How’s Ava?” I ask.

  “They’re keeping her in overnight,” she says, with a tight smile and a frightened look in her eyes. “I’m just going to visit.”

  I feel my heart plummet.

  “What’s happening?”

  Mum looks at her watch. “I’m not exactly sure. I think she’s having the transfusion now.”

  “Blood transfusion?”

  “Yes.”

  I picture wires and blood and needles, and Ava hooked up to … I don’t know what. Ava all by herself. I feel sick. I need to see her.

  “Can I come with you?”

  “No need, darling,” Mum says briskly. “Dad’ll be home soon.”

  “But I want to. Please?”

  She scans my face, which mirrors the fear in hers. I don’t want to be here by myself, waiting for Dad, not knowing what’s going on. She gives in.

  “OK,” she sighs. “But go and grab a banana first. I don’t want you fainting on me, too.”

  On the way to Ava’s ward, I try to ignore all the signs saying ONCOLOGY, and the fact that so many patients look thin and pale. I try to forget the image of Ava this morning, when her sleeping head on the pillow seemed so fragile that I suddenly had to lean down and make sure she was still breathing.

  But I’m glad I came. When we get to Ava’s ward, we find her lying peacefully in a bed by a window, with a tube of dark red blood disappearing under her pajamas, where the line goes into her chest. The blood comes from a bag hooked up to a stand behind her. It’s not as bad as I imagined at all. She still looks tired, but her skin has lost its gray tinge and she opens her eyes and smiles to see us.

  “You missed the best bit, T,” she says quietly, with a wicked glint in her eye. “There was this enormous needle. They took my Hickman line and they —”

  “Ugh! Shut up! You’re teasing.”

  She grins.

  “How’s it going, darling?” Mum asks, fussing around her and plumping her pillows. “What did the doctor say?”

  “No idea,” Ava says, leaning back on the pillows.

  Mum goes off in an anxious huff to check with the nurses.

  I stand beside Ava’s bed, trying to look at home here, like I don’t know that all the teenagers in this ward have cancer. Like I do scary stuff like this all the time, and it’s not scary at all. The glint in Ava’s eye changes to something kinder.

  “Why don’t you pass me my phone?” she says to me. “It’s been going off for ages and I can’t reach it.”

  I dig it out of her bag, which is in the cabinet beside her, and help her check her messages, because she’s not up to fiddling with phone buttons right now.

  “Ooh! Jesse!” she says. “Good. Open that one.”

  The message turns out to be a video. I play it for her and hold the screen so we can both see it. There’s her boyfriend, looking beyond gorgeous in bleached hair and red trunks, standing on deck under a cloudless blue sky, smiling at the camera and singing a silly but sweet “get well soon” song about the transfusion. It would be cute, if he didn’t happen to be standing in the middle of four Red-Bikini Babes, all with their arms around each other, all singing along. How he ever thought this would cheer Ava up, I can’t imagine.

  “I’m sure they’re just friends,” I say unconvincingly.

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “Which is Barbie Girl?”

  “That one.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  She sighs and shoves the phone under a pillow. “So, how about you, T? Any news from Tina? I’ve been telling everyone you’re a model.”

  “Hardly!”

  “So?” she insists.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, Tina did call. She wants me to go to Claridge’s tomorrow evening so she can take pictures and show them to New York.”

  It feels absurd to be saying this here, under these circumstances. But she asked.

  “Ha! Told you!” Ava grins. Suddenly, she looks much better, but I feel sick again.

  “I can’t do it,” I explain. “Frankie says I need to look cool and funky. And get rid of this …” I point to the caterpillar. “And I’ve got nothing to wear. And whenever I try and do smoky eyes I look like a startled panda. And I —”

  “But you want to?” Ava interrupts.

  “Yes. I want to. But I —”

  “I’ll be out tomorrow morning. And I’ll be full of shiny red blood cells. I’ll be your makeup girl and stylist when you get back from school, OK?”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. But,” she adds sternly, “you’ll have to do your own eyebrow. If we wait till tomorrow, the patch will still be pink.”

  “What? With tweezers? By myself?”

  I realize I’ve raised my voice a bit at this point. I glance around the ward and notice a few faces staring back at me sympathetically.

  Ava gives me a mocking smile. “They see your head and assume we’re talking about your next chemo regime — not just plucking a few hairs out, T. Jeez.”

  “OK, I’ll pluck them,” I promise. By now I’m totally puce. Ava’s really enjoying herself. “But you mean it? You’ll help me?”

  She leans forward with that glint in her eye. “Try and stop me. I’ve seen you getting ready for parties. You need me so bad.”

  “Just plucking a few hairs out … Just plucking a few hairs out …” That’s what I keep saying to myself as I carefully attack the unibrow in the bathroom mirror that evening. It’s not chemo. It’s not a blood transfusion. It’s not even that painful after the first twenty hairs or so. I can do this! I so want Ava to be proud of me when she gets back.

  Mum hears all the initial squeaks and squeals and comes in to see what I’m doing. I’m not used to being able to tell her honestly what I’m up to when it comes to modeling, so it feels weird to explain that it’s for meeting Tina. To my surprise, she smiles and offers to help. Ava’s right: She doesn’t mean to be mean. And wow — she’s a genius at eyebrow tweezing. I wish I’d known this before.

  “I just didn’t offer because I didn’t think you needed it, darling,” she says, deftly removing yet another offender and putting her warm finger on my skin to dull the ouch.

  Ah, Mum and my “inner beauty” again. That’s sweet. But it’s good to have her focusing on my outer beauty, too.

  Ava said she’d be feeling much better the next day, and she was right: Blood transfusions rock. By the time I get home from school, she’s a different person — pink-cheeked, energetic, and full of wardrobe suggestions, which are laid out on her bed for me to choose from.

  She’s good at this stuff, and her new energy’s infectious. Ninety minutes later, I’m ready. I’m wearing Mum’s best silk summer dress from years ago, made “cross-seasonal” (it’s a word; you get used to it) by the addition of a velvet jacket from Boden and one of the Indian scarves Mum lent Ava. My shoes are my school ballet flats, because they’re all I’ve got that
fit right now. My eyes are smudgy and smoky, and they’re my favorite part. Eyes are Ava’s strong point, and she has a bag full of M·A·C eye shadows to prove it. We didn’t do much else with my makeup, partly because we weren’t sure what to do, and partly because once we’d added some lip gloss, it sort of looked OK.

  “There!” she says, admiring her handiwork. “I am totally a fairy godmother. Can’t wait to hear how it goes. Don’t let Tina bully you.”

  “Bully me?”

  “She sounds very persuasive. Just make sure you don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Don’t worry, she won’t. Warrior princess, remember?”

  She smiles. “Xena all the way.”

  I wish Ava was coming with me, but Dad is my chaperone for the evening. He’s waiting for me in the living room, dressed in his best job-interview suit, polished shoes, and his smartest tie. He also smells quite strongly of Dior Pour Homme. Claridge’s must be posh. He and Mum look at me appraisingly. Then they look at each other and shake their heads slightly.

  “Bad?” I ask.

  Dad smiles. “No. Good, I think. Just different. Not what we’re used to. You look so old, love.”

  The doorbell rings.

  Mum tuts at Dad. “He means grown-up. That must be the driver. Off you go.”

  I walk out of the flat on the arm of my rather dashing, if frizzy-haired, father, and feeling most definitely old. I’m off to Claridge’s. To talk to a bunch of über-fashion people about über-fashion stuff. What could be more grown-up than that? Right now, all I need is heels. I used to worry that they’d make me taller than any boys I might like, but I’m starting to think that’s not such a bad thing. Xena could handle them. She doesn’t mind people looking up to her.

  “Champagne?”

  “Er, Ted doesn’t drink yet,” Dad says.

  “Oh God, ignore me,” Tina says, pouring herself a second glass. “Of course she doesn’t. Which is WHY … this virgin berry cocktail will KILL YOU. It will literally KILL YOU. You’ll love it. Try.”

  Tina’s suite at Claridge’s looks like the kind of place I imagine the Queen hanging out, except more expensive and gold-embellished — so maybe Madonna, or Victoria Beckham, or possibly even Beyoncé and Jay-Z. The bar is mirrored and vintage, and groaning with champagne bottles and amazing-looking things in jugs. Tina is pouring one of them into a glass for me. It’s so intensely red it could easily be pure poison, like something out of a Disney cartoon, but I assume that when she says something will “literally kill you,” she means “not literally kill you, but taste great.”

  I try it. It’s fruity and gorgeous. I could drink the whole jug. Dad catches my eye and grins. I bet his champagne is delicious, too. And he’s clearly delighted by Tina. I’m pretty sure he’s already working on his Tina impersonations, to use later to amuse Mum and Ava. Luckily, his “I can’t believe you are a real person” expression is very similar to his “oh, how delightful to meet you” look, and only his immediate family can tell the difference. I’m glad he’s here, or I’d be certain I was dreaming.

  Frankie is sitting on one of the gold-tasseled sofas in the living area. Cassandra Spoke is by a window, looking as elegant and perfectly groomed as ever, but frowning and trying to get a signal on her BlackBerry. Tina’s moved on to arranging little plates of blinis with what must be caviar spooned on top, changing the background music from classical to hip hop, and holding an on-off conversation with Frankie about her outfit.

  “OH. MY. GOD. Don’t ask me who this is. Don’t even ask me. He has a tiny studio in Bed-Stuy and everyone is going to be BEGGING for his leggings two years from now. He’s a Lycra GENIUS. Don’t even go there. His name is Andy Wong. You heard it from me. He is the ONLY leggings guy. Now thank me, because that’s your leggings issues solved for the rest of your LIFE.”

  “Andy Wong?” Frankie checks, whipping out her iPhone and typing into it. “Fascinating. I didn’t know Lycra could even do that crocodile effect. And the gilet?”

  “The gilet? This is nothing. It’s just a little thing Frida did for me at Gucci. It’s based on a fur vest my mother had. I so love vintage, don’t you? But when it’s falling to pieces, you have to reimagine it. Which is why Frida did it for me in chain mail. Fur is so obvious, no? Now, Teddy-girl, my DARLING. We’re here to talk about YOU. Are you ready to be a STAR?”

  I perch on the edge of my sofa, trying hard not to put my berry cocktail anywhere I’m likely to knock it over by mistake. Everything in this suite looks like it was made out of silk and is completely undrycleanable.

  “Er, no, I don’t think so,” I say, being perfectly honest. I’m not sure I’m even ready for crocodile leggings.

  “Isn’t she ADORABLE? I’ve got so many people stateside SLAVERING over you. But, let’s see. It’s all very well having the face, the hair, the incredible ME behind you, but you’ve got to project. Before I get too excited, I’ve got to see what the camera sees.”

  Dad catches my eye. Before she gets too excited? If this is her simply warming up for more excitement … I think he’s worried she might go off like a firework, and it’s doubtful the leggings would cope.

  She cocks her head to look at me and purses her lips — a bit like she did when I didn’t instantly get her Jean Seberg reference. But the expression only lasts for a moment. Before I know it, she’s holding my face in her hands and giving me a flash of a smile.

  “Face, fabulous; outfit, disaster. Come with me, darling. We need to get you out of the mall and into something more glamtastic.”

  We go into the bedroom part of the suite with Dad hopping about anxiously in our wake.

  “Sure you’re OK, love?” he calls.

  “Fine, Dad. Don’t worry,” I giggle.

  Tina looks thoughtfully at a vast pile of clothes spilling out of a huge Louis Vuitton suitcase in the corner. Then she pounces on something near the bottom.

  “This, I think. Take off your jacket.”

  I do. Without another word, she unzips my dress, pulls the top part down so it’s around my waist, unhooks my bra, and wraps an enormous blue silk scarf around my chest, tying it in a big knot on my right shoulder. The whole thing happens so fast I hardly have time to be shocked. Besides, I discovered on the TV job that you often have to get changed so fast that you can’t afford to be prim and proper about it. At least it’s over quickly and nobody’s watching, thank goodness.

  “Now listen, princess,” she says as she works, “I’ve seen your test shots, and I see the problem. What were you thinking about when you were working?”

  I think back to the shoot with Seb. What was I thinking about? My fingers? My feet? The general craziness of the whole situation? The wall?

  “Well, in the best ones, I guess I was thinking about the background.”

  “Oh, save me!” Tina says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You were thinking about the background? No wonder you look so … nothing.”

  Oh my God. Can she read Sandy McShand’s mind as well?

  “Listen, baby,” she goes on, “camera lenses are incredible pieces of equipment. They pick up the most important thing in the picture, and you want it to be your eyes. You want it to be what’s inside your eyes. You want it to be the story you’re telling. Not the wall behind you, OK?”

  Yes, I nod. OK. I understand her completely. I think.

  “Er, what story?” I ask.

  “That’s up to the photographer,” she says. “Who, this evening, is me. So don’t worry, I’ll tell you when we get there. Start with your eyes and your body will follow. Ready?”

  If she says I am, then I am. With the scarf wrapped around me, my top half looks superglam. Tina tells me not to worry about my bottom half: It won’t be in the picture, so she doesn’t mind that the neck of my dress is draping around my hips and the sleeves are hanging down like a couple of spare legs.

  I follow her back into the sitting room, where Dad raises an eyebrow at my strange outfit, but says nothing. I don’t
think anything Tina did would surprise him now. She’s already picked a spot in the corner of the room with a simple gold background and arranged the lights so that they’ll flatter my face. I can feel her shift into a new gear: sharp and focused. I realize that she may look totally crazy, but she’s been working hard to get this right, and she knows what she’s doing. She’s just a whole lot more fun about doing it than anyone I’ve met so far.

  Instead of her phone, she picks up a professional-looking camera from a side table and nimbly adjusts the settings. Frankie leans forward on her sofa. So does Dad. Cassandra puts her BlackBerry away and comes over to watch.

  “Sorry about that,” Cassandra says. “My son. Locked himself out, the idiot. He’s coming over to collect my key. Oh, Ted, that’s looking good!”

  Right. So that would be Nightmare Boy. Coming over any minute. Meanwhile I’m half-dressed and posing for a crazy fashion force of nature. At least he’s used to this sort of thing. Maybe I can say something clever about Surrealism when he comes. Meanwhile, I push the thought to the back of my mind and try to focus on what I’m doing.

  “Looking gorgeous, my princess!”

  Tina comes up to me and takes my chin in her hands, adjusting my face till it’s exactly where she wants it. She talks more quietly now, and there’s a different intensity to her. Before she was showing off. Now she’s working. So am I. Actually, this feels good, too.

  “OK, Teddy-bear. We understand each other. I want that warrior princess you told me about when we were watching the burnt-orange mini-crini come down the catwalk. That’s the story. I want to see that girl, and I want her to be brave and hot. I know you can do it, because when I saw you at Somerset House I knew you’d just had a BAD experience, and you were super-scared, but glad to be alive. Your eyes talk, Ted. That’s why you’re so exciting. Talk to me.”

  Oh, wow — this woman is telepathic. Ava and I watched Silence of the Lambs recently, and Tina’s the Hannibal Lecter of style gurus. Totally scary, but absolutely right. Maybe we do understand each other.

  “Let’s go,” she says. She moves backward to her chosen spot and adjusts the lens.