The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  When we return to the ferry terminal, I still feel the need for fresh air. I decide to walk up through Manhattan, following my nose toward the model flat. I buy a hot chocolate to keep the cold out, and after about fifteen minutes’ walking I stumble across a little patch of grass and trees, where I can sit down and finish drinking it.

  There’s a woman already sitting on the only bench, with an enormous plastic bag beside her. She’s enormous, too. Her hair is matted, her face isn’t tanned, as I thought at first, but ingrained with dirt. There’s an “interesting” smell coming from her direction and I’m guessing it’s not Viper. She’s guarding the plastic bag with dogged determination, probably because it contains everything she owns.

  I ask if I can sit beside her, and she nods. We recognize each other: two strange people in a strange city, making our own choices — sometimes wrong ones — and not taking grief from anyone. She even smiles.

  “Nice hair,” she says, passing the time.

  I offer her what’s left of my hot chocolate.

  “Nice socks,” I tell her.

  They’re long, with multicolored stripes. Over them, she’s wearing red shorts that come down to her knees and electric-blue clogs. She should be wearing a coat in this cold weather, but instead she’s making do with several hoodies, worn in layers, and matching scarves. I don’t know where she found them, but they match the colors of the stripes on her socks and even — when I look further — in the right order. Nestling in her hair is a small felt hat with a flower. She looks like a very well-put-together clown.

  “Nice outfit altogether,” I admit.

  She stares at me.

  “You German?”

  “No.”

  “French?”

  “No.”

  “Italian?”

  “No. English.”

  “Uh-huh.” She stares at me. I can’t believe my accent sounded French or Italian, but I guess you never know. Whatever it is, I’m not what she expected.

  “Easy on the eyes,” she adds.

  “I’m sorry?”

  But she doesn’t answer. She said it as if it was a warning. Does she mean I’m easy to look at and that’s a problem? Or that I should do something about my eyes? I suddenly remember that they’re still covered in glittery snake makeup. I probably look like I should be clubbing, not going for a walk in the park.

  She finishes the hot chocolate, shifts closer to her bag, and stares resolutely ahead. There’s something grand about her. Undefeated.

  “Erm, I hate to be rude,” I say, “but would you mind … Could I possibly take your picture?”

  I pull out the iPhone that Model City gave me. It has all the latest features and a great camera.

  “Be my guest,” she says with a low, rumbling laugh. “They do it all the time.”

  I crouch down a short distance away and take a few shots of her with the bag and the bench, but mostly trying to bring out the incredible way she plays with color.

  “Nice meeting you,” I add. Simon and Tina have very narrow vision. If I were picking someone to take photographs of today, it would definitely be this lady, not me. “And if you don’t mind me saying, I think you look … amazing.”

  “Right on, sister,” she says, smiling.

  I put the phone back in my bag and, to my surprise, find I’m grinning. It’s just occurred to me that I spent most of today at the wrong end of the camera. But at least I managed to rescue it in the end.

  When I get back to the model apartment in the late afternoon, Frankie calls from London, asking what’s gone wrong. Whatever I’ve done, it’s too late to change it now. I tell her I want to go home as soon as possible so I can get back to my sister. Frankie agrees. After the way I behaved today, I don’t think she trusts me to go to any go-sees and we both seem to agree that I’m better off in London than here.

  Somehow, she gets me on the last flight out of JFK. By the time I find out the details it’s after midnight in the UK and too late to call home, so I send Mum a text with my flight times. When she gets it, I’ll probably be halfway there.

  I’m busy squishing everything back into my suitcase when my phone goes again. I grab it, wondering if Ava has somehow got hold of my new number, but no: It’s Tina, at LAX Airport, waiting for her flight back to New York from LA.

  “Princess, tell me that didn’t just happen.”

  I tell her it did.

  “But nobody walks out on RUDOLF REISSEN. The guy’s a genius!”

  “I couldn’t do what he wanted,” I tell her. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s not what I heard. I heard you had your own ideas. You were trying to tell him what to do. NOBODY tells Rudolf what to do. Especially not some girl I picked out of the gutter.”

  “I was not in the gutter!” I protest. “I was at Somerset House. It’s a historic building.”

  “It was the gutter compared to where you are now, baby. Or where you were this afternoon. I put you on top of the world. What were you — suicidal?”

  “Tina,” I break in, suddenly remembering, “about your brother —”

  “What brother? Oh, him.”

  “Was he really —?”

  “Ted, I don’t have time for him right now. I only have time for … HOW UNGRATEFUL YOU WERE. And how spoiled. And how much you’ve wasted everything I’ve done for you. I can’t believe it. I’m shaking. I’m literally standing here in the middle of LAX, shaking. I’m not sure I’ll get over this.”

  She is quite frightening when she’s annoyed. Her voice has gone up several notches and her Brooklyn accent is very strong. There’s no hint of Rio or Rome now. But there’s more than a hint of anger. Even so, I really need to understand about her brother. You don’t invent someone with a brain tumor just to make someone go to a modeling appointment, surely? I mean, I’m living with someone with a serious disease; it’s not something you mess around with.

  “Can you just tell me his name?” I ask.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m ending this call!” she shouts. “But you haven’t heard the last of this, Ted Richmond. Believe me. I haven’t even STARTED to finish with you yet.”

  She did. She invented someone with a brain tumor.

  Wow. That’s how she performs her miracles: by doing whatever it takes. I admire her tremendously — I really do. I just never want to see her again.

  The plane takes off into the dark skies over the city. Soon afterward, I’m flying high above the ocean. I spend the flight not sleeping — undoing all those dreams I had in the days before I came over. The shops I was going to visit on Fifth Avenue. The people I was going to meet at Zac Posen and Vera Wang. The things I was going to buy. Why couldn’t I just smolder? The money was going to change my life, and now I can’t even afford a new phone. Oh, wait. I still have my Miss Teen money. But what if Rudolf sues me? Can he sue me? There were all those people rushing about, costing all that money. It could wipe my new savings out in a moment. What if I’m broke?

  And I abandoned Ava to get myself into this mess. My sister with cancer. Nick Spoke said I was evil — actually, I think he implied I was beyond evil. Why do I cry every time I think of Nick? He was so thoughtless and mean. He has no idea about me, and he never tried to find out. I hate him so much.

  I wish Mum could be sitting here beside me. She’d be telling me off for something, probably, but it would still be better than how I’m feeling now. Better still, I wish Ava were here. I’m not used to trying to get to sleep without her anymore. We thought it was so terrible when we had to share a bedroom — Ava especially — but we’ve done so much talking at night. It’s how I’ve gotten to know her. It’s how she’s talked me into most of my stupid adventures. If I’d been at home, I could have told her how silly she was being about Jesse. I could have comforted her. I could have made it OK somehow. And, somehow, she’d have made it OK for me, too.

  The flight attendant keeps coming over to check on me. She can obviously tell that something’s not right, but I huddle under my blanket an
d pretend to be asleep. At least there’s one good thing about not “getting known transatlantically”: I’ll never have to cram myself into one of these airline seats again.

  Mum calls me as the plane is pulling into its gate at Heathrow Airport.

  “Ted! Where are you? What happened?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her, wondering whether “fine” is an accurate description of how I feel right now, which is aching, scared, and angry with myself. “How’s Ava?”

  “Oh,” Mum sighs. “It’s pretty bad. I think Jesse broke up with her. After he left she just … shut down. But what about you?”

  I try to find the words to describe the last couple of days, but “They didn’t get the photo” doesn’t seem to cover it, and anything else just seems too complicated.

  “Can I tell you when I see you?” I ask.

  “All right,” Mum says. “I’ve got to work, but your dad’s here. And Ava will be back from the hospital later. Maybe you can talk to her.”

  Suddenly my heart is in my mouth.

  “Hospital?” She didn’t have a radiation treatment booked today.

  “It’s the ceremony,” Mum says. “Remember? It’s starting around now. Anyway, are they sending someone to pick you up?”

  With everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten that the head-shaving ceremony was this morning. Oh, yeah: “not being there for a bunch of kids with cancer.” Go me. Except maybe I’ve still got a chance. I think of the glamorous New York limos. If I’m lucky, the car might be able to get me there before the styling session finishes. I could at least take a picture or two to help out.

  I tell Mum the plan and she likes it. But it takes ages to get through passport control, and this time no one is waiting for me. No man with a sign. No limo. Of course no limo. Why would they send a limo for the “stupid girl who wasn’t listening”? The one with the “silly, selfish, juvenile, unprofessional attitude”?

  I dig out my old handbag from the bottom of my suitcase, extract my trusty metro card, and head for the Underground.

  I have never known a Tube train to travel so slowly. It seems to take pleasure in stopping between stations, just to spite me. As the minutes tick by, I imagine Vince and his team performing their head-shaving transformations on the four patients we’ve been talking to, then the styling session with Ava, then the families wrapping themselves around their children, admiring their new looks and taking them home.

  As soon as I get to the hospital, I drag my suitcase up the steps and race toward the day ward where the ceremony was due to take place. But I was right: The room is silent and empty. Only the heady smell of scented candles still lingers in the air. Along with the cheerful Christmas decorations, there might as well be a banner up saying TOO LATE.

  One of Ava’s scarves lies abandoned on a chair. I pick it up and it smells of her perfume. I was going to buy her more perfume in New York — something else I didn’t do. As I stand there, holding the scarf and hating myself, Vince appears in the doorway. He immediately walks over and envelops me in a bear hug.

  “Darling creature! You look incredible! Check out your hair! But you missed the most gorgeous event. It was beautiful. Quite beautiful.”

  “I bet it was,” I sigh. “How was Ava?”

  “Marvelous. What a star. But, my God, so exhausted. That must be why she —” He stops and lowers his voice. “It hasn’t spread, has it?”

  I shake my head. “We don’t know yet. The thing is, she’s just dumped her boyfriend.”

  “The fool!”

  “I know.”

  “Someone needs to sort her out.”

  “I know.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Do you want me to take you to her?”

  “To her? Is she still here?”

  At this point, a nurse pops her head through the door. I recognize her from my earlier visits. She nods at me.

  “You got here very quickly,” she says.

  “Well, actually, I’m late. I —”

  “I’m glad she called you. Don’t be alarmed: She’s not as bad as she looks.”

  Don’t be alarmed? And as bad as what? The panic I felt back at the airport when Mum mentioned the hospital instantly returns. It’s like it’s always lying in wait, ready to strike, making up for all the times we should have noticed something serious and didn’t. What’s she still doing here?

  The nurse motions to me to go with her. I abandon Vince and my suitcase in the day room, and follow her rapidly down a couple of corridors.

  “She was brilliant just now,” the nurse says chattily, “but as soon as everyone left she just collapsed. It’s probably her red-cell count again. She’s having a rest while we check it out. Here we are.”

  She opens the door to a side room, where there’s nothing but a bed and a chair. Ava’s lying on the bed with her clothes on. Her skin is quite colorless, and her eyes are closed. She doesn’t move when I come in. Her beautiful face looks infinitely sad. I perch on the chair beside her and wonder how the medical profession can’t tell the difference between a low red-cell count and lovesickness. It seems obvious to me. Mind you, it could be both. Who knows what’s going on inside my sister?

  The nurse smiles and leaves us in privacy. I take Ava’s hand and stroke it gently. Instantly, her eyelids flicker. She opens them slowly.

  “You’re here,” she whispers, and she gives me the ghost of her movie-star smile. Then she frowns. “Why, though? Are you OK?”

  “Don’t be silly.” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Of course I’m OK. Are you OK?”

  She squeezes my hand weakly. “Better now. Sorry about this. Don’t tell Mum.”

  “What? That you fainted?”

  She nods. “I was going to call Dad to come and get me, but now you’re here. No need to worry them.”

  I laugh. She’s her usual stubborn, determined, generous self — wonderful and annoying in equal measure.

  “You’ve got cancer, Ava. They’re worried, trust me.”

  She sighs. “Good point. I don’t want to worry them more. Anyway … like I was saying … you’re here. Shouldn’t you be in New York?”

  “Buying your Marc Jacobs bag? Yes, I should. Sorry.”

  She gives me the movie-star smile again and lays her head back on the pillow. Her face relaxes and loses some of its pale fragility. And finally, I know for certain: She doesn’t want me to be in New York, shopping at Marc Jacobs, and she doesn’t care why I changed my mind. She just needs me to be with her, and she’s too tired to pretend otherwise anymore.

  “It was good, you know,” she says softly, thinking back to this morning’s ceremony. “Vince made everyone look amazing, and feel it, too, just like we did. I’d like to do more of that kind of thing, maybe …”

  She trails off. Serious Ava. She’s still not quite sure about this new aspect to her personality. I know some young cancer patients who are extremely grateful for it, though. And someone else who probably doesn’t mind it as much as she thinks.

  “You look wiped out,” I say.

  “Thanks. You don’t look so great yourself.”

  I giggle. “It was a long flight. Tell me when you’re ready and I’ll take you home.”

  “Now, please.”

  With perfect timing, the nurse comes back to say that Ava’s red-cell count isn’t the problem.

  “You can go, but I hope you’re not coming down with something,” she says sternly. “We need you in good form for radiotherapy next week.”

  I look at Ava again. All the brightness has gone out of her. I wonder what the cure is for idiotically breaking up with the one person who gave you hope for the future. She still looks frail — not ready for London public transportation. This is when a waiting limo would really come in handy. I can’t help thinking that what Nick Spoke would do at this moment is call up the cab company and get one on his mother’s account. But I’m not Nick Spoke, thank goodness. We’ll just have to make do with a taxi, paid for out of what’s left of my travel m
oney.

  As we gather up our things, I sense that something’s bothering me. It’s to do with Nick. But so much about Nick bothers me that I can’t pin it down. Passing one of the nurses’ stations, I catch sight of our reflections in a pane of glass: two distracted warrior princesses with stuff on their minds. I’m thinking about Nick; Ava’s thinking about Jesse. Then it clicks. That cure. I know what it is — or, at least, I know what it could be.

  I wait until we’re safely in a cab. The tricky bit is going to be persuading Ava to go along with my unlikely plan. I decide to take a page out of her book and try lying. I know I’m not good at it, but I think she’s still too depressed to notice, and I might as well take advantage while I can.

  “There were a couple of things I needed to straighten out with Model City,” I say as casually as I can. “Do you mind coming with me? It’s sort of on the way home.”

  Ava agrees without really thinking. I explain that, since it’s the weekend, Cassandra has asked to see me at her house instead of the office, and I give the driver the address near Buckingham Palace. Ava shrugs. I’m actually praying that Cassandra isn’t there. I really, really don’t want to see her right now, but it’s a risk I’ve just got to take.

  We don’t talk much in the taxi. Ava’s too wrapped up in her blanket of post-Jesse misery, and I have too much else on my mind. When we draw up outside the big Georgian house, I leap out and promise I won’t be long.

  Please, please let him be in. Please, let him know the answer to my question. Please let his mother be out.

  Eugenia, Cassandra’s housekeeper, opens the door.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Is Nick in?” I ask.

  “No. Sorry.”

  All the air sighs out of me. Not that I particularly want to see Nick Spoke again, ever, but I need to, if this is going to work.

  “You don’t know where he is, do you? I’ve tried his phone,” which I have, in the taxi — “but I think it must be off or something.”

  Eugenia purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’ve no idea. He left the house fifteen minutes ago. But they didn’t say where they were going. The other one had his bag with him, though, if that helps.”