The Look

by Sophia Bennett

  “Ted!” Dad says. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Dad. I just couldn’t —”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m paying for this trip. For God’s sake, Ted. I thought you realized by now. We’d never ask you for money.”

  “So where …?”

  I’m so confused.

  Which is when Dad explains about the attractive assistant producer he met during my “very nothing” TV job. And how she told him she was working on a new history series.

  “She’s chief researcher for a show about the Restoration. You know, when Charles II came back from France?”

  We do. You don’t live with my father for sixteen years without knowing what the Restoration is.

  “So. We got started talking history,” he explains. “She asked if I wanted to be a consultant on the program. Of course I did. We weren’t sure it was going to happen, but it got the green light while you were in New York, Ted. It doesn’t pay mega-bucks, but it’ll pay for the hotel, OK? And your mum can scale back her hours. She’s had too much on recently. In fact, we all need a break.”

  “Oh, Dad!”

  Ava hardly ever cries. Nor does Dad. It’s funny: Ava’s diagnosis just made the three of us go quiet, but hearing we’re going on holiday … that sets us all off.

  Of course, if I’d done the New York job, I could have paid for lots of holidays, but I don’t think Dad would have let me. Besides, I kind of helped as it was: If I hadn’t done the TV job, Dad would never have met the researcher. Not so “very nothing” after all.

  By the middle of the week, I’m feeling better. I’m still pretty stressed about what the consequences will be of walking out on Tina di Gaggia’s FAVORITE photographer, but Dad’s news has helped a lot, two good nights’ sleep have lifted the fog of tiredness, and on top of that, with some help from Ava, I’ve finally managed to get my art project the way I want it. I hope Miss Jenkins is going to be impressed with what I’ve done. It’s certainly better than those shaded bananas.

  I’m starting to think about art in a new way, now that Miss Jenkins has challenged me to take it more seriously. I’m interested in the idea of documentary photography. Finding fascinating people, wherever they happen to be, and taking portraits of them in a way that brings out what’s unusual about them. People like the bus driver on my route to school who always gives me the saddest smile when I get on, as if we’re in the middle of some tragic story. Or Mr. Anderson, even, the way he stares after Miss Jenkins in her pencil skirt when he thinks people aren’t looking. Or Daisy, spiky-haired, chatting animatedly to Cally about something music-related — until her face falls when she sees me watching and her expression becomes guarded.

  Now that I’m starting to think of myself as the girl behind the camera, not in front of it, I see things differently. I notice the nervous look Cally flashes at Dean the moment I enter our homeroom, for example, and the sad sigh Daisy gives when she moves away from Cally to say hello to me. I notice that they don’t look hostile, but wary, and something about me is making them feel that way.

  After what happened the other day with Dean, I finally understand about Cally. Her boyfriend seems to like me more than I could have imagined. Maybe Ava was right about people being jealous of the way I look. In spite of everything, I still think of myself as freaky, but even Daisy seemed to think I might be model-ish, and now Dean seems to agree. It’s clearly hurting Cally. And Daisy’s torn between us. Perhaps I need to be gracious after all.

  It’s like a picture coming into focus. While it’s still sharp, and while I’ve still got the courage to go through with it, I walk over to Dean and give him a friendly but totally nonflirtatious smile.

  “Hi,” I say. “You know that … er … advice you were asking me for the other day. Did you take it?”

  He looks at me nervously. “Er, no.”

  “Well, I’d do it soon, if I were you. Before it’s too late. She’s right there.”

  He gives me another nervous glance. I give him the warrior stare. He knows what he needs to do. And he does it. He goes over to Cally and has a quiet word in her ear. Somehow she hears it through her clouds of poufy hair and she looks across at me, surprised. I was supposed to be stealing the boyfriend, not giving him back. I smile at her. The first friendly smile I think I’ve ever given her. She gives me a long double take, to check if I’m being sincere. Then she smiles back. Cally’s got a lovely smile: bright and open. But Dean cuts off my view of it, moving in to talk to her more closely and putting his arm casually around her, as if it’s always been there.

  Daisy doesn’t say anything until art, when Cally moves off to a different class.

  “What got into you?”

  “With Cally? I just thought I’d try being nice for a change. See if it helped. Did it seem too strange?”

  “Yes!” She frowns. “And no! It was lovely. You’ve always been so standoffish with Cally. She hated it. She just wants to be friends with you, really. She thinks you’re so … beautiful. She always worried that Dean fancied you more than her.”

  Seriously? Wow. She hid it well.

  “Well, I can assure you he doesn’t,” I tell Daisy.

  He doesn’t now, anyway. That’s the second time I’ve brought those two together. And this time, I didn’t even need to reveal my underpants to do it.

  “You’re looking cheerful, Ted,” Miss Jenkins says, coming over. “Are you ready to talk us through your project now?”

  I am. I stand at the front of the class and explain my approach to “Still Life”: how I started with the idea of fruit, as depicted by the Old Masters, and moved on to my sister, who embodies the idea of life to me at the moment. I talk about all the raw fruit and vegetables she’s eating to help combat the side effects of her treatment, and how her beautiful shaved head matches their smooth contours.

  My project covers a large piece of poster board, on which I’ve stuck my inspirations, from Dutch paintings to the photograph of the princess and the flowers by Richard Avedon. In the center is a black-and-white portrait of Ava, her head resting sideways, perfectly still, among a selection of exotic fruits and berries. It’s a very peaceful picture, until you think about why her head is shaved, and notice the faraway look in her eyes.

  Miss Jenkins studies it for a long time.

  “You’ve captured her beautifully, Ted,” she says. “Her head tells a difficult story, but overall, it’s uplifting. It reminds me of a photograph by Sam Taylor-Wood, actually.”

  She goes to the computer and searches the internet until she finds the image she’s looking for. It’s called Self Portrait in a Single-Breasted Suit, with Hare. She brings it up on the whiteboard and we all check it out. It is, indeed, a woman in a suit, holding what looks like a longhaired rabbit, taking a picture of herself.

  “I’m sure you see the play on words,” Miss Jenkins says. “She was suffering from breast cancer at the time, and about to lose a breast and her hair. This is her response. Yours is similar, Ted.”

  “Copying, more like,” Nathan King grumbles at the back. Dean pokes him with a pencil. He may be slightly scared of me now, but at least he’s loyal.

  “No, not copying,” Miss Jenkins corrects Nathan. “Taking a similar approach. And Sam Taylor-Wood is a highly respected contemporary artist. I think Ted should be proud to be in her company. Well done.”

  I chose the most artistic-looking picture of Ava for my project, but we took loads. I love the one of her pretending to be a pineapple, with her chin resting in a shallow dish and a couple of bunches of grapes draped over her ears. She also made a very convincing mango (left cheek on the table, eyeing up a nearby bowl of raspberries). And an impressive oversized avocado (right cheek on the table, lots of green eye shadow, nestled under a bunch of bananas). Unfortunately, we were laughing so hard by then that the avocado has a rather scary — under the circumstances — full set of teeth.

  The pictures are quite Surreal, and very Man Ray, but we decided the
exam board wasn’t ready for “chemo patient impressions of larger fruits.” Instead, Ava’s let me put them on my new blog, where I’m experimenting with different photographic styles. It’s early days, but I’m loving it. I still want to be a part of that crazy, artistic world I encountered, but I want to be the one who decides what’s beautiful. One day, I will have an exhibition in New York. And I want Ava to be beside me when it opens.

  Because what she’s going through now is a blip, and it’s nearly over. That’s what we tell ourselves. It’s what we have to believe.

  Friday is the last day of her radiation treatment. She’s going in with Jesse, who has stayed behind specifically to help her through this final week. I’ve hardly spoken to her, because she spends most of her time hanging out at Nick’s house with Jesse, or going on smoochy walks, or taking him off to see old films at the movie theater and introduce him to some of her favorite stars.

  I suppose it’s going to be like this from now on. Of course, Jesse will go back to Cornwall, but they’ll be in touch again properly, like they used to be. Assuming the results from the hospital are what we want to hear when the treatment is over. Assuming Ava’s in the ninety percent. It really is a big number, isn’t it? Ninety percent. I guess if you’re in the ten percent you have to go through all of this again, and I don’t know how we’d do that. But ten percent is tiny. That’s what I keep telling myself.

  We don’t talk about the ten percent at home, of course. But something has shifted. We don’t talk about the ten percent together. We know we’re all thinking about it and worrying about it, and we somehow support each other by talking about different things. But we’re not spinning off in our own directions anymore. Mum and Dad are hyperaware of me since I got back from New York, and making sure I’m OK. So now we talk a lot. About our vacation. About my new blog. About how things are going at school. About Dad’s history program ideas and whether he might even get a TV host job one day. And how good he would have looked in his fedora …

  Luckily, they laugh when they get to this bit. I hope I don’t get too sued, because I really owe him another hat.

  I’m about to find out, because toward the end of the week Frankie calls and asks if I want to come into the office on Saturday morning. I might as well. If she has bad news and it’s complicated, it might be better if she can explain it to me face-to-face.

  So on Saturday I make my way to Charlotte Street in Soho, where Model City is based. Frankie takes me to the café in a chic hotel nearby, so we can be away from the office atmosphere. I sit back while she speaks to the waitress in fluent Italian and manages to send five texts on her iPhone as she explains the latest situation to me. If you combined the pent-up energy of Frankie and Dad, you could probably create a small nuclear explosion.

  “Has Rudolf calmed down yet?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, smiling. “But then, he’s famous for holding a grudge.”

  “And legal action?”

  She stares at me. “What?”

  “He said he’d sue me.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly! I mean, they won’t pay you, but they’re not going to sue you. He wouldn’t sue a sixteen-year-old. Cassandra would come down on him like a ton of bricks. He might have threatened to, perhaps, but that’s just his artistic temperament. He was being a bit naughty.”

  A bit naughty? If a teacher stormed around like that, making threats, they’d be sacked. Then I remember: At school I’m a student. In that studio I was supposed to be a professional. You don’t get paid fifty thousand dollars a day without being expected to put up with … artists.

  “What about Tina?” I ask. I did as advised and deleted all her voice mails and texts.

  “She’s furious,” Frankie says. “Incandescent. She put her reputation on the line for you, Ted, and you let her down. Nobody does that.”

  “No,” I say. “I imagine they don’t.” For a moment I’m scared, but then I remember: Tina does whatever she needs to do to make things happen. She’s tough and she’ll cope. And so am I now. I don’t really care what she thinks.

  “But she’ll get over it,” Frankie says, echoing my thoughts. “I had two girls come into the office today with the Ted.”

  “The Ted? What’s that?”

  “The supershort blonde crop. It’s the new look. Not many girls can carry it off. One of these girls couldn’t, actually. You’ve got to have the right face, but if you’ve got it — wow. It’s what everyone wants, ever since the film from the i-D shoot came in. So there’s more work if you want it. Lots more, actually — as long as you do what you’re told next time. But I promise you won’t have to do it in a thong.”

  “They told you about the thong?”

  “Oh, yes. The thong is famous.”

  Oh God.

  There’s a long pause.

  “Do you want the work?” she asks, going back to her phone — no doubt e-mailing some VIP about something urgent that’s gone wrong somewhere. “Because if you don’t, there’s plenty who do.”

  I shake my head. I’ve considered it, but I only really do warrior princesses. If they need temptresses, for example, they need another girl. Besides, I have other things to think about right now. Even so, perhaps this won’t be the last I see of Frankie.

  “You don’t know any photographic agents, do you?” I ask.

  She looks at me, surprised.

  “Yes, loads. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. It’s just … in case I might need one, one day.”

  She laughs. “For you?”

  “Yes.”

  She thinks about it for a moment while she types. “Cool. Sure. Why not? If you do, call me. Stay in touch, Ted.”

  I promise I will.

  After the meeting’s over, I make my way to another café around the corner. Ava asked me to meet up with her and Jesse here. They’re celebrating her first day of total freedom after her second round of treatment. I agreed to have a hot chocolate with them. But they must have got stuck somewhere, because I’m ten minutes late and when I get there there’s still no sign of them.

  “Ted?”

  I know that voice. Right under my nose is a head of rumpled hair, a pair of glasses, and a paint-speckled jacket. Every single item of clothing … I’m beginning to think he does it deliberately.

  “Nick?”

  “Are you here for your sister?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “Take a seat. You might as well. I’m here for Jesse. There must have been a mix-up or something.”

  He’s managed to grab a round table by the window. It’s the best one in the place and it seems silly to go anywhere else, so I sit down awkwardly beside him. We both stare out the window, not talking, apart from my order of a hot chocolate when a waitress comes over. Five minutes go by. Then ten. Presumably Ava’s lips are becoming more chapped from Jesse’s attentions somewhere. They must have lost track of time. I wish they hadn’t. I’m sure Nick doesn’t want to be sitting next to the most evil model he’s ever encountered, and I’d certainly rather be anywhere than next to his brooding face.

  He looks at his watch. It’s a Disney one, with Mickey Mouse’s arms for hands. Not the jeweled, designer affair I might have imagined from a boy who practically lives next door to the Queen. He glances across at me and I pretend I wasn’t looking at his wrist. Then I look back. Mickey’s hand ticks along as five more minutes pass agonizingly by.

  Eventually he coughs.

  “Look, Ted, I know what you must be thinking of me.”

  I stare at him. I was actually thinking that I really like his watch. But that isn’t the point. “No — isn’t it about what you think of me?” I correct him. “Don’t worry. You made it pretty clear.”

  He coughs again. “Er, Ava told me about the shoot. I assumed you’d come back on schedule, not … what happened. And she told me it was her fault you were there in the first place, really.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yeah. She said she kept on encouraging you to do
these crazy things, and you did, and she’s kind of sorry, but you were just so … amazing.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yeah. She talks a lot about you. I suppose because … I suppose because I was asking.”

  There’s a very, very long pause while my hot chocolate goes cold, four people go in and out of the café — none of them Ava and Jesse — and I try to tell myself Nick was asking about me because he was curious about just how evil I was. Not for any other reason. And that the expression in his eyes right now is disgust, not … not something I can’t even dare to imagine, because my heart ties itself in knots at the thought of it. I may feel like I loathe Nick Spoke, but my heart doesn’t. My heart fancies every tiny detail of his face, his hair, his clothes, his voice, even his use of the word dabble, despite everything I do to tell it not to bother.

  “And I suppose I kept asking about you because … you’re fascinating, Ted. I mean, beautiful girls are normally so boring, but you don’t even seem to know how gorgeous you are. And then I thought you’d got the whole thing worked out, and you were off in New York, being as boring as the rest of them. But you walked out. Why?”

  I’m pretty sure that when I open my mouth my voice isn’t going to work. My brain is processing too much information here, including “beautiful” and “gorgeous.” Coming from a boy whose mother deals with supermodels on a daily basis. However, speech comes out somehow. Not much of it, but as much as I can manage.

  “I couldn’t do it. And … because of you. You told me Ava needed me.”

  He winces at the memory. “About all that …”

  He’s leaning in toward me. He’s looking at my lips. They’ve probably got hot-chocolate foam on them or something, but I can’t seem to move any of my muscles to wipe it off.

  “I was an idiot,” he mumbles. “And you are the most …”