her hair back over her shoulders as she exited the lift and strode up to the reception desk.
‘In the boardroom, last door on the left,’ said a bored brunette, pointing down the corridor.
Sasha took a seat on a chair outside, making sure to straighten her shoulders and back; you never knew who might be watching, although the only people she could see was a huddle of secretaries gathered around a photocopier babbling about the D&D Christmas party that evening.
After a few moments, she was summoned into the room, where the ad executives, a man and an older woman with a chocolate-brown bob, were sitting behind a desk. Unsmiling, the brunette asked for Sasha’s portfolio and flicked through it without interest. Sasha tried not to flinch. There were fewer than thirty photos inside it – just test shots, done by up-and-coming photographers to beef it up.
‘I’m new,’ said Sasha by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been living in the Caribbean,’ she added, hoping to sound more glamorous than her body of work suggested.
‘How old are you?’ asked the brunette.
‘Nineteen. Nearly.’
‘Have you thought about getting your nose fixed?’
Sasha blinked, trying to keep her face as even as possible. ‘Cindy Crawford didn’t get her mole done,’ she said brightly. ‘I think it’s sometimes best to leave things as nature intended.’
The male executive smiled and walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod. ‘Shall we?’ he asked his colleague, who just shrugged.
The man was young but important-looking, dressed in a black turtleneck and small wire-framed John Lennon glasses; Sasha deduced he was the art director. He waved her over to a chair in front of the camera and she felt an unexpected flurry of nerves. Every rejection she had so far received would be worth it if she scored this one gig. D&D’s biggest client was Benson confectionery, and the rumour was that they were currently looking for a girl to front a campaign for a new range of chocolate ice-cream bars. Forget the money – this would mean print ads, billboards and, more importantly, television ads. Whoever landed this would have their face on every street corner and in every front room throughout the summer. It wasn’t Vogue , but it was big.
‘I’d like you to say these words to camera,’ said the brunette, making some notes on a yellow pad in front of her.‘Venus ice cream. It’s chocolicious.’
Sasha was suddenly glad of the three-week drama summer school she had attended in 1985.
‘How do you want me to say “chocolicious”?’ she asked. ‘Playfully? Sexily? I can put on an American accent if you’d like. I’ve spent a lot of time in New York and Miami.’
‘English will be fine,’ replied the brunette thinly.
A red light flicked on and Sasha fixed her gaze into the black depths of the camera lens.
‘Try Venus,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s chocolicious.’
‘Can you stick to the script?’ said the woman with irritation.
‘Of course,’ said Sasha, turning back to the camera.
‘Venus ice cream,’ she breathed, more seductively this time. ‘It’s chocolicious.’
It better be , thought Sasha, and smiled a dazzling smile.
‘So how was the casting? Who was it again? Vogue ?’
Carole Sinclair was sitting waiting for her daughter at a corner table in Harrods restaurant. In town for last-minute Christmas shopping, she had insisted on meeting Sasha after her casting and ‘treating’ her to afternoon tea. This annoyed Sasha; as a failed ex-model herself, her mother knew full well that she couldn’t actually eat anything.
At forty-eight, Sasha’s mother looked ten years younger. She had perfectly blow-dried hair and her skin was lightly tanned from a recent tennis holiday in the Algarve. Around her feet were an assortment of green and gold Harrods carrier bags. Sasha had overheard her father say that they should ‘pull our belts in this Christmas’ but Carole clearly hadn’t been
‘In the boardroom, last door on the left,’ said a bored brunette, pointing down the corridor.
Sasha took a seat on a chair outside, making sure to straighten her shoulders and back; you never knew who might be watching, although the only people she could see was a huddle of secretaries gathered around a photocopier babbling about the D&D Christmas party that evening.
After a few moments, she was summoned into the room, where the ad executives, a man and an older woman with a chocolate-brown bob, were sitting behind a desk. Unsmiling, the brunette asked for Sasha’s portfolio and flicked through it without interest. Sasha tried not to flinch. There were fewer than thirty photos inside it – just test shots, done by up-and-coming photographers to beef it up.
‘I’m new,’ said Sasha by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been living in the Caribbean,’ she added, hoping to sound more glamorous than her body of work suggested.
‘How old are you?’ asked the brunette.
‘Nineteen. Nearly.’
‘Have you thought about getting your nose fixed?’
Sasha blinked, trying to keep her face as even as possible. ‘Cindy Crawford didn’t get her mole done,’ she said brightly. ‘I think it’s sometimes best to leave things as nature intended.’
The male executive smiled and walked over to a video camera mounted on a tripod. ‘Shall we?’ he asked his colleague, who just shrugged.
The man was young but important-looking, dressed in a black turtleneck and small wire-framed John Lennon glasses; Sasha deduced he was the art director. He waved her over to a chair in front of the camera and she felt an unexpected flurry of nerves. Every rejection she had so far received would be worth it if she scored this one gig. D&D’s biggest client was Benson confectionery, and the rumour was that they were currently looking for a girl to front a campaign for a new range of chocolate ice-cream bars. Forget the money – this would mean print ads, billboards and, more importantly, television ads. Whoever landed this would have their face on every street corner and in every front room throughout the summer. It wasn’t Vogue , but it was big.
‘I’d like you to say these words to camera,’ said the brunette, making some notes on a yellow pad in front of her.‘Venus ice cream. It’s chocolicious.’
Sasha was suddenly glad of the three-week drama summer school she had attended in 1985.
‘How do you want me to say “chocolicious”?’ she asked. ‘Playfully? Sexily? I can put on an American accent if you’d like. I’ve spent a lot of time in New York and Miami.’
‘English will be fine,’ replied the brunette thinly.
A red light flicked on and Sasha fixed her gaze into the black depths of the camera lens.
‘Try Venus,’ she said, pouting. ‘It’s chocolicious.’
‘Can you stick to the script?’ said the woman with irritation.
‘Of course,’ said Sasha, turning back to the camera.
‘Venus ice cream,’ she breathed, more seductively this time. ‘It’s chocolicious.’
It better be , thought Sasha, and smiled a dazzling smile.
‘So how was the casting? Who was it again? Vogue ?’
Carole Sinclair was sitting waiting for her daughter at a corner table in Harrods restaurant. In town for last-minute Christmas shopping, she had insisted on meeting Sasha after her casting and ‘treating’ her to afternoon tea. This annoyed Sasha; as a failed ex-model herself, her mother knew full well that she couldn’t actually eat anything.
At forty-eight, Sasha’s mother looked ten years younger. She had perfectly blow-dried hair and her skin was lightly tanned from a recent tennis holiday in the Algarve. Around her feet were an assortment of green and gold Harrods carrier bags. Sasha had overheard her father say that they should ‘pull our belts in this Christmas’ but Carole clearly hadn’t been
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