“I don’t want to be long here — I still need to get those eggplants.”
“Er, thrilled,” I whisper to keep Cassandra happy, although actually I’m just numb. I go over to a rack of lace-ups, far away from Mum, and pretend to be interested in men’s formal footwear.
“I must say, you don’t sound it!” Cassandra laughs. “I know the news can be a bit of a shock but, really, the world is open to you now. Frankie will arrange some lovely castings and go-sees for you, so you can build up your book. And who knows? One day you could be doing a campaign!”
“What? That? ” Mum says.
I nearly jump out of my skin. She must have sneaked up behind me. I look at my hands, which happen to be clutching a man’s oxford wingtip the size of a supertanker.
“It looks a bit large, even for you. What about this?”
She shows me something beige and cloglike, with a thick sole and a sensible leather strap around the back. Whatever. I sink onto a plastic chair and slip off my falling-apart sandals so I can try it on.
“Edwina? Are you there?”
“Yup, that sounds fine,” I say. “Great. I’m really sorry, but — shshshshshshshsh …” I try to make a sound like a dodgy signal, or like I’m on a train going into a tunnel, and press the button to end the call.
That probably doesn’t happen to über-agents very often. I wonder if she’ll ever talk to me again.
“Goodness, Ted, you’re pink,” Mum says. “It is hot in here, isn’t it? Did she get what she wanted?”
“Who?”
“Daisy.”
“Oh, yes. It was something confusing about … French.”
I’m quite proud of myself for making that up on the spur of the moment, especially under the circumstances. I think it’s because I didn’t understand about a quarter of what Cassandra was saying.
That evening, when we’re alone together, Ava perches on the edge of her bed and asks me to describe exactly what happened during the call.
“Well, actually,” I admit, “a lot of it was confusing. It’s like learning a new language.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighs. “Hickman line. Phlebotomist. Prednisone.”
“Ha! How about go-see? Book? Campaign? I think they mean an ad, but it sounds like a war.”
“How about bloods? Meaning my blood. Lots of it, in little bottles.”
I can’t help giggling.
“Mario Testino.”
“Kyrillos Christodoulou.”
“Kyrillos?”
“His first name,” she says. “It’s Greek.”
“Linda Evangelista.”
“See! You do know who she is.”
“No, I don’t. Who is she?”
“God, T! She’s a supermodel from the eighties. Canadian. She was superfamous.”
“Oh. Then what happened to her?”
“No idea. She might still be doing it.”
I wonder — what does happen to models, usually? You hardly ever see pictures of old ones. Maybe they end up on yachts in the Bahamas, drinking tea with designers and going out with rock stars. What else would they do?
“So?” Ava asks teasingly.
“So?” I answer, pretending I don’t know what she means.
“Why are you blushing? Why won’t you catch my eye? Why aren’t you stomping around the room, telling me how crazy they are? What are you thinking?”
I’ve been thinking a lot since that call — partly about my shoes. Ava says models wear nice clothes, which means their footwear doesn’t come from the thrift shop. Also, I’m thinkingabout Dean Daniels and Cally Harvest. Cally, who’s wanted to be a model since she was ten. Imagine if I actually was one. She’d probably explode.
I have no idea why Model City picked me. I don’t understand it. But the fact is, they did, and it all feels different now. If I tried modeling over summer vacation, I need never be “the girl with the knickers” again. In fact, that would make up for a whole summer stuck in London, posing in front of brick walls and lying to my parents.
Oh, yeah. Forgot about that bit. Ava’s still watching me, waiting for a reply.
“I’m thinking about permission,” I sigh.
“Er, thrilled,” I whisper to keep Cassandra happy, although actually I’m just numb. I go over to a rack of lace-ups, far away from Mum, and pretend to be interested in men’s formal footwear.
“I must say, you don’t sound it!” Cassandra laughs. “I know the news can be a bit of a shock but, really, the world is open to you now. Frankie will arrange some lovely castings and go-sees for you, so you can build up your book. And who knows? One day you could be doing a campaign!”
“What? That? ” Mum says.
I nearly jump out of my skin. She must have sneaked up behind me. I look at my hands, which happen to be clutching a man’s oxford wingtip the size of a supertanker.
“It looks a bit large, even for you. What about this?”
She shows me something beige and cloglike, with a thick sole and a sensible leather strap around the back. Whatever. I sink onto a plastic chair and slip off my falling-apart sandals so I can try it on.
“Edwina? Are you there?”
“Yup, that sounds fine,” I say. “Great. I’m really sorry, but — shshshshshshshsh …” I try to make a sound like a dodgy signal, or like I’m on a train going into a tunnel, and press the button to end the call.
That probably doesn’t happen to über-agents very often. I wonder if she’ll ever talk to me again.
“Goodness, Ted, you’re pink,” Mum says. “It is hot in here, isn’t it? Did she get what she wanted?”
“Who?”
“Daisy.”
“Oh, yes. It was something confusing about … French.”
I’m quite proud of myself for making that up on the spur of the moment, especially under the circumstances. I think it’s because I didn’t understand about a quarter of what Cassandra was saying.
That evening, when we’re alone together, Ava perches on the edge of her bed and asks me to describe exactly what happened during the call.
“Well, actually,” I admit, “a lot of it was confusing. It’s like learning a new language.”
“Tell me about it,” she sighs. “Hickman line. Phlebotomist. Prednisone.”
“Ha! How about go-see? Book? Campaign? I think they mean an ad, but it sounds like a war.”
“How about bloods? Meaning my blood. Lots of it, in little bottles.”
I can’t help giggling.
“Mario Testino.”
“Kyrillos Christodoulou.”
“Kyrillos?”
“His first name,” she says. “It’s Greek.”
“Linda Evangelista.”
“See! You do know who she is.”
“No, I don’t. Who is she?”
“God, T! She’s a supermodel from the eighties. Canadian. She was superfamous.”
“Oh. Then what happened to her?”
“No idea. She might still be doing it.”
I wonder — what does happen to models, usually? You hardly ever see pictures of old ones. Maybe they end up on yachts in the Bahamas, drinking tea with designers and going out with rock stars. What else would they do?
“So?” Ava asks teasingly.
“So?” I answer, pretending I don’t know what she means.
“Why are you blushing? Why won’t you catch my eye? Why aren’t you stomping around the room, telling me how crazy they are? What are you thinking?”
I’ve been thinking a lot since that call — partly about my shoes. Ava says models wear nice clothes, which means their footwear doesn’t come from the thrift shop. Also, I’m thinkingabout Dean Daniels and Cally Harvest. Cally, who’s wanted to be a model since she was ten. Imagine if I actually was one. She’d probably explode.
I have no idea why Model City picked me. I don’t understand it. But the fact is, they did, and it all feels different now. If I tried modeling over summer vacation, I need never be “the girl with the knickers” again. In fact, that would make up for a whole summer stuck in London, posing in front of brick walls and lying to my parents.
Oh, yeah. Forgot about that bit. Ava’s still watching me, waiting for a reply.
“I’m thinking about permission,” I sigh.
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