nice clothes, like a proper fashion model?”
I nod.
“I’ve always been partial to Claudia Schiffer, you know.”
I do know. Schiffer: That’s the name of the Claudia girl who’s the other model I’ve heard of, apart from Kate Moss. She’s German and has blonde hair and also lives in London. I know all of this because if ever Dad sees a picture of her he gives a happy sigh and Mum punches him affectionately — well, quite affectionately — on the shoulder.
“It would be just like that,” Ava says confidently, with a hidden wink to me.
“And how do you propose to do all this without Mum finding out?”
“By telling her that Ted has got a waitressing job. At that hotel near Daisy’s. Just until she works everything out. Then she can show Mum it’s safe, and that she’s enjoying it.”
“And I only want to do a few jobs anyway,” I add. “ Please? ”
He runs a hand through his mad-professor hair.
“What exactly would I have to do?”
“Well, Stephen, if you can just sign there … and there . That’s lovely. I must say, we’re thrilled Ted said yes. She’s going to be a real star. And she takes after you, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose.” Dad smiles in a confused sort of way, looking around the Model City offices and wondering what two wild-haired, caterpillar-browed freaks like us are doing in the middle of them, signing permission forms.
As if she’s reading his mind, Frankie says, “We’ll book her in for hair and beauty before she starts. She needs to lose the … you know.”
She draws a finger across her forehead, and I wonder exactly how they’re going to get rid of my facial fuzz. I’m not sure I want to know. The last time Ava tried to tweeze it, years ago, it was agony and I paid her to stop.
“Has Mireille been in yet?” I ask to take my mind off it.
Frankie looks embarrassed. “Actually, no. She was very commercial, but she didn’t have what we were looking for.”
“But I don’t understand …”
Mireille was categorically the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
“We need girls with an edge. Something fresh, to catch people’s attention,” Frankie explains. “She’ll do very well. But not in high-fashion editorial.”
“Where, then?” I can’t stop myself from asking.
“Underwear catalogs?” Frankie suggests. “Anyway, let me show you your book.”
I’ve been wondering about this. Cassandra Spoke mentioned my book, too, and it sounded really important. Do they expectme to read a particular novel? Is it a textbook about modeling? That would be great, as I keep discovering there’s a lot I don’t understand. How to avoid modeling in underwear catalogs, for a start — I’m trying to get away from being “the girl with the knickers.”
Instead, what Frankie pulls out from under a pile of paperwork isn’t a book at all — it’s a large black binder with the Model City logo stamped on the front, and clear plastic pockets inside, most of which are empty. She turns it around to face us and opens it up. Inside the first pocket is the last picture of me that Seb took: the one with my arms above my head and the surprised look on my face.
“What do you think?”
Oh. O-kaaaay. Despite all the time he took over it, Seb hasn’t magically morphed me into Kate Moss, or Linda Evangelista, or Claudia Schiffer for that matter. It’s still just me and my brick wall. And Mum was right: Her yoga pants do look ridiculous on my spindly legs. But it’s an interesting picture. Seb’s good. Behind it are two more photos of me from the shoot where I would say the brick wall definitely outshines me. Frankie seems happy, though.
“We have lots to talk about,” she says.
Dad looks at his watch. It’s after school and we are technically at the hotel in Richmond, talking about waitressing. Mum will be expecting us home for supper soon, and after that I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. But I’m starting to enjoy myself. I keep glancing at Dad’s
I nod.
“I’ve always been partial to Claudia Schiffer, you know.”
I do know. Schiffer: That’s the name of the Claudia girl who’s the other model I’ve heard of, apart from Kate Moss. She’s German and has blonde hair and also lives in London. I know all of this because if ever Dad sees a picture of her he gives a happy sigh and Mum punches him affectionately — well, quite affectionately — on the shoulder.
“It would be just like that,” Ava says confidently, with a hidden wink to me.
“And how do you propose to do all this without Mum finding out?”
“By telling her that Ted has got a waitressing job. At that hotel near Daisy’s. Just until she works everything out. Then she can show Mum it’s safe, and that she’s enjoying it.”
“And I only want to do a few jobs anyway,” I add. “ Please? ”
He runs a hand through his mad-professor hair.
“What exactly would I have to do?”
“Well, Stephen, if you can just sign there … and there . That’s lovely. I must say, we’re thrilled Ted said yes. She’s going to be a real star. And she takes after you, doesn’t she?”
“I suppose.” Dad smiles in a confused sort of way, looking around the Model City offices and wondering what two wild-haired, caterpillar-browed freaks like us are doing in the middle of them, signing permission forms.
As if she’s reading his mind, Frankie says, “We’ll book her in for hair and beauty before she starts. She needs to lose the … you know.”
She draws a finger across her forehead, and I wonder exactly how they’re going to get rid of my facial fuzz. I’m not sure I want to know. The last time Ava tried to tweeze it, years ago, it was agony and I paid her to stop.
“Has Mireille been in yet?” I ask to take my mind off it.
Frankie looks embarrassed. “Actually, no. She was very commercial, but she didn’t have what we were looking for.”
“But I don’t understand …”
Mireille was categorically the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
“We need girls with an edge. Something fresh, to catch people’s attention,” Frankie explains. “She’ll do very well. But not in high-fashion editorial.”
“Where, then?” I can’t stop myself from asking.
“Underwear catalogs?” Frankie suggests. “Anyway, let me show you your book.”
I’ve been wondering about this. Cassandra Spoke mentioned my book, too, and it sounded really important. Do they expectme to read a particular novel? Is it a textbook about modeling? That would be great, as I keep discovering there’s a lot I don’t understand. How to avoid modeling in underwear catalogs, for a start — I’m trying to get away from being “the girl with the knickers.”
Instead, what Frankie pulls out from under a pile of paperwork isn’t a book at all — it’s a large black binder with the Model City logo stamped on the front, and clear plastic pockets inside, most of which are empty. She turns it around to face us and opens it up. Inside the first pocket is the last picture of me that Seb took: the one with my arms above my head and the surprised look on my face.
“What do you think?”
Oh. O-kaaaay. Despite all the time he took over it, Seb hasn’t magically morphed me into Kate Moss, or Linda Evangelista, or Claudia Schiffer for that matter. It’s still just me and my brick wall. And Mum was right: Her yoga pants do look ridiculous on my spindly legs. But it’s an interesting picture. Seb’s good. Behind it are two more photos of me from the shoot where I would say the brick wall definitely outshines me. Frankie seems happy, though.
“We have lots to talk about,” she says.
Dad looks at his watch. It’s after school and we are technically at the hotel in Richmond, talking about waitressing. Mum will be expecting us home for supper soon, and after that I have a mountain of homework to catch up on. But I’m starting to enjoy myself. I keep glancing at Dad’s
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