Free The Look by Sophia Bennett Page A

make the call pretending to be Mum, giving me permission to go on the shoot and saying that sadly she couldn’t come along because she had a hospital appointment. (Untrue on all counts. The next appointment is on Monday.) Frankie hemmed and hawed, because apparently I HAVE to have a chaperone if I go to a shoot at my age, but then Ava said — as Mum — that I have an older sister who’d be happy to come along instead, and Frankie agreed. Unfortunately.
    Then we had to figure out what “casual, figure-hugging clothes” were, because apparently I’ve got to wear some, and I don’t have any. Well, I have that gray tank top that I wore to Model City’s offices, which seemed to be OK, so my top half is set. But I don’t possess “casual, figure-hugging” pants, and I am NOT wearing my hiking shorts again. I refuse to subject some poor photographer to my legs unless absolutely necessary. I couldn’t wear Ava’s jeans, even if she let me, because they’re too generous around the bum and only come down to my shins. So I’ve borrowed a pair of Mum’s yoga leggings. I couldn’t look more ridiculous, but my sister insists.
    Finally, we had to figure out how to get there. The address is an old post office building in North London that’s been converted into studios. Ava’s good at getting to shops and sports venues. I’m good at getting to public galleries, parks, and gardens. But neither of us has tried to get to a post office building in Islington before. I haven’t started modeling yet, and it’s already a lot more difficult than it looks.
    “This way,” Ava says, in a semi-confident tone. “What’s the matter, Ted?”
    I’m still thinking about the expression on Dad’s face when she told him she felt like seeing a couple of films at the movie theater today, and that I’d agreed to go with her. He gave me an odd look and peered at me for ages before he said good-bye to us. Any minute now he’s going to figure out we’re up to something, and come and stop us. I wish he would. There’s something seriously wrong with my sister, and it’s not just lymphoma.
    “Oh, come on! Aren’t you excited?” she goes on. “Modelingstudios! Makeup! You’re going to look gorgeous!” She grabs my arm and hurries me along.

    Five minutes later, we’re standing outside the sort of abandoned-looking building where bodies are found in detective series.
    “This is it!” she says, checking the map for the last time. “Second floor.”
    She bounds ahead and I follow, cautiously. We let ourselves in through a large, unlocked door and head up a flight of concrete steps. If I thought being accosted by Simon on Carnaby Street was weird, this whole situation is positively disturbing. Doing it with a sister high on steroids isn’t helping.
    When we reach the second floor, Ava leads me down a long corridor until we hear the sound of voices. We poke our heads through a doorway at the end, and there we are: in a huge, light-filled room with a concrete floor and white-painted brick walls. A guy in a black T-shirt and shorts is sitting at a rickety table, with a shiny laptop in front of him, calling out instructions to someone I can’t see. Ava knocks on the open door and he turns around to look at us. I gasp slightly. He has more facial hair than I would have thought possible. Bushy beard. Massive sideburns. Unusually large eyebrows. Underneath it all, he looks as if he might be quite young, but it’s hard to tell.
    “Hello,” he calls across to us. “Are you here for the shoot?”
    And the strange thing is that he says it to me, not my sister. Me, the model. The actual model. Bizarre, but wow.
    We go over and introduce ourselves.
    “I’m Seb,” he says. “I’m the, uh … photographer.”
    I’d kind of gathered that from the enormous Nikon camera, with a very large lens, sitting next to his laptop. He looks around, at the lights, the cables, the screens and reflectors, the laptop, me.
    “I’m going to be, uh …