Free The Look by Sophia Bennett Page B

shooting you today.”
    “Great!” I say brightly. I’m thinking that if everything goes at this speed, this shoot is going to take a looong time.
    “We’re going to do it … uh … here,” he adds, wandering over toward the white brick wall.
    Does he mean this studio? Where else would we be doing it?
    He can see my confusion. “I mean, like, uh … here .” He indicates a particular spot on the wall, where the paint is slightly peeling. “Or, uh … here.” He points at another peeling place, farther down. “The light’s good. Atmospheric shadows. I might try a bit in natural daylight. See how we go. Interesting texture …”
    He was almost going at normal speed there for a minute, when he talked about the light. Now he’s come to a halt.
    I look at the wall. It’s true; the paint is more interesting where it’s patchy and flaky. And the shadows thrown by the bars in the high windows are moody, almost spooky. My art teacher, Miss Jenkins, would agree it was very atmospheric.
    “See what I mean?” he says.
    I nod, because I do, and he smiles. His teeth look weird poking through all that beard, but it’s a friendly smile. He seems pleased to have found a fellow wall-appreciator.
    “Actually,” Ava says, looking pale and woozy suddenly, “I think I might sit down. That journey was longer than I thought. Is there a chair?”
    Seb shows her into a little room carved out of one corner with a couple of sofas in it, and a kitchenette at one end. She curls up on one of the sofas.
    “Are you sure you’re OK?” I ask, going over and stroking her hair. “I mean …”
    Duh. “OK” is a relative term in my family now. I bite my lip.
    “I’m fine,” she says sleepily. “I mean it. Call me when you need me. But don’t fuss, OK?”
    With Seb hovering at the doorway, checking his watch, I don’t have much choice.
    “Is that your … uh … sister?” he asks.
    I nod.
    “Mine’s upstairs,” he says. “Doing hair and makeup. She … uh … helps me out.”
    Leaving Ava where she is, I follow Seb up a set of rickety stairs to a small changing area, built on top of the kitchenette. His sister is putting makeup on a girl with blonde, curly hair. They both turn around to say hi to me. The sister looks like Seb, but less hairy. The other girl looks like a fairytale princess. She has a perfect oval face and gray-green eyes. Her hair, wrapped around curlers, shines like coils of spun gold. Even with only foundation and eye makeup on she has, without a doubt, the most stunning face I’ve ever seen outside the pages of Marie Claire . Honestly! I have never been this close to anyone so mesmerizing. She even makes Ava look only mildly attractive by comparison. And I’m being photographed after her. What are they thinking?
    “Hello,” she says, smiling at me. “I’m Mireille. How’re you doing?”
    “Fine,” I lie. Mireille. Mum let slip once that she thought about naming me Mireille, but she thought Edwina sounded more romantic. Not sure what planet she was on at the time. “I’m Ted.”
    Seb leaves us to it. His sister, who’s named Julia, explains that she usually does freelance makeup work for theater companies.
    “Normally, I like to do something a bit creative, but today Seb wants you natural. We’re just highlighting the eyes and cheeks. I’m nearly finished with Mireille. Won’t be a mo’.”
    I sit on a spare chair and watch as she carefully applies layer after layer of lipstick to Mireille’s perfect mouth, blotting and adjusting as she goes. I remember what Ava said about work experience and try to understand what effect Julia’s going for. According to what she just said, the lips are going to be the least important bit, but this is taking ages, and Mireille’s lips are very … pink. Then Julia gets to work on the cheeks.
    “Is that, er, natural?” I ask. I mean, I’m sure Julia knows what she’s doing, but … well, actually, I’m not so sure. To me, Mireille looks as if she’s