Free As Good As It Gets? by Fiona Gibson Page A

grim stoicism. He just cares, I remind myself, kissing him on the cheek.
    ‘What was that for?’ He smiles.
    ‘Nothing. I just love you, that’s all.’ I wait for him to add, I love you too.
    ‘Well, we’d better be going,’ is all he says.

Chapter Seven
    It’s not Laurie who greets us at Face Models but a bored-looking girl with a blunt dark fringe and a gleaming pink nose stud, like a pomegranate seed, on reception. In fact, when I say greet, that’s not quite what she does. She continues to stare at her laptop for a few moments before deigning to acknowledge our arrival. ‘We’re here to see Laurie,’ I say, sensing nervousness radiating from my daughter’s every pore as she hovers at my side.
    The girl glances up. ‘She just popped out. Have a seat …’ She indicates the sole chair in the small reception area, brightening suddenly as she registers Will’s presence. ‘God, am I glad to see you . Weren’t you meant to come this morning? The whole place is going mental!’
    ‘Sorry?’ Will looks baffled.
    ‘Wifi’s down. I’ve been onto your people five times now. Complete nightmare—’
    ‘Er, I’m not here to fix your Wifi,’ Will explains. ‘I’m just, er …’
    ‘He’s with us,’ I cut in, realising at once that it’s wrong of me to speak for him. The girl twitches her nose, in precisely the way Guinness does, and Laurie rushes in clutching a carton of coffee.
    ‘Oh, hi – Rosie! Sorry, darling. Sorry, sorry …’ She gives her a fleeting hug, which seems to turn Rosie rigid with alarm, whilst holding her carton aloft. ‘You look great. Wow – you’ve all come. Dad too. Quite the family outing!’ We all laugh awkwardly and follow her into a bright open-plan office buzzing with trilling phones. ‘Bit manic today,’ Laurie adds, quickly naming the half dozen young people who are all seated around a large oval table strewn with paperwork, coffee cartons and phones. ‘Sasha, Milly, Greg, Claudia, Ryan, Jojo …’ I nod, trying to take it all in, but none of the names are lodging in my head. ‘They’re the bookers,’ Laurie adds. ‘Well, Claudia’s the boss. But we all pitch in here, we’re like family …’ Hmm, just like Archie’s. There’s the odd half-hearted smile, hastily dispensed in between intense phone conversations and the odd outburst of shouting.
    ‘Marla’s had a meltdown at the Burberry shoot,’ wails a young man (Ryan? Or Greg?) with a shock of sandy hair and a brow piercing. ‘For fuck’s sake. That girl needs to get a grip.’ Unperturbed by his outburst, a gaggle of incredibly tall, angular girls are gossiping and sipping from water bottles in a far corner. Of course, Rosie’s tall too – but she’s my daughter , I’m used to her lofty height, and barely register it. I mean, I don’t go around feeling all gnome-like at home. But among all these towering strangers I seem to have become a sort of sub-species.
    The three of us wait uncertainly as Laurie falls into an unintelligible exchange about rates and options with one of the girls at the table. I’d hardly expected to waltz in here and blend right in. But I hadn’t expected to feel quite so … alien . I wish I’d made an effort, like Will has, and changed out of my work clothes. My cream shirt and black needlecord skirt looked fine this morning. Now, though, I’m conscious of a distinct ‘I spent the morning in a crisp factory in Essex’ air about myself. I also wish I’d cleaned my teeth when I got home. What if I smell of cheddar and vintage ale?
    ‘Sorry about that,’ Laurie says, beckoning us into a smaller, glass-walled office furnished with an acid-yellow coffee table and two squashy, pale grey sofas. ‘It’s less shouty in here,’ she adds. We arrange ourselves on the sofas. On the white walls are several framed magazine covers and adverts, the most prominent featuring a not entirely unpleasant-looking young man wearing nothing but a pair of snugly fitting white Armani