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

briefs. ‘So, Rosie,’ Laurie says, ‘did you bring some photos?’
    ‘Yes,’ Rosie says, sounding a little breathless. She delves into her battered suede bag and pulls out a small plastic wallet of snapshots. ‘Sorry, they’re not very good,’ she murmurs.
    ‘These are fine,’ Laurie says, flicking through them quickly: Rosie on holiday in Brittany last summer, when we could still afford holidays, and sitting cross-legged on a rug in our overgrown garden, pre its Will-instigated make-over. In the background are Ollie’s old, sun-faded plastic tractor and a wash stand draped with knickers and bras. It looks a little tawdry. ‘You have a lovely face,’ Laurie muses, ‘but would you mind taking your make-up off please?’
    ‘Oh.’ Rosie throws me a startled glance. ‘I already did.’
    Laurie smiles kindly. ‘It’s just, I need the team to see the real you, darling, and you still have quite a lot of eye make-up on. Come on, I’ll show you to the bathroom. There’s cleanser and wipes in there. And don’t worry, girls do this all the time. You tell them natural and they come in absolutely caked .’ We all laugh stiffly as Rosie and Laurie head for the loos.
    ‘When are Chanel going to confirm if they want Courtney?’ yells someone in the main office. I glance at Will and squeeze his hand.
    ‘Hey,’ he says with a wry smile.
    ‘This is a bit weird, isn’t it?’
    He nods, then indicates pants-man on the wall. ‘Maybe I should give it a go?’
    I chuckle. ‘I’m sure they’d snap you up.’
    ‘Seriously, d’you think this place is okay? I mean, is it a proper, bona fide company?’
    ‘Yes, don’t worry – I’ve checked.’ In fact, Rosie isn’t the only one who’s been conducting a little research about the modelling business. I’ve learnt from late-night Googling sessions that Face is a highly-respected establishment, and not one of those rogue agencies where they’ll say, ‘Of course you can be a model at four-foot-eleven, height doesn’t matter at all’ – then politely ask for £950 to ‘cover costs’ and ping you back out, cackling at your gullibility, with no more hope of becoming a model than being asked to take over the helm of the BBC. I’ve also discovered that Face represents many ‘top girls’, and that a gap between the front teeth is very ‘now’, along with fierce eyebrows and cheekbones like knives. It’s all very mysterious – the idea that certain types of facial features fall in and out of fashion, like clothes – and, although I’m reluctant to admit it, it’s quite fascinating in a perverse sort of way. I’ve found myself reading about famous models and their ‘industry’ (a word I’d formerly associated with car manufacturing plants, belching fumes), and tried to figure out how Rosie might fit into all of that, and how it might affect our family. Admittedly, I’m nervous. Everything feels a little precarious as it is.
    ‘Look,’ I whisper. ‘D’you think she’s a new girl too?’
    We both watch as a tall, teenage girl with a froth of blonde curls wanders into the main office with her mum (not both parents, I note). ‘Yeah, poor thing looks terrified,’ Will notes. ‘You have to ask yourself if it’s good for girls of that age to be judged on their looks. I mean, they’re self-conscious enough as it is. Then they’re thrown into this world where they’re going to be scrutinised every single day …’
    I bite my lip. ‘I know, but we’re here now, aren’t we? And remember, the whole thing’s completely in our control. If we don’t feel it’s right for Rosie …’
    ‘I guess you’re right,’ he says as a pixie-haired Asian woman flicks through the snapshots the girl has brought with her. There’s a brief chat, inaudible to us in our little glass cube, and the woman pulls a sorry, not quite right for us sort of face. The girl tries to look brave but seems visibly deflated as she turns to leave, like some of the air has been let