Miraculously, she does tissue off most of her make-up and, after much splashing of cold water, her eyes lose some of their pinkness. ‘Hey,’ Will says as we meet in the kitchen, ‘that’s better, love. You look great.’ He does too, having swapped his usual gardening attire for a smart chambray shirt and dark jeans, accessorised with an expression of 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.
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 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,’
