‘I still think it’s a bit young,’ I remark. ‘And anyway, she has a lot on at school over the next few months—’
Rosie emits a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, like the summer holidays. That’s what I’m doing over the next few months. I’ve nothing planned at all. We’re not even going away, are we, Mum?’
‘We might,’ I say defensively.
‘Well, this is exactly the age we like them to start,’ Laurie cuts in, delving into her tan leather bag for a business card which she presses into my palm. ‘Some join us even younger, but of course they’re always chaperoned on castings and jobs … Okay if I take a quick picture, Rosie?’
‘Er, sure,’ she replies with a shy smile. Don’t ask me, then. I’m only her mother.
I squint at the card as Laurie takes the shot with her phone. She seems genuine; it says Laurie Piper, Head Booker, Face Models, not Creepy Weirdo Who Prowls Around Shops Where Teenagers Go. The agency is in Long Acre in Covent Garden, not some godforsaken suburb I’ve barely heard of. In fact, with her cool grey eyes and pronounced cheekbones, Laurie has the air of an ex-model herself. ‘That’s beautiful,’ she enthuses, studying the image on her phone. ‘Such a fresh, pretty face.’
‘Thank you,’ Rosie says, blushing. Oddly enough, whenever I tell my daughter how lovely she is, she fixes me with a rather beleaguered, you’re-only-saying-that sort of look.
‘So,’ Laurie goes on, ‘perhaps you’d both like to think it over? Give me a call and pop into the agency sometime for a chat. You can meet the team and we’ll explain how everything works …’
‘Okay,’ Rosie says brightly.
‘I’m really not sure,’ I tell Laurie, irritated now that she doesn’t seem to have listened to a word I’ve said. ‘Next year’s really important for Rosie. She needs good grades in her A-levels because she’s hoping to do a veterinary degree …’
‘Huh?’ Laurie says distractedly.
‘Rosie wants to be a vet,’ I explain.
‘Mum, it’s fine!’ Rosie throws me a pleading look.
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Laurie says. ‘We can always work around school …’ What the hell does that mean? ‘… And we nurture our girls. We’re like a surrogate family really …’
She doesn’t need a surrogate family!
‘Anyway,’ Laurie adds, turning back to my daughter as if I’ve conveniently melted into the shiny white floor, ‘lovely to meet you. Do think it over, won’t you?’
Rosie grins. ‘I definitely will.’
‘Bye then.’ We watch her striding towards the escalator.
‘God, Mum,’ Rosie breathes. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’
‘Did what?’
‘Went on about me wanting to be a vet!’
I frown, prickling with hurt. ‘I didn’t go on. I just mentioned it. You’ve been saying for years that that’s what you want to do. She can’t just expect you to drop all your plans—’
‘She doesn’t. Weren’t you listening? She said they work around school.’ She lets out an exasperated gasp as we step onto the escalator. ‘I can’t understand why you’re not happy for me.’
Oh, for crying out loud. ‘I am. Of course I am. You’re lovely and you’d make an amazing model. But I just think, I don’t know …’ I scrabble for the right words. ‘I didn’t think it’d be your kind of thing.’
She blinks at me. ‘Why not?’ How can I put this – that I can’t imagine my bright, sparky daughter fitting into a vacuous, appearance-obsessed world? Maybe that’s unfair, and the truth is that I just don’t want her to do it, because it’s scary and unknown and, actually, I’d prefer things to stay the way they are. ‘You think I want to be huddled over my books all my life,’ Rosie mutters.
‘No, I’m not saying that. But you’ve got loads going on, love. I don’t see how modelling will fit into all of that.’
We fall into silence as we leave the shop. I glance at Rosie, feeling guilty for dampening her excitement. ‘I just think it’d be fun,’ she murmurs finally.
‘I’m sure it would be,’ I say.
She musters a small smile. ‘Sorry for being snappy.’
‘It’s okay. And I don’t want to be a killjoy, you know. It’s just, I didn’t realise agency people worked that way …’
‘You mean scouting girls?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, Kate Moss was scouted,’ she says, taking a couple of carrier bags from me without even being asked. ‘That’s how they find new models.’
‘What, by prowling around shops?’
She laughs. ‘Laurie wasn’t prowling, Mum. You’re so suspicious! She was really nice.’
‘Yes, she did seem nice, but, you know … we’ll have to see.’ As we make our way out of the mall, I try to figure out how to put her off modelling without spoiling what was clearly a thrilling encounter for her. The truth is, what’s so lovely about Rosie is that there’s so much more to her than the way she looks. She excels at school, even in the subjects she struggles with, because she works hard. Yes, she can be rather spiky at times, but isn’t that part of being a sixteen-year-old girl?
As we drive home, I try to imagine her dad’s reaction to today’s encounter. Will’s handsome, strong-jawed face shimmers into my mind, and it’s not awash with delight. He’s very protective, and I know he regards the fashion industry as a load of fluff and nonsense. Rosie’s too smart for all that, he’ll decide. He was pretty taken aback when she started to fill the bathroom with a baffling array of skincare and hair products. ‘She’s just a normal teenage girl,’ I explained.
Plus, while he may have been persuadable at one time, Will has become rather grumpy of late. I can guess why; he is stressed about our precarious finances. Until January, he was employed by Greenspace Heritage, a charity which protects wildlife and its habitats within the M25. Unfortunately, the new Director’s views were at odds with Will’s. While my husband felt it was all about encouraging the public to enjoy London’s hidden wildernesses – i.e., to get messy and have fun – the boss believed they should focus on negotiating corporate deals to bring in huge injections of cash. And so Will was ‘let go’ from the job he’d loved, and which had consumed him for the past decade.
‘Something’ll come up,’ he keeps saying, which is having the opposite effect of reassuring me. I’ve become conscious of treading carefully around him – of picking my moment before asking anything even faintly controversial. For instance, while I know he’s applying for jobs, are any interviews likely to happen in the near future – i.e., at some point this year? I can’t help worrying that his redundancy pay-off must have all but run out by now. ‘There’s
