I ran screaming with excitement down the corridor. My baby sister toddled after me, falling on her nappy bum. I pulled her up, and slipped in my socks, laughing and sliding, yelling about getting a new sister. A big sister. A big sister who was going to live with us forever. She was called Bay and she was arriving today. Like a parcel.
We had met her three times before. She was eight years old. She had a black fringe that she combed down flat to meet the tops of her pink plastic glasses. She played Monopoly with us over and over and didn’t notice when I cheated. And her best friend was knifed in the leg.
Every minute since I had woken up, I had asked Mum whether it was ten o’clock yet. At ten o’clock, Bay’s mother would be dropping her off at the train station. Her mother wasn’t coming to the house. We weren’t quite sure why she didn’t want to meet us and have a cup of tea (that’s what I had overheard Mum saying to Dad).
‘It’s such a shame, isn’t it?’ Mum had also said, in a whispery voice.
‘Believe me, it’s not,’ Dad had said.
‘You can’t say that,’ Mum had said, giving Dad one of her naughty smiles.
‘I can. I was married to the woman, remember?’ Dad had said, holding his cup out for more tea.
And I had tried to imagine Dad being married to someone who wasn’t Mum, and it was impossible.
When Bay finally arrived, I noticed that I was as tall as her even though I was younger. Dad was carrying her small grey rucksack for her, probably because her arms were as thin as pencils and might not have been strong enough to carry anything. I felt quite big and strong next to her.
‘Can I help getting your other stuff from the car?’ I asked, wanting to be super-helpful, dying to know what toys she had.
Dad put on his cross face. ‘No, Nell. This is her only bag.’
‘Oh,’ I said, staring at it in wonder. How could she have just one small bag? I imagined how big my bag would be if I had to go and live somewhere else forever. I hated the thought and felt terribly sorry for Bay.
‘Nell and Iris, do you want to show Bay her new room?’ Mum said, giving Bay such a lovely smile. I felt a bit tearful, in a happy way.
We had become shy since Bay had walked through the door. Iris was sucking her thumb. Bay looked sad to be here and that worried me. I wished I hadn’t asked about her other bags. I didn’t want her to be sad. I wanted her to love us as much as we loved her. I wanted her to love our home as much as we loved it.
Upstairs, Bay sat down on her new bed. She took out her comb from her pocket and began combing her fringe down. She wasn’t looking around her new room. So I pointed to all the things we had done to make it special for her. Like the cuddly rabbit on her pillow that I had bought with my own pocket money. And the fluffy pink rug that I had spent days choosing with Mum online. I pointed at the little purple fairy that was supposed to be from Iris, even though she was too little to choose a proper present. It was a good-luck fairy.
I waited for Bay to say how much she liked all these new things, which I had secretly wanted for myself.
Iris climbed on the stool and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Her hair stuck out all over the place.
‘Horsey,’ I said to her, pointing to Pippa the horse in the field across the road. I was trying to get Iris to say her first word.
‘Where’s your room?’ Bay asked. There was still no smile and it was beginning to worry me.
I dragged her next door. Iris and I were sharing now. At first, I had hated the idea of sharing with my baby sister, who was only one. I was six and way too grown up to have to share with a silly baby in a cot, and I knew I’d miss seeing Pippa the horse outside my window. But Mum had told me to think about Bay’s feelings over my own and to remember that she had never had her own bedroom before.
‘I wish I had this room instead,’ Bay said.
‘But it’s smaller than yours,’ I said, a bit confused. I might have even scratched my head.
Her grey eyes through her glasses looked watery and I began to panic.
Before I could do anything, Bay ran out and slammed her new bedroom door. The sign that I had chosen, saying Sweet Dreams, fell off the hook.
Iris unplugged her thumb from her mouth and picked up the sign. I snatched it from her and tried to reach the hook where it was supposed to be. If I asked Mum or Dad for help, I would get in trouble for upsetting Bay again.
I crept into the room that used to be mine and sat next to my little big sister Bay on the bed, pulling Iris onto my knee, telling Bay not to cry. But I felt so disappointed and guilty, I burst into tears too.
A man with white-blond hair was staring at my three girls, and it was starting to wind me up. Normally I’d be the last person on earth to cause a scene, especially in an art gallery, but I was fighting back a deep-seated motherly urge to say something very loud and embarrassing.
For now, I concentrated on the golden cross-hatching of the artwork on the walls of the gallery, but I remained wary of him as we moved to the next exhibit. In a self-conscious whisper, I read the pamphlet to the girls. ‘The weaving workshop at the Bauhaus in 1919, where Anni Albers studied, was dubbed the “Women’s Workshop”, in spite of its progressive ideals of equality’. I faltered, noticing the man was coming closer. He stood too near to us. I continued reading, picking up from where I’d left off. From the corner of my eye I saw him lean in to his male companion and point in the girls’ direction. It was galling that he didn’t appear at all sheepish about his leering, or notice my dirty looks. To him, I guessed I was just a vague forty-something irrelevance in unfashionable jeans.
It wasn’t surprising that the girls were drawing attention, though. I looked them over now with a wave of pride. They were gorgeous. I wasn’t biased. Not one bit.
Admittedly, Nell’s favourite T-shirt was way too short and her jeans too tight. Since turning fifteen, she had become curvy, and her limbs had grown long and a little artless. There were clumps of yesterday’s mascara on her eyelashes, but her blue eyes were guileless, like an unsheltered sky. The blonde baby hairs around her forehead had not been tamed into her high, thick ponytail and the wisps gave her an angel-like quality. Her heart-shaped lips were never quite closed properly over the gap between her two front teeth, as though she was permanently in awe of the world around her, poised to gasp or smile in surprise. She was still innocent and perfect, and she was all mine.
Iris had not washed or brushed her hair before we’d come out, which was my fault, considering she was only ten years old, yet she looked impossibly sweet, with her sticky-out ears, long, skinny legs and big feet. A little frowny and a little scruffy, she would always be the baby of the family. Perfect. All mine.
And Bay, my stepdaughter, looked exactly how I myself would have wanted to look at her age, almost seventeen. The back of her head was shorn, and at the front, her black fringe was swept to the side, tucked behind one small ear. Her tiny mouth was buttoned up, naturally red and bitten. Her eyes were green in one light, grey in another, yellow even in some, and had a sad little droop at either corner. Although her body was diminutive, narrow, especially compared to Iris and Nell, she knew how to dress. Today she wore a button-down black cardigan and high-waisted corduroy slacks. The cloth bag she had bought the last time we’d come to the Tate Modern was worn, weighed down elegantly by her Moleskine notebook and pen, and by her phone, of course.
Looking at Bay now, I couldn’t help thinking back to the day she had arrived to live with us: the grubby, sullen child who had obsessively combed her long black fringe to meet the top of her glasses. The change in her had been hard won. Perfect. And she was almost all mine.
The mismatched threesome stared up at the piece of art. Bay moved over to hold Nell’s hand. They often held hands, like Italian teenage girls. Little Iris pushed between them to get a better look.
I glared at the white-haired man and dragged the three of them off to the swatches of material that were hooked to the wall, marking the end of the exhibition.
‘You’re allowed to touch these,’ I said to the girls.
Iris looked up, nuzzling into me. ‘Won’t we get in trouble?’
The material I chose was rough and scratchy. It was harsh on my fingertips and I looked for a softer fabric. ‘You won’t get into trouble. Feel them,’ I said. ‘Anni Albers thought we should use our sense of touch much more often.’
I thought about touch. Since the girls were small, I had luxuriated in the softness of them: their cheeks, their backs, their palms. The feel of their hair through my fingers. The sensation of their lips on my cheek. When they came to me for a hug, they might nestle into my middle or pull at my face or play with my hair or reach for my hand; it was the kind of touch that gave me life.
Remembering the man, I looked around for him. If he used his sense of touch anywhere near this lot, he’d have his creepy eyes poked out.
It seemed he had gone. I noticed that Nell was texting on her phone. ‘Nell. Put that thing away,’ I said, wishing I could take her phone from her and turn it off forever – except of course when I needed to reach her. She stuffed it in the back pocket of her skintight jeans. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ambling over to the skeins of yarn that hung like ponytails from hooks. She smoothed her fingers through them and cooed, placing one against her cheek.
Then I noticed the man again. He seemed to be approaching Nell, putting his hand into his black satchel. His gleaming high-top trainers squeaked on the polished floor as he walked. I noticed the seat of his trousers was almost at his knees – a look I associated with a man much younger – and a small bald patch was showing through his crispy white-blond hair.
The clack-clacking of the hand loom in the documentary film that was being projected onto the wall grew loud in my head, like teeth gnashing. I hurried forward to get to Nell first.
Bay pulled my sleeve. ‘Check this out, Anna,’ she said, showing me an arty close-up on her phone of the frayed edges of a fragment of material.
‘Great shot,’ I said, barely glancing at it as I reached for Nell.
‘Come on, Nell, let’s go and get some cake,’ I said, holding her arm, beckoning the other two over. ‘Bay! Iris! Come on, now.’
Pushing them on by the smalls of their backs, I hurried them out and through the gift shop, refusing all their requests for postcards or fridge magnets, promising we would come back later. When the horrible man was gone.
We settled at the shiny table in the café with the black floor and read the menu. I felt warily relieved, and not entirely confident we had lost the staring man for good.
‘That was a brilliant exhibition, wasn’t it?’ I said.
Iris unzipped her rucksack and pulled out her 1974 Beano annual. Nell took out her phone and showed Bay her latest TikTok. They were head-to-head, talking as though they shared a secret language. The metal table wobbled as they scrolled.
‘I thought it was so amazing to see all those little crosses in her notebooks, didn’t you?’ I continued, knowing I was talking to myself.
I scanned the room, wondering if it would be crazy to collar a stranger and share my thoughts on the exhibition. Yup. Completely crazy. I picked up my napkin and began folding it into a flower, and thought about Dom, who had chosen not to come. I thought about the skeins of yarn and the roughly hewn swatches and wondered which he would have been drawn to. I guessed he might not have touched them at all. Art exhibitions weren’t Dom’s favourite pastime, and I had given up trying to persuade him to come on our yearly London trips. Having a beer and watching the football without the girls disturbing him was what he had chosen to do today. I understood. He’d had a stressful week cooped up in the office.
‘Excuse me,’ a man’s voice said.
The white-blond man was suddenly next to Nell. He was handing her some kind of pink flyer. I read the leaflet upside down. YOU’VE BEEN SCOUTED! it said in bold capitals.
‘Hi, I’m sorry to disturb you guys,’ he said. His skin had a taut, shiny quality and his lips looked as if they’d been injected with something nasty. Briefly he glanced at me before snapping his full attention back to Nell. ‘I’m David, and I’m a scout for Take One models. Can I ask your name, hon?’
‘Nell?’ she replied, as though she wasn’t sure any more.
‘Have you ever considered modelling, Nell?’
She blinked at him, awestruck. ‘No,’ she said, before looking to Bay, who was giving him one of her haughty glares.
‘Nell’s only fifteen,’ I said apologetically, hoping that settled the matter. I knew only too well how cut-throat that industry could be. It housed someone from the past whom I had left behind long ago. I didn’t want Nell to be any part of it.
‘Are you “Mum”?’ David said, making quotation marks in the air.
‘Yes,’ I said, nodding.
‘Great to meet you, Mum. I know this is big for you too, right? Has this ever happened to Nell before?’
‘No, never,’ I said. I didn’t like the idea that anything was actually ‘happening’ to her.
‘Well, get used to it. She’ll be asked again. But Take One is the best in the business. The bookers in the New Faces division are like second mums to their girls.’
‘Oh,’ I said. Why would Nell need a second mother? I thought.
‘Why not pop in to meet them? See what you think. What about you, Nell? Would you like to come in to see us?’
‘You think I could be a model?’ she asked.
‘The bookers will make the final decision, but I think you’d have a great chance of being taken on. Your look is to. Die. For! Like a young Brigitte Bardot!’
It wasn’t the first time I had heard the comparison. My mother had pointed it out to me once. The observation had alarmed me, as though it alienated Nell from me, made her too different. She would always be my squidgy-thighed baby, my little companion, who had eaten well and slept well and smiled early. I had told Mum she was biased. All grandmothers thought their granddaughters were beautiful.
‘Who’s Brigitte Bardot?’ Iris piped up, very seriously. She placed her hands on her closed annual, as though David might steal it, and waited for his answer.
‘Brigitte Bardot was a French film star in the sixties. And one of the most beautiful women to ever have walked the earth!’ David said.
‘Is she dead?’ Iris asked coolly.
Bay answered her. ‘No. She campaigns for animal rights and has hundreds of cats and looks like a fright.’
I laughed.
‘Thanks so much, David,’ I said, taking the flyer from Nell and folding it away into my handbag. ‘It’s lovely of you, but Nell will be starting her final GCSE year after the summer holidays and so she won’t have any time to be a model, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry.’
His brow furrowed into a waxy crease. ‘These days, the New Faces desk have a strict policy that their girls don’t miss out on any school.’
‘Honestly, thank you so much for your interest. I’m sure she’s really flattered, aren’t you, Nell? But it’s a no from us.’ I looked at Nell and shivered at the change in her expression. The god of thunder had taken up residence inside her and was poised to wage a hundred-year war on me.
Then she turned her pretty face up to David, blinking back the anger. ‘Thank you,’ she said politely. ‘I can’t really believe it. Thank you so much.’
I felt guilty for shutting the idea down before giving her the chance to respond and enjoy the compliment.
‘Believe it, honey!’ he said, then turned to me. ‘She could be a star with a face like that.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you. There’s a lot to think about.’
‘Okay, folks. Great to meet you, Mum. And Nell.’ He did not so much as glance in either Iris or Bay’s direction. ‘You have my flyer, hon,’ he said to Nell. ‘All the deets are there if you want to call and fix a date to meet the team.’ He winked. ‘Hope to see your face on the front cover of Vogue some day.’
As he walked away, I met three sets of eyes at the table, worrying about each of them, trying to second-guess their reactions.
‘Well, wow. What do we think about that?’ I said.
Because of Brigitte Bardot and the mention of cats, I guessed Iris would take the opportunity to ask for a kitten again, rather than think too hard about Nell modelling. Bay would be protective, perhaps also feel ugly, even though she was beautiful, in a quieter way. And Nell would look to Bay for guidance. For everything she did, she needed her big sister’s approval.
‘Oh my God!’ she said to Bay.
‘Wow!’ Bay said.
Nell thrust her hand in my direction. ‘Can I have the flyer?’
I brought it out of my bag and handed it to her. While she read, I read it too, upside down.
CONGRATULATIONS!
You have been scouted by TAKE ONE MODEL MANAGEMENT.
Take One is responsible for scouring the UK to find fresh and distinctive faces to make it big in the fashion industry.
Thanks to the passion of our scouting team – all DBS-checked – and the perseverance of our bookers, Take One’s books are bursting with talent, as seen on worldwide campaigns and catwalks. Our New Faces team has launched the careers of the biggest names in the business and look forward to making more dreams a reality.
Please email:
[email protected]
www.takeonemodels.com
44 (0)20 7352 8670
‘That guy must have left his glasses at home or something,’ Nell said modestly.
I laughed. ‘Clearly he’s blind as a bat.’
Bay forced a smile, but her eyes were grey and overcast. I could not tell whether she was harbouring difficult feelings or simply thinking through what had just happened. In the early years, she had been a gloomy child; hurt would lurk inside her for days until she exploded, wild with it. I was wary of this still.
Nell glanced at her uncertainly, and Bay looked back at Nell. The two of them shared a communication that the rest of us weren’t part of, like the telepathy of twins.
‘Like you said, Mum, there’s no way I’d be able to fit it in. Not with all the exams coming up this year,’ Nell said.
‘I think that’s very grown up,’ I told her, though I quietly worried she was saying what I wanted to hear. Or what Bay wanted to hear.
She began folding the flyer into her rucksack, but Bay leant over and snatched it from her and screwed it into a ball.
‘Give that back,’ Nell said hotly, prising it out of Bay’s hands and flattening it out.
‘Ow,’ Bay said, rubbing her hand. ‘You need to cut your fingernails.’
‘Stop it, you two,’ I said, shooting them both warning looks. Nell’s blue eyes flashed with indignation as she zipped the flyer away.
‘Can we get a kitten, Mummy?’ Iris asked, left field.
All four of us laughed.
‘Trust you, Iris,’ Nell said, reaching over to ruffle her hair.
‘Daddy is still allergic to them, poppet.’ I squeezed her hand, feeling eternally sorry that I could not provide her with the pet she so wished for.
We ordered four lemonades and four chocolate fudge cakes, and I managed to sustain at least ten minutes of discussion about Anni Albers. But Nell didn’t eat her cake with her usual gusto, and didn’t even jump down my throat when I mentioned the evils of social media. She was brooding, in a slumping, sultry way, and she didn’t immediately pick up her phone and text her friends to ‘spill the tea’, as they described gossip. I wanted to ask her why she seemed sad, but equally I was scared of doing so. She had agreed that she would be too busy with schoolwork to start modelling, and it was the right decision. If I opened up the discussion again, doubts might creep in. I knew a little bit about the fashion industry, and what I knew was not good. She was too young to be thrust into that world. I wanted her childhood to continue as it was – a little sheltered, perhaps, but safe and contained – and as much as I sensed there was a tussle inside her right now, I knew she wouldn’t regret the decision long-term.
Arriving at our station, with the short platform and the weeds growing over the metal fence, hearing the wood pigeons and the scuttling of small animals in the hedgerow, was a blessed relief. London’s energy had been wearing.
Our sunshine-yellow car smelt of old crisps and the seats were covered in mud, but I loved it. I was looking forward to getting home and making a cup of tea.
Quiet appreciation spread through me when I saw the bell tower of the little church. I turned right past the primary school and the cricket green and the old oak tree, which was the majestic centrepiece of the village. Moving out of London after Nell was born was the best decision we ever made.
I pulled up into the narrow space outside our terraced house, and inched the nose carefully forward until it was almost kissing the outside wall of the front room. The wellies were upside down on the wooden rack by the front step. The wood was stacked up in the porch. The key nearly snapped off as I pushed it through the stiff bit of the turn. The smells of herbs and spices and washing powder filled my head as the four of us squeezed into the hallway, kicking our shoes off and chattering.
‘We’re back!’ I called out, getting my phone out, feeling guilty that I hadn’t called Mum yet today.
With the phone pressed to my ear, I found Dom on the sofa watching telly with a beer in his hand. I waved and put the kettle on. He waved back, barely taking his eyes off the screen. Whatever he was watching was more interesting than our return. He would probably only half hear the day’s news by zoning in and out of my conversation with Mum. It was better that way, easier for me to play down the modelling thing and make out that David had been some weirdo from an unsuitable agency. I didn’t need him to get excited about it and ruffle Nell.
‘Hi, Mum. Sorry. We’re home now,’ I said into the handset, leaning into the counter. I pictured her alone on the sofa, grateful for my call, with her milky eyes and her strong jaw and her swollen knuckles. ‘How’s it going?’
I exhaled contentedly as I listened.
We were home. Everything was as it should be.
‘What a weird day,’ Bay says, following me upstairs.
‘I know, right?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Dunno,’ I say. ‘Mum doesn’t want me to, so I guess that’s that.’
‘She’s right. You really need to focus on your GCSEs.’
What I need is space, I think.
‘I’m just going to call Jade,’ I say, and I back into my bedroom, closing the door. I know Bay only wants to help, but I need some time to work it all out for myself.
Bay pushes through the door. ‘There was this girl in Year 11 who was a model and she only did jobs that didn’t objectify her. I really admired her for it.’
‘Yeah? Actually, I’ll call Jade later. I’m going to head out on my bike,’ I say, thinking on my feet, retying my ponytail. I hurry downstairs, stick my trainers on and call out to Mum. ‘Mum! I’m going out on my bike to meet Matthew!’
‘See you in a bit!’ Mum calls back.
Outside, I stand up on the pedals, the wheels roll and the wind blows my worries away. My whole body is lighter and faster on the bike. I bunny-hop off the pavement and whizz past the playground, over the green and into the woods. I stop and look around to see if anyone is about, then I text Matthew, hoping he might be able to come down. While I wait for him to get back to me, I clean up the jumps to make sure they are safe for the little ones who ride here, moving sticks and debris, checking the older kids haven’t dug out bigger gaps between the take-off and landing.
Then I plonk myself on the fallen tree trunk and take the crumpled flyer out of my pocket. What am I supposed to do with it now? Stick it into a weird scrapbook about the amazing life I could have had?
I should screw it up again, like Bay did.
It’s obvious Bay has decided that modelling is a bad idea, and maybe she’s right. She probably thinks it’s anti-feminist, or something like that. But I’m a feminist too. I believe women will change the world one day. I like to be positive about our future. Bay can be a bit negative about that stuff. But she is normal most of the time. She didn’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. When I remind myself of what kind of life she had before she came to live with us, I get why she finds it hard to imagine that things will turn out okay if you just believe. The stories she told me about her mother were horrific. I remember wanting to un-hear them when she first told me, and I hugged her super-tightly. It explains why she can be weird and unpredictable sometimes.
To be truthful about today, I wanted to say a big fat Hell, yeah! to David, who had the strangest lips I had ever seen. Maybe he puffed them up with collagen because he’d been bullied when he was little? Everyone has their stories. Mum always says you should never judge a person from the outside, and I try to live by that. Funny, though, on the way back home, Mum said that the models on the flyer looked a bit pouty and big for their boots. I couldn’t believe she was judging them from the outside! And I told her she was a total hypocrite. Iris said to her, ‘You got burned!’ like an American rapper, and Mum laughed, admitting she had been in the wrong and that they were probably lovely girls.
Reading the flyer again, I try to imagine being one of those girls in the teeny-tiny photographs. What would it be like? I get my phone out and go on Instagram to follow Take One Models Official. They have 402K followers! The girls on their feed are stunning and uber cool, kind of sultry and lanky. Compared to them, I’m like a stupid kid. Obvs David is a crackhead. He didn’t notice the massive breakout on my chin or the gap in my teeth.
But Dad is always telling us to follow our dreams, and not make the same mistakes he made (whatever they were). So I get back on my bike, deciding I badly need to get Dad on my side and change Mum’s mind. She’s a big softie underneath it all, just a bit overprotective. I wish she trusted me more, though. My besties Mint and Jade drink vodka and vape and have, like, five secret Insta accounts behind their parents’ backs, and Jade’s even slept with her drip of a boyfriend, while the worst I’ve ever done is have a couple of beers and kiss a few guys. I did go a bit further with Max, almost all the way, but losing my virginity scares me. I am totally not ready, even though I’m fifteen years old, and I guess I should be. I know it sounds cheesy, but I just want to wait for the right guy.
I check my phone. Where is Matthew? He would know what I should do. Knowing Matthew Michaels, he would probably remind me that it is okay to follow your dreams as long as you don’t hurt anyone along the way. I have a big think about Bay. A few bad memories crowd out my pea brain. I push them away. It’s stuff from the past that I really don’t have time for right now.
It’s important to live my own life, right? No regrets. Mum’s mum, Granny Berry, has so many regrets. It’s all she ever talks about. Mum told me she was hospitalised for a nervous breakdown once, years ago, way before I was born, and I get the impression that Mum worries it might happen again some day. It’s a really sad thought.
I imagine being powdery and wrinkled like Granny, in an old people’s home, watching the rain dribbling down the window, saying to the nurse who wipes my bum, ‘I could have been rich and famous when I was young, you know, dear! I could have bought the fastest mountain bikes that ever existed and travelled to Madeira and California and the Alps to ride those radical trails! But I didn’t because my mum and my half-sister were pissy about it.’
Matthew texts me back when I’m almost home.
See you in half an hour? Just closing up for Mum. I’ll bring Fantas.
I could go back to meet him, but I’m too keen to talk to Dad. I stop to reply.
Sorry. Gotta go. Tomorrow? Xxx
The Fantas are warm anyway.
I grin. He’s so anal about the temperature of his drinks.
Lamo xxxx See ya xxxx
I arrive home and find Dad round the back, washing moss out of the flagstones with his jet wash thing – his birthday present last year from Mum. It makes a racket, though it isn’t half as loud as his leaf blower.
‘Dad!’
He looks up and smiles at me with that archy-eyebrow thing he always does. ‘What’s up?’
‘Did Mum tell you what happened in London?’
He points the jet in my direction. Cool rainbows pop up through the spray.
‘Dad! Stop it!’
I sound annoyed, but I kind of love it when Dad’s dumb like this with me.
‘So, we were in the art gallery and—’
He sprays me again.
‘Dad!’
Every time I try to tell him what happened, he sprays me, so I just shout it out.
‘I WAS ASKED TO BE A MODEL!’
He turns off the jet wash and takes off his cap. His hair is mashed into his head, and a clear drip of something wobbles on the end of his nose. Gross. I hope it’s sweat, not bogey.
‘I know. Mum told me.’
‘Ugh! Why didn’t you just say? You’re so annoying.’
I give him the flyer and he reads it, super-slowly. While I wait for his reaction, I bite off too much fingernail. Ouch.
‘Mum di
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