AUDREY

‘ S O ?’ I MOGENE PROMPTS .

‘I don’t even know what to say,’ Marika tells her, voice wavering. ‘This is incredible.’

God, she’s good. If she ever gets bored of modelling then she could definitely be an actor.

‘It’s amazing,’ I say sincerely. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

‘Well, you won’t be waiting long!’ Imogene beams. ‘All the creative legwork has been done. Telling you two was more or less the last step.’

Turns out that the emergency meeting was almost worth having to abandon the nicest morning I’ve had in ages. Lila was right. The Miranda Browning campaign is happening. Marika and I are featuring in it. It’s all real.

‘Do we know who the photographer will be?’ Marika asks.

‘Yes, and it’s a great choice – Julian Mars. He’s an up-and-comer so you may not have heard the name.’

‘I know him,’ Marika says. ‘He was shooting backstage at Miranda’s show.’

I blink at her, surprised. If she’s talking about the messy-haired guy who was taking pictures of us then he’s pretty young to be helming such a huge campaign. He didn’t look that much older than us – mid-twenties, maybe?

‘That’s him!’ Imogene enthuses. ‘What Julian does … it’s super-organic. Vibrant, but gritty.’

‘Sounds cool.’ I smile.

‘Very.’ She beams back. ‘This campaign marks a step in a newer, younger direction. And he wants to shoot the two of you beforehand.’

‘Together?’

‘Individually. To get a sense of how you work independent of each other.’

‘But it’s not a casting, right?’ Marika interjects.

‘No.’ Imogene laughs. ‘You’ve booked the job, but there is one more thing.’

Imogene looks to me, then, leaning forward.

‘Audrey – they love your look almost as much as I do. The brows, the freckles – it’s so fresh. The only slight issue is your hair.’

I force a smile, bracing myself. I’ve seen enough reruns of America’s Next Top Model to know what’s coming next.

‘The brown is gorgeous, obviously, but they want to amplify the contrast between your hair and Marika’s,’ she continues. ‘So – totally your choice, of course, but how would you feel about going blonde?’

Blonde. I falter, trying and failing to imagine what that would look like.

‘I know, it’s a big change,’ Imogene says gently. ‘You can take the day to think about it.’

Thinking about it won’t change the outcome, though. I know she said it’s my choice, but there’s no way that I can say no. I would risk losing a life-changing opportunity and being labelled ‘difficult’ in one fell swoop. My career would be over before it’s even begun.

‘Blonde sounds great,’ I manage. ‘I’m totally down for that.’

I can always dye it back, I reason. Besides, maybe it’ll be a whole new era for me – my own personal bleachella.

‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ Imogene smiles, already reaching for her phone. ‘I’ll make the appointment now.’

Marika and I leave not long afterwards. We’re silent in the elevator down to the lobby – the AVW offices are on the tenth floor of this beautiful, white-brick monolith, which is maybe part of why meetings there always feel so intense.

‘See you later, then,’ she says, slipping on her sunglasses the second that we’re outside.

‘Oh. You’re not coming back to the apartment?’

‘I have plans,’ she replies, already striding away.

I head off in the opposite direction, mentally kicking myself. All in all, the meeting only took twenty minutes. Maybe Ezra would have waited for me, if I’d asked. I check my phone on the off-chance that he’s messaged – he hasn’t, but there’s one from my mum. Ah. Given the drama of these past few days, it‘s been easy to ignore the fact that she’s long overdue a phone call. I just – I find it kind of hard to talk to her at the moment. Aside from all the questions that I don’t know how to answer, it has a tendency to make me feel like total shit.

I wait until I’m on a quieter street to dial her number, lingering under the shade of a tree. It rings three times, then—

‘Hi, Dree!’ Mum exclaims, and tears spring to my eyes without warning. I can picture her so clearly – she’s probably leaning against the kitchen counter right now, overall-clad, a cup of tea in hand. The tea is awful here. I’d tell her as much if I didn’t think she’d use it as yet another justification as to why I should fly home immediately.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I manage. ‘How are you?’

‘We’re great! Let me put you on speakerphone and get your dad.’

I glance upwards, blinking hard. There’s a brief, muffled exchange, before –

‘Hi, Bean!’

‘Hi, Dad!’ I say brightly, hoping he won’t notice the quiver in my voice. ‘How’s the house going?’

‘Well, the bathrooms are a nightmare. The damp is out of control – I’ve had to tear down half of the walls, and the pipes —’

‘She doesn’t want to hear you talk about plumbing!’ Mum cuts in. ‘When are you coming home, Dree?’

‘That’s actually why I’m calling – it’ll be later than we thought. I booked a job. A big one, so – yeah. Exciting.’

‘Oh,’ she says. That’s it – oh . That’s all I get.

‘What kind of job?’ Dad interjects. ‘I mean – it’s to do with clothes, I assume?’

‘It’s an advertisement campaign. For Miranda Browning.’

‘Ah. And she … makes clothes?’

‘Uh-huh. It’s a big brand. You might see me in a magazine.’

‘Wow.’ He laughs. ‘That’s great, Bean. You’ll let us know when that happens, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

A beat of silence follows. I’m all too aware that Mum is yet to elaborate on ‘oh’, so – ‘The shoot is going to be soon. I’m dyeing my hair for it.’

‘Your hair?’ Mum says abruptly. ‘Your hair is lovely the way it is.’

There we go.

‘It’ll look good. They know what they’re doing.’

‘Who’s they? Leanne?’

‘Imogene. But I’m sure Leanne knows—’

‘Don’t let them push you around, Audrey. It’s your hair and you get to decide what to do with it. No one else.’

‘I’m not,’ I say hotly. ‘I want to do this.’

‘How’s the apartment?’ Dad asks suddenly. ‘Have you made friends with the other girls?’

‘Yeah. They’re all really nice. So’s Imogene. You don’t have to worry about me.’

‘Of course we do,’ he says. ‘That’s our job.’

I can hear the smile in his voice and suddenly I can see him as clearly as I can Mum, paint-flecked and rumpled, shoulders stooped as he hunches over the phone, a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

‘I know,’ I say hoarsely, fighting a lump in my throat. ‘I’m sorry I’m bad at calling.’

‘We know that you’re busy. A text will do, Bean. Whenever you can, okay? It doesn’t matter what time.’

‘And you are looking after yourself, aren’t you?’ Mum adds, voice strained. ‘You’re being smart?’

‘… Yeah,’ I say, not sure what she means by that last part. ‘I’m good.’

‘Good. We love you, Dree,’ she says quietly.

‘Love you too,’ I blurt, and quickly end the call just as a tear spills down my cheek. I exhale, roughly wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. Coming to New York by myself was by far the most adult thing I’ve ever done. Weird, then, that I’ve never felt like more of a kid.

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