The Look by Sophia Bennett

about to go on stage at a nightclub.
    “It will be different in front of the camera,” Julia laughs. “It’s shocking how the lights bleach you. Although Seb said he might work with natural light today, so I’m really underplaying it.”
    If this is underplaying it — goodness.
    Julia takes Mireille’s hair out of the curlers and brushes it. The beautiful girl checks out her gorgeous face in the mirror, gives a nod of satisfaction, and thanks Julia, before heading downstairs to be photographed. Meanwhile, I take her place. Julia herself, I notice, isn’t wearing a scrap of makeup, apartfrom the backs of her hands, which are covered in test swipes of foundation, blusher, and blue eye shadow, and remind me a bit of Ava’s hands at the moment, color-wise. They’re still bruised from all the needles she’s had poked into them to take endless blood samples. She doesn’t talk much about what happens at the hospital, but I know it’s tough, and I can understand that she’d rather be here, asleep, than at home, thinking about it. Frankly, right now, I’m glad she made me come, even if Julia can never make me look like Mireille.
    For what seems like several hours, but must be about thirty minutes, Julia applies various creams and powders to my face from among a vast array she’s laid out on the shelf beside us. Once I get used to a stranger touching my face, it’s actually very relaxing. I can’t see what she’s doing, because I’m facing her, not the mirror. I just have to trust that it’s OK. She also fiddles about with my hair, doing the best she can and only sighing occasionally. Her one comment is that my caterpillar unibrow is going to have to go sometime soon, but coming from the sister of a modern-day Yeti, I’m surprised she even noticed.
    “There!” she says when she’s finished. “Better.”
    I check the mirror at last. Please God, let me have turned into Linda Evangelista, whoever she is.
    Hard to tell. Does Linda Evangelista look like a moonfaced geisha? That’s my first thought, when I see my BIG eyes, pale skin, and bright lips. But as I get used to it, I realize that I’m still underneath there somewhere. I’m about one percent as pretty as Mireille, but a hundred percent more model-like than I was before Julia started. Even my hair looks like a nest made by a tidy bird who was quite proud of it. I feel like an actress, dressedup for a part, or like I did when I put on my gi in judo, ready for a grading. The makeup makes it easier, somehow — like a barrier between me and that enormous Nikon camera downstairs. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
    Julia follows me down to watch Mireille pose for Seb. I was worried they might have finished by now, and I wouldn’t get a chance to see how to do it, but it seems they’ve hardly started. Taking a few photos is a lot more time-consuming than I gave it credit for.
    I quickly check on Ava, who’s still fast asleep on her sofa in the kitchen area and doesn’t stir when I call. She is technically in charge of me and I’m sure she’d love to see what’s going on, but she looks so peaceful where she is that I decide not to disturb her. I’ll tell her all about it later. Then I go back to stand near Julia and see what I can learn from Miss Perfect.
    Meanwhile, Seb has placed an old, battered wooden chair in front of the peeling paintwork and Mireille’s sitting on it backward, with her chest leaning against the back of the chair and her legs either side of it. She constantly moves her head so he can capture her face from various angles. The air is full of pumping drum ’n’ bass, coming from a speaker attached to Seb’s laptop. I’d be dancing along to it, but Mireille is ignoring it entirely, focusing very much on giving Seb her smile and making sure her coils of hair are hanging perfectly around her face. Every now and again, Seb says, “Uh, can you … uh …?” and wiggles his hand until Mireille shifts position and gives him the