The Look by Sophia Bennett Read Free Book Online Page A

lens, trying not to laugh.
    “You look like a serial killer, T. Smile slightly.”
    “They said not to.”
    “Well, try not to look as if you’ve just been arrested for something disgusting.”
    “Like this?”
    She takes a picture and shows it to me. Not only do I have more than a hint of serial killer about me, I also have an ash tree growing out of my head.
    “I can’t sit in front of the window. How about if I move around? Like this?”
    I now have Snoopy lying on my bird’s nest, thanks to the poster above my bed. I used to have it in my bedroom in Richmond and somehow I can’t bear to replace it with anything more age-appropriate.
    “And you look blurry,” Ava says, examining the pictures more closely. “I don’t think my phone can cope with these light levels. Let me find my proper camera.”
    After a five-minute search in three drawers, two keepsake boxes, and four old handbags, she finds it in the pocket of her winter jacket. I shift around our bedroom, perching on every bit of furniture and trying to look casual. But there doesn’t seem to be a single spot that provides the blank background we need.
    It’s a relief when Mum goes out, so we can try other places in the flat. We try to keep our voices down, though, because Dad’s still busy in their bedroom, working on the latest draft of his Civil War novel. It’s called Leather and Lace , and Dad reads bits of it to us occasionally. I’m not sure he’s the next Stephenie Meyer, plus Ava says that the title sounds like a 1970s porno, but hopefully someone will like it.
    “How about if you balance on the back of the sofa?” Ava asks. “We can take down that seaside print. Then you’ve just got white space. Well, green space, anyway.”
    She takes a picture. I now have a dark gray shadow beside my jawline and blinding white light from the camera flash bouncing off my cheek. Alternatively, when I stand with my back to the kitchen door, its avocado paintwork makes me look vaguely purple. How does anyone who doesn’t live in a palace ever manage to look good?
    Ava scowls at the pictures, then at me. “They’ve already seen you. Why don’t you just call them?”
    Oh, dear. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask this. The simple reason is that I have some pride. I don’t want to be told over the phone that Simon was having an off day when he found me, or that they have no idea who I am after all, and will I please stop bothering them? I’d much rather hear it by e-mail.
    “Because they say to use the form,” I tell her tetchily.
    Dad comes out of the bedroom, en route to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
    “What are you up to, girls? I keep hearing a lot of giggling. Are you all right, Ted? You look a bit odd. And are you wearing your pajamas?”
    It’s that avocado background. And my stupid outfit.
    This is ridiculous. I totally give up.
    “We’re not up to anything,” I snap. “Shall I just make the tea?”
    “Would you, love?”
    Ava looks disappointed. It was a nice idea. We tried. But my supermodel days (or, to be strictly accurate, forty-five deeply frustrating minutes) are most definitely over.

F or the next week, the sun gets hotter by the day. At school, the grassy knoll fills up with people sunbathing between exams. At home, the leaves have turned pale on the ash tree and it looks almost as pretty as the trees in Richmond. When she’s not working, Mum has her head buried in recipe books for nutritious summer salads using red fruits and green leaves. Apparently the dark colors are full of antioxidants and they’ll help Ava get better — along with the vat-loads of chemicals they’re about to start injecting into her. Personally, I don’t see how a few raspberries are going to compete with chemotherapy, but Mum’s prepared to give anything a try. This seems to be her way of coping.
    Dad’s way is researching Hodgkin’s disease on the internet, in between manic bouts of writing and trying to get his watch fixed. Mine is