Girls Under Pressure Read online

  “Dream on,” I say sourly.

  What if Nadine does make it as a model? She looks so different now. I stare at her and it suddenly all seems real. She looks just like all the models in Spicy magazine. She’ll win this heat. She’ll go through to the final. She’ll get to be the Spicy cover girl. She’ll be photographed with a pretty little pout for all the magazines, she’ll prance up and down the catwalks, she’ll jet across the world on special fashion shoots . . . and I’ll stay put, still at school, Nadine’s sad fat friend.

  I feel as if this title is tattooed to my forehead as I go up to London with Nadine. I have to go with her because she is my friend. I’ve put almost as much thought into my appearance as Nadine has into hers. I’ve left my hair an untamed tangle, my face is belligerently bare, I’m wearing a huge checked shirt and black trousers and boots, and I’m carrying my sketchbook to try to show every single person at the Spicy place that I don’t want to be a model, I couldn’t care less about my appearance, I’m serious-minded, I’m creative . . . OK, OK, I’m talking crap, I know. And they know when we get to the special studio Spicy magazine has taken over for the day.

  It is crowded out with a galaxy of gorgeous girls, thin as pins.

  “Oh, God, look at them,” Nadine says. She shivers. “They all look like real fashion models already.”

  “Well, so do you,” I say.

  “Oh, Ellie,” says Nadine, and she squeezes my hand.

  She’s clammy-cold, clinging tight like we’re little kids in Primary One on our first day at school.

  “I wonder what we’re going to have to do?” she says. “If I have to stand up in front of all these girls I’m going to die. They all look so cool, as if they do this kind of thing every day.”

  They do, too. They’re all standing around in little groups, some chatting, some smiling, some staring, looking everyone up and down, looking at Nadine, looking at me, raising their perfectly plucked eyebrows as if to say: Dear God, what is that squat ugly fat girl doing here?

  I try to stare back. My face is burning.

  “I’m desperate for a wee, Ellie. Where’s the ladies’?” Nadine asks.

  It’s even worse inside the crowded ladies’ room. Girls crowd the mirror, applying glimmer eyeshadow and sparkle blusher and lip gloss so that their perfect oval faces are positively luminous in the fluorescent lighting. They tease their hair and hitch up their tiny jeans and smooth their weeny T-shirts with long manicured nails.

  “Help, look at my nails,” Nadine wails. She clenches her fists to hide her little bitten stubs. “Oh, God, this is a waste of time, Ellie. Why did I ever open my big mouth to everyone at school? I don’t stand a chance. I must be mad.”

  “Well, we don’t have to stay. We can just push off home again.”

  Nadine looks at me like I’m mad. “I can’t give up now!”

  “OK. Well. The very best of luck, Naddie,” I say, and I give her a quick hug.

  “I’m so scared,” she whispers in my ear, hugging me back.

  But she’s fine when it comes to the crunch. All us friends and relatives are told to sit at the back, minding the coats and bags, knowing our place in the dark. All the model-girl contenders are invited to come forward into the spotlit area. A bright bossy woman in black tells everyone what to do. She says she thinks everyone looks great and that they could all be a super Spicy cover girl. She wishes everyone luck. Then she gets them to do these funny warm-up exercises. Some of the girls blush and bump into each other first, losing their cool—but others leap into action, teeth gleaming, determined to show themselves off to their best advantage.

  I’d planned to make sketches but instead I just gawp. Enviously. I stare at their long lithe limbs and their beautiful willowy bodies until my eyes water.

  Now the bossy lady shows them how to walk like a model. They all have to prance forward, hips swinging, heads held high. Nadine catches my eye and goes a bit giggly, but then she puts her chin up and strides out, her lips parted in a perfect little smile. I put my thumbs up, trying to spur her on. She’s doing well. Maybe she’s not quite as swishy and sophisticated as some of the others but perhaps that’s good. They want someone with potential, not someone already polished. Nadine looks fresh and sweet. The bossy lady is looking in her direction.

  Now it’s standing still and posing time. They take group shots of all the girls smiling at the camera, then looking up, sideways on, head tilted. They keep calling out to the girls. Look sassy, look sad, look happy—call that happy, come on, it’s happy-happy-happy time. My own mouth puckers in a silly little grin as all the girls bare their teeth. Some of the friends and relations really let rip. One terrible mum keeps shouting, “Go for it, Hayley! Big smile now. Look like you’re enjoying it. You look a million dollars, darling!”

  It’s easy working out which one is Hayley. She’s the girl who’s purple with embarrassment, looking like she wants to kill her mother.

  There’s a coffee break and then suddenly it’s the real thing. The girls are called out one by one in alphabetical order. They are videoed as they walk right round in a big circle and then stand in the spotlight in the center and pose while a stills photographer flashes away. Then each girl has to go to the mike and say who she is and add a sentence or two about herself.

  Hayley’s surname is Acton, so she gets to go first. She makes a muck-up of it, tripping over her own feet as she walks in a circle, blinking like a trapped rabbit while she’s photographed. She stammers her name into the mike and then there’s a long silence while everyone closes their eyes and prays. Eventually she whispers, “I don’t know what to say.”

  My shirt is sticking to me with embarrassment. The poor girl. Oh, God, I’m not going to be able to stand it if Nadine makes a fool of herself too. Hayley’s mother can’t stand it either. She’s rushed up to the bossy woman, insisting that it’s not fair her Hayley had to go first, she didn’t know what she was doing, all the others would have someone to copy (though who would wish to copy poor Hayley?). The bossy woman is kind and says Hayley can wait if she wants and have one more go right at the end. Hayley’s mother is thrilled. Hayley isn’t. She’s walking right out of the studio.

  “Hayley! Hayley, come back! Don’t go, sweetheart! You can have another go, darling,” Mum yells, rushing after her.

  I am glad I’m not Hayley, even though she’s much thinner than me. The girl who gets to go next is almost as nervous, practically running round the circle. She forgets about posing for her photos and is in the middle of announcing herself when the photographer starts flashing so she stops and blinks and gawps. This is awful, total public torture. I’m starting to feel almost sorry for them.

  Almost. The next girl is blond and tall, very pretty, very skinny. She doesn’t lose it like the other two. She walks proudly all around, swinging her tiny hips, and then she stands and smiles, head back a little, eyes shining, turning this way and that as the photographer clicks. She says softly and sexily into the mike, “Hi, I’m Annabel. I’m fifteen and I like acting and singing and skiing—and reading Spicy magazine.” She smiles cheekily and then saunters off. Little Ms. Perfect.

  I catch Nadine’s eye from across the room and mime being sick. I feel sick when it’s Nadine’s turn. My own legs wobble as she strides out. My own mouth aches as she smiles bravely.

  Nadine walks in a perfect circle, slowly, gracefully, with a little bouncy twirl as she steps into the spotlight. She smiles at the guy with the camera and he waves his fingers at her. She poses brilliantly, turning this way and that. All those hours staring at herself in her bedroom mirror have paid off at last. She seems entirely at her ease. She doesn’t blink when the camera flashes right in her face. She smiles at the lens. Then she reaches for the mike.

  “Hello, I’m Nadine,” she says. “I’m nearly fourteen. It feels weird to be standing here looking so girly. I usually have a white face and black clothes. My best friend, Ellie, calls me a vampire. But it’s OK, I actually feel faint at the sight of blood.” S