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‘I’m still at school,’ stutters Gemma.
A confusing little look – what looks for a moment like a micro-gloat – passes across Julia’s face, and then she smiles more broadly.
‘That’s fine,’ she says. ‘Lots of our girls start when they’re still at school. It takes a while to get trained up.’
‘I – I’ll have to ask my mum,’ says Gemma.
As if. She hasn’t spoken to her mum in three days. Not since she took her iPhone away. She’s not telling her shit.
I’ll be able to buy my own bloody iPhone if I’m a model, she thinks. And my own clothes. Nobody will be able to tell me what to do if I have my own money.
‘Of course. Of course. Look, let me give you my card … ’ The woman fishes in her pocket, brings out a smart little silver card case and opens it. Gemma stares at her shapely French manicure and the rings on her fingers. ‘And you can talk to your mum and give me a call, yes?’
Gemma takes the card and glances at it, trying to look casual. Beech Models, it says across the top in bold black letters, then Julia Beech, partner, and a phone number.
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to people like me, she thinks.
Julia smiles again. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Look me up on the internet. I’m kosher. You’ll see photos.’
‘Okay,’ says Gemma. She gets her phone back in two days. She can look her up then.
‘Anyway, I’ll let you get on with your day,’ says Julia Beech. ‘I just couldn’t walk away without at least trying. You’ve got a special look. I really think you could be special.’
Gemma glows. Being special isn’t something that happens to her much. Take that, Naz Khan, she thinks. Swanning about, batting the eyelashes your parents pay for every month. Nobody’s approached you to be a model.
‘If you get through to someone else, tell them I gave you my card.’
Julia turns abruptly on her spike heel and starts to walk away towards Piccadilly. Gemma stays rooted to the pavement, looking down and up between card and retreating back. Julia looks back just once.
‘And enjoy that MAC palette,’ she says, and winks. ‘Hopefully you’ll be able to buy one soon.’
She walks away.
Well, thinks Gemma, that’s a Thing.
She puts the card into the pocket of her denim jacket and heads back to Oxford Street. The new season stuff is in in Zara, and she hopes it’ll be crowded enough that something for Saturday night could make its way into her bag without anybody noticing.
