A Model Life (2)
“No, I really was paying attention.” I said, as earnestly as I could. “Liar.” he teased. I pick up my wine glass non-chalantly and sip at it. As I do, I feel his hand resting on my thigh . . . then slowly going up it . . . I push it away in disgust. “So, Janet, how’s uni?” Mr. Hancock asks me. “Oh, uni’s great, thanks.” I say, polite but almost clipped. “Things really must be taking shape now. How long is it before you’re finished?” hew asked. I wince at the last word. Three hours later, Darren’s fucking me in the guest bedroom. He managed to sneak out of his old bedroom and now was humping for Britain. I suppose, I shouldn’t be so hard on him, after all, I’m the evil cow . . . but he doesn’t know that – not yet, anyway. Afterwards, when he’s done and I’ve been to the bathroom cause he came in my face. Ugh! Gross! I cuddle up next to him, letting him fold arms around me. In a way, this bit’s better than the sex. It’s comforting. When I’m here, I know I’m safe and nothing can hurt me. I reach up and kiss him gently on the mouth, but he doesn’t respond . . . he’s already fast asleep. That was the night I decided to break up with Darren. Chapter Four: My Mother When I was a girl, I ran away from home. Well, I didn’t really run away, I ran over to my best friend’s house after school and hid there. When she’d arrived to pick me up, no one knew where I was. As a result, she called up the police screaming that her child had been kidnapped. My mum’s always been like that – she overreacts, she loves me to the point of suffocating me. There was a time when I enjoyed this over-nurturing on her part, but then, I’m not six anymore. My mother used to be really glamorous. The council house and the estate was new then – and she was even house-proud. She used to have an angular black bob and wear red lipstick all the time. She had also got a new job and a promotion. Then she got pregnant again and just decided it was too much work. She never got another job Soon after that, she decided to get a new, more fun-looking hairdo. She opted for a bleached blonde ‘Bananarama’ feather cut. I have to admit, she looked good –very good. But slowly, the make-up got less and less, she broke the movie star sunglasses and never replaced them, her figure got larger, and her clothes got frumpier. All that was left of my glamorous mum was her once fashionable hair – which was now badly maintained by bottled bleach and the occasional mobile hairdresser. You can’t help feeling sorry for my mum, but she brought it onto herself. So you have two children in quick succession – it’s no excuse for giving up a successful job, your social life and reverting yourself to a virtual recluse . . . “Mum, please, you are not an old pensioner. You are a forty-eight year old woman with a working car. You do not need me to follow you on every shopping trip you make!” “Don’t shout at me, Janet. It’s just nice to have some company whilst shopping – that’s all.” “Well . . . can’t you take someone else with you? It’s just that I have tons of work to do and the deadline’s tomorrow . . .” My mother made an irritated sigh. “Janet, you always have some deadline you’re rushing for. If you just organised yourself at bit . . .” “Mum, shut up! I’m not living under your roof anymore! I don’t have to listen to this . . .” “WELL, I’M STILL YOUR MOTHER – AND YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE TALKING TO ME LIKE THAT, YOUNG LADY!” There was a moment of silence as we both held our breath’s in. I was always blowing up at my mum. I couldn’t help it. She was always giving me advice, good advice I couldn’t stand to hear because it pointed out how right she was and how very wrong I was. I hated her for it. Then I thought of her sitting at home alone – my dad out at the pub, playing pool and my brother Michael, away at Uni., ignoring her pleafull insistent calls . . . “Mum . . .?” “Yes, Janet?” she asked. “I’ll come out shopping with you . . .” “Thank you, Janet,” she said gratefully. I felt another pang of guilt come over me. When my mum came round, she stood in the door of my apartment, looking around. It suddenly occurred to me this was the first time she’d seen the apartment. The fact that she’d asked how to get here on the phone had completely washed over me and I had mechanically given her instructions – the consideration not even entering my mind. What an insensitive bitch I was. “What do you think?” I asked her. Making an effort to sound as nice as possible. She gave me a bright smile. “It’s very nice, dear . . . it might look better with a lick of paint . . .” “Yes, it’s not exactly stunning, is it?” I said, suddenly deflated. The realisation that I was living in a pathetic hovel of a place hitting home once more. “Nonsense,” my mum said, brightly, “It just needs a good coat of paint and some soft furnishings. In fact, we’ll get some on our little trip.” “Oh, mum, I couldn’t – it’ll be too expensi . . .” “Don’t be silly! I’ll pay for them – it’s the least I could do! A pair of tab top curtains, a couple of cushions and throws – wouldn’t cost much at all. Besides, I’ve got a few leftover cans of pale pink paint at home.” I looked at my mum incredulously. “Mum, what leftover paint? What have you been doing?” My mum looked at me sadly. “Janet, don’t you ever read the letters I write to you?” A lot had happened since I’d moved out three years ago. If I’d bother answering a few more calls, I’d have discovered my mum was re-decorating. In fact, this was the first time I’d answered my mum’s call in months - every time I looked down and saw her name pop up on my mobile, I’d cruelly ignore it. I also had armfuls of her letters, confined to the drawer as soon as I recognised her neat, print handwriting. It is so indistinguishable; it looks like every other person’s handwriting – small and neat, devoid of any personality. Anyhow, I never bothered opening them since all her letters were pierced with the same nagging, worried tone. Looking at her now, she suddenly seemed a different person from those letters. It never occurred to me that my mum could change – it never occurs to anyone that their mum could change. We are at the market; my mum is blatantly haggling with the lady at the curtain stall when I notice something. “Mum . . .” “Not now, dear.” She says, turning back to the hostile looking lady in a puffa jacket behind the stall. “I’m sorry, this is not worth the price you’ve set and you know it! It’s £40 off each or nothing!” my mum half- shouted in her scary evil witch voice. Even the fat lady behind the stall faltered. She gave a doubtful nod and my mum swiftly picked up the bag of curtains, pushing some notes into the lady’s hand. I think perhaps this is where I get my assertive nastiness. My mum had just cruelly haggled two pairs of beautiful beige and cream lined curtains down to a mere £20 each. “Now, what were you saying, dear?” my mum asked – back in nice mode. I looked at her puzzled, I’d completely forgotten about my little interruption. “Oh! Yes! I was just going to say how different your hair looks now.” My mum smiled, touching her now, more modern highlighted bob. “I was waiting for you to notice.” she said. Unnerved that I was now walking with a person that seemed more and more like a stranger to me as the trip went on, I advised she stopped for a coffee while I nipped into TopShop for a pair of trousers I had been eyeing the past week. To my horror, she insisted coming with me. “It’s a bit busy for me,” by ‘busy’ she means the store, “but there are the odd nice items here and there,” she said mater-of-factly. “Mum! Look at you! This is not my mother! My mother does not got to TopShop!” I shouted. Some people on the street had stopped to look at me – the wracked up daughter with a mother who increasingly seemed like she was undergoing a mid-life crisis. My mother looked at me coldly. I suddenly felt uneasy – this was a look reserved for market vendors, Aunt Hilda and double glazing salesmen. This was a look that had never been directed at me. “Darling, when you have a son and daughter who never answer your calls or letters, you do the only thing you can do – you GET A LIFE,” I walk into TopShop, disturbed and irritated. Little wonder that I don’t notice a man standing at the entrance, staring at me. I don’t even blink when he crosses the path of five people, making a beeline for me with a card in his outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Alex from Image Modelling agency. Have you ever considered becoming a model?” Chapter Five: Bright Young Things When I told Darren the news, he was ecstatic, he was whopping for joy and lifting me up as though this was his one big ambition in life – for his girlfriend to become a model. “Wait till I tell the guys I’ve got a model as a girlfriend,” he said, in a stupid voice that tends to come with thick, muscle-bound jocks. He was also grinning from ear to ear. I was getting extremely irritated with that grin. I hadn’t had the heart to break up with Darren . . . yet. When I came down that morning after our little session, he was sitting at the table with his parents with the same annoying smile plastered to his face. I knew something was up the minute I saw it . . . that and Betty’s disconcertingly eager eyes. And then I noticed something . . . there was a ring box placed on top of my plate. Like something out of a very bad dream, Darren’s parents exchanged the most cliché and sickeningly sweet glances as they slipped out the room while Darren proceeded to fall onto his knees. I was horrified, but I couldn’t let him catch on. With unprecedented niceness, I smiled and said ‘yes’. I still shudder thinking about it. Speaking of which, I still had my ring in my pocket . . . Unfortunately, Darren noticed it the same time I did. A look of mild surprise came upon his face. I quickly took it out and slipped it back on. “I . . . I took it off while washing up – didn’t want to get it dirty,” I said, with uncharacteristic nervousness. He looked at me uncertainly. It was half-true – I had just finished the washing up. “Anyhow . . .” I said, changing the subject, “I’m not a model yet. It’s only a casting. There’s no guarantee I’ll win this contract.” “But you will! Look at you, you’re gorgeous!” Darren beamed. “Yes . . . but . . . I don’t think I’ll make a very good model,” I said, self-consciously, “I have fleshy arms” I was touching them as I spoke, making sure they were still there. Darren looked at me with disbelief. “Janet, you’re the skinniest girl I know. You’re a frightening size eight and you’re . . . four and a half inches taller than I am.” I noticed he hesitated when he mentioned my height. As a rule, he didn’t like girls taller than he was. “I still have fleshy arms.” I said, matter-of-factly. “Janet, your arms look like pencils. There are starving children in Africa with thinner arms than you!” he said playfully, that silly smile still lingering on his face. I stared at him, unsure whether to take this as a compliment or not. However, my irritation had mounted to a point where I just couldn’t laugh with him, so I did the only thing I could: I took it personally. “Thanks for that,” I said sarcastically. The smile disappeared from his face and he just stared at me, hurt and confused. Our relationship had just gone down another level – and I wondered why he ever bothered asking me to marry him in the first place. * * * * * Michael was driving me to the casting. Darren had offered but I said , ‘No’. Things were bad enough between us as it was. A nervous car ride would have me voicing each and every one of my insecurities to him. At which point, he’d dismiss them and I’d dismiss his remarks by turning into scathing, evil Janet – as already seen. Not a good idea . . . “God, did you notice mom’s hair? What a difference!” Michael said. “Yes, it is quite . . . different, isn’t it?” I said, hesitantly, “when did she have it done?” “I don’t know. All I know was, she came to my dorm last week and I just did not recognise her! It was like looking at a stranger!” he said. “I know exactly what you mean,” I said. Feeling guilty that I hadn’t noticed it as quickly as Michael had. I was a bad daughter. “So, who’s this new boyfriend mom told me about?” he asked. “Oh no, you haven’t met him have you?” I said absently. “I haven’t had a chance to!” he laughed, “We’re not exactly the closest family unit. When was the last time you or I saw each other? Four? Five months?” “About that,” I said, sadly. It made me feel unhappy sometimes, thinking about how selfish we both were. Mom, gave us both plenty of love, tons in fact. So what happened? How did we end up becoming such self-centred bastards? “Must’ve been dad,” I thought to myself. “So your boyfriend, does he have a name?” Michael asked. “Darren Hancock. He’s a Final Year Business student at my uni,” I said. Was it my imagination, or did Michael flinch when he heard that? “Do you know him?” I asked. “No, not personally. He’s quite a big fish isn’t he?” he said, the last note sounding almost resentful. I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride. Whatever my brother was thinking, I didn’t want to know. The casting was still nagging at the back of my mind. Just trying to maintain a conversation on another topic made my head hurt. * * * * * The casting was a roomful of girls sitting in an area that looked like a dentist’s waiting room. They all looked the same. They all looked like they vomited into the toilet three times a day. I was green with envy. Not so impressive though was the sad fact that almost every girl was clutching some sort of designer lookalike handbag and wearing a boring jeans jacket. They all sat there – these spidery looking schoolgirls with slick and not so slick ponytails, hunched over their trashy romance novels and filing their nails. If they weren’t so pretty, people would be looking at them like poor white trash. Some were bored out of their brains – and making it very clear to everyone that they really wished they didn’t have to be there. Most were slumped in their seats with a half- dead expression stuck on their faces. The more restless ones couldn’t stop fidgeting. A few were nodding in unison, falsely emphasising with each other – their complaints coming swift in a chatty unconcerned manner. It was hard to believe that these girls possessed any grace in them – let alone the possibility of them walking well. “I hope I’m not like that,” I thought to myself. As I waited, and each girl entered the office and left, I noticed the smart girls didn’t do their runway walk in front of the others. The few who left the office still in catwalk mode, generated a cheerful disbelief the other girls as if to say: “Who the fuck is she?” I have never seen a species of girl behave in two such contradicting manners at the same time – not so obviously, anyhow. It suddenly occurred to me that if I got the job, I’d have to work with these creatures. I was expecting a bunch of bitchy girls, that I could cope with – but they were not as two-dimensional as that. Their multiplicity scared me. This was not what I wanted to become – a beautiful but horribly ungenuine trophy. And then my turn came. All eyes were on me as I stood up and entered the office . . . * * * * * Nothing much happened to be honest. The interview itself was a bit of an anti-climax compared to the waiting room. I entered a modern and clean but other messy office with one very ordinary-looking but confident woman at the desk. We exchanged a few pleasantries, she asked me what I did, my hobbies, etc., etc. I stood up and walked the length of the office three times for her to which she produced a patronising smile, acknowledging I was a first-timer (that part irritated me, but I didn’t let it show). She took some polariods of me against a white wall. Glanced approvingly at them then smiled her first warm, genuine smile throughout the interview. “Congratulations Janet, welcome to our group of bright young things. Here’s some forms for you to fill out and your timetable for the next two weeks.” I smiled, at her mention of ‘bright young things’. Young and beautiful they may have been, but I wouldn’t quite associate the word ‘bright’ with them . . . Coming up: Chapter Five: Janet, the bimbo?
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