As Good As It Gets?. Fiona Gibson

chuckle. ‘I’m sure they’d snap you up.’

      ‘Seriously, d’you think this place is okay? I mean, is it a proper, bona fide company?’

      ‘Yes, don’t worry – I’ve checked.’ In fact, Rosie isn’t the only one who’s been conducting a little research about the modelling business. I’ve learnt from late-night Googling sessions that Face is a highly-respected establishment, and not one of those rogue agencies where they’ll say, ‘Of course you can be a model at four-foot-eleven, height doesn’t matter at all’ – then politely ask for £950 to ‘cover costs’ and ping you back out, cackling at your gullibility, with no more hope of becoming a model than being asked to take over the helm of the BBC. I’ve also discovered that Face represents many ‘top girls’, and that a gap between the front teeth is very ‘now’, along with fierce eyebrows and cheekbones like knives. It’s all very mysterious – the idea that certain types of facial features fall in and out of fashion, like clothes – and, although I’m reluctant to admit it, it’s quite fascinating in a perverse sort of way. I’ve found myself reading about famous models and their ‘industry’ (a word I’d formerly associated with car manufacturing plants, belching fumes), and tried to figure out how Rosie might fit into all of that, and how it might affect our family. Admittedly, I’m nervous. Everything feels a little precarious as it is.

      ‘Look,’ I whisper. ‘D’you think she’s a new girl too?’

      We both watch as a tall, teenage girl with a froth of blonde curls wanders into the main office with her mum (not both parents, I note). ‘Yeah, poor thing looks terrified,’ Will notes. ‘You have to ask yourself if it’s good for girls of that age to be judged on their looks. I mean, they’re self-conscious enough as it is. Then they’re thrown into this world where they’re going to be scrutinised every single day …’

      I bite my lip. ‘I know, but we’re here now, aren’t we? And remember, the whole thing’s completely in our control. If we don’t feel it’s right for Rosie …’

      ‘I guess you’re right,’ he says as a pixie-haired Asian woman flicks through the snapshots the girl has brought with her. There’s a brief chat, inaudible to us in our little glass cube, and the woman pulls a sorry, not quite right for us sort of face. The girl tries to look brave but seems visibly deflated as she turns to leave, like some of the air has been let out of her. Even her curls seem to have lost their bounce.

      ‘Rosie’s been ages,’ I murmur.

      ‘I know. D’you think she’s having another meltdown?’

      ‘God, I hope not …’ I glance through the window where a bunch of the staff have gathered on the pavement. They are all puffing urgently on their cigarettes, as if told that they have precisely ten seconds to finish them.

      ‘Here we are!’ Laurie trills, striding towards us with Rosie at her side. My daughter, face as shiny as a polished apple, smiles meekly. ‘I’m just going to introduce her to the team,’ she adds. ‘Are you okay waiting here, Mum and Dad?’

      I feel myself ageing rapidly. ‘Er, yes, of course.’

      We wait as Rosie is whisked around the table, then Laurie beckons us to join them. I am aware of the staff taking more interest in us now: Will in his smartest jeans – would these agency people describe them as Dad-jeans, I wonder? – and me in my provincial officey outfit, with my muddy brown hair lacking any specific shape or style.

      ‘The way things work,’ Laurie explains, ‘is that we’ll handle Rosie’s bookings and manage her career. Clients pay us, the agency, and we deduct fifteen per cent commission and then the money is paid into Rosie’s account.’

      Her directness slightly floors me. ‘Does this mean you want to take her on?’

      ‘Yes, but let’s see how it goes. Sometimes a girl takes off right away, and she’s doing all the shows and amazing editorial, covers and fashion and fabulous campaigns – and other times …’ Laurie falters. ‘Nothing. You simply never can tell.’ She turns to Rosie. ‘First of all, we’ll need to get some decent test shots done. That way, you’ll build up your book – that’s a portfolio of your pictures, showing different looks – and we can start sending you on go-sees and castings …’

      ‘Great,’ Rosie says, clearly delighted.

      ‘You do remember she’s still at school?’ I point out.

      ‘Yep, don’t worry – it’ll be holidays and out-of-school-hours only. You’ll find all the info you need in this pack –’ she hands me a thick white folder with Face’s logo in elegant type on the front – ‘and there’s lots of advice in there too. So, is there anything else you’d like to ask?’

      I glance at Will, urging him to speak. ‘Erm, I’m sure there will be,’ he replies, ‘when we’ve read through all the info.’

      Laurie smiles warmly. ‘Call me anytime. I’ve attached a card with the pack and my mobile’s on there. I know it’s worrying for parents but I can assure you, she’ll be in excellent hands with us.’

      ‘I’m sure she will be,’ I say, deciding I do like her – she seems to have a knack of putting Rosie at her ease – and anyway, how can I possibly deny my daughter this chance? This is a top agency; there won’t be any creepy Sorrington Bugle types lurking about here. In fact, I’m starting to feel more comfortable with the whole thing. It’s only a spot of part-time modelling, like Liza’s daughter Scarlett does, frolicking about in a Boden duffel coat. It’s hardly Agent Provocateur.

      ‘You’re absolutely stunning, darling,’ Laurie adds, giving Rosie another unexpected hug, ‘and I have an instinct where our girls are concerned …’ She laughs, checking herself. ‘I shouldn’t say this because there are no guarantees, but I have a very good feeling about you.’

      ‘Me too,’ pipes up the sandy-haired man from the table. ‘She’s a stunning girl. And isn’t she the absolute image of her dad?’

       Chapter Eight

      Rosie is so thrilled about being signed up by Face that the comment seems to bounce right off her. But it sticks with me – as I’m sure it does with Will – following us home and niggling away in my head like a small, persistent worm.

      Of course, Rosie knows Will isn’t her biological father, and I’ve never made any secret of that. ‘Your birth daddy,’ I explained when she was little, ‘is someone I met when I was travelling around Europe, and it just didn’t work out with us.’ She’d ask where he was now, and I’d say – truthfully – that I didn’t know. That was enough back then. She’d accept it and get on with playing with her cars and garage. Then, by the time she was eight or nine, the questions became trickier:

       Did you love my birth daddy?

      We were both so young, darling.

       I know, but were you IN LOVE?

      (Gigantic swallow.) Yes, I suppose we were at the time. We weren’t together for very long, though, so I didn’t know him like I know Daddy.

       Did you love him as much as you love Daddy?

      It was just different …

       How different?

      Well, Daddy and me … we’re a family and it’s a deep, real love.

       The sort that lasts for ever and ever?

      Yes. (Said with certainty then. These days, I’m not sure I’d be able to answer with such rock-solid confidence.) So I dealt with her questions as best I could – although at times it felt like being pelted with tennis balls. And, although I try to reassure myself that I’ve always been honest and open, I’ve never told her about Fraser’s sudden