One Step Away from Yesterday, One Step Away from Tomorrow
“Okay, stop. Right there. Don’t move.” He keeps firing off orders at me while he checks everything, starting with my make-up.
“Lou…”
“Hmm?”
“Do you think it could have been him?” I ask him, staring into space.
“Who?”
“My… nothing, forget it,” I say. “Just a colleague.”
“Have we got any hairspray? Daph… oh where is that damn girl, where has she got to?” he mutters.
“Who knows why he called?” I ask no one in particular, pulling on a bead.
“Whoever it was can wait,” says Lou, sticking a dozen hair grips that have appeared out of nowhere into my hair.
“Be gentle, please!” I beg him, without an ounce of strength.
“Another few seconds and you will be in front of millions of viewers. You can’t turn up in front of an international jury with a cinnamon bun if it is not absolutely impeccable!”
“A cinnamon what? Where? Who?” And, don’t ask me why, even though I’ve been here for hours it’s only now that I suddenly realise I’m actually going to be appearing on TV. A realisation that by itself is enough to make me forget Tim, The Chronicle and even Dave. Right now there is a door in front of me. It’s always closed and I usually try not to think about it. Usually… but I can’t pretend it’s not there forever, can I? I raise my eyes, and for the first time, after weeks spent behind the scenes, I see that it’s open. There is no way out now, I’m seconds away from having to walk out there. And I panic.
What the hell am I doing here? Why? I’m not a model. I’m not a model, I’m just Sam. Sam ‘if my mom knew about this she’d demand a maternity test’ Preston.
“Lou… what am I doing?”
“You’re staring into space with a catatonic expression on your face and giving off defeatist vibes. But, I have to admit it, you’re almost passable,” he concludes with a wink, before putting his comb back in his pocket. High on adrenaline and in the grip of performance anxiety, he doesn’t seem to have noticed how I’m really feeling.
“From here on in, you’re on your own. I can’t come with you, but don’t despair. To get through to the next round, you only need three tens. But remember: your speech, and…” and he looks me straight in the eyes and becomes very serious, “take no prisoners! You’re here to win, not just to take part, like I’ve been telling you right from the start.”
“No prisoners,” I answer, without much conviction. “No prisoners. Yeah. Okay. Right. I can do it, don’t you worry.” I try to appear calm, but when I send him away I can hardly feel my knees any more from how hard they’re knocking. No prisoners. No prisoners. Repeating it to myself as though it’s all I need to do to win, I go and stand with the others. There’s a group of five girls in front of me, two of them off on their own and another two who seem to be having a fight.
“If you actually think you’ve got a chance…”
Hmmm, they seem pretty worked up. I can’t see what’s going on so I crane my neck to get a better view.
“And if you think that all you need to do is sleep with half the jury…”
Oh-oh. They’re really going at it.
The first comment was from Dorothy Houston. I remember her name because she was right next to me during the last round. The other is Sienna Moore and I wouldn’t be able to forget about her if I tried: the walls of the Ritz backstage are plastered with photos of her. You can’t help but notice her – she’s one of those people who’s able to attract the attention of everyone they encounter, for good or for bad. And in the case of Sienna Moore, completely intentionally: she’s so terribly snobby, presumptuous and arrogant, the complete opposite of Angelina. It’s weird that Mary isn’t her consultant, they’d have got on like a house on fire.
“What are you trying to insinuate?” I hear her mutter in her shrill voice as I approach.
“That either they’ve lowered the entry requirements or those,” says the other, pointing to a cleavage which does look slightly unnatural, “were the best investment of your life! So which is it?”
“I’ll sue you!” threatens an enraged Sienna. “At least ten of my close personal friends are lawyers, and I cannot wait to drag your ass to court!”
“I’m surprised you only know ten, but then I suppose you’ve probably run out of space under L what with all of the Los Angeles Angels being in there.”
I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. Terrified, I try to cover my mouth with both hands before they realise, but it’s too late. They both turn round simultaneously to look at me, and I find myself between them wondering who’s going to look after Samson after they’ve murdered me.
“And who the fuck are you?” says Sienna elegantly.
“I… erm…” I stammer.
She takes a few steps toward me and studies my clothes, my hair and my make-up with an expression that doesn’t bode well. She’s one of those people you sense would be capable of anything. Maybe it’s the way she acts, or maybe it’s those perennially glaring eyes and that Cruella de Vil expression.
I’m saved at the last minute by one of the staff popping his head around the wings and announcing, “Sienna, you’re up.” There isn’t much time for each of us and they run a very tight ship. “Sienna…”
“I’m coming!” she trills. And seeing that she will have to go, she hisses to me, “I’ll deal with you later,” and at that moment, still clinging to the wall, I vow to avoid any further interaction with the other contestants.
Once Sienna’s out of the way, though, the atmosphere relaxes and I even find the courage to join the others. The floor managers tell us the timetable for the programme and get us into line by the strips of tape that separate the corridors from the stage. I notice that nobody seems to want to talk any more – nobody has the energy to argue, so there is an electric silence. Maybe because from now on many of us will be taking home our suitcases of dreams and hopes, and many of the girls around me have invested everything in this opportunity. That’s the difference between me and most of the other competitors. My fear is that I will disappoint Al, because I can’t see how I can possibly win the contest, so I can’t really share the worries of those who have helped me to get to this point. And yet their anxiety is so alive, so real, that I’ve somehow let it infect me too, almost jumping when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey!”
I spin round and see one of the five remaining contestants standing behind me. It’s a girl with red hair, her nose covered with freckles. She smiles at me – and around here, that counts as pretty strange behaviour. Maybe she’s not quite right in the head, or it’s part of some strategy to get me out of the way. I can’t decide, I’m still new to this world of beauty pageants.
“Hey, I’m number twenty-six,” she introduces herself.
“I’m…” I look for my rosette, because I can’t remember.
“What did Sienna say to you?” she asks, clearly not interested in my number even when I show it to her.
“Nothing, actually,” I answer. “She didn’t have time, it was her turn to go out there.”
“Hmmm… Don’t trust her,” she warns me. “And try not to get on the wrong side of her. Nobody takes on Sienna Moore,” she whispers, being careful not to be overheard.
“Oh, but I…”
“She’s just a bitch,” number twenty-six says with a sneer, “and everybody hates her, but we can’t say anything.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Her dad is Anthony Moore. Do you have any idea how much money they have?”
“That doesn’t seem like a good reason for…”
“Believe me, she can take you out if she wants!”
“Oh, come on, ‘take me out’?!”
“I’m serious,” she says, moving closer. “Last year she took part in the Face for L’Oréal contest. One of the finalists posted a picture of backstage showing Sienna without make-up,” she whispers in my ear. “And do you know what happened?”
“I’ve got no idea,” I admit.
“You’re not the only one – nobody does. She disappeared!”
“Oh my God.”
“Shhh! I didn’t tell you anything.”
“But…”
“Be careful of Sienna Moore.”
“But…”
“And don’t look at her nose – ever!”
“Why?”
“Just don’t do it!”
“But why not?”
“Sam Preston? Next up is Sam Preston.” They’re calling me. “Wasn’t I supposed to go on last?”
“It says Sam Preston here,” answers the cameraman. “Come on – you’re on in three… two…” he says, counting down the seconds on his fingers.
“Didn’t you hear him? Move, come on!” Number twenty-six pushes me unceremoniously towards the door and almost without realising it, I find myself on the line between the backstage and the studio.
At the very same moment I arrive, Sienna comes off the stage. Perfect timing. She has finished her presentation and can go back to the dressing rooms to get ready for the next part of the show. Unlike the rest of us, she acts as though she’s in her element. She wears her dresses with incredible panache and moves with the skill of a professional among other professionals. I can’t look at her without a pinch of envy. And not because she’s slimmer than I am, because she’s much closer to me than she is to a cover model, but because she seems so comfortable with herself. I stand there staring at her like an idiot while she runs her fingers through her hair and looks around for the members of her team. And then – I don’t know whether deliberately or not – just as she is walking past me, she bangs into me.
“Look what you’re doing!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” I jump out of her way and when I meet her gaze I suddenly remember number twenty-six’s words.
Don’t look at her nose. Don’t look at her nose. Don’t look at her nose. But why not? I have no idea, but on a sudden impulse I lower my eyes and try to keep them on the carpet. Don’t look at her nose, Sam! I try to control myself, but I can’t, the urge is too strong…
“What is it?” she snaps, raising an eyebrow. “What are you looking at?”
“Me? Nothing, I swear… nothing…” I babble, but if there’s one thing I’m terrible at it’s coping with an intimidating glare. “Don’t make me disappear like that other girl, please,” I beg her desperately.
“Sam Preston, you’re up, goddammit!” shouts the floor manager. Two solid hands grab hold of my arms and thrust me out onto the stage without even time to take a deep breath. I find myself catapulted into another world, one I usually just watch as a spectator – and at that point it’s too late to even get slapped by Sienna Moore.