Lola poured the last drop of oil onto her head, watching as it disappeared into her scalp. She’d run around the house all morning, trying to find something, anything, that would help her look “one with the guttaaa.” She finally settled on a bottle of olive oil, working it into her roots.
“What do you think, Heathy?” The giant tabby cat was curled up on the polka-dotted bath mat in the corner. He opened his eyes. “I know,” Lola answered, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I’m still not dirty enough.” Her hair had taken on a greenish tint and the roots were so greasy they stuck up an inch off her scalp. But her skin still looked freshly washed, and she didn’t have the same gutter stink she had yesterday. The shoot was in an hour. She needed to figure something out—immediately.
She darted up the stairs to her mum’s room. Emma had a whole drawer of cosmetics, mostly complimentary gift baskets from MAC, Bobbi Brown, and Dior. With some bronzer under her eyes and a little gray eye shadow “dirt” here or there, Gunther would think she’d spent the last two days in a petting zoo.
Lola paused in the doorway of the loo, watching as her grandmother contorted her body like a circus performer, trying to cover the liver spots on her back with foundation. “Lola!” she hooted, jumping in surprise. She adjusted the straps of her red halter dress. “You gave me quite a fright! Be a dear and cover that spot on my back for me? I want Walter to think ‘sixty-eight and sexy,’ not ‘sixty-eight and spotted.’”
Lola took the makeup sponge from her hand. “Grandmum,” she said, blotting the foundation over a dark brown spot that was shaped a little like Africa. Margot smiled at her reflection in the mirror, tousling her stiff blond hair. “I took a shower….”
“Oh, luv! I knew something was different. There isn’t that rubbish stench lingering in the air.” Margot kept her eyes on her reflection, pushing her pea-size hearing aid farther into the cave of her ear.
Lola pulled open her mom’s makeup drawer, rifling through a pile of eye shadows in fifteen different shades of purple. “But Grandmum.” She opened another drawer, searching for the bronzer. “Gunther is going to be gutted. I’m supposed to go to the shoot soon.”
“Nonsense,” Margot said, spinning around. She turned the bottle of MAC foundation onto the sponge wedge. “I can make you gutter chic.” With that, Margot worked at Lola’s face, pressing the walnut colored foundation into the hollows of her cheeks. She dabbed it below her eyes, making it look like Lola hadn’t slept in days. “I met Gunther back in ’88 in Belgium,” she hummed, as Lola watched her reflection transform into a greasy, dirty mess. “His glasses are so thick he’ll never know the difference.”
An hour later, Lola stood outside a warehouse on Canal Street, staring at her reflection in her Hello Kitty compact. After dabbing foundation all over her face, her grandmum had put bronzer on her cheeks and over her nails, completing her dirty, urban look. Then, on her way downtown Lola splashed in a few sewer puddles to get back the gutter stench she had yesterday. She even wore her Gap hoodie from dinner, which still smelled faintly of curdled milk. She was as “one with the guttaaa” as a subway rat.
She smoothed back her oily blond hair. When she entered the shoot Gunther would circle her, pulling his thick glasses down to the end of his nose. Yes, you aaahhh my guttaaa and my light! He’d smile, delighted as he took in Lola’s greasy hair and brown caked fingernails. She’d pose in his couture evening gown while he snapped photos of her clutching a loaf of stale bread. Purfaction! he’d scream, as she turned sideways to show off her ears. Puuurfaction!
Inside, a forest green garbage truck was parked in the center of the warehouse. It was surrounded by mounds of black bags and a tattered stuffed bear was strapped to its grill. Men in sweaty black T-shirts ran back and forth, setting crushed Coke cans and crumpled newspapers down on the floor, or adjusting the lighting. Lola clapped her hands together, small and fast. She’d been to a million photo shoots before with her mum, but none this exciting. Because this time, she was the model.
In the far corner of the room, Gunther stood next to a long catering table covered with miniature sandwiches. He downed a wheatgrass shot with one quick gulp. “And dat ez why you do ze good deeds—ze karma, Evette!” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ze karma!” Evette studied her manicure, seemingly oblivious to Gunther’s lecture.
Lola let out a deep breath, staring at the round little man who was about to change her life. She thought about the time Martin Cromwell told all the sixth-years she was anorexic, the time the rag mags put a picture of her picking her wedgie on the web, or the time she overheard her father whispering to her mum in the kitchen, wondering if “she’d grow into it.” It was all in the past. From now on she was Lola Childs: Supermodel.
She ran toward him, her arms outstretched for a hug. “Gunther!” she cried.
“You ahhh feeelthy!” Gunther jumped backwards as he spotted her. Lola grabbed his wrist but he shook her off like she was some rabid animal. “Wat did you do?” He frantically searched the pockets of his white trousers, pulling out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He poured it all over his arms, rubbing it in like it was suntan lotion.
Lola’s cheeks felt hot. “You told me to be one with the gutter,” she cried, looking from Gunther to Evette. “You said no bathing.”
“He just meant he didn’t want you to shower. You look like you’ve been sleeping in the subway station for the last week.” Evette grabbed some Lysol from under the catering table and sprayed it in the air around her.
“You smeeell like ze poo-poo!” Gunther paced back and forth, muttering furiously. “I can’t do zeees. She ez feelthy. Ze hair ez greasy oil.” He smoothed back his thick black hair, took three wheatgrass shots off the catering table, and downed them one after the next.
“I’m sorry…” Lola mumbled. “Please. I can wash my hair.”
“No!” Gunther screamed, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. “It ez too late—everyone eez here.” He gestured to the other end of the warehouse, where the lighting crew was standing, watching him flail his arms in frustration. A man wearing headphones subtly snapped a picture with his iPhone.
“I’m sorry,” Lola repeated, feeling a lump in the back of her throat. She never should’ve taken that shower, or poured olive oil all over her hair. Now she’d have to go back to the town house—the party—and explain to everyone why she’d been fired by one of the greatest fashion designers in the world. Cate would tell the story at every Christmas dinner from now on, laughing as she described Lola’s greasy hair. As soon as her mum came home from Tahiti, Ayana would ring her, specifically requesting Lola never set foot in the Ford building again. It was bad enough she’d embarrassed herself—she didn’t need her mum knowing what a twit she’d been.
Gunther’s eyes were bulgy, watery, and red. He squatted on the floor, his face a deep pink. “I am not ze maniac, I am not ze maniac,” he muttered quietly, to no one in particular. “Evette—my bag!” Evette pulled a paper lunch bag out of her red leather purse. Gunther was scribbled in Sharpie across the front of it. He kept his eyes on the floor as he breathed in and out, filling it up like a balloon.
After a few more breaths Gunther set the bag down, his cheeks bright red. “It ez ze universe, Evette! It ez ze universe teeeesting me! Universe say: Gunther, you still ze maniac? I say no.” Gunther stood up, adjusting his thick glasses. There was a new calm over his face as he pounded his little fist in the air. “We will do ze shoot!”
Evette’s gaze fell on Lola’s hands. They were caked in bronzer, like she’d been clawing her way through dirt. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Gunther covered his heart with his hand. “Rodrrrrigo!” he called across the warehouse. A man with a handlebar mustache stood up. “Get ze dress!”
Lola let out a deep breath. Maybe she was “feeelthy.” Maybe she hadn’t followed Gunther’s orders exactly. But Gunther saw something in her, and whatever that something was, she’d show it to him again. When he saw her pose…he’d be thrilled.
Fifteen minutes later, Lola emerged from the curtained-off section of the warehouse used as a dressing room. The makeup artist had tried to remove as much of the foundation as possible while Rodrigo, the stylist, fitted her in the first of four original Gunther Gunta evening gowns. The gray “gutter-inspired” dress was spotted with brown paint, as though she’d trudged through a muddy field. “I love it,” Lola cried, spinning around once. Even with her hair greased up with olive oil, even with bronzer caked under her fingernails, she’d never felt so beautiful. She was a model now—a model for Gunther Gunta.
“It’s actually not bad,” Evette decided, puffing on a cigarette as she looked Lola up and down. “It’s very ’90s grunge—don’t you think?”
Gunther was standing by the garbage trucks, his short arms folded over his chest. “I am not going for ze ’90s grunge, Evette.” He gestured for Lola to stand by the garbage truck and picked up his Nikon camera.
Lola stared at her reflection in the lens. She’d watched so many shoots and runway shows growing up that she had all of her mum’s moves memorized—the way she turned and rested her chin on her shoulder, the way she put her hand on the back of her neck and stared directly into the camera. She went through each one, slowly, carefully, as Gunther clicked away.
Gunther let out a low growl, the same sound Heath Bar made whenever Cate walked in the room. Lola kept posing, trying to ignore it, but it kept getting louder. She rested a foot on a mound of garbage bags, which felt like they were stuffed with newspaper. When she tossed her oily hair over her shoulder, it stuck to the side of her face. She shook her head to get it off and a strand of hair got stuck in her mouth. It tasted like olive oil.
“Arrrgh,” Gunther finally cried, throwing the camera onto the concrete floor. The lens broke off, rolling toward the door. He pulled at his hair and stomped his right foot several times. Lola stepped back, afraid. “I cannot do zeees. It ez crepe, Evette, crepe!” With that, he stormed out of the warehouse, slamming the door behind him.
“Crepe?” Lola asked, glancing around the room. The crew had all turned to watch. By the catering table in the corner, Rodrigo held a bagel to his mouth, frozen.
“Crap, Lola.” Evette dropped her cigarette on the floor and stomped it out with her foot. Her black eyes narrowed. “He thinks you’re crap.”
Lola’s eyes swelled with tears. She’d been so dim. Last night she’d talked to Abby online for an hour, keeping on about how Gunther had told her she was “freeeesh looking,” or how Kyle would be barmy when he saw her billboard in Times Square. This wasn’t her chance to be a supermodel, it was her chance to do the same thing she always did: act like a silly, awkward twit.