The cafe – which the boys called a greasy spoon – was lined with pristine white tiles and smelled faintly of disinfectant. Along one side were three booths, their red leather chapped and splintered.
A zealous hairdresser who called herself Melody Nelson had dyed my hair platinum and set it in rollers, then pinned it back into a quiff. The look was completed with four layers of foundation, false eyelashes, lipstick, and squishy silicon shoved down my bra. The boys didn’t escape, either: Melody cut Sam’s hair tight against his head, and I was sure Richie and Carter were wearing concealer over their late-night circles.
I looked into the photographer’s lens, then tried to focus on the wall behind him, like Saskia had taught me, but it was hard when he was so close. After a few shots, his assistant brought over a strawberry milkshake with four straws. Carter stared at it like it was radioactive.
‘It’s old-school cool,’ said Amir. ‘The nineties are back in a big way.’
‘What kind of band do you think we are?’ said Carter. ‘Second coming of Perfect Storm?’
‘You’ve got to admit, it’s better than a pillow fight, which is what Jen initially wanted,’ said Amir, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
The four of us wedged into a booth designed for two. Sam and Richie seemed resigned to the idea, but Carter fidgeted while the photographer whirred and clicked. I leaned towards the shake, trying to hold the straw in my mouth and make eye contact with the camera at the same time.
Carter put his hand under the table, skimming my waist. My breath latched, but then I realised he was just reaching into his pocket. He took out a hip flask, nodded to the photographer, knocked back a swig and tipped the remainder into the milkshake. Richie sniggered in my ear. Amir was on the phone, so I took a sip of vodka-flavoured milkshake and pulled a cheeky face at the camera. Doing a photo shoot for our single cover had seemed so much more exciting in theory.
Carter caught my eye. ‘Let’s fuck shit up,’ he muttered.
‘That’s it, have some fun with it,’ said the photographer. ‘Go big, go bold.’
I pulled myself onto the table. Beside me, Carter stood up and took the glass. ‘You ready for this, Jim?’
I looked up at him. I was starting to enjoy feeling like we were on the same team again, even if we were just united against the stupid photo shoot. He smiled back at me as he upended the milkshake over my head.
I yelped as it rushed over my face and down my dress. Sam was on his feet, sliding out of the booth. ‘Jesus, Carter, that’s out of line,’ he said, looking around for serviettes. The milkshake splattered over the suede heels Saskia had chosen: all those hours in hair and make-up, all her careful planning, was undone in an instant. I licked milkshake off my cheek, and Carter laughed. To hide my humiliation, I looked into the camera and forced a smile.
•
The entire ride back, I watched from my own private pity party as Amir tore into Carter for sabotaging the photo shoot, costing Beatnik thousands. Back at home, I went straight into the shower and scrubbed at my scalp under the steaming water. ‘You ready for this?’ he’d said, like he was just joking around. I should have known by now not to trust him.
I wiped a gap in the steamed-up mirror with my fist. I had open pores around my nose and a hollowed-out look to my eyes. How had I ever thought a make-up artist could make me look beautiful, even with the miracles of modern cosmetics? Maybe Carter had just saved me from myself.
‘At least the photos won’t be boring,’ Carter was saying to Amir when I emerged. I could hear Saskia clattering in the kitchen, putting her clean-eating plan into action.
Amir shrugged. ‘Well, you’re right there. Marketing want this as the cover for the single.’ He bypassed Carter and held out his phone to me.
My face was washed out with retro flash so every line looked black and stark, the pink milkshake dripping over my face, my hair matted with it. Looking at it brought back the humiliating sensation of cold slime down my back, but the photo showed something else: a defiant girl looking square at the camera, her tongue snaking out to lick her face. It said a lot more about what kind of band we were than any image of the four of us sharing a milkshake.
‘Can I see?’ said Carter. ‘Or are you only going to show Liliana?’
I gave him the phone. It no longer really resembled me, and it was cheeky and original. I was relieved: the girl on the cover was someone to hide behind, a mask to keep me safe.
‘It’s kind of subversive,’ said Sam approvingly. ‘And at least you can hardly see that horrible leopard dress.’
Saskia brought me a bowl of leafy greens, quinoa and sweet potato that looked like it could do with some cheese. ‘That “horrible dress” is Dolce & Gabbana. Show some respect.’
‘Got any halloumi?’ I asked.
‘Halloumi is not on the eating plan,’ she said.
‘Where’s ours?’ asked Richie.
‘I thought you guys preferred takeaway.’
‘I prefer takeaway,’ I muttered.
Carter was still holding Amir’s phone with the photo of me. ‘Is this really what they’re using for the single?’
‘It’s a great photo.’ I scooped up a forkful of salad.
‘Well, you would say that.’
‘Why are you pissed off with me?’ I said. ‘I’m the one who gets to be pissed off! You tipped a milkshake over my head.’
‘You’re right,’ he grated. ‘It’s practically my own fault.’
‘What is your actual problem?’
‘It should be obvious! Or it would be if you weren’t so high on being the centre of attention.’ He looked from Amir to Saskia, then back to me. ‘This isn’t a picture of a band now, is it?’ he said, and stalked from the room.