The Right Look

Laura Petroski had the ‘right look’ – blonde, blue-eyed, tall and slender with a leg-to-torso ratio of 1.4%.

Her grandmother, Reba Petroski, told her the ‘right look’ would give her privilege. As proof she cited the disadvantages of Laura’s mother, Magda Wysocki, a petite brunette with brown eyes and a comfortable arse.

‘Take poor Magda, dead-end job, no-good husband. Wrong look. Is life fair? Pfft…no-one said so.’

In High School, Laura’s two best friends were Jira and Hassan and when the atrocities of the Empire were being taught in History Class, Laura felt the weight of her privilege.

‘My ancestors treated your ancestors appallingly,’ Laura moaned.

‘Your ancestors were Polish,’ said Jira who was Nigerian. ‘Everyone invaded them – the Romans, Turks, Russians, French, Hitler.’

‘Ancient history,’ said Hassan who was Indian. ‘What’s really bothering you, Loz?’

‘My grandmother says I have the right look and I’ll get special privilege. It’s not fair.’

Hassan laughed. ‘Blondes have more fun, darling.’

‘Maybe your grandmother’s wrong,’ said Jira. ‘Times have changed.’

But the efficacy of her grandmother’s words played out soon enough.

Laura had a weekend job bussing at a local café. The day she left school the owner offered her the role of maître d’ ahead of three girls who’d worked for him for a decade.

‘But Saniya, Yasmin and Vaishnavi have young children,’ Laura protested.

‘You have the right look,’ said Fadi Haddad.

‘But Mr. Haddad, it’s not fair. I can’t take the job.’

But she did take the job and Saniya, Yasmin and Vaishnavi who’d always been kind to her grew cold.

‘Who said life was fair?’ said Reba. ‘Pass me the Vodka.’

While Laura worked in the café, Jira studied medicine and Hassan went into IT. Every Sunday night the three friends met at a pub in the city to catch up and patch up broken hearts, usually Hassan’s, occasionally Jira’s, never Laura’s.

‘Have you ever been in love?’ asked Hassan, miserable after another break-up.

‘Probably.’

‘You’d know. More wine? I’m paying. Oh God am I paying.’

She hadn’t been in love. Nor did her lovers stay long. She grew bored with so many fish flinging themselves into her raft. But underneath she was lonely and afraid and unable to settle the debt of her privilege.

They say you can take the girl out of the streets, but you can’t take the streets out of the girl. The street where Laura grew up was a row of shabby terraces fronting a pavement unrelieved by greenery. The greyness of her street seeped into her soul and even the right look failed to brighten the lens through which she viewed the world. When London sparkled with a million lights, Laura still saw the littered gutters, seeping drains and tiered grey bricks of her childhood. In every homeless person’s face, she saw her dead-eyed neighbours leaning in open doorways, staring blindly into a street that led nowhere.

Life was not only unfair; it was skewed towards privilege.

‘The world’s your oyster.’ Nanna Reba told ten-year-old Laura when she moved in to help Magda cope after Anton ran off with a woman he met online. ‘What a beauty you are.’ She pinched the child’s rosy cheek. ‘Make the most of your blessings or you’ll end up like your mother. Poor Magda, so sad…pfft.’

While Magda worked long hours at the club, Reba heated takeaway dinners and walked Laura to school. Until her knees gave way. After that Laura found her own way to school and Reba installed herself on the faded lounge and watched hours of reality television. Even after Laura left school and started working full-time at the café, Reba continued living her sedentary life at Magda’s expense.

‘You eaten, Nan?’ Laura asked after her daily shift.

The old lady lifted a glass of Vodka. ‘Got what I want, thanks, love.’ She nodded at the screen. ‘You should audition for the next series of Holiday Island. With your looks, the world’s your oyster.’

‘Sure, my life is all pearls.’ Laura shook her head and went upstairs.

Alone in her room, Laura studied her face in the mirror, a long face with irregular bone structure, nothing special. Trying to decide if her eyes were grey or blue, she settled on unremarkable. Her skin, pale with a yellow undertone, her hair, blonde with gold highlights gave her this ridiculous advantage her grandmother insisted made the world her oyster.

‘I’m just another dime-a-dozen-blonde.’

A week later Nanna Reba reminded her that Holiday Island was auditioning. The successful applicants would get a six-week holiday in the Seychelles.

‘I’ll lose my job.’

‘Waitress? Pfft. Don’t let life pass you by, Laura.’

Laura auditioned for Holiday Island and got the job.

‘You have the right look,’ said the producer. ‘Women will want to be you. Men will want to –’ He laughed. ‘You get the picture.’

‘White privilege,’ said Hassan at the Sunday night catch-up.

‘Don’t be such a grinch,’ said Jira. ‘Our best friend’s a television star.’

‘They said I had the right look.’

‘White privilege,’ Hassan repeated.

‘His boyfriend dumped him last night.’

Hassan topped up his wine. ‘A few more bottles of this and I won’t even remember his name. Sorry Laura, I’m being a dick. I think it’s great. You’re beautiful and the camera will love you.’

‘I’m not beautiful. There’re a million girls who look just like me. You though,’ she looked at Jira, ‘could be a model. You’re perfect, tall and skinny with cheekbones to die for.’

‘I’m going to be a doctor not an emaciated scarecrow.’ Jira sipped her wine. ‘When do you start filming?’

‘Next week so I’ll miss the next six Sunday catch-ups.’

Jira frowned. ‘Don’t let the tabloids get to you.’

‘They won’t bother with me. I’m nobody.’

‘Hey, only I can say mean things about you,’ said Hassan. ‘They’ll love you like we do. You’d better not forget us when you’re famous. I couldn’t bear it if you dumped me, too.’

‘OK,’ said Jira, standing up. ‘Cork that bottle now, Hassan. He’s not worth your liver.’ She kissed Laura’s cheek. ‘Enjoy the Seychelles and ignore the tabloids.’

The show aired in October when the days were turning grey. Households all over Britain tuned in to watch a bunch of tanned blonde Brits gallivanting on the white sands of the Seychelles, or seashells as Reba called it.

After the first episode Laura got fan mail from people who longed to escape their grey lives through the Pandora’s box of Reality television. If Laura Petroski could break out of suburbia so too could they.

Laura went on to seasons two and three and was then offered the role of presenter.

‘This is brilliant,’ said Hassan, fully recovered from his broken heart and learning Greek because his latest crush was a car salesman from Hydra. ‘You could be a movie star.’

‘But I can’t act!’ said Laura.

‘You could study acting,’ suggested Jira. ‘If it interests you.’

It didn’t.

Nothing about the industry fascinated Laura: 5am starts in make-up where her face, hair and outfit created a glamorous version of the girl from Dagenham, 8am on set recording introductions and wind-ups when they weren’t filming on location in the Seychelles. Her lines were scripted, her laughter cued. As the fan mail increased, the paparazzis began selling her picture to the tabloids.

‘Time to be seen with the right people,’ said the producer. ‘I’ll find you some glamorous friends.’

‘I have friends.’

‘Industry people, love. Just while we get the ratings up.’

‘It’s temporary,’ she told Jira on the phone. ‘While we get the ratings up. After that –’

‘Got to go,’ said Jira. ‘Late for class.’

Hassan didn’t even take her call.

Over the next few years the tabloids bannered love affairs with men Laura had never met. She was engaged one minute, pregnant the next and each new headline abraded a little more of her soul until Laura Petroski ceased to exist.

‘We’re changing your name to Laura Petrarch,’ said the producer. ‘Hat-tip to the poet Petrarch’s muse. I’ll organise a Vogue shoot with you dressed as Laura de Noves.’

‘Who was she?’

‘Google it.’

‘She lived in the 14th Century,’ said Reba. ‘Blonde, blue-eyed muse for the poet Francesco Petrarch. He never met her, just loved the way she looked. She had the right look. Pity she died so young. Since you’re up –’

Laura handed her grandmother the Vodka bottle.

After the Vogue shoot Laura’s fan-mail increased. She received love poems and jewelry and a little black book, the kind you see in news agencies in the diary section. Its edges were a little worn and the lettering on the front cover said My Notebook in faded gold. Laura placed it on her coffee table but refrained from opening it. Something about it spooked her but she kept it just the same.

Later that week the producer handed her an envelope. ‘Key and deed to your new apartment. Holiday Island bought you a little place in St John’s Wood. Oh, and your first paycheck. In cash.’

‘How much am I worth?’

‘How does $20k a show sound?’

‘Like somebody else’s life.’

Laura sat on the new leather lounge nursing a glass of wine, searching for a trace of herself in the carefully crafted version of her life. Holiday Island had changed her name, her friends, her lovers and her address.

Laura Petroski was gone.

Laura Petrarch lived in St. John’s Wood in an apartment decorated by the Home Renovation Show. Laura Petroski wondered what Jira and Hassan were doing now they no longer took her calls.

Earlier that evening she’d called her mother.

‘Your father died.’

‘When?’

‘Six months ago. You were in the Seychelles. I didn’t want to bother you with –’

‘My father’s death?’ A long pause. ‘Move in with me. Reba can watch television here and you wouldn’t have to work.’

‘You don’t want two old ladies spoiling your life.’

‘You’re my family.’

‘I must go. Be happy.’ A pause. ‘Be happy for all of us.’

Midnight. Laura hadn’t left the lounge. The designer interior – silver light fittings, polished floorboards, antique credenza and faux fireplace – was dissolving in a wash of grey and staring through the deluge were the dead eyes of her father, the exhausted eyes of her mother, the hurt eyes of Jira and Hassan, the told-you-so eyes of her grandmother and the lusting eyes of a million disembodied fans. But nobody really saw her. The coffee table was piled with tabloids with her face on every cover. The various headlines read:

THE WHORE OF HOLIDAY ISLAND accompanied by three photos of her with married men.

FANTASY GIRL GOES UPMARKET accompanied by a picture of her opening the door to her new apartment.

LAURA HAS THE ‘RIGHT LOOK’ accompanied by a photo of her staggering home at dawn.

And finally: WHAT FUTURE FOR MS PETRARCH WHEN THE HOLIDAY IS OVER?

It had been easy to get the benzodiazepines.

‘I need my beauty sleep.’

Three bottles were on her make-up table the next day with a note, ‘Gotta keep those looks.’

Laura opened a bottle. How many to sleep? How many to dream? How many to die?

The little black book sighed, summoned. She picked it up and with shaking hands, finally opened it.

Inside written in beautiful black lettering was a message: DO IT.

She got up and unlocked her front door, making it easy for the paps to take that final picture. Returning to the couch, she penned a message for the world, adding two words to those already scribed: FORGIVE ME.

She placed the little black book in the centre of the coffee table with her final message clear for the world to see. Then she swallowed a handful of tablets and sloshed them down with wine. Before she passed out, she arranged her long legs attractively on the couch, positioning her head so that the cameras would capture her best angle.

Got to have the right look.