‘Um,’ I said tentatively. ‘Hi?’
He looked pointedly away. Kelly, meanwhile, continued her rapid-fire speech, which I could barely follow. In her mid-to-late thirties, with her bright red hair cut into a pageboy that perfectly framed her pale, expertly made-up face, she seemed as put together as any woman I had ever seen. There wasn’t so much as a single snag in her misty black tights, and the heels of her patent-leather pumps had to be four inches at least. I had no idea how she walked, let alone how she’d run from the photographers back there.
‘I’ll admit, Oprah’s not exactly your target demographic,’ Kelly went on. ‘But it can’t hurt. Nêmcová did it after that whole tsunami business, if that’s how we want to model this. But it doesn’t matter, because — big news. Are you ready for this? Sports Illustrated called.’
I could tell by the way she’d said it that I was supposed to react somehow. But I didn’t know what to say. I hate Sports Illustrated. It’s all about… well, sports.
‘That’s great,’ I said. Wow. This modelling thing was going to be a bit harder than I’d thought. ‘Right?’
‘Nikki!’ Kelly looked as if she was about to throw her Blackberry at me. ‘You’ve only been after me for two years to get you SI. Well, they finally called. And they want you. For the next swimsuit issue. Could you DIE?’
She accompanied the word DIE with a shove to my shoulder. I slumped over on to the seat. What I really wanted to say was, ‘Actually, yeah. I could die. In fact, I already did.’
But what I said instead was, ‘Wow. That’s great. Thanks.’
Kelly looked at me for a full second. Then she went, ‘You could summon up a little bit more excitement for me, couldn’t you? Just a little bit? It’s SI, honey. There’s a chance you could end up on the cover. In fact, I know you will. I can feel it in my bones — Brandon, no, no more Red Bull, you’re cranky enough.’
Brandon slammed the limo’s refrigerator door and sank back into his seat, looking churlish.
‘So?’ Kelly looked at me expectantly. ‘Aren’t you excited?’
‘I’m super excited,’ I said. Though the truth was, all I felt was a growing dread. ‘So… I’m going to have to pose for this in a bathing suit?’
‘A bathing suit.’ Kelly laughed. ‘God, you really do have amnesia. It’s called a swimsuit, honey. OK? And, oh my God, what have you done to your nails?’
She seized both my hands and sat there looking down in horror at my fingernails. Or I guess I should say Nikki Howard’s fingernails, which I’d bitten down almost to the quick.
‘I–I guess I bit them a little,’ I said in a small voice.
‘A little?’ The next thing I knew, Kelly had flung my hands back into my lap and put her headpiece back on. ‘Yes, Doreen? Hi, it’s Kelly. We’re going to need some emergency nail tips. Yes, I know it’s last minute, but what am I supposed to do, I just saw them. Hideous. No, I know she’s never had problems before, but we’re dealing with a whole new ball game here. You would not believe… great. See you then, hon.’
Kelly hung up, then looked at me in a very disapproving way. ‘You’re only hurting yourself, Nik,’ she said to me, shaking her head. ‘You’re only hurting yourself.’
Inexplicably, my eyes filled up with tears.
I know! I was crying, over FINGERNAILS.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m really sorry. But I don’t understand anything. I thought I was going to a photo shoot. What do my fingernails have to do with anything?’
‘You’re going to take part in a photo shoot with Mr Stark,’ Kelly said sharply. ‘For a profile Vanity Fair is doing on him. You’re the face of the new Stark — the young, vibrant Stark — so of course he wants you in the shoot. You and Brandon, of course.’
Brandon’s scowl had, if anything, only deepened at the sight of my tears.
‘But,’ I said. I couldn’t believe I was crying. I really couldn’t. I don’t cry. I mean, except over important things, like Christopher thinking I’m dead.
This whole time, through this whole thing, I’d never once cried… except about Christopher. Not over the loss of my former body. Not over the loss of my former life. Not even over the loss of my former self.
Because up until that moment, I hadn’t felt as if I’d lost my former self.
All it took, apparently, was one publicist yelling at me about my fingernails, however, to make me realize how very, very lost my former self really was.
It wasn’t just the fingernails of course. Part of it was what had happened just before the fingernail abuse. The whole thing where I’d had to say goodbye to my parents, and how I’d left things with my sister — why hadn’t I just been more supportive about the cheerleader thing? In retrospect, it wasn’t that big a deal. Maybe cheerleading is a sport. They have gymnastics in the Olympics after all — and then I’d come out of the hospital and been besieged by photographers, all screaming someone else’s name, but pointing their cameras at me, and gotten into a limo with a guy who couldn’t have been meaner to me and a publicist who seemed to think everything I did and said was wrong…
This photo shoot was going to be a disaster. I could already tell.
‘I can’t do this,’ I said, trying to hold back my tears. I didn’t mean I couldn’t do the Nikki Howard thing. Obviously I couldn’t do that.
And I definitely couldn’t do this, what Kelly wanted me to do. Because suddenly, I’d remembered something. Something really important. And that was Lulu asking me if I knew what a Manolo tip was. And I realized I didn’t. I had no idea. Modelling, easy? How could I have been so arrogant? Why hadn’t I read Frida’s issues of COSMOgirl! more carefully?
‘I–I don’t remember how to do this!’ I wailed.
‘Well, you’d better damned well remember how,’ Kelly said in a hard voice. ‘Because your future is riding on it. Not to mention mine… and about thirty make-up artists, stylists, art directors, photographers, lighting technicians and personal assistants, all of whom are waiting for you… and that’s not including whoever they’re bringing in to cater. You’d better get over whatever it is you’re going through, missy. People’s jobs are depending on it. We’ve been plenty patient this past month while you’ve been going through whatever it is you’ve been going through, but it’s time to get back to work. Brandon, I told you, you leave that Red Bull alone. You know how you get.’
‘We’re here,’ Brandon said, pointing out of the window. ‘And we’ve got company.’
Kelly turned her head to look out of the window. Then she swore, and turned on her Stark-brand headpiece.
‘Yeah, Rico?’ she barked. ‘Get security outside 520 Madison. We’ve got protestors. Again.’
I had no idea what she and Brandon were talking about. The truth was, I didn’t really care. I was still trying to absorb what Kelly had just told me. I’d had no idea so many people depended on Nikki Howard for their livelihood. Sure, I’d known it was important to Stark Enterprises that she continue as the Face of Stark.
But I hadn’t even begun to comprehend just what that entailed.
Until now.
Two million dollars? That was how much they’d paid for my brain transplant to keep Nikki alive? I was starting to think they’d gotten off cheap…
Then Kelly was saying, ‘Go. Go, go, go, go,’ and she was shoving me out of the limo…
… and into the arms of a waiting security guard, who was trying to shield me from the hordes of protestors gathered in front of the entrance to the massive Madison Avenue skyscraper we’d just pulled up in front of.
‘Hey,’ I heard someone scream ‘it’s her!’
A second later, my shoulder was seized and I was spun around to face a woman holding a sign on a stick that said, Stark Enterprises Kills!
‘It’s NIKKI HOWARD!’ the woman — who I now saw was wearing combat fatigues and a beret — blew a whistle, and all the other protestors surged towards me. The minute they saw me, their faces contorted with anger.