Page 46 of The Island of Lost Girls

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She’s looking at herself in the window of Alexander McQueen when she notices the woman standing behind her. Staring. And she’s about to give her the can-I-help-you response when she thinks, Oh, hang on. She’s familiar. Wasn’t she in Monsoon? And Selfridges?

Oh, God, is she a store detective? Did she see me?

Gemma stops admiring her cheekbones and focuses on the green leather corset belt directly in her eyeline. Her face burns. Self-consciously, she shifts her bag on her shoulder. That MAC colour palette suddenly weighs as much as a baby.

She turns, casual as she can, and starts to walk away up Old Bond Street towards the tube.

‘Excuse me?’

Don’t look, don’t look. If you look, that’s as good as saying you feel guilty.

She keeps on walking. Subtly, oh, so subtly, steps up her pace.

‘Excuse me!’ the woman cries again.

Gemma takes a stick of gum from her pocket, unwraps it, casually throws the wrapper into the gutter and walks on, chewing. Goddammit, she thinks, Goddammit, I swear I will never shoplift again. It’s boredom as much as anything else. And if they’d let me have my winnings I wouldn’t have to, would I? With everyone else away on their holidays there’s literally nothing to do. But I swear. I’ll find a job, like Mum said. God, if you let me get away, I’ll work the whole summer in Kentucky Fried—

‘Oh, please!’ cries the voice. ‘Please wait! I just want to talk to you!’

Gemma composes her face so that she looks both unconcerned and a little bit fierce, tosses her curls, and turns to meet her fate.

‘Me?’ she asks, and the squeak in her voice betrays her nerves.

The woman is rather beautiful, for an old person. She has long hair, striped in all shades of taupe, and her hands and wrists, her neck and ears, drip gold. Her dress is so plain and simple it can only be expensive, and is an unambiguous red that only someone unafraid of standing out would wear. And it’s silk, thinks Gemma. Okay, she’s no store detective.

‘Yes!’

The woman smiles. Dark eyes. Beautifully shaped eyebrows – not too big, not too thin, not too arched; just perfect – and skin like marble. Her cheeks dimple, but nothing creases around her eyes. Gemma’s seen a lot of Botox in her time, on the TV and on the red-carpet vids on YouTube, and can tell it when she sees it. Her mum’s always going on about people’s smiles never reaching their eyes, but in Gemma’s view that’s just a sign of being able to afford a beautician.

She decides that saying nothing is probably her best bet. She stands outside Van Cleef & Arpels, and waits for the woman to speak.

‘I noticed you in Selfridges,’ she says, eventually, then stops and laughs. ‘God, that sounds creepy as hell! Sorry. I just wanted to – I’m Julia Beech.’

The name means nothing. Gemma does a little shrug and a shake of the head.

‘Sorry. I’m a model agent. I run the Beech Agency.’

Gemma frowns, but a little spark of excitement lights up in her tummy.

‘It’s a model agency?’ Julia adds, unnecessarily.

‘Oh, yes?’ says Gemma, trying to sound as though this sort of thing happens every day.

‘I – listen, I know this sounds like one of those things you read about in Hello! … ’

Gemma blinks. Hello! Puh-lease. What do you think I am, forty?

‘ … but have you ever thought of modelling?’

What?

Julia laughs, and Gemma realises that her mouth has fallen open.

‘I’m not tall enough,’ she says, ‘surely?’

‘Oh, darling, not runway. There’s a ton of other sorts of work. Have you never thought about it? You’re so pretty.’