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think?”
    More silence, while I make a mental note not to ask my sister if she’s OK. Ever. Again. Idiot.
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    She shifts about to face the closet next to her bed. “Just don’t talk to me about it, OK? Talk to me about something else. Tree hugging? Daisy’s latest band obsession? I don’t know — anything.”
    Oh, right. Fine. I wasn’t going to mention it, but since she asked …
    “Er, actually, there was something. Ava, what if that Simon guy turned out to be for real?”
    “Simon who?” she grunts crossly.
    I lean up on one elbow and whisper more loudly.
    “Simon from Carnaby Street. The scout. What if he actually meant it — that stuff about me? What if it wasn’t a scam?”
    There’s a sudden rustle, then a click. The bedside light comes on. Ava’s sitting bolt upright in bed and staring straight at me.
    “Are you sure?”
    “No. I mean, he might have been having a joke or something. But his agency’s real — Model City. I checked out their website.It’s got this famous girl called Isabelle Carruthers who’s on loads of magazines and … I dunno … not Lily Cole, but other people you’ve heard of.”
    “What? Really? That never occurred to me.”
    “Thanks a lot.”
    “Sorry. It’s just … Holly went on about those scammers last year. And I just assumed …”
    “I know,” I sigh. I don’t blame her. Of course, if he’d picked on Ava, we’d both have assumed he was real.
    “I guess every once in a while they must be genuine,” she goes on. “Or how would they find people? I used to dream about modeling, you know. A bit. Secretly. Before I met Jesse.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah.” Her smile widens. “Me and Louise. Imagine the clothes … The makeup. Looking your best all the time. Getting your hair done. Meeting celebrities. Traveling on private jets. Practically living in Paris. The clothes …”
    “You said the clothes.”
    “I know. Practically living in Milan. Practically living in New York. The money. The clothes …”
    It sounds exhausting. All that changing outfits, apart from anything else.
    “So what happened?”
    “Well, first of all, I discovered surfing. After you’ve had that rush, nothing else compares.”
    She pauses, clearly thinking back to last summer and remembering the rush.
    “And?”
    “Oh, and Jesse said he’d never date a model in a million years.”
    “Why?”
    She ponders for a minute. “He never said. I didn’t ask him. He just seemed pretty certain about it. Besides, he said that although I’m perfect in every way — for him — I’d be too short for anything top-modelish. You have to be at least five foot nine or something, and I’m five seven.”
    This is odd. Jesse is a surf dude who lives in Cornwall. “How does he even know?”
    She shrugs again. “No idea. He knows lots of weird stuff.”
    Her goofy smile returns. Now she’s thinking about the surfing rush and the Jesse rush. Then her expression changes again and she looks at me, head cocked, thoughtfully.
    “Anyway, we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you. Come to think of it, it all adds up. I watched a program about models once, and they said the girls they pick aren’t necessarily the ones you’d think of. They need people who are … unusual. They have to have a special look. And they did mention the minimum height thing. You must be five eleven by now.”
    “So Simon picked me because I’m freakishly tall.”
    “And freakishly thin. And didn’t he say he thought you looked gorgeous?”
    “No. He said ‘amazing.’”
    “Whatever. Get over yourself, T!”
    “You were just saying I could be a model!”
    There’s silence again. Ava’s plotting something while she examines one of her perfect fingernails.
    “Yeah, actually,” she says eventually, with rising excitement in her voice. “If that guy was for real, you could! It would be SO COOL. You could get lots of free stuff and give me some of it.You could tell me