Code Red Lipstick, page 1
Code Red Lipstick is Sarah Sky’s debut teen novel and the first in the JESSICA COLE: MODEL SPY series. Sarah is a freelance education journalist, writing under her real name, Sarah Harris. She is also fan of karate – currently brown belt and eyeing up black – and has a green belt in kick-boxing. She lives in London with her husband and two young children. She would have loved to have become a spy but was never recruited by MI6. Or was she…?
@sarahsky23
For Darren, James and Luke
Contents
Cover
Half Title Page
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Copyright
The giant snake squeezed her neck and dragged her deeper beneath the surface of the icy water. Jessica felt weak from the cold, and her shoulders ached beneath the snake’s enormous weight. Her lungs were beginning to get tight. She tried to pull the snake off but it was longer than her from head to toe and impossible to budge.
Panic gripped her as she dropped to the bottom of the tank. She had cramps in both legs. Her limbs felt like lead weights. She tried to kick her way up but nothing happened. She could see blurred figures on the other side of the glass but nobody came to her rescue. They were going to watch her drown. She felt so stupid. Her dad had warned her it was a bad idea. She hated it when he was right, which was pretty much all the time. Why hadn’t she listened to him?
Her lungs screamed for oxygen and her ribs felt like they were cracking one by one. She wasn’t going to die like this, not in front of these people. With one final burst of energy, she yanked at the snake. The sudden movement took it by surprise and it slid off her shoulders, momentarily beaten. She feebly kicked to the surface, concentrating on the circle of light. She broke through the water and clung on to the side of the tank, taking huge gulps of air as figures lunged towards her.
“Hair! Lipstick and eyeliner!” a voice boomed. “And will somebody grab that snake?”
Jessica shivered violently as a group of make-up artists applied more silver waterproof eyeshadow, black eyeliner and mascara. A stylist combed her hair and smothered it with gel while another pair of hands readjusted the green chiffon kaftan over her white Gucci swimsuit and pinned it back into place. She looked down at her fingers, which had actually turned blue. Wasn’t anybody going to ask her if she was OK? They were clearly too busy trying to make her look as flawless as possible before they tried to drown her again.
A small man carrying a shih-tzu strode towards her. His tiny black beard quivered with anger.
“Jessica, tu es très belle, but how many times have I asked you not to blink? Why were you kicking about when I specifically told you to float? You’ve ruined my shot. Again!”
She resisted the urge to reach out and drag him into the water along with his horrible yappy dog. He was, after all, Sebastian Rossini. He’d hand-picked her to feature in a spread in Mademoiselle, the new glossy magazine for teenagers. It was a great opportunity. She was thrilled. Unfortunately, he also happened to be a total sadist. There was no point arguing with him; he wouldn’t let her go until he got the shot he wanted.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she said, teeth chattering. “I lost my concentration for a moment. It won’t happen again, I p-p-promise.”
“C’est bon.”
He shoved his dog into his assistant Juan’s trembling hands and picked up his camera again. Juan put the dog down on a Chanel cushion in the corner of the warehouse and pushed a snack of poached chicken in front of him before backing off to a safe distance. Jessica’s stomach rumbled. She’d been here since the crack of dawn and hadn’t been offered any breakfast or a drink. Why did everyone think modelling was glamorous? If only some of the girls at school could see her now. They’d soon shut up.
She flexed her arms and legs. The circulation was coming back. Just.
“Hold still and open your lips wider,” a make-up artist ordered.
She obeyed as a third coat of scarlet lipstick was applied and blotted with a tissue. Somebody else touched up her waterproof foundation.
“Again!” Sebastian said. “And no mistakes this time.”
“I’ll try!”
She smiled brightly despite wanting to tell him to drop dead. Two men had fished the snake out of the tank and gently placed it back on to her shoulders. She took a deep breath and sank below the surface again. This time she kept her eyes wide open despite the water stinging like mad. She struck a pose, arched her back and let her arms drift up to her shoulders. She changed position again. Her legs floated gracefully behind her. It was hard to hold her body and juggle the snake, but ballet and kick-boxing classes had helped build up her stamina. She was determined to give Sebastian the perfect shot so she could get out of there ASAP.
She struck a final pose and Sebastian gave a thumbs-up. It was a wrap. She broke through the water for the last time and was greeted with a round of applause from the shoot team. She shrugged the snake off her shoulders with a shudder, and felt herself being pulled out of the tank. She was so cold she could barely walk down the ladder, but so what? She should quit griping and suck it up; it was a great job. She got to meet some amazingly creative people. Plus, hopefully she’d have the chance to travel around the world on assignments soon. This job would give her an awesome shot for her portfolio, and that could lead to something bigger. She’d love to land an ad campaign for a cosmetics company or a fashion label like Prada.
“Fantastique! Ma jolie sirène,” Sebastian said, beaming.
She blushed, almost wishing she hadn’t been able to translate “my beautiful mermaid” – embarrassing or what?
“T-t-thank you,” she said, stuttering with cold.
She limped away to a changing room. She’d made it out alive. Louise greeted her with a sympathetic smile and a large white towel.
“You’ll soon warm up, I promise,” she said. “Now let’s get you out of this wet stuff.”
Louise had to pull off the kaftan and swimsuit, as Jessica’s fingers were too numb. Hugging the towel to her, she shrugged on a pink bathrobe. This shoot was better than most, as it had a separate changing area, but photographers and stylists often barged in unannounced. Other models didn’t bat an eyelid about dressing and undressing in front of everyone on a shoot, but she still hadn’t got used to it. She doubted she would.
Peeling off her false eyelashes and scrubbing at the make-up with cotton-wool balls, she slowly began to recognize herself through the layers of foundation. She didn’t wear heavy make-up like this when she wasn’t working, although she was surgically attached to her favourite lipgloss and mascara.
Louise teased the gel and wax out of her long strawberry-blonde hair before starting blow-drying as Jessica checked her mobile. That was a first. Her dad hadn’t texted. He usually suffered from OSDS – Overprotective Single Dad Syndrome – and wanted her to check in with him as soon as a shoot finished. He was away on business and hadn’t returned her calls from yesterday either; they’d gone straight to voicemail. Maybe he was just busy. Was that the reason why she hadn’t found a text from Jamie, the hottest boy in her year, either?
Yeah, right. In her dreams. Like he’d ever message her.
“You could do with a shampoo,” Louise exclaimed. “I’m never going to get these knots out.” She lifted up a clump of tangled hair.
“Don’t worry,” Jessica replied, scraping her hair into an untidy bun. A few tendrils refused to be coaxed back into place but she didn’t have time to tame them. It was 7.45 a.m. already and she was stuck in east London, nowhere near a tube station. Her teachers had been pretty accommodating since she’d started modelling but she didn’t want to push her luck by turning up late for registration again. One more strike and she’d be heading straight to detention.
After wriggling into her regulation grey polyester skirt, white shirt and grey pullover, she stepped into black ballet pumps. She hardly ever wore heels as she was so tall. She sighed as she stared into the mirror. It didn’t matter how many times she tugged at her skirt, it didn’t look any better. Yeuch! The fabric scratched and edged up her legs. It drew way too much attention to the fact her legs looked like they belonged to a giraffe.
She fastened her mum’s gold pendant and tucked it beneath her blouse so it wouldn’t be confiscated, then threw on the grey, ruffled pea coat she’d found in a vintage clothes market. It had just scraped through the strict uniform rules. She’d almost made it out of the door when Sebastian burst in, brandishing his digital camera. His dog yapped around his heels.
“We have the shot, ma jolie sirène. Look at this.”
Jessica and Louise peered over his shoulder at the pho
“Blimey!” Louise said. “That looks nothing like you. You scrub up well, if you don’t mind me saying. I wouldn’t know it was you.”
Jessica blushed.
“Well, I didn’t mean that exactly,” Louise said. “It’s just that you look so different.”
“I know what you mean,” Jessica said. “It doesn’t feel like me when I’m modelling.”
Sebastian nodded. “That’s the quality of great models. They can transform themselves with the help of an artist like me. You’re a blank canvas that can become anything, Jessica, including a mermaid.”
She flinched as he kissed her on both cheeks and disappeared with a dramatic flourish.
“I didn’t mean to be rude.” Louise turned towards her, frowning.
“I know. Don’t worry about it.”
Jessica gave her a hug and hurried away. Louise lacked in the tact department, but still, she much preferred assistants who spoke their minds rather than the ones who made catty comments about her appearance behind her back. Jessica was the first to admit she didn’t look like the Cindy Crawfords or Claudia Schiffers who used to dominate the modelling world with their curvy figures and perfectly balanced features. Jessica’s forehead was a little broad and her jaw stronger than most girls her age, accentuating her large green eyes and the freckles on her upturned nose.
Shouting her goodbyes to the rest of the shoot team, she strode through the warehouse. Jessica closed the door behind her and smiled as she felt the winter sun warm her face. Without make-up on she looked like any other teenage girl.
It felt good, apart from the horrid uniform. Even the world’s most famous supermodel couldn’t pull this look off. She gave the skirt one last tug and sprinted for the bus.
Jessica was wedged under a middle-aged man’s armpit while the driver attempted to reach kamikaze speeds in Monday rush-hour traffic. Great. Yet another journey stuck next to someone with bad B.O. Slowly, she turned around to find today’s newspaper shoved in her face, and couldn’t help but read the story.
January 20
TYLER QUITS!
Supermodel Tyler Massey has shocked the fashion world by turning her back on her lucrative modelling career.
The eighteen-year-old unexpectedly quit her multimillion-pound contract with Naturissmo SkinCare Company yesterday and cancelled all her fashion commitments, including her first solo front cover of Vogue.
She’d already pulled out of a much-anticipated appearance at Paris Haute Couture Week this Thursday and hasn’t been seen in public since before Christmas.
Her publicist said plans to launch her own perfume have also been put on hold indefinitely.
Lydia Hollings, boss of Emerald modelling agency, says Tyler wants to enrol at college. However, her whereabouts are currently unknown and she has not returned to her hometown in Devon.
Tyler is the last of the “famous five” supermodels to quit the fashion industry.
Olinka, Jacey, Darice and Valeriya have all left modelling in the last month, citing personal reasons. They have now retired from public life.
The “famous five” phrase was coined by Sebastian Rossini, who photographed the supermodels for a legendary Vogue front cover.
Jessica looked away as the woman turned the page. She’d heard of the “famous five”. Who hadn’t? They were all well-known enough to be referred to by just their first names. Why were they all leaving the business? The bus suddenly braked, jolting everyone forward. The doors clattered open and a stream of people staggered off.
She clung on to the handrail and swung down into an empty seat. Digging around in her black rucksack, she pulled out her iPhone and typed the name “Tyler” and “supermodel” into the search engine. It brought up thousands of hits. The internet was buzzing with rumours about why she’d retired from modelling. They varied from her being disfigured in a car crash to falling victim to alien abduction.
Seriously? Did anyone actually believe that?
She followed links about the rest of the “famous five”. Olinka had been due to start shooting a major Hollywood movie when Lydia Hollings unexpectedly announced her retirement earlier this month. Jacey had been planning to launch her own exclusive lingerie line and perfume. Emerald had landed bookings for Darice and Valeriya from practically every top designer at Paris Haute Couture Week. They’d both recently pulled out despite being the stars of the shows. Emerald again. She clicked back. Jacey was also an Emerald model. The supermodels belonged to the same agency and they’d all walked away from exciting jobs at the peak of their careers. How strange.
She typed in the names of all the supermodels, Lydia Hollings and Emerald. She found an article from OK! magazine dated last December.
THE FAMOUS FIVE DAZZLE EVERYONE – AGAIN!
No one could be accused of being underdressed at Emerald modelling agency’s fiftieth anniversary ball in London.
The “famous five” pulled out all the stops, wearing £20 million worth of emeralds and diamonds between them, loaned by De Beers.
They rubbed glamorous shoulders with designers, magazine editors and other celebrities, including Hollywood stars Taylor Lautner and Liam Hemsworth.
Guests paid tribute to Lydia Hollings, the head of Emerald, who has made the modelling agency the most successful in the world. She famously scouted Tyler, Olinka, Jacey, Darice and Valeriya.
Happy birthday, Emerald!
Lydia Hollings was in the centre of the photograph. Jessica enlarged the screen. What a trout pout! It was hilarious. She’d obviously had too much collagen pumped into her lips. That was Tyler, to her left, in a gorgeous ink-blue gown. The caption said it was Christian Dior. Olinka, Jacey, Darice and Valeriya were grouped around them, clutching champagne glasses and laughing. The girls all looked stunning, particularly Darice, who wore a scarlet-fringed Versace number slashed to her navel.
Why couldn’t she find any more photos of the supermodels in public after the anniversary ball? After years of being in the public spotlight, they’d simply slipped away. Had they finally had enough of being followed by the paps? It had to grate, but it still didn’t seem a good enough reason to give up. Tyler had years of modelling ahead of her and could have juggled her A levels with work. That was certainly what she was planning to do. The extra cash was pretty handy, particularly when her dad wasn’t up to working.
Looking up, the familiar streets of west London whizzed past.
“No!” She hammered on the stop button, but the driver ignored her and whizzed through a red light. She should have got off two stops ago. It was 8.55 a.m. and she was seriously late. This was the third time a shoot had overrun in the last month. What excuse could she give this time?
A bad-tempered snake tried to drown me? Hatchet Hatcham would never buy it. She’d get a detention and a note sent home, which meant Dad would ground her, like, for ever. She’d made a pact with him that modelling wouldn’t get in the way of schoolwork.
As soon as the doors swung open again, she dashed down the street, past cafés, launderettes and takeaways, not slowing until she reached St Alban’s Comp. She clung on to the railings, panting. She’d just given Usain Bolt a run for his money. The front gates were open so she could still make it. She hesitated. Form prefects would be lurking about, waiting to pounce on stragglers with their dreaded “late notes”.
If she just charged in, detention would be a dead cert. She pulled out her dad’s iPad from her rucksack and shoved in a headset. She turned the device on, waited for it to load and entered his secret password.
Jellybean.
Honestly. Her dad was a private detective and ex-MI6 agent. Couldn’t he think of something less obvious – and hackable – than his old nickname for her?
Jessica bean – Jellybean.
She took a photograph of the school using the iPad and uploaded it on to the thermal heat-sensor application. Within seconds, she had a 3D image of the school and a seething mass of orange blobs which represented the pupils and staff inside. She didn’t need every floor. She isolated the grounds, the route to the rear entrance and the whole of the ground floor just to be on the safe side, just as she’d done at a hotel in West Kensington when her dad needed her to help plant a bugging device in a target’s suite.
