The Sister Surprise by Abigail Mann (book series for 10 year olds .txt) 📕

emergency measure of over-the-counter migraine medication followed by a takeaway porridge pot hasn’t had a chance to kick in yet, so when I lace up the patent Doc Martens that I’ve been given (unnecessarily, seeing as we’re only going to be on camera from the waist up), I feel my heart beating behind my eyeballs and the effect is nausea-inducing, to say the least.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel wildly tired and drastically awake at the same time but, alas, this seems to be the case. Max hasn’t responded to the five messages I’ve sent asking if he’s ready for a run-through. As he’s not at his desk, I go on the hunt, my feet clumpy and unfamiliar. I push the door open to the work kitchen and stifle a yawn to avoid straining my hairline.

Alongside me, a stretch of windows looks down onto a throng of street-level activity, as a ribbon of red buses, cycles, and beeping Hackney cabs jostle for space on a road split by pedestrian crossings and tall Georgian buildings. Giselle is perched with an espresso by the door, her head bent in concentration as she shakes beauty samples out of a padded envelope. She squints at the underside of a lipstick, taps a note out on her laptop, and rolls her sleeve up. From a distance, her skin looks like it’s covered in a number of puce-coloured burns, but then I notice the arc of lipsticks before her, each with a corresponding swatch on her skin. Phew. No clingfilm bandage necessary.

‘Hey, have you seen Max anywhere?’ I ask, tapping on the back of a chair.

‘He came out of Duncan’s office earlier, but that was first thing this morning,’ says Giselle, holding her arms parallel to compare identical shades of burgundy.

‘Hmm. Shit.’

‘You all right?’ says Giselle, looking up. ‘You look a bit sweaty.’

‘Yeah. Sorry, I’m just a bit distracted,’ I say, reaching up to rub my eyes.

‘No!’ shouts Giselle, her chair tipping backwards as she slaps my wrist down. The lipsticks scatter across the table. ‘Your make-up looks insane! Don’t touch your face!’ She tips my chin from one side to the other. ‘Is this the new Charlotte Tilbury palette?’

‘Maybe?’

‘How could you not know?’ she asks, incredulous.

‘I was thinking about other things.’ I stretch the back of my neck and wince. ‘I swear it’s getting tighter,’ I say, cautiously tapping my hairline.

Giselle sits on a beanbag and pulls her heels onto her lap.

‘Have you practised your surprised face yet?’ she says, tying her hair back with a sequined scrunchie.

‘No …?’

‘You might want to. I’ve seen Max do his and it’s pretty good.’

‘Why would we need to practise?’

‘Well, you’ve already seen your DNA results, right? You’ve got to make it seem authentic.’

‘What do you mean? It’s meant to be revealed live!’

‘It’s got to seem like it’s revealed live. Max was going on about it earlier. Something to do with being related to King Louis the Sixteenth …’

I exhale sharply and pace up to the windows and back again. ‘Oh, God. This is a nightmare. I’m living in an actual fucking nightmare.’

Max blasts through the double swing doors.

‘Morning, all!’ He wipes his palms on his jeans, rocks back on his heels, and rubs his nose. He nods in my direction, but reels into a conversation with two tech hands by the fridge that contains few words but plenty of over-enunciated laughter.

I take a half-step towards them. ‘Max,’ I hiss, trying and failing to attract his attention in a subtle manner. ‘Max!’ He whips around and smacks his lips like he’s popping bubble gum.

‘Ava? Man, didn’t recognise you. You look good. What happened?’

My neck grows hot and I now regret the urgent email I sent to lighting about using the high wattage bulbs. I pull him out of the kitchen and into a darkened corner of the studio.

‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Did you have an appointment this morning?’

‘What kind of appointment?’

‘With the stylist?’ I say, tugging at my space buns in an attempt to loosen them.

‘Didn’t have one,’ replies Max. He throws an arm across my shoulders and grins down at me as he steers us towards the studio. I jab a knuckle into his ribs and face him straight on, arms crossed over my scooped T-shirt that shows three inches more cleavage than I’m comfortable with showing.

Max and I met on our NCTJ journalism course five years ago and became an unlikely pair; I’d save him a seat during lectures, he invited me to parties, and our friendship was uncomplicated by sex, which is how he burned his bridges with the rest of our cohort. We ended up at Snooper within six months of each other and he delivers peanut and prawn dumplings to my desk if I’m on a tight deadline, so there’s genuine friendship there beneath the bravado.

‘Duncan literally told me I wasn’t allowed to appear on camera if I refused to go.’

‘Call it natural beauty,’ says Max, posing with his fist propped beneath his chin. He does look annoyingly cool, if dishevelled.

‘You excited?’ he asks, glancing around at the technicians taping cables to the floor.

‘No. I’m … annoyed at you.’

Max places a hand on his chest and pretends to look affronted. ‘Me? No.’

‘Please – for the love of all that is holy – can we go over the script.’

‘Sorry, looks like we’re about to start,’ says Max with a wink.

Lowanna, the floor manager, pulls aside her headphones and runs a finger down her clipboard. ‘Can we get you in position? Max? Ava? We need to set up the shot.’

I sit down on set and clutch my forehead, squinting. The lights are so bright that everyone’s silhouette is stamped on the back of my eyelids. My head throbs. I never thought I’d relate to Harry Potter so strongly, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say Voldemort was close by.

Max sits down next to me on a plywood cube and pulls his leg up.

‘So, you know the set-up of the feature,’ says