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  DJ Rémi looks up from his iPod and gives me a long, appraising glance. I look down at myself and wish that for once I had dressed like a grown-up. Sure, these are my favourite leggings and my Converses still make me smile. But I'm all flowery and girly and I happen to have decided on a smocked dress this morning that makes me look about four. The only grown-up thing I'm wearing is my bowler hat and I'm not sure, in the circumstances, it's quite right for the effect I'm going for. I need to smarten up my act if I'm going to keep working with Crow.

  ‘Chopin?’

  ‘Yes. A sort of ballet vibe. It was my brother's idea.’

  ‘Your brother is a DJ?’

  ‘Yes, actually. Sometimes.’ I bite my lip.

  ‘Sometimes?’

  ‘Well, he's really a photographer. But he gave us loads of ideas for the collection. They've really helped.’

  ‘He has done music for a show before? He knows what they used at Dior? At Donna Karan?’

  ‘Er . . . no.’

  Crow has turned her back on us. She's returned to working on a toile. Her back is an instruction to me. I know what she means, but I really wish she didn't.

  ‘So. You don't like house music?’

  ‘It's not exactly that. It's just, we wanted something more romantic.’ I realise that I am translating Crow's shoulders. They relax slightly and I know that I've got it right. Then I understand what she really wants.

  ‘Actually, thank you so much for coming, but I think we'll probably, er, stick with my brother. You know. He's kind of . . . been helping us since the collection started. He's sort of. . . got it.’

  DJ Rémi pulls himself up to his full leather-coated height.

  ‘I am DJ Rémi,’ he points out.

  ‘Oh, definitely.’

  ‘I'm a busy, busy person. Amanda asked me to come here as a favour. I could be in a bar right now, sipping COCKTAILS. Instead I am here. If I leave now, I LEAVE. For good.’

  ‘Oh, right. I'm really sorry.’

  I realise that I'm winding one leg around the other and that I've subconsciously channelled the look of the piano player in High School Musical and I feel utterly ridiculous. I notice Crow's shoulders moving slightly and realise that she is silently giggling. I could kill her.

  ‘Do not concern yourself,’ DJ Rémi says haughtily, removing his iPod from the speakers with a flourish. ‘They say never work with infants, you know? I will think of it as a lucky escape.’

  When I tell Amanda, she's gobsmacked. There is silence down the line for a long time. Then she laughs so hard she can hardly speak, and says she only wishes she could have been there. And that it's a big commitment for Harry to take on and very kind of him to agree to it. Which is when I remember that we haven't actually asked him yet. I keep this to myself.

  As usual, Crow hardly mentions it. She just gives me a wide smile and gets on with perfecting one of the outfits. Next time I turn up at the studio, though, there's a piece I haven't seen before. A mini dress, made out of cast-off bits of lace and silk, with knitted cobweb sleeves. It's a work of art. My size. I'm not sure whether to wear it or frame it. Crow grins as I try it on. As a way of saying thank you, it works for me.

  Luckily, Harry says yes to doing the show. He seems to have all sorts of interesting tracks lined up already. It's as if he was waiting to be asked.

  Edie is amazing and if she doesn't make the United Nations she may end up as a saint. Thanks to her getting everyone talking about Crow's village and the boys who were taken in the raid, two of them have been tracked down by charity workers in Northern Uganda. Funnily enough, although I'm ready and waiting for her to be SUPER-SMUG at the news, she isn't at all. One hundred per cent in maths? Insufferable. Two boys reunited with their families? Really humble and sweet. She only mentions it in passing.

  I'm totally proud of her. However, after a while I sense that something's wrong.

  We're getting ready to go back to school, but instead of cheerfully reeling off all the stuff she's read over the holidays and saying how much she's looking forward to all her clubs, she's gone all glum and silent.

  Jenny's too busy planning what to wear with her CHANEL DRESS to impress her BOYFRIEND to notice, but I do.

  ‘Out with it,’ I demand.

  At first Edie pretends there's nothing to come out with. Then she starts looking guilty.

  ‘You mustn't tell Crow,’ she says.

  ‘Tell her what?

  ‘Promise you won't say.’

  ‘I can keep a secret.’

  Honestly. Edie. She thinks that just because she has to tell the world exactly what she's thinking at any given moment, none of us are capable of keeping our thoughts to ourselves.

  Anyway, regardless of what she thinks, she is incapable of keeping a secret. So she tells me.

  ‘You know those boys they found? One of them knows what really happened to Henry. He was with him in a raid a couple of years ago.’

  ‘And?’

  She sighs. ‘They were ambushed. Henry got shot in the head and they had to leave him behind. This boy doesn't even know where he's buried.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don't tell Crow yet.’

  ‘Of course not! Anyway, it could be another rumour,’ I say hopefully.

  She shakes her head. This is different. This time there's a witness. And life isn't that kind.

  ‘So when are we going to tell her?’

  ‘It's not up to us. They're still checking it out. Then I guess James will tell her.’

  It's easy to keep the secret with Jenny. The Golden Globes are in a few days’ time and Jenny can't think about anything that isn't a diet, a fitness session, a Hollywood party schedule or a name beginning with J and ending with -oe Yule. I've been kind of giving her a bit of space myself recently, because this can get a little boring after a while. And she seems to think that me talking constantly about makeup designs and choreography and seating plans is pretty boring too (no idea why). But now I want to take my mind off Edie's news, so I'm happy to indulge Jenny by talking about Mr Drool.

  The first time she'll see him is at a party for the Kid Code stars and crew, the night before the big event. The party itself will be a big occasion, because Hollywood's Hottest Couple will be there, along with some of their A-list mates. Jenny knows she has to make an impact, so she's packing the Dior cocktail dress that she wore on the Jonathan Ross show, and that brought her such good luck. She's spent hours working out how to perfect her makeup and got Granny's hairdresser to give her a short, new haircut that reveals EVEN JENNY has cheekbones. I'm gutted.

  We spend an afternoon in Selfridges, choosing perfume. She wants to be mysterious and subtle, but also stand out in a crowd. By the time we've driven four sales assistants to the point of madness with her demands, we both smell like an air freshener disaster and settle for the one with the most attractive bottle.

  I pack her off to the airport with a playlist of inspirational music, courtesy of Harry, and a promise to watch every red-carpet second of her in Chanel on cable. She's so excited she can hardly speak.

  ‘Think of me tomorrow night,’ she says.

  Tomorrow night is Kid Code party night. I promise I will. It'll be hard not to. I make her promise to text me as soon as she gets back to her hotel and tell me how it went.

  ‘Tomorrow night’ in California is early morning in London. I leave my phone beside the bed. But when I wake up, with light pouring through the window, there's still no text. I wait all morning. No text. My mind runs through a thousand possibilities. Some are very inappropriate for a nearly-fifteen-year-old. Some are dreadful. But the most likely explanation is that Jenny was having such a good time that she forgot.

  Thank goodness for the internet. I google the Kid Code party and wait to see what the gossip is. Does it, for example, include any interesting updates on the love life of a certain Mr Yule?

  It does. There's even a picture of the stars and their dates, posing for the paparazzi.

  In the foreground, J
oe looks like he's having the time of his life. Beside him is a girl beaming happily and posing in her designer dress.

  ‘Joe Yule looking loved-up beside his new squeeze, the rising starlet, Sigrid Santorini.’

  In the background, I can just about make out Jenny, in her Dior, looking as if she's been hit by a bus.

  Sigrid Santorini starred in a Spanish film last year that won Best Foreign Film at the Oscars. She is part Swedish, part Spanish, part Italian and one hundred per cent Californian. She is nineteen, very talented and exceedingly beautiful, in a black-hair-red-lips sort of way. She's been filming with Joe Yule in New Mexico and her boyfriend is – or used to be – one of the producers. She makes Lila Riley look like Dora the Explorer. If this is the sort of thing Joe Yule likes, Jenny never stood a chance.

  Still she doesn't call me, or text me, or answer any of the texts I send to her.

  ‘I knew it,’ said Edie, when I tell her. ‘Oh, Nonie, you're upset too. D'you want me to come over?’

  We watch the ceremony together. Joe wins Best Supporting Actor. Sigrid Santorini, sitting beside him and shimmering in off-the-shoulder Givenchy, looks suitably thrilled when he gets up to accept the award. Jenny, sitting nearby in her beautiful grey Chanel, looks like a ghost. We rewind to her red carpet moment – which is gone in a flash – and she seems lost in all the pleats and feathers. She seems lost altogether. Even her hair seems to have downgraded its shade to a dull muddy orange. There's another brief image of her when Kid Code is nominated for Best Picture. She doesn't seem to care either way and the camera moves on.

  Still no text.

  We have to wait until she comes home to hear the full story. When she tells it, her voice is lifeless. It's as if she's talking about a girl she met once, a long time ago, and can't remember very well.

  ‘It was my fault,’ she says. ‘You were right, Edie. All the time.’

  ‘But he asked you to go to the ceremony with him.’

  ‘He explained about that at the party. Sigrid was still splitting up with her boyfriend. He wasn't sure if she'd be able to come. And he knew it would look odd if he said he was coming on his own, so it was easier to say he was going with me. After all, no-one would ever imagine we were a couple. He knew I'd understand.’

  ‘But you didn't understand,’ Edie says angrily.

  I can tell she's angry with Joe, not Jenny. It seems pretty clear that he quite liked having a younger girl go gooey over him when he wasn't sure what was happening with Sigrid, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

  ‘It's not his fault,’ Jenny says. It's like she's defending her father all over again. ‘Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm here. He's there.’

  ‘But what about your new movie? The Hawaii one.’

  ‘I'm not doing it,’ she says in her empty voice. ‘I was silly to think of it. Of course I'd be awful.’

  ‘No you wouldn't!’ I say loyally.

  ‘Well . . .’ Edie is less loyal, but more honest. ‘You said you wanted more practice. More training. Sounds like a good idea to me.’

  Jenny nods. ‘I know it's the right thing to do. I've told my agent not to look at any more movies. I'm not even sure why I've got an agent. I was just . . . silly. Anyway, it turns out he'd have been in Prague then anyway, so I'd have looked pretty stupid.’

  ‘At least you'll never have to see him again,’ Edie points out, searching for crumbs of comfort.

  ‘Except at the BAFTAs, of course,’ Jenny says. She half-smiles at the awfulness of it. We don't dare. ‘In four weeks. They're here in London so I have to go. He's coming over with Sigrid. Because I'm such a great mate of his, he wants us to hang out together. He wants me to show her the sights.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said yes. What else could I say? By the way, these are for you.’

  She picks up a box and hands it to Edie.

  ‘The latest Louboutins they gave me to go with the dress. Auction them for your Invisible Children.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Edie takes the box and opens it. A pair of stilettos are nestled inside, under a blanket of tissue paper. The red soles are hardly worn and the uppers sparkle with diamanté. Cinderella shoes.

  ‘Sure you don't want to keep them?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I'll make sure they go to a good home.’

  When Jenny goes, Edie hangs around. I can tell she wants to talk to me about something, but I have to ask what it is.

  ‘I was wondering . . .’ she says, ‘. . . would it be a good idea to name the school after Henry Lamogi? The one we're trying to build? I was thinking about the Henry Lamogi Memorial School, but I wasn't sure. I know I put my foot in it sometimes.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘I meant did you know. But it sounds like a nice idea. If Crow agrees, of course. No-one's told her yet, though, have they?’

  Edie shakes her head.

  ‘No. But Andy Elat has offered to fly the family over for the show. He wants them to see what she can do. And he wants Crow to be able to see Victoria again. She hasn't seen her since she was a baby. So James can tell her . . . you know . . . in person, about Henry. But don't tell her about them coming. Andy wants it to be a surprise.’

  I promise secrecy. I'm getting used to it.

  The thought of James coming over gives me a shred of hope for Crow.

  ‘So does that mean there's a chance her dad'll let her stay?’

  Edie shakes her head again.

  ‘Not really. Not from what he's said.’

  ‘But surely it helps that she's got us? Looking after her?’

  Edie looks embarrassed. ‘Well, not exactly. People have been telling him about my blog. I'm afraid he thinks you're a bad influence.’

  ‘Why?’

  She gestures at me. I look down. Today I haven't got any scary meetings so I'm in lederhosen, customised wellies and a frilly shirt. Gradually it dawns on me.

  ‘You mean he disapproves of me because of my outfits?’

  She looks embarrassed.

  ‘That's all he knows about you. That, and the fact you keep introducing Crow to people who “distract her with their superficial affectations”.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  Edie sees the look I give her and goes the colour of the tee-shirts. She also manages to remember something else so she can change the subject, quickly.

  ‘They don't want front row seats, by the way. They want it to be a surprise, but they don't want to give Crow a heart attack. They want to stand near the back somewhere.’

  Small mercies. If that's the case, they'll be about the only people in London who do.

  Crow may not be news in the celebrity press, but she's news in the fashion press. It's divided between the people who think she may be the next Galliano, and the people who assume she's just a jumped-up little teenager with good connections, who's bound to fall flat on her face when the collection turns out to be a disaster. For these reasons, both groups of people badly want tickets for the show. I get calls and emails all the time from people ‘just checking’ they're on the list. I don't have the heart to tell most of them they haven't got a hope.

  With less than six weeks to go, the mood board in the Battersea studio is starting to look ready. We've decided on the gold eyeshadow and dusty gold and silver blusher for the models. We've got a good idea of the soft, romantic ringlets for the hair. Skye has found someone to make the tiara-like headdresses Crow wants. We've even chosen the tights.

  All the toiles have been made and several of the dresses are starting to come together. Crow's designed the invitations. And the Year Ten art class at school are making the backdrop saying ‘Less Fashion More Compassion’. I hope the visiting fashionistas will find it ironic, rather than positively offensive, but it's too late now.

  The studio is beautiful. It's become the story of the Twelve Dancing Princesses – full of jewel-coloured silk
s, frayed fabrics, scattered crystals and tired helpers. However, it's also a crazy mess. There's still loads to do and we have to fit it around maths, English and French, same as always.

  In the centre is the pièce de résistance. It's the show-stopper dress that Crow's going to use to wind up the show. Lots of designers end with a wedding dress, but as Crow's theme is dancing princesses, this is just the most perfect party dress, for the most perfect girl.

  Unlike the rest of the collection, which is intensely coloured, this dress is silver. It's got a backless satin bodice and a long, waterfall skirt made up of dozens of petals of silver lace, finished with crystals. The lace is Skye's latest textile design, which she's given to Crow to experiment with. It's even more delicate than her last one and looks like the skeletons of leaves you get on a frosty winter morning. It seems incredibly delicate, but Crow has decided to muck about with it and fray the edges of every petal. Each one takes hours of work, deciding on the shape and position and then fraying it the perfect amount.

  The effect isn't as ballerina-pretty as most of her stuff. It's more edgy and sexy and dangerous. It takes me a while to work out what on earth can be going on in that thirteen-year-old head of hers to make her even imagine it, until I realise: it's like a crash-course in fashion history. There are bits of Vionnet, bits of Saint Laurent, bits of Westwood, bits of Galliano and bits that are entirely her own.

  One day, she catches me looking.

  ‘I call it the Swan,’ she says. ‘It sort of started out as a design for Swan Lake. One day I'd love to design for the ballet.’

  Of course she would. Really, nothing surprises me about Crow any more. She probably will, knowing her.

  January hurtles into February. I actually feel sick when Mum turns the page on the kitchen calendar. February is Fashion Week month. February is like a magical name for something in the future that will never really happen. Once February comes we only have three weeks to get everything done. Lots of my friends are thinking about skiing. I'm thinking about lighting and rehearsals and the dreaded seating plan.