Most Sunday evenings are spent making props, or working on the music with Harry, or desperately finishing homework. My ability to précis, I'm told, has much improved. This means I've got good at making my essays short. A necessity in these busy times.
The second Sunday in February is an exception, though.
It's BAFTA Sunday and work at the studio has ground to a halt. Edie and I are outside the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. For once, Crow is with us too, looking scared and startled. I don't think she likes big crowds and this is the biggest crowd I've been in, and the most excited.
Jenny had been hoping to arrive late and avoid the red carpet as much as possible, but the message obviously hasn't got through and she's one of the first people to turn up. This time she gets a warm welcome as lots of people recognise her. There are a few friendly shouts as people hold up their phones to get a picture. I try too, but all I get is a picture of a field of mobiles. However, from a distance, she seems to be bearing up well.
Mum would approve. Crow has somehow found the time to design an emerald green satin dress with a tiny waist and what we now call a Jenny-length hem that shows off her calves and ankles. The student helpers have mostly put it together, because Crow is so busy finalising the collection she hardly sleeps as it is, and they've managed to embellish the bodice and hem with some leftover Swarovski crystals. There's a matching jacket, too, to ward off the freezing English night.
The original Louboutins look good with their new rose clips. Jenny's also wearing borrowed emerald earrings and a choker with a teeny emerald drop, to emphasise the perfect skin on her neck and shoulders. Granny's hairdresser has conditioned her hair to such a shine it's practically blinding.
The only thing we can't really help her with is her expression. That will be entirely down to acting.
Joe arrives not long after Jenny, clutching Sigrid Santorini's hand and looking sickeningly pleased with himself. Sigrid is beautiful in pictures and better in the flesh. She has perfect hair, perfect tan, perfect body, and has encased it tonight in a gold lamé dress that starts at mid-boob level and stops a couple of inches above her perfect knees. She must be freezing but she's too professional to show it. Both of them show perfect sets of not entirely natural white teeth to us and all the photographers.
Jenny stays where she is, signing autographs, looking serene and unconcerned. Just another girl Joe happens to know from a movie. Because they were in Kid Code together the photographers ask them to pose beside each other and they do. Despite everything, they look as good as they did the last time. Joe mutters something into Jenny's ear and she smiles, as if her heart isn't really broken.
Edie and I agree that if she'd performed this well during Kid Code she'd be one of the favourites for an award tonight.
This time, she calls as soon as she gets home.
‘Thank God that's over.’
I tell her how good she was on the red carpet and ask if they won anything.
‘Four,’ she says abruptly. She reels off what they were, but it's as if she's listing GCSE subjects. There's clearly something else on her mind.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ she asks.
‘Sure.’
‘It's about Sigrid. You know we were going to do things together? Well, Joe's got to go to this business thing tomorrow and Sigrid's stuck on her own. She was busy admiring my dress, so I told her we could go to Crow's studio, if she wanted. She loves the whole Fashion Week thing. She often goes to shows in New York, she says. And Paris. She gets tickets all the time.’
‘It'll be chaos!’ I say, appalled. ‘There's stuff everywhere and pieces being finished off. She can't go!’
‘She'll have to,’ Jenny says, sounding tearful. ‘I promised.’
I sigh deeply. I can't bear to hear her sounding this miserable. I'll have to go with her, though, to guide the starlet through the pandemonium. With the show looming, the place is littered with nearly finished pieces, boxes of trimmings, discarded fabrics, stray accessories and piles of paperwork. It's impossible to imagine it all being ready on time but luckily I have Amanda's reassurance that this is normal and somehow, it will all come together when it needs to.
‘When were you thinking of going?’
‘Six o'clock? After school?’
Well, at six on a Monday I'd normally be at the studio anyway, so I agree.
This Monday, I'm there at five to. Unusually, no-one else is, but I hope this means the others are getting some rest for a change. The place is empty and dark. I haven't seen it like this for weeks. It feels strange to turn the lights on and gradually watch the pieces appear from the darkness as each strip light flickers into life.
I'm used to the chaos, but behind me, I hear a gasp. I look round and see Sigrid in the doorway, smiling like a toothpaste ad, with Jenny hovering behind her.
Sigrid's wearing a jeans and cashmere jumper combo that manages to look casual and eye-poppingly expensive. Her handbag is gorgeous, if you like that sort of thing. Her hair is shiny. Her skin is dewy. Her tiny, perfectly proportioned body doesn't have a square inch of fat on it. She is bouncy and friendly and gives the impression that she has just downed four energy drinks and loves you to bits. I don't think she's noticed I hate her.
Jenny's wearing an old coat and an apologetic expression. She introduces me.
‘Er, welcome. It's not always this messy,’ I say, lying.
‘Oh no! It's fabulous. Awesome,’ says Sigrid, going up to one of the tailor's dummies and ruffling its feathery skirt. ‘Jenny, I totally love this stuff. Where's your little friend?’
Jenny shrugs and looks at me questioningly. I shrug back.
‘Nonie's in charge, though,’ Jenny explains to reassure Sigrid. ‘She's the brains behind the business.’
I haven't heard myself described this way before and I don't think brains behind businesses usually giggle. But Sigrid ignores me and wafts around between the dummies, running her hand over the fabrics and feeling the petals and the crystal embroidery. Everything is ‘neat’ and ‘awesome’. I pray she doesn't break anything, but it seems rude to ask her not to touch.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask, feeling a bit desperate and anxious to give her hands something else to do.
‘Warm water, please,’ says Sigrid decisively. ‘With a touch of lemon. Three drops. Fresh lemon, please. You are SO sweet.’
They really are like that. Some of them, anyway. You think they're going to surprise you and be vaguely normal, but no.
I look at the studio's kitchenette, with its kettle, sink and mini-fridge. In the end I give her warmish tap water without the lemon. She takes one sip and hands it to Jenny with a wave of her hand. Then she continues on her royal progress round the room. Some of the stuff isn't awesome or neat, it's cute.
Eventually she reaches the showpiece of the collection – the Swan. It's the only piece that's technically ready, although even now Crow adjusts it every time she sees it.
‘Oh,’ Sigrid gasps again. She stops dead. ‘Jeez, this is the one. This has to be the one. I have to do this award thing. Can I try it on? How much are these numbers?’
My brain feels as though it's been chucked over a cliff and is bouncing down the boulders. Award thing. Try on. How much. I haven't really pictured actually selling the items after the show – although of course that's the point. Certainly not to an A-lister like Sigrid. Crow would take it in her stride, I'm sure. But she's not here.
I'm so busy stuttering, working out what to think, that Sigrid's got the dress off the dummy before I can stop her.
‘Help me here,’ she says, heading over to the mirror.
Then she casually strips to her knickers and steps into the dress. She's a minuscule sample size, naturally, and it fits her like a glove. It looks as though it was made for her. It looks as though it was made ON her. I can't help gasping, which is obviously the effect she was looking for. I haven't seen it on a moving human being before and it's incredible. It's a living fairy-tale of a d
ress and Sigrid, star-stealing strumpet that she is, looks incredible in it.
She stands in front of the mirror for several minutes, preening and practising her poses on tiptoe. It looks gorgeous from every angle. Not a single seam needs adjusting.
‘Awesome,’ she says for the umpteenth time. ‘Can I take it?’
‘I'm afraid not,’ I explain.‘London Fashion Week starts in just over a week. We need it for fittings and stuff. Then the show, of course.’
‘Cute,’ Sigrid says dismissively. ‘When's the show?’
‘In twelve days,’ I say, holding out my hands to help her out of the dress. She doesn't move.
‘That's OK. My award thing'll be over by then. It's just SO gorgeous. I have to have it. And I'm leaving town tomorrow.’ She looks thoughtful. ‘There wouldn't be time for you to ship it. Safest if I take it with me.’
‘I'm really sorry, but we need it.’
Sigrid looks at me, round-eyed. ‘Of course you do. I promise I'll get it back to you in a couple days. A week, tops. Scout's honour. Isn't that what you say? And meanwhile I'll wear it on TV and you'll get all the coverage. Think what that'll mean to your little friend here. She'll love you for it.’
I'm not quite sure what happens next. Jenny seems to have dematerialised. Sigrid says more stuff and I keep saying sorry, no, and she gets out of the dress and back into her cashmere, and the next thing I know she's got the Swan in a bag and her taxi is waiting to take her back to her hotel and we're outside the studio and I'm waving her goodbye.
It's only as the taxi pulls away that I start to wake up.
‘Why didn't you take it off her?’ Jenny asks.
It turns out Jenny disappeared to the loo at the crucial moment. Now she's standing beside me, watching the taxi drive off.
‘Why didn't you?’
‘Dunno. I was sort of mesmerised. She does that. But anyway, I thought you'd given it to her. You did, didn't you?’
‘I suppose I did,’ I admit. ‘She promised she'd get it back to us in time.’
‘When did she say she was going to wear it exactly?’
‘This award thing she's got.’
‘Which award thing?’
I look at Jenny, panicking.
‘I don't know. Some award thing. Isn't there a big award thing in a couple of days or so?’
Jenny shrugs. Her award thing days are over.
‘There's only the Oscars that I know of. But they're not for two weeks. And anyway, Sigrid's already got her outfit sorted for that. She was telling me. Going on about it, quite a lot. It's the three Vs.’
I cut her off. I'm not listening any more. My skin's gone cold. It'll be all right, I tell myself. It'll be completely fine. There's a perfectly rational explanation. Worst case, we just call her and ask for it back.
Over the next three hours, various things happen.
Sigrid isn't taking calls. We establish that her flight is at dawn.
When we get home we google – and can't find – any ‘award thing’ that she might be attending in any major world city in the next couple of days. And if she doesn't send the dress back after that it risks being too late for the show. Which doesn't bear thinking about.
Crow arrives to pick up a notebook and I have to tell her that I have GIVEN HER DRESS AWAY to a girl she's never met, and whom we don't even like.
I have to listen to Mum saying how she simply can't believe how stupid I am. And watch Harry's dumbstruck expression, which is worse.
Amanda Elat calls out of the blue just to check that everything's OK and I have to watch Crow's face as she explains that the Swan is gone. This is worst of all.
Edie comes round and says I look like Jenny did the night of the Kid Code dinner, when Joe first went public with Sigrid. I feel sick.
I am sick.
Between them, Edie, Jenny and Mum put me to bed.
It's only as they're putting my light out that I realise I've been in such shock I haven't even apologised to Crow.
I’ve never seen Crow lost for ideas before when it comes to designing. Up to now, whatever's happened, whatever's been thrown at her, she's just been able to put pen to paper and run up a fabulous little number, problem sorted.
But not this time.
The Swan summed up all the inspiration and all the skill she'd gained over the last two years. It was what the whole collection had been building up to.
And it's not as if we can just run up another one. The Swan took hundreds of hours to make. It also used up most of the small stock of silver lace that Skye made by hand.
Listlessly, more for something to do than anything else, I call Skye. It turns out she's just sold the last of the fabric to a designer in Milan. Mum calls Milan for me. They say yes, they've got the fabric and we can have it by courier if we absolutely need it.
For five hundred pounds. Plus shipping.
So that's that.
On Tuesday, as soon as Jenny sees me at school, she yells at me.
‘I've found it!’
‘The Swan?’
She nods. I practically crumple at the good news.
‘Well, I know where it's going to be. I googled and googled. In the end I texted Joe. Sigrid's going to collect an award from the Spanish film industry on Saturday. That's the award thingy.’
‘But she's only been in one movie!’
‘One big one. Loads of little independent ones, apparently. But that big one made a lot of money.’
‘You said Saturday?’
I'm busy doing mental calculations. Wear dress. Get home – well, back to hotel room, anyway. Give dress to stylist to ship back to London. Put dress on plane (who will pay for that?). If we're super-lucky, we could get the Swan back on Monday or Tuesday next week, which might be in time for model fittings and rehearsals for the show on Friday.
Assuming Sigrid is efficient. And considerate.
‘It'll be OK,’ Jenny reassures me.
I leave yet another message on Sigrid's assistant's mobile, wishing her luck on Saturday and reminding her about the dress. No answer.
The next evening Harry comes in late from college with a big grin on his face.
Everyone has heard about my crazy giveaway by now, and family know not to talk loudly, smile or look in any way cheerful in my presence. I glare at him.
‘Problem solved,’ he says. ‘How much do you need?’
‘Thousands of pounds,’ I snort grumpily. ‘Five hundred for fabric. And shipping. And we need to pay professionals to help out with the sewing because otherwise it just can't be done in time. At professional rates. I always thought couture dresses were expensive for what they were, but they're positively cheap.’
We've decided not to ask Andy Elat and Amanda for any more money. And they haven't offered any. I get the impression they're leaving me to sort this one out on my own.
‘Will fifteen hundred do?’ Harry asks.
‘It would help,’ I say with a hollow cackle.
‘Here,’ he says. He puts an envelope on the table. In it are more twenty-pound notes than I've ever seen in my life.
What's he done? Started dealing drugs?
I look at him suspiciously. So does Mum.
‘I sold my camera,’ he says.
This seems odd. His snappy camera's very nice, but it's probably worth about two of these notes, and the only other ones he's got are proper ones for college.
‘Which camera?’ Mum asks in a strained sort of way.
‘The Leica. And the lens.’
Mum and I both stare at him.
‘The blurry lens? But that was a present from your dad!’ I say.
‘But you need that for your degree!’ Mum groans.
‘Oh, thanks, Harry. That was a good idea of yours. I'm so grateful,’ he says with cheerful sarcasm. ‘I sold them to a guy on the course. He's always liked them. I think I may switch from photography next term anyway. I'm wondering if I'm more of a painter after all.’
Mum buries her head in her hands.
<
br /> ‘Wow, thanks,’ I say at last. ‘That was a good idea of yours. I'm so grateful.’
‘Go buy lace,’ he says. ’With my blessing.’
It's Sunday. I'm googling the Spanish film institute presentation, looking for images of the stars getting their awards yesterday. It's not the easiest thing in the world to find, but eventually I track down a couple of pictures.
Hot Spanish male star, check. Hot Spanish female star, check. Then, finally, a picture of Sigrid and Joe looking practically glued together and manically happy.
She's in a little black number. By Rodarte, apparently. Very pretty. Totally appropriate. She looks great.
No sign of the Swan.
Her assistant still isn't returning my calls. Joe isn't returning Jenny's.
Meanwhile, life goes on. Crow's studio is starting to look more organised. Finished pieces are draped with dust covers. The walls are splattered with Polaroids of me and Edie in the various outfits (looking pretty silly) to give an idea of how it will all fit together. We're all wearing our pink tee-shirts. There is a wall of invitations to fashion parties we'll be too busy to attend. And some we can't resist. Goodie bags are stacked in a corner, full of nice things from Miss Teen and updates from Edie on the Invisible Children campaign and the plans for the (Henry Lamogi Memorial) school for Victoria and her friends.
The new show-stopper dress isn't here. It's being worked on by someone Yvette has found for us who is even quicker at sewing than Crow. However, the design for it is on the wall. Harry's christened it ‘Swan-Lite’. It's a mini version of the original (not enough time or fabric to recreate the full waterfall skirt), with a bit less boning and draping, but still giving the general idea. It will be beautiful. Everyone is very careful not to talk about it in front of me. Which of course makes me feel terrible.
I have my laptop open in a corner. I'm trying to complete a history project and sort out shoe deliveries by email when my mobile rings. I very nearly don't answer it, because while I can handle doing two things at once, three might be pushing it. However, when I hear Svetlana's giggly Russian tones down the line, I instantly forget history AND shoes.
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