Stars

by Sophia Bennett

  Edie and I look a bit confused. Not because Jenny’s cat is pregnant. That’s been a big topic of conversation recently. But it’s surprising that she’ll need help.

  ‘What about your mum?’ I ask. ‘Can’t she do it?’

  There’s a long pause. Jenny twists the napkin so much it breaks in half. She smoothes the pieces out on the table.

  ‘She’s not well. I don’t think she’s up to managing kittens on top of . . . stuff.’

  ‘Oh, poor Gloria!’ Edie, suddenly perks up, looks concerned and reaches out for Jenny’s hand. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Jenny shrugs. ‘Just something she’s had for a long time. She’ll be fine. Eventually. But she’s not good right now. Will you go?’

  ‘Of course!’ Edie says. ‘I’ve always wanted a cat . . .’

  Jenny reaches down for her bag, scrabbles around in it and, hesitating slightly, hands over a key with a mini Statue of Liberty attached to the keyring.

  ‘It’s my spare. Use it to let yourself in.’

  Edie takes the key and nods.

  Jenny smiles and shudders slightly, as if to shake off that part of the conversation. ‘Anyway,’ she says, turning to me, ‘when shall I pick up the dress?’

  ‘You can come round tonight, if you like,’ I tell her, picturing the ballgown already neatly boxed up in our front hall and ready to fly to America, where it will be worn with a diamond bracelet that Isabelle’s arranged for Jenny to borrow.

  Edie gets up and gives both of us a strained smile. ‘I’d better be going. See you later.’

  We watch her head off to prepare for her test, while Jenny plans her ballgown and diamonds. We both know who we’d rather be.

  I should be jealous, but I’m not. I have fun stuff of my own to think about. Andy Elat has arranged a preview party to show Crow’s new Miss Teen collection to influential people on the London fashion scene. We’re off to the Tate Modern gallery, which is an ex-power station with enormous industrial spaces that are now full of modern art. And also, tonight, full of waiters with canapés and models in Crow’s pared-back, white, layered clothes, which will look appropriately minimalist and artistic.

  I’ve been planning my outfit for this event for weeks. I’m now on version twenty-seven, which is a chain-mail tunic over two dresses and some leggings from the collection, and a borrowed pair of plastic Vivienne Westwood platforms. Crow, being Crow, started to think about her outfit at about half-past three. When she shows up at the Tate Modern, it’s in patchwork dungarees, her gold wellies and the origami headdress that John Galliano gave her in January, and which she’s kept like a religious relic ever since.

  Edie is here with her mum, both wearing jackets and skirts that make them look like air hostesses for rival airlines. However, what they lack in fashion fabulousness, they make up for in friendliness. They’ve wordlessly adopted Jenny for the evening, not mentioning Gloria’s absence. Edie’s mum beckons me over with a smile and a wave.

  ‘Nonie! At last someone I recognise! I mean, goodness, there are so many faces here that look familiar from magazines, but you’re someone I actually know. How are you?’

  As she says this, her face adopts a concerned, motherly look. She is, after all, the parent of one of the school’s resident geniuses, so as far as she knows our lives are wall-to-wall exams and clarinet practice at the moment, when we’re not volunteering and getting other brownie points for our CVs.

  I’m about to tell her I am absolutely fine, but then I wonder if that will make me look a bit too laid-back.

  ‘Oh, you know, coping,’ I say.

  ‘My poor girl. All of this . . .’ she gestures around the Tate Modern at the models and fashion editors, celebrities and canapés, ‘. . . and end-of-year exams. I don’t know how you do it. I keep telling Edie to slow down, but she won’t hear of it. You’re all such high achievers these days.’

  I like Edie’s mum. I like being bundled in the ‘high achiever’ category with her frankly quite scary daughter. I like the way she feels sorry for me for being surrounded by fashion editors on a Friday night after school. I don’t agree with her, but I love her natural kindness. It’s easy to see where Edie gets it from.

  ‘Well, some of it’s not too bad,’ I say, catching sight of the editor of Grazia.

  ‘You’re so brave,’ Edie’s mum says. ‘And busy, I imagine. I’ll leave you to it.’

  By now Crow, Edie and Jenny have moved to the other side of the room. She goes off to join them and I glance around me to see who I should talk to. Then I realise I’m standing next to a smart, grey-haired lady, about Granny’s age, wearing a cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. Even now, she has cheekbones to die for and a lively gleam in her eyes.

  My heart goes fluttery. I realise I’m within touching distance of a fashion legend. The legend who discovered Alexander McQueen and bought up John Galliano’s first collection and put it in the window of her shop in South Molton Street. I turn to her, not sure what to say. I need to let her know how amazing I think she is.

  ‘Mrs Burstein,’ I cough, ‘you don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you how much I love Browns. I think you’re incredible.’

  She looks at me and smiles. ‘Thank you. It’s Nonie Chatham, isn’t it? Actually, I do know you. I’ve been following your progress recently – well, your friend Crow, anyway. She has a very unusual eye. Will she do her own label one day?’

  ‘I guess she’d love to,’ I say, once I’ve got my voice working properly. The first two attempts are so squeaky only dogs could hear them. ‘Miss Teen has kept us busy so far. And school. And her dresses for clients.’

  Joan Burstein nods, as if this is familiar news. ‘Every time someone appears in one of her dresses my daughter says we get people coming into the shop asking if we stock Crow. And of course we don’t, but the staff keep telling me how much they’d love to.’

  ‘Oh!’ I squeak. ‘Really?’ I sound as if I’m on helium.

  She smiles at me in a sympathetic way. I assume she thinks I have some kind of awful vocal condition. Then she spots someone she knows and heads off into the crowd.

  Did that really just happen? Did the woman who discovered John Galliano just practically OFFER to stock Crow’s stuff?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asks a voice.

  I shake myself and focus. It’s Crow. She looks worried about me.

  ‘Joan Burstein,’ I croak. ‘Browns. Offer. Label. Stock. Shop.’

  ‘Really?’ Crow asks, just as I did.

  I nod. My voice has completely given up now.

  Crow smiles. ‘Cool.’

  I shake my head. This is not cool. This is beyond cool. This is the woman who started the coolest fashion boutique in the world saying she and her staff could sell your clothes to the coolest customers in the world. This would be so different from Miss Teen. Designing a high street collection was great, but for a ready-to-wear collection Crow could use more luxurious fabrics and trimmings, and more intricate sewing techniques. The dresses would be more expensive, but they would also be BE-AUTIFUL, and exactly the way Crow wanted them. It’s like being asked to design a Porsche instead of a VW. But with sequins instead of headlights. You know what I mean.

  Crow’s smile turns into a grin. ‘She had quite an effect on you, didn’t she?’

  She laughs. At this point, Andy Elat joins us.

  ‘I saw you chatting,’ he says to me. ‘Do you know who that was?’

  I nod.

  ‘Nonie’s in shock,’ Crow says. ‘Apparently, Mrs B’s interested in my dresses.’

  Andy’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. A couple of words slip out that shouldn’t. I gibber for a while, giving a rough idea of the conversation.

  ‘And are you?’ Andy asks Crow. ‘Thinking of doing your own label?’

  Crow looks at me. ‘We haven’t really got that far. I just make things for people who ask me. You know, with school and everything. But one day . . .’

  Andy looks from her to me and bac
k again. ‘Well, I don’t say this to many people. In fact, I spend most of my life saying the exact opposite, but you should think about it. You’ve got the talent. You’ve got an unbelievable knack for publicity. I’ve always thought of Miss Teen as just a stepping stone for you.’

  Crow looks uncertain.

  ‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘You’re hot property. This is your moment, kid. Anyway, think about it. Call me.’

  He spots someone important waving at him and heads back into the crowd. Crow stares after him, her eyes round as saucers.

  My imagination starts to go into overdrive. Crow has done one catwalk show before, but that was just twelve pieces. A label means designing regular collections and buyers ordering them for shops around the world. Maybe there will be handbags one day, and shoes. And maybe a line of pencil cases . . . OK, maybe not pencil cases, but cute stuff anyway. Lots of cute stuff. And there’ll be advertising campaigns, and more catwalk shows. We’ll walk into cool boutiques around the world and see Crow’s dresses on little racks of adorableness . . .

  ‘Nonie? Nonie?’

  ‘What?’

  Crow’s grinning at me now. ‘You’re wanted.’

  It’s the journalist who interviewed Jenny for Vogue, coming over to say hi. It’s great to see her, but I’m almost smiling too much to talk.

  Next day, I’m still on a high from the party and my mood is enhanced by a series of delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Mum’s cooking. Family dinners are rare, as Mum’s generally exhausted from reassuring artists all day about how deeply talented they are, and how their next exhibition is going to be a record-breaking success. But Granny’s in town again, and Isabelle’s spending the night here before flying back to New York with Jenny, so Mum’s making an effort.

  With Isabelle around, the main topic of conversation over dinner is, naturally, weddings.

  ‘So tell me,’ Granny says, ‘have you had any thoughts about the actual ceremony? Are you a register office girl?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Isabelle says with a laugh. ‘I’ve been planning this all my life. There’s a little church on my dad’s estate. More of a chapel, really. It only holds about sixty people, but it’s so romantic. I picture it lit by candles, with rose petals scattered down the aisle . . .’

  Granny catches Mum’s eye and beams with satisfaction. Meanwhile, Isabelle seems keen to draw me into the conversation.

  ‘So, Nonie. How did it go last night? I hear the collection’s going to be huge.’

  ‘It is’, I say. ‘And the best thing is, we’ve decided what we’re doing next. Crow’s going to do her own ready-to-wear label. And we’re going to sell her stuff to Browns and cool boutiques—’

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ Mum interrupts with a smile. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can fit in after school, Nonie. Anyway, Isabelle – after the wedding – what are your plans?’

  Isabelle gives me an apologetic look and shrugs. I shrug back. After all, it’s only my career we’re talking about here. Only all my hopes and dreams.

  ‘Well,’ Isabelle replies, anxious to be polite to Mum, ‘it won’t be for a year anyway. We can’t fit the wedding in till next summer. Then I need to be in New York for work, so we’ll have to find somewhere over there to make our base. And I haven’t told anyone this before, but there’s this heavenly apartment block in the East Village. It used to be artists’ studios, but it’s been turned into warehouse-style accommodation with huge rooms, fabulous views . . . I really want to show Harry when we go next time.’

  She looks at him with an uncertain smile and Harry smiles back at her, but he seems uncertain too. Perhaps he’s not so sure about New York. Perhaps he doesn’t like the East Village. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh, how gorgeous,’ Granny chimes in, oblivious. ‘Not too far from Central Park, I hope. I can’t wait to stay in the Plaza and take my great-grandchildren to play in the park. I shall, of course, be the world’s chicest great-grandma.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Mum scolds her. Granny’s done it again. We all look at Isabelle nervously, but actually she looks radiant. It seems she’s had the children/Central Park/great-grandma vision too.

  ‘Well, darling, it looks like that’s sorted,’ Mum teases Harry. He smiles back, embarrassed. I’m not sure he’s quite so keen on having his future flat or his future kids discussed in public.

  ‘Oh, and Crow mentioned you’re thinking of having three wedding dresses by different designers. Is that right?’ I ask. I’m keen to rescue Harry from the whole Central Park thing, but I’ve realised that unless we talk about weddings in some way, that isn’t going to happen.

  So Isabelle explains about her dress for the ceremony (white, romantic – Crow’s one), and dress for the reception (white, but a bit more edgy – Galliano) and her dress for the late-night dancing (anything goes – designer undecided). In a fashion-conscious household, talking to a supermodel about the most important dresses she’ll ever wear in her life is the kind of thing that can take a whole evening if you let it. Isabelle and Mum are still discussing the merits of vintage Lacroix over Vera Wang and Valentino as I go up to bed.

  As I’m brushing my teeth, I notice that there’s a note in biro on my hand, now faded. I try to remember what it was about. Oh yes. The Canterbury Tales. Now overdue. English teacher not happy. But it’s too late to do anything about it now. And you don’t need to be an expert on Chaucer to work for a major fashion label.

  I decide I’ll quickly run something off in bullet points again before school tomorrow. Five minutes later, I’m asleep.

  This time, Jenny doesn’t maintain radio silence from New York. In fact, she calls several times to tell me how the new workshop rehearsals are going – which is well – and how the casting has changed. Her friend Alanna hasn’t been invited back to play Princess Margaret after all. Instead, they now have an even bigger Broadway star called Carmen Candy, who Jenny says – breathlessly – is ‘the most talented and incredible artist’ she’s ever worked with. I think I’m going to make her pay me a pound for every time she says ‘talented’ and ‘artist’. I’ll end up with a fortune.

  Meanwhile, I have AS papers looming and enough revision notes to line every wall in the house. However, I somehow manage to get food poisoning on Thursday night, or so I tell Mum, which sadly means I can’t make it into school for the last Keep your head down Friday before exams. Poor me. Last week Jenny’s Vogue hit the magazine shelves – and also the desk of every girl and boy in French class, with added moustache, beard and other amendments by the Belles. I really don’t think I can face that again right now.

  However, unfortunately Mum has noticed about Keep your head down Friday and doesn’t believe me about the food poisoning.

  ‘You’ve got French today, haven’t you?’ she asks.

  I nod miserably.

  ‘Well, that’s the one paper you stand some chance of passing, isn’t it? For goodness’ sake, don’t mess that up, darling. Off you go.’

  Good to see that my parent has total confidence in my ability, combined with a keen insight into my social problems. Not.

  I sit in my usual place at the back, waiting for it all to start. The Belles do their standard giggling and pointing, but a couple of the boys (actually the cute ones – Ashley and Liam) tell them to give it a rest.

  ‘We’ve got exams, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ Ashley says. ‘And you’re kind of stuck on repeat, guys.’

  The Belles look shocked. So shocked that they concentrate for the rest of the lesson. When it’s over, I give Ashley and Liam a big smile that I hope says ‘Thank you so much for being real gentlemen, I appreciate it,’ and not ‘God, I really fancy both of you’. They smile back in a ‘Don’t mention it’ way, which I assume means they got the ‘thank you’ message, not the ‘fancy you’ message, which is a relief.

  On the way home, I notice Jenny on an advertising hoarding, and nearly fall over. I’d forgotten about this. Thank goodness Jenny’s not here. Miss Teen is
going into overdrive about the launch of Crow’s collection. They’ve done a massive advert using a picture we took during a shoot in India at Christmas. Mind you, Jenny likes this picture, because it also includes an elephant, a painted backdrop of the Taj Mahal and several Bollywood dancers.

  ‘I look quite tiny among that lot,’ she said, when we first saw it. ‘Perfect.’

  Her obsession with her weight in photos worries me. Because Crow and I really need her to pose on the steps of the Met when she goes to the Ball with Isabelle. I’m nervous that she’ll just jog past the photographers, anxious to be out of their way. Or, worse, try and hide behind someone. That never works. We’ve promised Andy Elat publicity and I’m hoping that my chutzpah will pay off.

  The day after the Ball, I scan the web for photos. Not hard. It’s on every fashion blog, online magazine and news site. Most of them cheerfully gush about how it was one of the best for several years. There are loads of pictures of Isabelle in her shocking pink Dior bustle, looking like a sexy Victorian countess. And there’s general agreement that the whole event had a sort of vintage, old-fashioned feel about it. Another girl who best captured that was the girl with the cropped red hair. The one who arrived with Isabelle, in an exquisite black velvet ballgown with a white satin halter-neck panel. Jenny Merritt, the actress, who recently posed for Vogue. And whose ballgown, though it looked vintage, was actually by the ‘Oscar designer’ Crow Lamogi, whose new high street collection is about to hit the shops in the UK . . .

  I’m so grateful I could cry.

  The timing is perfect. The official launch is two days later and once again, girls are queuing round the block to get their hands on Crow’s designs. Luckily, this time the shops won’t sell out so fast, but only because Miss Teen have made enough to clothe practically every girl in England.

  I love this part. Crow and I meet after school and wander round Kensington, each trying to be first to spot one of the new pieces on a real person. Gradually, we start seeing them all over the place: in the street, in parks, on buses, on Saturday morning TV presenters. It’s fascinating to see how they mix Crow’s designs with stuff from Topshop, New Look or wherever else they happen to shop. The really trendy ones play about with them in ways we wouldn’t have imagined. Leggings worn as scarves. Tunics worn as mini-dresses with coloured tights. Longer dresses worn like petticoats, under something ruffled and pretty from H&M. Lakshmi emails me from India to say that rip-offs are already appearing in Mumbai shops, which is flattering.