Beads, Boys and Bangles (23 page)

Her suitcase is neatly packed on her bed. Beside it are the clothes she’ll wear to travel in tomorrow and her washbag. Also the books she’s set aside for the flight. She hasn’t actually arranged them in alphabetical order, but I wouldn’t put it past her.

I’m standing on my suitcase, which probably wouldn’t close if we sat an elephant on it. There are only so many new slippers and scarves and souvenirs you can fit in a suitcase before it gives up even trying to hold them, and I reached that point long ago. And I’ve just remembered my only clean pair of knickers is right at the bottom. Great.

Crow is simply looking at her bag, as if watching it will make the contents smaller. It reminds me of a treasure
chest, with all the jewel-coloured silks and gold embroidery peeping out from inside. A very full treasure chest that isn’t going to close any time soon, however much Crow stares at it. I think it’s ‘undo-upable’.

We’re both keen to know what Phil thinks about the boy in the dress.

‘He says we can try asking in the bead shop,’ Edie says. ‘But they almost certainly won’t tell us anything. These operations are totally illegal so everyone’s very secretive about them. It’s like asking a drug dealer where he gets his drugs from. And about as dangerous. Oh.’

‘Oh what?’

‘He’s changed his mind. He’s asking us not to go back.

Begging us, actually. He says there are some nasty people mixed up in this business. If there’s really child labour being used, we could be in big trouble if we get too close. He says he’ll get some people he knows in Mumbai to have a look when we’ve gone.’

‘They won’t find anything,’ Crow says. ‘They won’t know what to look for. Only I know.’

She sounds very sure about this. And she’s probably right. Only she can spot one of her designs being worn under a loose shirt by a fleeing child. It’s this X-ray fashion vision she has.

Edie’s still reading Phil’s message. ‘Anyway, he says it could all be a mistake. Even if the dress is the Svetlana dress, it could have been stolen from the big factory, or it could easily be a fake. Styles are ripped off all the time.’

‘So basically we don’t know anything,’ I sigh. ‘And he doesn’t want us to find out more.’

Edie nods. ‘Basically, yes. If we want to stay safe. He’s saying he’s sorry for getting me – I mean, us – into this.’

‘It’s a bit late now.’

When I think of how miserable he made her with the hacking he did on launch day, he’d have to be
very
sorry to make up for it.

‘What’s he saying now?’

‘Oh. . .stuff.’

She’s gone all vague. Very un-Edie. I wander over to get a peek, but she covers the screen and shoos me away. This is even more intriguing. Watching me hover, she gives up on the messaging.

‘Look, if you’re so interested in the computer, you use it.’ She quits what she’s doing, gets up and sits on her bed with a book.

Well, I’m not going to get my case shut tonight, so I might as well do some Googling and check my emails.

Crow’s stuff is still selling well on eBay. In my inbox, there are nine invitations to fashion events and parties. Three people want to interview us. Two friends want to know how I’m getting on with French revision. Oh, and Amanda Elat says we’ll be ‘relieved to know’ that Sigrid has agreed to wear the sea-goddess dress after all, and she’s in the process of having it altered.

ALTERED?

She doesn’t like the length, apparently, and wants it shorter.

I tell Crow, whose jaw drops. She comes over, so I can show her the line where it says that. Then we stare at each other in horror. This is the design equivalent of buying a Ferrari and getting someone else to cut the roof off so you can use it as a convertible. IT’S NOT DONE. IT’S RUDE. It’s totally normal for the Queen of Evil, though.

There’s more. Sigrid wants the dress for the after-show party for
Her Father’s Daughter
, when it opens in the West End. She needs something unique, to reflect her new profile as a serious stage actress. And she’s sure we’ll understand that, in order to emphasise its uniqueness, this means Crow can’t design anything for Jenny to wear at the same party. But she’s happy for her stylist to find something suitable for her. She’s heard great things about this new guy, Pablo Dodo, for example.

Pablo Dodo, who dressed Jenny for her movie premieres as a
cherry tomato
, a
condom in a boa
, and a
telephone directory
. NEVER IN A MILLION YEARS.

I read this bit out to everyone and for a while we’re all so stunned that we forget about the boy in the dress.

‘You can’t let her do it,’ Edie says, as if life were that simple.

‘Can’t we pretend we didn’t get the email?’ Crow asks.

I shake my head sadly. ‘’Fraid not. Andy pays us. Sigrid knows we can’t say no to him. That’s why she asked the Elats, not us.’

‘But what can Jenny wear?’ Crow asks. Her eyes are saucer-wide and she’s looking at me imploringly.

It’s hard to ignore her when she looks at me like that. I wish I was Super-Nonie. I wish I could just come up with a clever idea to. . .oh.

Just for once, I think I might have one. Just for once, it might work out. It will be Project Jenny. I need to think about it more and I can’t talk about it yet, but that’s OK. They see the smile on my face. Edie smiles back. And Crow’s grin reminds me of the Taj Mahal at sunrise.

W
e spend the first half of breakfast all agreeing that we should DEFINITELY NOT go back to that bazaar. Too dangerous. But while we’re thinking of something else to do, Crow mentions that she forgot to pick her beads up from the shop. So we spend the second half of breakfast agreeing that we’ll just pop back, quickly get them and spend the rest of the day doing something safe and touristy.

I’m worried at first that we won’t find the shop again, but Harry guides us there quite easily. This is a boy who’s used to finding his way through the tents at Bryant Park in New York, and the madness that is Milan Fashion Week, so a few alleyways in a market are nothing to him.

However, when we get there, the plan goes wrong and it’s entirely my fault. I forget we’re supposed to go in and out and keep our heads down. Today, I have the energy to do my usual thing in bead shops, which is GO CRAZY, and that’s what I do. I can’t help falling in love with
everything. I’m picturing the necklaces I could make, the pencil cases I could embellish, the tops and dresses I could transform. I’m not picturing my suitcase, which Harry had to close with a strap this morning, because we don’t trust the zips. Nor am I picturing my wallet, which is empty. I’ll have to owe Harry.

There are also trays full of gorgeous bangles that I didn’t spot yesterday. They come in the brightest colours. Neon pink and electric blue, grass-green and a vivid shade of orange that only exists here in India. My suitcase may be full, but my arms are empty. They’re very cheap and Harry agrees to lend me some rupees. I choose twenty.

The others should be hurrying me up, but they seem grateful to linger. Edie has her eye on the curtain at the back of the shop, which is where Crow said the boy appeared from yesterday, and Crow and Harry are watching the street outside. But none of us mentions the boy in the dress out loud. Phil’s right. If there’s something going on, the shop owner might be a part of it. It’s like buying jewellery in a drug den. I’m nuts. The bangles are really lovely, though.

Eventually, it starts to look strange that we’re hanging about so much. We haven’t spotted anything and my arms are now jangling like temple bells. It’s time to pay up and leave, so we do. Except, this time, Harry isn’t concentrating. We take a wrong turning and instead of heading for the hotel, we end up going down alleyway
after alleyway that we don’t recognise. We twist and turn randomly, hoping we won’t get so impossibly lost that we never find our way out of here. Maybe I should have left a trail of beads and bangles. Too late now.

Then suddenly, the shops and stalls stop and we’re on a bare strip of land near a railway line and some decrepit flats ringed by rows of little shacks. For once, the sky isn’t blocked by buildings and satellite dishes. A few cows and goats are nosing through the scrub and rubbish-filled drains, looking for something to eat. At one end, several street children are playing a game of cricket in the muggy heat. The earth is scattered with animal poo, but we really need to sit down for a moment. Harry manages to find a spot that’s less pooey than most. We grab a drink of water and catch our breath.

Crow says ‘Look!’ and points at the game. The children are using a block of wood for their cricket bat and a ball made out of rolled-up packing tape. They can really hit it, though.

A few years ago, Harry had to babysit me for the day and he took me to watch some cricket team play at Lords. Most of the time it was extremely boring, but every now and again one of the players would do an amazing runup to bowl, or a stunning swing of the bat, or a balletic leap to catch the ball, and these kids are exactly the same. Totally focused and beautiful to watch. It’s easy to forget where we are, until one of them slips over in a cowpat and the rest collapse with laughter.

At this point, they notice us and a crowd of them come over, holding out their hands and touching our clothes. Some beg for rupees. Others say ‘school pen, school pen’, although I’m guessing they don’t go to school that often. Crow lets them touch her hair again. She’s getting used to it. She has some rupees left and hands them over. Harry even gives them a paperback he has in his pocket.

One of the boys stares at Harry and shouts, ‘Freddie Flintoff!’

Harry laughs and says ‘Sachin Tendulkar!’

The boy grins back.

‘What does that mean?’ Edie asks.

‘It’s the international language of cricket,’ Harry explains. Then he runs off a list of cricketers to the boy – Indian and English ones – and holds up his fingers. ‘I’m comparing runs. Their guys are doing better at the moment.’

This would be why the boy is grinning so much. He motions for Harry to stand up and points across at where they’re playing the game. Next thing we know, Harry’s got the bat and is facing some demon bowling with the packing tape ball. Nothing he can’t handle, though. The children cheer as the ball sails over the heads of the fielders and lands in a drain.

Meanwhile, Crow and Edie and I are surrounded by girls. We’re used to the street children coming up to us, but this is the first time we’ve ventured into their world.
We feel like guests, glad that they don’t mind us being here, happy to let them admire our bags and laugh at our clothes. It’s hot and dusty and dirty, but I don’t feel as unsafe here as I did five minutes ago. Actually, I realise I’m having a good time.

The match progresses. Harry is put in to bowl. It gets hotter. We share our water with a couple of the girls. An older boy wanders over and I get a frisson of nervousness. Although he’s small and thin, like all of them, he seems strong and athletic and somehow in charge. If he doesn’t like the look of us, we could be in trouble.

Instead, he says, ‘Los Angeles is a very glorious city.’

We look at each other. What are we supposed to reply?

‘Actually, we’re from London,’ Edie says. ‘You speak very good English, by the way.’

‘Oh yes, isn’t it?’ says the boy proudly. ‘I am Sanjay. I work on film sets. Bollywood. People come from Los Angeles. Very glorious city. Do you know Walt Disney?’

‘Not exactly,’ Edie admits. ‘I know
of
him.’

‘Very famous man,’ the boy says, puffing himself up. ‘He is good friend. Very good personal friend. I help him. I help everyone. Whatever you need, I can get it. Anything. I know everyone.’

‘Do you know a boy like this?’ Crow asks suddenly. She’s scrabbling in her satchel for a new sketchbook and she quickly draws a picture of the boy in the dress. Just like she’d make a good witness at a crime scene, it turns out she could also be a police artist, doing e-fits, if she
wanted. The sketch takes her about ten seconds. She hands it to Sanjay and looks at him pleadingly.

Sanjay looks at the picture for a while and says nothing. Then he shouts out to a couple of children, who leave the makeshift cricket pitch and come over. Sanjay is obviously the sort of boy you don’t say no to round here. After a quick conversation, the children run off. Before we can ask what’s happening, Sanjay says, ‘I am excellent batsman. Watch, please.’

He marches up to the wicket and demands the bat from the little boy who’s holding it. After a short debate, the boy hands it over, and Sanjay misses the next six balls with a flourish, smiling broadly at us every time.

By now I’m getting pretty hungry and wishing I’d worn a sun hat. Some street food and a nice, cool ice cream would go down perfectly. The bridge of Edie’s nose is going dangerously pink. Crow is used to the African sun from childhood and doesn’t seem bothered, but I’m starting to miss the shady spaces of Kensington. We ought to go back, but we’re waiting for something, even though we’re not sure what.

Then Sanjay’s messengers come running back. With them is a little girl. She looks about five or six, but holds herself like a much older child. I remember Mrs Patil saying that street children usually look a lot younger than they really are. This girl is thin and barefoot, like the others, and wearing something that used to be a dress a long time ago, but is now merely the ghost of one – a few
scraps of cranberry red fabric and some seams. There is something badly wrong with her hair and face. Edie grabs my hand and squeezes it, shocked, but by now Sanjay is bringing her over, so we let go and smile politely.