Beads, Boys and Bangles (27 page)

We have nothing left. Amanda is right. We’re only children. There’s very little we can do in this complicated business of fashion. And this seems to be it.

I open my mouth to say something to back Crow up, but I can’t talk either. Edie is silent and white-faced. She’s trying to catch Crow’s eye and I know she’d tell her not to make such a sacrifice for her sake, but Crow’s ignoring her. She knows what she wants to do and she doesn’t want to be talked out of it.

Amanda sits down, looking more exhausted than ever and we stay there in silence until the door opens and Andy Elat comes in, quickly followed by Paolo the PR man in his wraparound sunglasses. (It’s totally dark outside.)

‘Blimey, I’m glad that’s over!’ Andy says cheerily. ‘Worst meeting of my life.’ Then he sees us all sitting there. ‘What’s happened? Cat died?’

I get my voice back from somewhere.

‘No. But I’m afraid I don’t think we can do the collection. And Edie can’t change her site.’

Andy sits at the head of the table, with Paolo opposite. His mood has changed instantly and all the cheeriness has gone.

‘Spill, kids. What’s the story?’

We explain our terms if we go ahead with Miss Teen. Amanda joins in occasionally, underlining things or mentioning bits we’ve missed.

‘Right,’ Andy says, when we’ve finished. He laughs once, loudly. ‘No wonder there was an atmosphere.’ He looks at Crow. ‘Better show us your designs, young lady. After all the trouble you’re causing, they’d have to be bleeding incredible.’

Finally, Crow unpacks her satchel and spreads out her mood board and the little pile of sketchbooks in front of Amanda and starts to go through the designs. For once, I don’t have to do the talking. I just sit back while she explains her inspiration and what the collection is about.

‘It’s called White Light,’ she says. Her voice is quiet and still full of stress from our conversation just now, but she goes on. ‘I got the idea when we visited the Taj Mahal. It’s made entirely of white cotton or silk, for summer. It’s inspired by love, so it’s romantic. It’s layered and full of curves, like my original work, but there’s hardly any embellishment, apart from a couple of pieces that will use these little stones. And we know of some really good workshops in India that could do them.’

Edie nods hard at this point. She’s suddenly an expert on international embroidery and she knows that Indian workshops – manned by grown-ups – can be some of the best.

But Crow hasn’t finished yet. ‘For this collection, though, it’s really all about the cutting. They have the most amazing cutting tools at the factory. I think they could do this.’

Amanda, Andy and Paolo huddle over the designs, listening to every word and flipping backwards and forwards between pieces. In just a few days, Crow has produced designs for tops and trousers, dresses and skirts, tunics and leggings. More than half the pieces they would need, and all giving a strong idea of her vision for the clothes.

I hear them muttering things like ‘architectural’ and ‘sculptural’. Their faces are very serious and it’s impossible to tell what they’re thinking. Besides, I’m still in shock from the idea that someone can take your own name away from you. I didn’t know it was possible, but we must have signed up to it in a contract somewhere. I must read those things more carefully next time. If there ever
is
a next time.

‘The pieces look more complicated than they are,’ I add, trying not to sound too desperate. ‘Once you get the pattern right, they’re actually quite simple to produce. We think. We made some of our own samples to check, and they worked out OK. I mean, the patterns would probably look pretty weird but Crow’s a bit of a wizard with cutting, ha ha, and you’d get these incredible waterfall effects, like here, or the billowing sleeve, here, which is inspired by a dome, and then you get these cut-outs and you can see the other layer behind them, and that’s white too . . .’

I’m jabbering. I stop. Andy looks at Crow and me and everyone falls silent.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he says. ‘You want me to produce these designs. And in return for Edie saying I’m not some evil slave-driver, you want total control on how they’re made.
Plus
how I run my staff based in India.
Plus
labelling. Have I missed anything?’

‘Er, yes,’ Edie adds. ‘A percentage of the profits to help child labourers in India. And preferably other countries too.’

‘Oh sorry,’ he adds sarcastically. ‘I forgot.
And
how I spend the profits. Paolo?’

He turns to the PR guru. Paolo has removed his sunglasses to examine the designs in detail. Underneath, his eyes are pink and puffy and I can quite understand why he quickly replaces the shades. Then he sits up to his full black-polo-necked height.

‘There is only one word to describe this collection,’ he says decisively.

He pauses for effect. We wait, silently.

‘GENIUS!’

He looks around the room triumphantly. ‘Sheer genius! I LOVE LOVE LOVE it! These girls are AMAZING. The clothes are FANTASTIC! Who would go to the most colourful country in the world and produce something that is totally monochrome? It’s INSPIRED! It’s CHANEL! But it’s so NEXT YEAR! Miss Teen girls will ADORE it!’ He grabs the nearest sketchbook and kisses it.

Andy’s face doesn’t move a muscle.

‘I’ll get back to you later, kids,’ he says. ‘We have some talking to do. But we might be able to do a deal.’

I
can still hear his voice in my head the next evening. I’m sitting in Jenny’s dressing room, which she shares with Megan, the actress who plays her mother, trying to read
Vogue
. Mum suggested maths revision. I don’t think so.

So far, six people have walked past the open door with massive bouquets of flowers for Sigrid. Or maybe it was the same person six times. Impossible to tell behind about four thousand flowers.

Whatever Joe Yule has bought for her to declare his love requires two bodyguards to hang about in the corridor, taking up space and getting in the way of the stagehands. It may be my imagination, but I’m starting to wonder if there might be other members of the Sigrid Is Really The Queen Of Evil Society.

Tonight is the first night of
Her Father’s Daughter
in its new location. Actually, it’s not. It’s the eighth night, but the others were previews and don’t count. Jenny wouldn’t
let us come to any of them. She was too nervous and said we’d make it worse. She’s been losing so much weight that they’ve had to take her costumes in.

Crow’s been working madly on Project Jenny to keep the fit perfect. What with that and getting her White Light designs ready, she’s totally exhausted, which is why she’s at home, fast asleep, and not in the audience tonight. She’ll have plenty of other occasions to see the play.

Assuming she wants to. Tonight is the night the critics come. What they write tomorrow will make or break the production. Not the sales – it’s nearly sold out – but whether people come to watch a car crash or a smash hit. Jenny should be worse than usual and I’ve been half expecting her to self-combust with tension, but, bizarrely, tonight she’s better than she’s been for ages.

It’s just like the Boat House again. Now that she’s got a proper audience to perform to, she can relax and do her thing. And theatre
is
her thing. You can tell. She has exactly the same look in her eye that Crow has had since we got back from the Taj Mahal. This is what she was born to do and I’m not sure even the critics can ruin it for her this time.

I don’t know how Sigrid feels about it, because when she heads for her dressing room, past the Gift Guards, she keeps her head down and her eyes on the floor.

‘We’ve been instructed not to talk to her,’ Jenny says.
‘Press night nerves. She needs her space.’

She’s certainly got it in that dressing room. Jenny says it’s the size of all the others put together. And Sigrid has had it entirely decorated in her favourite shade of ivory, with Jo Malone candles, five humidifiers and three antique mirrors ‘for atmosphere’. Well, it’s created an atmosphere among the cast and backstage people all right. Not necessarily the one she wanted, but definitely an atmosphere.

I’m not just here for moral support. I’m also a bodyguard of sorts. An Outfit Guard. There’s a clothes bag hanging on a screen beside Jenny’s (old, but not antique) mirror, with Project Jenny inside. If anything happens to it, I’ve been reliably informed by Granny that bits of me will be fed to the lions in London Zoo. The contents are going to have to compete with the sea-goddess dress, which isn’t easy, but that one’s been cut off at the knees, literally, so I think we’ll be OK.

When Jenny comes back to get changed after the final curtain, she’s flushed from the standing ovation that the performers have just received.

‘That sounded good,’ I say encouragingly.

‘Better than good,’ Jenny answers, her cheeks flushed. ‘It was perfect.’

Megan, the actress sharing the dressing room, nods vigorously.

‘How long till the reviews come out?’

I know I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it. They check their watches.

‘About seven hours. The online ones may be sooner.’

The next thirty minutes are very busy. I’m trying to get Project Jenny into perfect working order with a borrowed steamer, but people keep interrupting me by bursting into the dressing room and telling Jenny how fabulous she was. And occasionally Megan too. It’s a bit like it was after Crow’s first Fashion Week collection. All your friends come clustering round to support you. It’s really nice and almost makes all of the stress and hassle worthwhile.

An hour later, we’re driving up to a posh club in Soho, where the press night party will be held on the top floor, with dancing under the stars. The place is surrounded by enough paparazzi to open their own online camera business. I remember the first time Jenny got out of a limo, in her cherry tomato dress, feeling as if the world was about to swallow her up. Now she slides out of the car and faces the camera flashes like a pro. She’s still on a high from the performance and she quite possibly knows how good she looks, which is very. I slide out behind her in my gold brocade coat, copying as best I can.

Sigrid and Joe are just disappearing through the doors, having posed for several pictures already. Joe looks as yummy as ever. Totally Sex God-ish, as he flashes a final smile. Sigrid seems anxious to get inside. I catch
sight of what’s left of her ultramarine skirts swinging around her knees. They look fine. More puddle-goddess than sea-goddess, though.

‘Oi, Jenny,’ someone shouts out, ‘are you wearing Crow too, then?’

Oh, my goodness. Just how fashion-conscious are these people? Next thing, they’ll be asking if my sculpted shorts are by Chloé (which they’re not – I made them – but they’re
inspired
by Chloé).

‘Actually, this dress is Givenchy,’ Jenny says.

‘It was worn by Audrey Hepburn,’ I add. ‘Around the time she was filming
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.’ I’ve already tipped the press off about this. It’s another thing you learn how to do when you work in fashion.

Good old Granny. As well as her own stuff, she has friends who collect couture. Some of them are really, really rich and obsessed with old movie stars. Some of them don’t mind one peach-pink bouclé cocktail dress (‘Just one, dar-leeng – I am
nevair, nevair
doing zees again – and mind ze seams’) being temporarily adapted by a respected designer to fit a budding new actress, who isn’t exactly Audrey’s size, even when she’s thin. There aren’t many outfits that can outdo Crow on a good day, but anything once worn by Audrey Hepburn can.

Jenny’s shoes are vintage Roger Vivier, in case anyone wonders, but nobody does. After the Audrey Hepburn moment, the shoe moment becomes a bit irrelevant.

Inside the club, Edie, Crow and Jenny’s mum are
already waiting for us. Mum offered to come and help monitor my champagne consumption, but after the London Eye episode with Alexander, I don’t really feel like it any more. Tonight I’ll be exploring the delights of lemonade and fruit cocktails.

Jenny spends the party being congratulated by theatre types. So does Sigrid, when people can get past her Gift Guards (this time it’s a heart-shaped yellow diamond the size of a Cheerio) and Joe. Nobody mentions the stress of the last two weeks. Nobody mentions the critics and the press night reviews. Everybody is really just waiting for them, though.

Finally, a few hours past my bedtime, Anthony, the director, comes in, clutching a print-out.

‘Here’s the first one!’ he says. Everyone perks up and stops talking. ‘I haven’t read it yet, promise. I’ll just say it as it comes. Here goes . . . “London theatre has found a new star in the making. A striking young talent who lifts
Her Father’s Daughter
from light comedy into high drama. I urge you to beg, borrow or steal a ticket to see this play for the startling performance by . . .” Oh.’ He pauses. ‘“. . . By Jenny Merritt. But that’s not all. There’s another not-to-be-missed turn.”’ Anthony stops and smiles. ‘Ah, here we go. “. . . If you haven’t seen Sigrid Santorini on stage then you simply must, if only to find out for yourself how . . .” Oh.’