Beads, Boys and Bangles (31 page)

What I mean is that my friend makes clothes in a spare room and here we are, witnessing the absolute height of fashion. This is as bold and creative and luxurious and EXPENSIVE as it can possibly get. It’s the toughest ticket to get hold of in the fashion world, and when my brother said he could wangle two of them for us, we practically fell over. Now, sitting in the middle of it all, surrounded by models, lights, photographers, music and fashionistas, I’m still recovering from shock.

The outfits keep on coming. Galliano seems to have hired pretty much every supermodel in the world to wear them. And the skirts are getting bigger and longer. As we
reach the eveningwear section, the trains are long enough to cover half the catwalk. Wear one of those on a red carpet, and you’d have half of Hollywood standing on the silk embroidery. I assume that Dior’s clients will have them adapted to make them more realistic, but right now the spectacle has us all sighing with fashion happiness.

Finally, Crow stops bouncing for a minute and grabs my sleeve.

‘This is it,’ she whispers. ‘The bride.’

I’m not sure whether she’s been counting the outfits or whether she can just tell that we’ve reached the show-stopper moment, but she’s right. I know this because the music suddenly changes from Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ to ‘Zadok the Priest’. My brother Harry doesn’t exactly do chart tunes for major fashion shows. This is his biggest gig as a DJ and he’s been practising for weeks. Also, the supermodel who will be wearing the bride’s dress happens to be his girlfriend, so he wants to get the music right.

I don’t want to give the impression that I spend my life surrounded by supermodels. I really don’t. Although Harry does. My brother is, in many ways, a very normal person. His room is slightly pongy and he doesn’t wash his tee-shirts enough. His hair looks like he cuts it over the bathroom basin (which he sometimes does). But he has a cool vibe and VERY HIGH expectations in terms of a girlfriend. He likes them long, leggy and gorgeous. And if they happen to be the most beautiful girl in the world
right now, that’s fine by him. As Isabelle Carruthers is his second supermodel in a row, it’s obviously fine by them, too.

Harry’s been going out with Isabelle since the summer and it’s now January. Last night she was round at my dad’s apartment scoffing pasta and now here she is, on the Dior catwalk, in a gold wedding dress decorated with crystals, pearls and quite possibly diamonds, and looking so stunning that Crow has to use my sleeve to wipe away her tears.

After a final walk-through by all the models, Isabelle is joined on the catwalk by Galliano himself and we all jump up and down and clap so hard that I really think our tiny gilt chairs are going to give way any minute. Everyone’s applauding. Very Famous Magazine Editors who are never knowingly seen to smile are suddenly grinning all over their faces.

All the models cluster round. Or as closely as they can with trains the size of a small country. Galliano kisses Isabelle’s fingers and comes forward to accept an enormous bouquet of roses. I watch him closely. He is quite simply a fashion god, and has been for years and years. But once upon a time, he was just a student from south London, studying at Central St Martins, hanging around with his mates and dreaming of being a designer one day.

Not every St Martins student gets their graduate collection displayed in the windows of Browns – the chicest boutique in London – and becomes an overnight
sensation, but even after this happened to Galliano, he still struggled. His most famous collection was made in two weeks, out of bits of black silk because that’s all he could afford, and he drove it to Paris himself in a friend’s Mini and got the best girls to model for him as a favour. This is why I love Galliano so much. Not because of where he is now, but because he came so far and never gave up, and just when you thought it was all going to go horribly pear-shaped, he made something amazing happen.

Do I sound like I could give classes on The History of Galliano? I probably could. Such a pity it’s not an A-level subject. Anyway, I’m busy daydreaming about him driving that Mini to Paris all those years ago when I suddenly realise there’s a shushing sound in the air and something strange is happening.

Galliano has handed the roses to Isabelle and whispered something to her, before turning to leave the catwalk. However, you can’t whisper in front of that many telephoto lenses without somebody working out what you just said. Another whisper is making its way around the tent as everyone struggles to get in on the secret.

‘What?’ everyone’s asking. ‘What did he say?’

It takes ages to reach the back row. By the time it gets to us it sounds as though he’s just congratulated Isabelle on getting engaged in real life. But that can’t be right. Because if Isabelle’s engaged, there can be only one person
she can possibly be engaged to, and that person is my big brother. Which would make me the future sister-in-law of the most beautiful girl in the world.

Crow looks at me, confused. She’s probably wondering if the future sister-in-law had the faintest idea this was about to happen.

I didn’t. I’m in shock. I’m staring at the spot where Isabelle was just standing: a stunning vision in a Dior gold dress, cradling a bouquet of roses and holding hands with a fashion icon. Who, by the way, was dressed in doublet and hose, thigh boots, two silk sashes and a cloak.

I simply have to be dreaming.

C
row rubs my arm. It’s her way of asking how I am. I rub hers back, very lightly, which is my way of saying, ‘Fine, but don’t talk to me about it.’ I need to find Harry quite badly. Can it be true? I have to know. But it’s going to take him ages to sort his decks out and fiddle with kit before he’s ready to go. I don’t know why this is. I’ve just watched him often enough to know it’s a long process and that he doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s doing it. Especially to be asked if he is really GETTING MARRIED and accidentally forgot to tell his FAMILY before it got leaked out to THE WHOLE WORLD.

Crow and I join the queue to leave the tent. We get several looks from the other people in the crowd. I assume they’re mostly aimed at Crow, who has recently grown tall for her age, and is fragile-looking, black and beautiful. She may look fragile, but she’s about as brittle as a steel girder. A very brightly dressed girder. Today her
outfit consists of a red, tightly pleated silk poncho that makes her look like a poppy, with homemade gold rubber boots (she’s experimenting with footwear) and an origami paper headdress that Galliano happened to have lying around yesterday, when we came to watch rehearsals, and gave her. As you do.

As we head into the gardens of the Musée Rodin, a few people come over to air-kiss us and ask Crow what she’s up to. She’s sort of ‘on the radar’ for fashion people. Not totally famous yet, but people who know fashion know to look out for her. And, of course, she’s hard to miss, especially in her origami headgear. By the time we get clear of the tent, she has a little cluster of fans around her and it takes a while for a lanky young man wearing a bright yellow fleece and a satchel to make it through to us.

‘Henry!’ Crow shouts, as if he’s the only person there. She is good at many things, but schmoozing fashionistas isn’t one of them. Not if there’s family around to be hugged.

‘Crow-bird! Was it good?’ he asks.

Henry Lamogi is Crow’s older brother (currently single, as far as I know, and not rumoured to be engaged to any supermodels whatsoever) and, if possible, where she goes, he goes. Their parents are still in Uganda with their little sister, Victoria, so she and Henry stick as close as they can.

‘It was incredible,’ she breathes. Her hands, as usual,
start dancing as she attempts to describe the show. She’s about to go through it, outfit by outfit, when Henry stops her.

‘There are some people who want to meet you. I said I’d find you for them. They’re waiting over there.’

He guides us across the gravel to a spot where three men in suits and matching camel overcoats are waiting. They are clearly not fashion people. Men in fashion don’t do suits and matching overcoats, unless it’s for a shoot. They do wacky velvet jackets, or wacky oversize scarves, or wacky cashmere layering, or something clever with a hat, but the whole suit/overcoat thing is just too easy, unless the overcoat is in some way wacky, which these are not.

Crow does her shy smile and Henry introduces us. The men hold out their hands and say they’re from some company I’ve never heard of. One is English, one is American and one, I think, is German, although his accent is so slight it’s hard to tell. The American does most of the talking. He goes on about how impressive it is that Crow already has a dress in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and how quickly her first high street collection sold out at Miss Teen last winter.

It’s true. Crow may do her designs in a basement, but one was worn by a starlet to the Oscars (sounds great, nearly killed me) and her Miss Teen party outfits became prized bestsellers on eBay. Unlike my designs, by the way, which were made in the same basement and
have only managed to get me GCSE Textiles. I did get an A, though. Yay!

However, Crow’s eyes quickly glaze over. Talking about what she’s already done doesn’t interest her very much. She’s too busy thinking about what she’s going to do next. That’s one of the reasons why she needs me as her business manager. I am the schmoozer of the operation, and also the schmoozee, if required.

Annoyingly, the men persist in not catching my eye. Is there something wrong with me? Do I have cappuccino foam on my lip again? Even though I’m the one nodding and saying ‘absolutely’ and ‘how interesting’, they insist on talking only to Henry (who hates fashion and is wearing a YELLOW FLEECE, for goodness’ sake) and Crow, who isn’t listening.

Eventually, I give up. I have other things on my mind right now. Like how cold it is in the Paris winter in nothing but a kimono, how stupid I was to leave my embroidered pashmina (a present from my granny) at Dad’s apartment, and how MY BROTHER MIGHT BE MARRYING A SUPERMODEL.

I notice that the American keeps glancing behind me, distractedly. I look round and spot a mini-stampede going on near a side entrance to the tent. Every photographer in the vicinity – and there are lots – is rushing over to get into position. Somebody mega-famous is about to emerge. And then I spot the halo of blonde ringlets and see Isabelle Carruthers, caught for a second
like a deer in the headlights as the flashbulbs pop and the pack of paparazzi shout out their questions.

A tall, good-looking young man with floppy hair comes to stand beside her. My brother. The flashbulbs go into a frenzy. Harry puts a protective arm around Isabelle. I strain to hear what they’re saying in answer to the questions, but we’re too far away. However, what they are not doing is shaking their heads and denying all knowledge of whatever’s being shouted out to them. In fact, Harry is kissing Isabelle for the cameras and grinning, which is a bit of a clue.

So maybe Galliano was right. I can’t see an engagement ring, but Isabelle is stroking the empty space on her finger as if there might be one there any minute.

Meanwhile, German guy has taken over from American guy. I hear the words ‘investment vehicle’ and ‘archive potential’ and ‘major breakthrough opportunity’. Compared with ‘your brother is about to get married’, they don’t really register on the Richter scale.

Crow’s eyes are still glazed. I tune out again and try to watch Harry and Isabelle’s body language. Isabelle is smiling and posing and doing clever things with her hair. She is a supermodel after all. Harry still seems a bit wary, but the way he’s snuggled up to Isabelle suggests that here is a man who found himself in Paris last night with the most beautiful girl in the world and decided to round off the evening by proposing.

He might have mentioned it, that’s all. So I could
congratulate them before every paparazzo in Paris and practically every magazine editor in the world.

I look back and the overcoat men are shaking hands. The English one is giving me a funny look, as if he’s noticed that I haven’t really been paying attention. I’d explain why, but it would sound too totally weird for words. Instead, I just say goodbye politely and flick my eyes back to the press posse hovering around Harry and Isabelle. I mean, it seems normal when you see it happening to George Clooney or Angelina Jolie, but when it’s happening to somebody you know, it’s just bizarre.

‘What’s going on?’ Henry Lamogi asks, now that we’re alone.

I explain as best I can. Henry takes in my shocked expression and puts a kindly arm around me. This is one of his specialities. He has world-class kindly arms and I instantly feel a bit better.

‘We’d better go over and rescue them,’ he says.

This seems an excellent idea.

We get to Harry and Isabelle just as they’re about to make their getaway. But for a split second we’re caught beside them, in the midst of the flashbulbs, and I realise I’d have thought a bit harder about the whole kimono thing if I’d known there was a chance of it appearing in
Hello!
magazine in a couple of days’ time.

I catch sight of the overcoat men across the gravel, staring back at us thoughtfully.