Beads, Boys and Bangles (4 page)

‘Bill saw me in
Kid Code
and he admitted that I was hopeless, so it can’t be about acting. I wondered if it was something to do with Dad, but Bill’s one of Mum’s best friends and he knows she hates Dad’s guts now, so it can’t be that.’

‘Maybe he wants you to introduce him to someone from Hollywood,’ I suggest. Jenny is New Best Friends with half the Hollywood A-list since she made her film. Or at least, she knows people who know their phone numbers.

‘Oh no. It can’t be that. Bill
hates
Hollywood. Everything about it. That’s one of his big things. He’s into live theatre, small venues, the smell of the crowd . . .’

And on and on and on until finally the Eurostar enters the Channel Tunnel and cuts her off. I’m going to need both of those new batteries by the time we get to Paris at this rate.

I put the phone away and wait for Edie or Crow to ask me what that was all about, but they don’t. Not even a flicker of interest. Edie’s started doing Brain Teaser on her DS. If there’s a super-mega level, she’ll be on that.

Crow’s got her notebook out and is sketching something. I look over her shoulder and see that it’s a series of black cloaks teamed with high boots and floppy hats. Chic funeral attire, I’m guessing. Not what we’ll be wearing tomorrow, but what we would be wearing if we
were the sort of It-girls and movie stars who wear Crow’s expensive stuff on a regular basis.

‘That was Jenny,’ I say eventually.

‘Oh,’ Edie manages. Crow just shrugs.

‘She’s fine, by the way.’

I give up and get out the French
Vogue
that I bought with most of my spare cash at the train station. Why I did that, when I’ll be able to buy it for half the amount in Paris in a couple of hours, I’m not entirely sure, but there’s something about French
Vogue
. See it. Get it. Plus I speak the language because my dad’s French, and it’s the only thing I can do in Edie’s company that makes me look vaguely intelligent.

I savour the moment. Me reading in a foreign language (OK, looking at the photos in a foreign language, but it still counts) and Edie doing a boring DS game. YES! Suddenly, despite everything, I don’t feel quite so miserable any more.

As the train pulls in to Gare du Nord, Granny arrives. She’s supposed to be chaperoning us, but she can’t bear sitting in carriages where people are allowed to use mobile phones, so she’s avoided us for the actual journey and sat in the quiet bit.

Granny is already in her funeral gear. Black cashmere and fox fur over Balmain boots. Granny thinks fur is WONDERFUL and very practical for cold winters. Getting her and Edie talking on the subject is very funny.
I secretly love fur but I would never wear it, unless I was an Eskimo or something. You can’t, can you? Except – Granny can.

‘Are you ready, girls? Ah, French
Vogue
, Nonie. Well done.
C’était bon
?’

I don’t answer. Granny’s French accent is truly horrendous and the only way to discourage her from using it is to ignore her. She thinks I’m being rude, but it’s for her own good.

We gather our stuff and get ready to get off the train. I catch sight of Crow and for once, she’s not dreamy or frowning. She looks . . . different.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

She nods and whispers one word, like it’s a magic wish: ‘Paris!’

Of course! Paris is the centre of her fashion universe. It’s the home city of her favourite designer of all time – Christian Dior – and now she’s about to step into it, having imagined every detail since she was eight. I only hope it’ll live up to her expectations.

There’s the Eiffel Tower, of course, and the River Seine and the Louvre and Notre Dame and the boutiques. But there’s also the dirt and dog poo and mad taxis and tourist menus, and some pretty impressive rudeness from Parisians if you do the wrong thing. But then there’s the Pompidou centre and the croissants and the crêpes and the hot chocolates and the cafés and the
other
boutiques.

She’ll be fine. Whatever she’s expecting, she’ll be fine.

In the middle of the station concourse, a short guy in an ancient Burberry mac is standing alone, looking a little bit lost.

I drop everything and rush towards him, launching myself into his arms.

‘Papa!’

It’s a shock to realise I’m finally as tall as him. A little bit taller, actually. He really is microscopically small. I guess he must have stood on a step to kiss Mum when they were dating. I quickly check for thinning hair on the top of his head, but luckily what Dad lacks in height he makes up for in hair follicles. Loads of them. They add at least an extra two centimetres.

‘Nonie!
Trésor
!’

Lots of big hugs. The others join us and Dad finds a hug for Edie and Crow as well. He came to Crow’s first show, so he knows how amazing she is, even though he sounds like he’s coughing when he tries to pronounce her name. She almost wraps him in her poncho when she hugs him. Wow. Even Crow’s as tall as Dad now. Poor Dad.

With Granny, Dad exchanges a nervous smile and a nod of the head. Granny thinks Dad is a sad, artistic loser and Dad thinks Granny’s an elegant, posh headcase with a bad accent. Luckily, she’s off to stay at the Ritz, so they won’t have to see too much of each other.

‘See you tomorrow, girls,’ she says, gripping her suitcase handle tightly. ‘Eleven-thirty. Get as much sleep as you can.’

She heads off for the taxi queue, fox fur trailing, and Dad guides us towards the Métro. Dad doesn’t have a car, doesn’t drive and doesn’t see the point of taxis when Paris has underground trains and buses. He brandishes white cardboard Métro tickets for us all and I feel a sudden glow. Paris Métro tickets are in my top ten most romantic things in the world.

As Dad leads us through all the gates, stairs and corridors to the right underground platform, I give Crow a nervous glance. I mean, the Métro’s great, but it’s not exactly the Eiffel Tower. However, I needn’t have worried. Her mouth is slightly open and she looks as if her brain is elsewhere, but I happen to know that what she’s doing is processing every image around her.

Crow has a photographic memory. She’d be brilliant in a crime scene.

‘Miss Lamogi, at what angle of tilt was the trilby worn by the woman you saw for two seconds behind the victim two weeks ago last Thursday?’

‘Thirty degrees, Your Honour.’

Well, she wouldn’t know to say ‘thirty degrees’, but she’d be able to draw it.

She’s mentally recording every step, tile, poster, light, every expression and outfit on all the passers-by. I don’t think Crow sees stuff as good or bad. Just interesting or boring. And the Métro is definitely interesting. When we get to Dad’s apartment she’ll start jotting down her favourite impressions. Soon we’ll be seeing little
glimmers of these images appearing in her designs.

In fact, she starts drawing as soon as we sit down in the train. So far we’ve been in Paris for half an hour and she hasn’t said more than its name and a whispered ‘
Bonjour’
to Dad. I catch his eye and shrug. Most people find Crow a bit strange to start with. But he’s an artist. He gets it. He just gives me a grin and turns to Edie.

‘Nonie says you ’ave a . . . website. That is so marvellous. ’Ow’s it going?’

Oh dear.

Or, as we say in Paris,
zut alors
.

I
t’s eleven-thirty on the dot and we’re in the Église Saint-Roch, not far from the Ritz. This is the church where Yves Saint Laurent had his funeral last year. It is SO classic and beautiful and glamorous and French.

It’s my first funeral and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to look. I mean, I know I’m supposed to be upset and I AM upset. Very. But I’m also surrounded by famous fashion people and I’m kind of impressed and overawed. And Crow is a bit of a fashion star, even in Paris, so people keep staring at all of us like they’re impressed to see us too. I keep wanting to enjoy myself, then remembering I can’t.

Yvette’s coffin is amazing. It’s shiny and black but you can hardly see it because it’s smothered in white lilies. Big, small, star-shaped, bell-shaped. I had no idea you could get lilies in so many shapes and sizes. But the fashion crowd have obviously decided that they are the ONLY flower worth having this season.

When we first heard about Yvette, we thought she was a figment of Crow’s imagination. How was it possible for anyone who had worked with the master, the great Christian Dior himself, to still be alive, even, never mind to know a little girl from Uganda who lived with her aunt in a flat in Kensington? Then Granny met her and it turned out they’d sort of known each other in the old days, when Granny used to be a Dior client and came in for fittings. Then, thanks to Crow, all these London fashion types met her, and we realised she was practically a goddess.

Yvette was a genius with silk. At Crow’s level, designers mostly make their couture designs themselves, but in the big fashion houses there are specialists. The designer chooses the fabric and does a bit of a sketch and it’s taken away by these incredible women to be turned into a real outfit. The women are called
mains
, which just means ‘hands’. You’d think that would be pretty rude, but they seem OK with it.

Balmain spent years trying to poach Yvette from Dior’s
atelier flou
. So did a young Valentino. But instead, she fell in love with a young seamstress from the
atelier tailleur
, who did wizard things with jackets and trousers, and they moved to London to live a quiet life together. Which they did for years, running an old furniture shop and generally being happy.

I love this story. It has a happy beginning, middle and end, which is how things should be, in my opinion. And
because Yvette taught Crow to be so super-amazing at sewing, Crow managed to become a designer about ten years earlier than normal, and I got to meet all my fashion heroes – or most of them, anyway – before my sixteenth birthday. I’ve already decided that my first child is going to be called Yvette. Or Yves, if it’s a boy, after Saint Laurent. I’ve got the whole thing totally worked out.

The funeral is packed with fashion royalty. People who really knew Yvette, people who wish they’d known her, people who work for people who knew her, and people who just want to talk to the people who knew her.

Everyone is wearing an Outfit. Black or grey. Chic. Expensive.

Almost everyone, that is. My outfit is white. Very white. Very short. Very Sixties. Very original Mary Quant. I AM SO LUCKY I FOUND IT IN A CHARITY SHOP LAST WEEK; IT’S PRACTICALLY A MUSEUM PIECE. True, a couple of extra inches on the hem wouldn’t have done any harm. I’m wearing safety knickers and super-thick tights, just in case I have to bend over. But it goes perfectly with my white plastic lace-up boots, which are completely irresistible. Yvette would understand.

Edie looks like the President’s wife, all grey coat and tiny hat and soulfulness, so she makes up for me. Crow, naturally, has ignored the black/grey thing and is in a purple and blue printed dress with a crimson poncho. All clothes that remind her of Yvette, because they made
them together. I can sense some of the other designers wishing they’d thought of something like that. Crow can’t help standing out.

We get to the hotel where they’re having the reception afterwards and Crow’s besieged. Normally I have to save her from moments like this, because she hates talking to strangers. But this time it’s different. People want to talk about Yvette, whom she adored, or about how to make clothes really, really well, which is Crow’s passion, so suddenly she’s the one having all the interesting conversations and Edie and I are left talking to each other.

Granny’s supposed to be looking after us, but she keeps bumping into people she used to know forty years ago, or people who knew my mum when she was a model here, and for a woman at a funeral she’s giving the strong impression of having the time of her life.

I’m back to thinking about Yvette and how much we’ll miss her. I’m not having the time of my life, but talking to Edie is better than moping by myself. Edie’s still thinking about her website, or more to the point, about these Californians she’s never met who seem to hate her so much.

‘They live five thousand miles away. Why did they pick on me?’

Ignoring the fact that she knows California is five thousand miles away (how does she pick UP this stuff?), I point out that she’s constantly interfering in the lives of – sorry, helping – people she’s never met.

‘You go on about what’s happening in South Africa. That’s not exactly close. And Uganda.’

‘Well, Crow’s from there,’ Edie says, hurt.

‘Yes, but she lives in Kensington now.
You’ve
been to Uganda more recently than she has.’

Edie went this summer, to say hi to Crow’s parents and her little sister, and to check up on the school she’s been raising money for.

‘But that’s taking an interest,’ she protests. ‘Not being nasty for no reason.’

‘What I mean is,’ I say, ‘for some people, the world’s a tiny place. You taught me that. Crow gets fan mail from Japan. It’s weird. I guess people can be angry long-distance too.’