Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings (24 page)

I look at Jenny, panicking.

“I don’t know. Some award thing. Isn’t there a big award thing in a couple of days or so?”

Jenny shrugs. Her award-thing days are over.

“There’s only the Oscars that I know of. But they’re not for two weeks. And anyway, Sigrid’s already got her outfit for that. She was telling me. Going on about it, quite a lot. It’s the three Vs.”

I cut her off. I’m not listening anymore. My skin’s gone cold.
It’ll be all right
, I tell myself.
It’ll be completely fine
. There’s a perfectly rational explanation. Worst case, we just call her and ask for it back.

Over the next three hours, various things happen.

Sigrid isn’t taking calls. We establish that her flight is at dawn.

When we get home we google—and can’t find—any “award thing” that she might be attending in any major world city in the next couple of days. And if she doesn’t send the dress back after that it risks being too late for the show. Which is too unbearable to think about.

Crow arrives to pick up a notebook and I have to tell her that I have GIVEN AWAY HER DRESS to a girl she’s never met, and whom we don’t even like.

I have to listen to Mum saying how she simply can’t believe how stupid I am. And watch Harry’s dumbstruck expression, which is worse.

Amanda Elat calls out of the blue just to check that everything’s OK and I have to watch Crow’s face as she explains that the Swan is gone. This is worst of all.

Edie comes over and says I look like Jenny did the night of the
Kid Code
dinner, when Joe first went public with Sigrid. I feel sick.

I am sick.

Between them, Edie, Jenny, and Mum put me to bed.

It’s only as they’re turning off my light that I realize I’ve been in such shock I haven’t even apologized to Crow.

Chapter 37

I
’ve never seen Crow lost for ideas before when it comes to designing. Up to now, whatever’s happened, whatever’s been thrown at her, she’s just been able to put pen to paper and run up a fabulous little number, problem solved.

But not this time.

The Swan summed up all the inspiration and all the skill she’d gained over the last two years. It was what the whole collection had been building up to.

And it’s not as if we can just knock out another one. The Swan took hundreds of hours to make. It also used up most of the small stock of silver lace that Skye made by hand.

Listlessly, more for something to do than anything else, I call Skye. It turns out she’s just sold the last of the fabric to a designer in Milan. Mum calls Milan for me. They say yes, they’ve got the fabric and we can have it by courier if we absolutely need it.

For five hundred pounds. Plus shipping.

So that’s that.

On Tuesday, as soon as Jenny sees me at school, she yells at me.

“I’ve found it!”

“The Swan?”

She nods. I practically crumple at the good news.

“Well, I know where it’s going to be. I googled and googled. In the end I texted Joe. Sigrid’s going to accept an award from the Spanish film industry on Saturday. That’s the award thingy.”

“But she’s only been in one movie!”

“One big one. Loads of little independent ones, apparently. But that big one made a lot of money.”

“You said Saturday?”

I’m busy doing mental calculations. Wear dress. Get home—well, back to hotel room, anyway. Give dress to stylist to ship back to London. Put dress on plane (who will pay for that?). If we’re superlucky, we could get the Swan back on Monday or Tuesday next week, which might be in time for model fittings and rehearsals for the show on Friday.

Assuming Sigrid is efficient. And considerate.

“It’ll be OK,” Jenny reassures me.

I leave yet another message on Sigrid’s assistant’s cell, wishing her luck on Saturday and reminding her about the dress. No answer.

The next evening, Harry comes in late from college with a big grin on his face.

Everyone has heard about my crazy giveaway by now, and family know not to talk loudly, smile, or look in any way cheerful in my presence. I glare at him.

“Problem solved,” he says. “How much do you need?”

“Thousands of pounds,” I snort grumpily. “Five hundred for fabric. And shipping. And we need to pay professionals to help out with the sewing. At professional rates. Because otherwise it just can’t be done in time. I always thought couture dresses were expensive for what they were, but they’re positively cheap.”

We’ve decided not to ask Andy Elat and Amanda for any more money. And they haven’t offered any. I get the impression they’re leaving me to sort this one out on my own.

“Will fifteen hundred do?” Harry asks.

“It would help,” I say with a hollow cackle.

“Here,” he says. He puts an envelope on the table. In it are more twenty-pound notes than I’ve ever seen in my life.

What’s he done to come up with that kind of cash?

I look at him suspiciously. So does Mum.

“I sold my camera,” he says.

This seems odd. His flip camera’s very nice, but it’s probably worth about two of these notes, and the only other ones he’s got are proper ones for college.

“Which camera?” Mum asks in a strained sort of way.

“The Leica. And the lens.”

Mum and I both stare at him.

“The blurry lens? But that was a present from your dad!” I say.

“But you need that for your degree!” Mum groans.

“Oh thanks, Harry. That was a good idea of yours. I’m so grateful,” he says with cheerful sarcasm. “I sold them to a guy in my program. He’s always liked them. I think I may switch from photography next semester, anyway. I’m wondering if I’m more of a painter after all.”

Mum buries her head in her hands.

“Wow, thanks,” I say at last. “That was a good idea of yours. I’m so grateful.”

“Go buy lace,” he says. “With my blessing.”

Chapter 38

I
t’s Sunday. I’m googling the Spanish film institute presentation, looking for images of the stars getting their awards yesterday. It’s not the easiest thing in the world to find, but eventually I track down a couple of pictures.

Hot Spanish male star, check. Hot Spanish female star, check. Then, finally, a picture of Sigrid and Joe looking practically glued together and manically happy.

She’s in a little black number. By Rodarte, apparently. Very pretty. Totally appropriate. She looks great.

No sign of the Swan.

Her assistant still isn’t returning my calls. Joe isn’t returning Jenny’s.

Meanwhile, life goes on. Crow’s studio is starting to look more organized. Finished pieces are draped with dust-covers. The walls are splattered with Polaroids of me
and Edie in the various outfits (looking pretty silly) to give an idea of how it will all fit together. We’re all wearing our pink T-shirts. There is a wall of invitations to fashion parties we’ll be too busy to attend. And some we can’t resist. Goodie bags are stacked in a corner, full of nice things from Miss Teen and updates from Edie on the Invisible Children campaign and the plans for the (Henry Lamogi Memorial) new school for Victoria and her friends.

The new showstopper dress isn’t here. It’s being worked on by someone Yvette has found for us who is even quicker at sewing than Crow. However, the design for it is on the wall. Harry’s christened it “Swan-Lite.” It’s a mini version of the original (not enough time or fabric to re-create the full waterfall skirt), with a bit less boning and draping, but still giving the general idea. It will be beautiful. Everyone is very careful not to talk about it in front of me. Which of course makes me feel terrible.

I have my laptop open in a corner. I’m trying to complete a history project and sort out shoe deliveries by e-mail when my cell rings. I very nearly don’t answer it, because while I can handle doing two things at once, three might be pushing it. However, when I hear
Svetlana’s giggly Russian tones down the line, I instantly forget history AND shoes.

“Is it true your brother sold his camera to help Crow finish the collection?” she asks.

“How on earth did you know?” I know the fashion world is small, but this is ridiculous. It’s New York Fashion Week at the moment and Svetlana must be on the other side of the Atlantic (or is it the Pacific?), busily rushing from show to show. She’s bound to be in most of them.

“Skye told me,” she says. “Your brother is such a cutie. Tell him I’m still listening to that playlist he made for me. Why didn’t he call me?”

“He tried,” I tell her. “But you were always on planes.”

“So? I’m
always
on planes. Guys can’t take it personally. It drives me crazy. He just has to try a bit harder.”

“I’ll let him know,” I assure her.

“Good. What was I going to say? Oh yes. Would Crow like me to walk for her, do you think? It sounds as if you could do with a bit of help. I can fit it in if I’m rude to a lot of very important people and miss an unmissable party.” More giggles.

“Well, actually, we’re kind of OK for models,” I say.

She must know I’m joking. Luckily, she does.

“Cool. I’ll let you know when I’m back in town. See you.”

I look at my phone, convinced I’ve just dreamed the whole thing. I even shake it.

“Who was that?” Crow asks.

“Svetlana.”

“Oh, that’s nice. Is she OK?”

“Fine. Actually … she’d like to model for you.”

Crow gives me a relaxed, cheerful smile.

“Oh good.”

She goes back to finishing the bodice she’s working on. In Crow’s world, it’s perfectly natural for a SUPERMODEL to OFFER to walk for you. Now I’m certain I must be dreaming.