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One day, about a week in, I go into the bedroom Crow's using to tell her it's teatime and get the shock of my life. A midnight-blue lace cocktail dress is lying under the window in pieces. The bodice has been separated from the skirt and several seams have been undone. Petticoats litter the area. For a moment, I feel as if I've wandered into a crime scene, and I half expect to see a chalk line around it and forensics experts crawling over it, looking for DNA.

I go in closer. The label says Dior. This is sacrilege.

Crow comes in behind me and gives me a cheerful smile.

‘My God! What's Granny going to say?’ I gibber.

‘It's all right. She said I could,’ Crow tells me calmly. ‘I'm borrowing it.’

‘But it's in bits.’

‘Of course. I have some adjustments to make. I'm just examining the seams.’

‘Examining the seams? Do you really think you'll be able to put it back together?’

She shrugs her shrug. ‘Yvette will help me, but it's clear how the dress was made.’

It's clear to me how people do bungee jumping, but that doesn't mean I'd ever attempt it myself. But Crow seems to think it's perfectly natural to try and recreate the stitches of a Dior
couturière
. So does Granny, apparently. She doesn't seem remotely bothered when I nervously mention it at tea.

In the evenings, Granny reminisces about her Paris days and rumbles on about how things have changed.

‘In my day, the regular clients were European princesses and American heiresses who dressed like ladies. Now it's all mobsters’ molls and pop stars who dress like glorified tarts. I've lost track of the number of nipples I've seen on the catwalk. It's quite disgusting. One of them was your mother's once, Nonie. I'm not sure I ever recovered.’

Granny doesn't often talk about Mum's career. I'm starting to suspect that she might be jealous of Mum wearing all those fabulous outfits, day in day out, and
getting paid to do it. Granny was born to be a model. She had the height and the pouty looks and the theatricality. She could have posed for England. But in her day, nicely brought-up girls didn't do that sort of thing. Or so Great-Grandma told her.

Crow doesn't comment. She just listens and occasionally you can see her fingertips moving, as if she's trying to remember the feel of a particular fabric. Or else she's drawing her dancing girls, but this time they're in more recognisable outfits. I can see bits of Dior and Saint Laurent, Chanel and Ungaro and others of Granny's favourites. She'll quickly sketch the outline, as she usually does, but then she'll spend ages tracing the line of a pocket, or a line of buttons, or a flash of crystal embroidery. I have a feeling that by the end of our stay she'll be able to recreate every one of those outfits from memory.

When it's time for us to go, Crow as usual doesn't bother to say thank you. She just climbs into the car beside the big basket containing the remains of the Dior dress. Granny gives me a look as I squeeze in beside her – the first time I've seen her disappointed by Crow's manners, or total lack of them.

But by the time we get home, she's been on the phone to Mum – practically in tears, Mum says, which is a first since Grandpa died. It turns out that Granny went up to her bedroom and found a new outfit on the bed. Crow had brought some purple velvet down and made Granny a new tunic dress to show off her latest jewellery. And
she's guessed her measurements so perfectly from handling the clothes in the attic that she didn't even need to give her a fitting.

I think if Crow were fifty years older and a bloke, Granny would probably marry her.

I 
t turns out Mum was right.

All Jenny needed was corsetry. A bodice with boning sewn into the fabric can make your curves look shapely, instead of lumpy, and can emphasise your thin bits to the max. It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it works. Women have been using them for centuries.

Crow's design for the National Movie Awards, is effectively a corset with a puffy skirt. As well as being not the easiest thing to wear, it's also not the easiest thing to make. The last week of the holidays is so manic with cutting, sewing, fitting, pressing and remaking that I almost forget to go to school. And that's only the
toile
– the cotton practice version of the dress that creates the pattern. Then Crow has to do the whole thing again in white silk. And just because that isn't enough of a challenge, she's decided to embroider the bodice with crystals. Yvette watches over her, approvingly, showing
her shortcuts and special stitches to make the fabric do exactly what she wants.

The result is stunning. Worth every pinprick and late night. Jenny gives us a mini fashion-show the day before the awards and she doesn't look like Quasimodo any more. She looks like a movie star. She has a waist. A tiny one. And delicate ankles. And beautiful peachy skin on her shoulders. The full skirt hides her hips and thighs. The bodice makes her boobs look like they're supposed to be there. And the Louboutins are the perfect finishing touch.

The style may be inspired by the New Look, but whereas Dior relied on enough fabric in the skirt to make a large marquee, Crow has done clever things with seams and petticoats so it uses a fraction of the material and seems as light as air. The overall effect is ‘Oh, this little thing? I just threw it on my perfectly proportioned body’.

Granny loves it because it makes her nostalgic. I love it because it reminds me of Marilyn Monroe, which is the direction I think Jenny should be going in with her curves. Jenny loves it because it makes her feel pretty. Crow loves it because she enjoyed every second of putting it together.

We invite Edie over for her opinion.

‘You look like a princess,’ she says, after some serious consideration. ‘One of the better-looking ones.’

I really worry about that girl's diplomatic career.

Edie is busy gathering CV points on the night of the
awards. Crow's working. But I'm loyally standing outside the Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank of the Thames, looking at the twinkling lights over the water and waiting to see the stars arrive.

There isn't a massive crowd of us. This isn't exactly the Oscars. But there's a huge bank of photographers jostling for space. They're expecting Meryl Streep and Nicole Kidman and Kylie – so this is a night for EXPENSIVE celebrity. I now understand why I was supposed to look impressed when Jenny first mentioned this ceremony to me.

I don't see all the famous people. Some sneak in by the back door. But it doesn't matter, because I'm only here for one girl. She might not be famous enough to require sneaky entrances yet, but I don't care.

For once, I'm not nervous about how she'll look. I know she will be gorgeous. And she is. She floats along the red carpet looking stunning in her white dress and white skin, with her copper hair gleaming. The flashbulbs start to go and a paparazzo works out who she is and calls her name. Startled, she turns round and more bulbs go. Then she starts to enjoy herself, smiling properly and looking like a regular famous person having a good time.

Until suddenly her face freezes and I know instantly what she must have seen. I look around and sure enough, the tousled hair and green-laser eyes of Joe Yule have made their appearance, above an immaculate black jacket and sky-blue tie. You wouldn't think he'd only arrived a
few hours ago after a killer of a flight.

Instantly, the photographers start to yell his name, but Joe is a practised hand. He comes over to the little gaggle of us and languidly signs a few autographs. He dazzles us with his smile and I could swear he looks right at me. I know what Jenny means about that jelly feeling, and I'm not even close enough to smell Mentos.

Eventually he turns to go into the building and I watch Jenny move towards him. Joe stops for a minute, surprised, and then gives her a polite kiss on the cheek. I can see her murmuring something at him. So can the people around me.

‘What's that? She the new girlfriend?’ someone asks.

‘Nah. She was his sister in that film, remember?’ says the movie buff beside me. ‘Used to be fat. Scrubbed up OK tonight, though.’

I have a pretty good idea of what Jenny's just said to Joe and I watch as closely as I can to see his reaction, wishing I had a pair of binoculars or one of the photographers’ massive lenses so I could get a close-up. From where I'm standing, his back seems to relax and he starts talking rapidly to Jenny. The colour floods back into her face, but not her usual raspberry. Her cheeks just look cheerfully rosy. Her face relaxes too and I realise how pretty she can be when she's happy. It only shows how strained she's been all summer.

Joe looks down and obviously says something nice about the dress. Then he puts his arm around her waist
to guide her – in a gentlemanly fashion – along the last few feet of carpet. Just before they go through the doors, someone in the crowd calls their names and they both turn round again. I've never seen Jenny look so amazing. Her eyes are bright and she's positively sparkling. I hold up my phone and get a rubbish picture of her, only hoping that a professional has done a better job.

Two hours later I get a text. I'm impressed that she managed to get her mobile into the teeny diamanté clutch I found for her. The text isn't much: just a smiley face. I can't be sure whether this is because
Kid Code
has won an award, or because of Joe. I have to wait until she gets home and onto Instant Messenger before I can hear the full story.

‘He said he was really sorry! He always wanted to be friends and he thought he'd blown it. He was so cute!’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’

‘No! No no no no no no no. Just cute. And sweet. Anyway, he's too old for me.’

‘Too famous.’

‘Too far away, most of the time.’

‘Too busy.’

‘You looked great, anyway.’ I decide it's time to change the subject. The I'm-glad-he's-not-my-boyfriend conversation has gone on long enough.

‘Did you win anything?’

‘Oh yes. Forgot to say. Best Action/Adventure and Best Performance, Female. Joe lost out, but he was OK about it. Mum let me have two glasses of champagne, so I did, but it's DISGUSTING.’

I have a feeling that if I hadn't asked, Jenny would have completely forgotten to tell me. It's just possible that her mind is still on the non-boyfriend. I hope she's as cool with it as she sounds. At least he's talking to her, which has to be good.

Next day, the picture of Joe and Jenny is in three of the papers. It's good of him, of course, but it's fabulous of Jenny. She's beautiful, elegant, young and associated with the movie they all want to talk about. Instantly, the cherry tomato is history. Jenny is completely glamorous and everyone loves her.

I cut the photo out to keep, but it turns out I don't need to bother. The picture appears, better printed, in all the celebrity magazines. What's really strange is that they even start to rewrite her career as an actress, saying what a sweet part she had in
Kid Code
and how she reminds them of Emma Watson, who plays Hermione Granger. For once, they forget to mention the father and the mistress and the spots. Instead, they want to talk about her demureness, her Marilynesque figure and her ‘fabulous auburn updo’.

Her dress is attributed to a variety of designers, or put down as ‘vintage’. Her shoes feature heavily in each
article, however, and are correctly attributed every time.

Two weeks later, she's the opening guest on the Jonathan Ross show on BBC1. Millions of TV viewers watch her sit on the famous sofa and tell the story about the monkey and what a privilege it was to work with so many talented people. Jonathan Ross, however, has noticed that the real story is how good she suddenly looks.

‘Because you had a few problems in that department, didn't you?’

Graciously, and going only slightly strawberry, she admits she did.

‘But you're looking stunning tonight. Isn't she, ladies and gentlemen?’

She is. Everybody applauds. She still has the glow about her that's been there since the awards. She's wearing Granny's blue lace Dior cocktail dress, which Crow has been frantically adapting for her, and the trusty Louboutins, which by fashion maths are working out to be positively cheap. You'd think she'd spent her life in vintage couture.

All the fashion press are in agreement after this outing. Jenny Merritt is a teen style queen and they can't wait to see what she'll show up in next.

In the days that follow, her first free handbag is delivered. Then her second. And three free pairs of shoes. None of which fit Jenny's growing feet, but it's a nice gesture. Then an invitation arrives to open a ward at a
children's hospital, and another to launch a soft drink. And a vast bouquet of flowers from the producers of
Kid Code
, to say ‘job done’. And a one-line text from Joe Yule to say he heard she was on TV and hoped it went OK.

It's a shame you can't frame texts. I hope Jenny doesn't get carried away and embroider it on her pillow, or worse (as I've heard Sexy Girlfriend did) have it tattooed somewhere private.

HAH! I wonder what would happen if Jenny started telling that story instead of the one about the monkey.