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I 
t's the children's ward opening that annoys Edie the most.

She just about manages to handle the free bags and shoes and party invitations, but she says the idea of being asked to upstage a bunch of sick children just because you looked good in a frock on TV practically makes her want to throw up.

This doesn't go down well with Jenny, who accepts the invitation partly to annoy Edie and comes back from the hospital saying what a MARVELLOUS time she had and how THRILLED all the children were to see her and how the older ones were PARTICULARLY excited that she showed up in her Louboutins.

This makes Edie even crosser, because she says if there's anything worse than swanning around a children's ward like lady bountiful just because you've been on a TV sofa, it's doing it in STILETTOS. Jenny says Edie's just jealous and Edie does her most sarcastic laugh and says
she wouldn't be seen dead in those magazines – they're only read by people like me – and Jenny gets a bit carried away and says that's true, we wouldn't be interested in Edie even if she were dead, and they stop talking to each other for a while and channel all communication through me.

This is not great for me because Jenny mostly wants to talk about boys. Definitely not smoky, green-eyed sex gods. Not those, oh no. Anything but those. But boys in general have suddenly become a bit of a pet subject. And Edie wants to talk about internet campaigning and her new project to help build schools for the Invisible Children in Uganda. She says her website's been getting thousands of new hits recently and (I quote) she wants to ‘harness its popularity to improve awareness of the plight of displaced children in areas of conflict’.

Which is great in theory. Fabulous and worthwhile and I'm really proud of her. I've even bought a bracelet to support the campaign. I'm just not very good at statistics and campaigning methods and international organisations. I try and concentrate but my brain starts clouding over and I find myself thinking about next term's designs for my pencil case or the ideal colour combination for my next pair of Converses. I wish I wasn't so superficial but it's obviously genetic, so I don't think it can really be my fault.

But I do discover one interesting thing. I happen to be googling Jenny one evening after homework (OK, instead
of homework – it's become a bit of a habit to watch the search results grow each week) and I notice that one of the most popular sites for people looking for stuff about Jenny is Edie's blog. It turns out that Edie's been describing Jenny's TV and magazine appearances alongside snarky comments about my outfits and general information about world peace and her own do-gooding.

I can't help wondering how many of the hits are down to Edie's limpid prose and biting political analysis, and how many are down to Jenny's taste in shoes.

I ask Edie about it as we're leaving school one day and she somehow manages to change the subject to how much publicity she's raised recently for Invisible Children, swiftly followed by the number of displaced people in camps in ten African countries. By the time she's finished quoting a series of very large numbers at me, I've forgotten what my original question was.

‘I need to do more, though,’ she says with a dramatic sigh. ‘I mean, if we could get a million signatures, say, on a petition, then the Prime Minister would have to take the problem more seriously. And he could raise it at the next G8 summit. And they'd have to do something.’

‘Do what, exactly?’

‘Give more money to people who are trying to put families back together. Stop supporting the governments who keep the conflicts going so they daren't return home. Build more schools. Just imagine: you spend years and years in a camp with hardly any food, no education,
people dying around you. There's thousands of them living like that and hardly anybody's helping them. Just because they're not being shot at any more, it doesn't mean they're out of trouble.’

I try to look encouraging.

‘Oh, come on,’ Edie complains. ‘It's not that impossible.’

I must practise my encouraging look more.

‘You
care, don't you, Nonie?’ she asks, looking doubtful for the first time.

‘Of course I care,’ I protest. ‘But I don't know these children. They're so far away.’

Edie looks irritated.

‘Huh! Jenny only has to put on a pair of silver shoes and half the country seems to know her.’

We're back on to that subject again. I make an excuse that I've got an essay on a Brontë to finish and head for home as quickly as I can. Edie goes on and on about saving the world, but if she carries on like this it's going to be practically impossible to save a friendship.

I 
t's not all celebrity and saving the world. The summer holidays are a distant memory and we have normal school things to think about too. All our teachers have been careful to explain that we have less than two years before we'll be TAKING SOME OF THE BIGGEST EXAMS OF OUR LIVES and that we should be suitably, and increasingly, stressed. It's working for Jenny and me.

Edie, on the other hand, is coasting. Take Eng. Lit. By now, she's read all our set texts for the whole year and an additional three books by each author, just to become ‘fully conversant with their style’. I think that means being able to copy them at will, which she can. Her only regret is that Emily Brontë didn't
write
enough books to enable such thorough research. Emily Brontë is a bit weedy and lazy, in Edie's opinion, and should have done less wandering on the moors getting a chill and put pen to paper more often.

Oh, and there's shopping. Obviously Edie doesn't shop, so far as I've noticed. And Jenny now has FREEBIES SENT TO HER instead. But I do.

One day after school, I'm walking down Kensington High Street and I could swear I see Jenny's white dress in one of the shop windows. I look closer and realise it's a good copy. It's got the crystal embroidery and the clever cutting of the full skirt. It's not as well made, of course, and the material's not as classy, but it's still a great dress to wear to a party.

Then I see another copy, and another. Rock royalty are wearing it two sizes too large, over white cotton petticoats that peep out from under the hem. Sienna Miller is photographed in a black version on a film set. Kate Moss wears something dangerously similar under a leather jacket to go to the pub. I buy a version myself and take it home to show Crow, who immediately takes it apart, fascinated to see how it's made.

‘Do you mind?’ I ask her. After all, nobody's exactly asked if they can borrow the design.

‘Why would I?’ She looks confused. ‘I always wanted to see girls wearing this shape. Anyway, now I'm doing it differently.’

She gestures round the workroom, which is full of new versions of the dress, in paper, in
toile
, in delicate pink satins. She's been learning from the pieces in Granny's attic and now all the bodices are boned and draped and fitted. The skirts still do clever petal things like before,
but they also have a hidden mobile phone pocket, held in place by stays. Of course, Dior didn't do that, but he gave her ideas of how to cheat and hide stuff.

She lets me try on a dress to show me her latest invention. It's designed to look as if the sleeve has accidentally fallen off your shoulder, and there's some very clever sewing and taping on the inside to arrange the sleeve in the perfect position. The dress also gives me boobs, hips and model-length legs.

‘Golly!’

‘You can have it if you like,’ she says, scrunching up her eyes a bit, which I know means that it's promised to a client.

‘I'd better not,’ I say, taking it off regretfully. It's not only that someone else needs it. It also makes me look a bit too much like a model/princess/ballerina, which is never a look I've gone for. I'm a flat-faced midget and I might as well accept it and rock the look I've got.

I'm not typical, of course. There are a lot of girls out there who are totally happy with the model/princess/ballerina look. Rebecca has a permanent waiting list for new dresses and if Crow ever has time to run off one of her Arctic-cobweb creations it goes in seconds. Several of the St Martins students require new outfits on a regular basis and pay Crow in fabrics or embellishments from their own collections. She now gets letters from girls begging her to make them something. All teenage, all leggy, all rich enough to pay eye-popping prices.

The letters provide good reading practice. Edie still practises with her every week, but they've moved on from the House of Dior to
Vogue
articles and notes from costume exhibitions. Crow seems to have missed out the Roald Dahl and Jacqueline Wilson stage entirely.

I ask Edie how Crow's getting on at school and she says that, apparently, it's better. She's still rubbish with homework, but at least she can understand what's going on in class now. The Bitches are still there, but Crow just seems to tune them out. Her head is always full of fabrics and finishes and design details that she's spotted.

At home, Mum has taken to asking Crow out whenever there's a new exhibition on.

‘You don't mind, do you darling?’ she asks me. ‘It's just that you're much happier texting your friends and she needs the visual stimulation.’

Of course I mind. I don't text my friends THAT much. I message them, mostly. And I like seeing art. I particularly like getting a chance to chat to Mum while we're doing it. She seems to have much more free time when Crow needs something. I cope with my jealousy by having furious conversations in my head when I rant and rave to Mum about how much attention the TWELVE-YEAR-OLD is getting. I swear a lot and say some evil, unforgivable things and it makes me feel much better. Out loud, I say, ‘Of course, go ahead, that's fine, you go and enjoy yourselves.’ As you do.

Jenny thinks Mum is being totally selfish and unreasonable. Edie points out how hard Crow works and that she deserves some treats. Therefore hinting that I am being totally selfish and unreasonable. Crow says nothing and carries right on sewing.

Then one morning I come down to breakfast and there's a SUPERMODEL sitting at the kitchen table, chatting to Mum.

‘Hi Nonie,’ Mum says casually. ‘This is Svetlana. She's come to pick her dress up.’

Svetlana looks up and gives me a smile. She's stunning. You could use her cheekbones to cut bread. Her honey-coloured hair tumbles past her shoulders and her golden eyes glitter and sparkle like Swarovski crystals. Her skin glows. And as she's sitting down, I can't even see most of her body, which is what she's really famous for.

I goggle.

She's eating a chocolate croissant. I'm guessing she has a metabolism like Mum's. But as soon as she's finished chewing, she says, ‘Hi’ and I say, ‘Hi’ back in a strangled voice that isn't really mine.

‘I'm making toast,’ Mum says, silently gesturing at a half-empty pack of chocolate croissants that were going to be for us. Svetlana's appetite is impressive.

I sit at the table and try and think of something to say, but luckily Svetlana is chatty, as well as hungry.

‘I had no idea your mum was such a collector. I adore
the photographs. She's going to sell me some limited editions. No time to choose today, though. I'm supposed to be at the airport in . . . ’ she checks her watch, ‘ . . . twenty-four minutes. Oops. I may have to jog through security.’

‘Where are you going?’ I ask politely. It's really weird watching her lips move after so many months of only seeing her in photographs.

‘New York. Big party tonight. Thank God Crow got my dress done in time. I was worried she wouldn't. My fault. I only asked her last week. She's so incredible, your friend. What's her secret?’

‘She actually has a family of elves working for her,’ I say, with a serious expression. It's how it feels, sometimes.

Svetlana giggles. Even her giggle is honey-coloured and stunning.

Then Harry comes in, dressed in boxers and an open dressing gown, with the air of a boy who's been partying a bit and needs something restorative. I'm not sure he's entirely recovered from his India trip yet. He takes one look at Svetlana and reacts for a moment as if he's been punched in the chest. For that moment, it feels as if the air's been sucked out of the room and it's spinning. Then he breathes in, belts the dressing gown and wanders nonchalantly over to Svetlana, whom he KISSES ON BOTH CHEEKS as if he's known her for years.