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We have to wait until she comes home to hear the full story. When she tells it, her voice is lifeless. It's as if she's talking about a girl she met once, a long time ago, and can't remember very well.

‘It was my fault,’ she says. ‘You were right, Edie. All the time.’

‘But he asked you to go to the ceremony with him.’

‘He explained about that at the party. Sigrid was still splitting up with her boyfriend. He wasn't sure if she'd be able to come. And he knew it would look odd if he said he was coming on his own, so it was easier to say he was going with me. After all, no-one would ever imagine
we
were a couple. He knew I'd understand.’

‘But you
didn't
understand,’ Edie says angrily.

I can tell she's angry with Joe, not Jenny. It seems pretty clear that he quite liked having a younger girl go gooey over him when he wasn't sure what was happening with Sigrid, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

‘It's not his fault,’ Jenny says. It's like she's defending her father all over again. ‘Anyway, it doesn't matter. I'm here. He's there.’

‘But what about your new movie? The Hawaii one.’

‘I'm not doing it,’ she says in her empty voice. ‘I was
silly to think of it. Of course I'd be awful.’

‘No you wouldn't!’ I say loyally.

‘Well . . .’ Edie is less loyal, but more honest. ‘You said you wanted more practice. More training. Sounds like a good idea to me.’

Jenny nods. ‘I know it's the right thing to do. I've told my agent not to look at any more movies. I'm not even sure why I've
got
an agent. I was just . . . silly. Anyway, it turns out he'd have been in Prague then anyway, so I'd have looked pretty stupid.’

‘At least you'll never have to see him again,’ Edie points out, searching for crumbs of comfort.

‘Except at the BAFTAs, of course,’ Jenny says. She half-smiles at the awfulness of it. We don't dare. ‘In four weeks. They're here in London so I have to go. He's coming over with Sigrid. Because I'm such a great mate of his, he wants us to hang out together. He wants me to show her the sights.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said yes. What else could I say? By the way, these are for you.’

She picks up a box and hands it to Edie.

‘The latest Louboutins they gave me to go with the dress. Auction them for your Invisible Children.’

‘Thanks.’ Edie takes the box and opens it. A pair of stilettos are nestled inside, under a blanket of tissue
paper. The red soles are hardly worn and the uppers sparkle with diamanté. Cinderella shoes.

‘Sure you don't want to keep them?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I'll make sure they go to a good home.’

W 
hen Jenny goes, Edie hangs around. I can tell she wants to talk to me about something, but I have to ask what it is.

‘I was wondering . . .’ she says, ‘. . . would it be a good idea to name the school after Henry Lamogi? The one we're trying to build? I was thinking about the Henry Lamogi Memorial School, but I wasn't sure. I know I put my foot in it sometimes.’

‘Do
you?’

‘You know I do.’

‘I meant did you
know
. But it sounds like a nice idea. If Crow agrees, of course. No-one's told her yet, though, have they?’

Edie shakes her head.

‘No. But Andy Elat has offered to fly the family over for the show. He wants them to see what she can do. And he wants Crow to be able to see Victoria again. She hasn't seen her since she was a baby. So James can tell her . . . you
know . . . in person, about Henry. But don't tell her about them coming. Andy wants it to be a surprise.’

I promise secrecy. I'm getting used to it.

The thought of James coming over gives me a shred of hope for Crow.

‘So does that mean there's a chance her dad'll let her stay?’

Edie shakes her head again.

‘Not really. Not from what he's said.’

‘But surely it helps that she's got us? Looking after her?’

Edie looks embarrassed. ‘Well, not exactly. People have been telling him about my blog. I'm afraid he thinks you're a bad influence.’

‘Why?’

She gestures at me. I look down. Today I haven't got any scary meetings so I'm in lederhosen, customised wellies and a frilly shirt. Gradually it dawns on me.

‘You mean he disapproves of me because of my
outfits?
’

She looks embarrassed.

‘That's all he knows about you. That, and the fact you keep introducing Crow to people who “distract her with their superficial affectations”.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

Edie sees the look I give her and goes the colour of the tee-shirts. She also manages to remember something else so she can change the subject, quickly.

‘They don't want front row seats, by the way. They want it to be a surprise, but they don't want to give Crow a heart attack. They want to stand near the back somewhere.’

Small mercies. If that's the case, they'll be about the only people in London who do.

C 
row may not be news in the celebrity press, but she's news in the fashion press. It's divided between the people who think she may be the next Galliano, and the people who assume she's just a jumped-up little teenager with good connections, who's bound to fall flat on her face when the collection turns out to be a disaster. For these reasons, both groups of people badly want tickets for the show. I get calls and emails all the time from people ‘just checking’ they're on the list. I don't have the heart to tell most of them they haven't got a hope.

With less than six weeks to go, the mood board in the Battersea studio is starting to look ready. We've decided on the gold eyeshadow and dusty gold and silver blusher for the models. We've got a good idea of the soft, romantic ringlets for the hair. Skye has found someone to make the tiara-like headdresses Crow wants. We've even chosen the tights.

All the
toiles
have been made and several of the dresses are starting to come together. Crow's designed the invitations. And the Year Ten art class at school are making the backdrop saying ‘Less Fashion More Compassion’. I hope the visiting fashionistas will find it ironic, rather than positively offensive, but it's too late now.

The studio is beautiful. It's become the story of the Twelve Dancing Princesses – full of jewel-coloured silks, frayed fabrics, scattered crystals and tired helpers. However, it's also a crazy mess. There's still loads to do and we have to fit it around maths, English and French, same as always.

In the centre is the
pièce de résistance
. It's the show-stopper dress that Crow's going to use to wind up the show. Lots of designers end with a wedding dress, but as Crow's theme is dancing princesses, this is just the most perfect party dress, for the most perfect girl.

Unlike the rest of the collection, which is intensely coloured, this dress is silver. It's got a backless satin bodice and a long, waterfall skirt made up of dozens of petals of silver lace, finished with crystals. The lace is Skye's latest textile design, which she's given to Crow to experiment with. It's even more delicate than her last one and looks like the skeletons of leaves you get on a frosty winter morning. It seems incredibly delicate, but Crow has decided to muck about with it and fray the edges of every petal. Each one takes hours of work, deciding on the shape and position and then fraying it the perfect
amount.

The effect isn't as ballerina-pretty as most of her stuff. It's more edgy and sexy and dangerous. It takes me a while to work out what on earth can be going on in that thirteen-year-old head of hers to make her even imagine it, until I realise: it's like a crash-course in fashion history. There are bits of Vionnet, bits of Saint Laurent, bits of Westwood, bits of Galliano and bits that are entirely her own.

One day, she catches me looking.

‘I call it the Swan,’ she says. ‘It sort of started out as a design for
Swan Lake
. One day I'd love to design for the ballet.’

Of course she would. Really, nothing surprises me about Crow any more. She probably will, knowing her.

J 
anuary hurtles into February. I actually feel sick when Mum turns the page on the kitchen calendar. February is Fashion Week month. February is like a magical name for something in the future that will never really happen. Once February comes we only have three weeks to get everything done. Lots of my friends are thinking about skiing. I'm thinking about lighting and rehearsals and the dreaded seating plan.

Most Sunday evenings are spent making props, or working on the music with Harry, or desperately finishing homework. My ability to précis, I'm told, has much improved. This means I've got good at making my essays short. A necessity in these busy times.

The second Sunday in February is an exception, though.

It's BAFTA Sunday and work at the studio has ground to a halt. Edie and I are outside the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. For once, Crow is with us too, looking
scared and startled. I don't think she likes big crowds and this is the biggest crowd I've been in, and the most excited.

Jenny had been hoping to arrive late and avoid the red carpet as much as possible, but the message obviously hasn't got through and she's one of the first people to turn up. This time she gets a warm welcome as lots of people recognise her. There are a few friendly shouts as people hold up their phones to get a picture. I try too, but all I get is a picture of a field of mobiles. However, from a distance, she seems to be bearing up well.

Mum would approve. Crow has somehow found the time to design an emerald green satin dress with a tiny waist and what we now call a Jenny-length hem that shows off her calves and ankles. The student helpers have mostly put it together, because Crow is so busy finalising the collection she hardly sleeps as it is, and they've managed to embellish the bodice and hem with some leftover Swarovski crystals. There's a matching jacket, too, to ward off the freezing English night.

The original Louboutins look good with their new rose clips. Jenny's also wearing borrowed emerald earrings and a choker with a teeny emerald drop, to emphasise the perfect skin on her neck and shoulders. Granny's hairdresser has conditioned her hair to such a shine it's practically blinding.

The only thing we can't really help her with is her expression. That will be entirely down to acting.

Joe arrives not long after Jenny, clutching Sigrid Santorini's hand and looking sickeningly pleased with himself. Sigrid is beautiful in pictures and better in the flesh. She has perfect hair, perfect tan, perfect body, and has encased it tonight in a gold lamé dress that starts at mid-boob level and stops a couple of inches above her perfect knees. She must be freezing but she's too professional to show it. Both of them show perfect sets of not entirely natural white teeth to us and all the photographers.

Jenny stays where she is, signing autographs, looking serene and unconcerned. Just another girl Joe happens to know from a movie. Because they were in
Kid Code
together the photographers ask them to pose beside each other and they do. Despite everything, they look as good as they did the last time. Joe mutters something into Jenny's ear and she smiles, as if her heart isn't really broken.