Threads (23 page)

‘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? Started dealing drugs?

I look at him suspiciously. So does Mum.

‘I sold my camera,’ he says.

This seems odd. His snappy 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 on the course. He's always liked them. I think I may switch from photography next term 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.’

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 organised. 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 tee-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) school for Victoria and her friends.

The new show-stopper 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 recreate 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 email when my mobile 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 do 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 did 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 mobile, convinced I've just dreamt 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 work for you. Now I'm certain I must be dreaming.

Back at home, I try the news on Harry over supper.

I try to be as casual as I can.

‘Er, just thought you'd like to know. Svetlana sends her love. And she liked the thing about your camera. And she's going to model for Crow, so I guess you'll see her then. While you're DJ-ing. She said to call.’

‘Oh, OK then.’

For a minute he has me, but then he drops his knife and fork, bursts out laughing, leans over and gives me such a bear-hug it squeezes the breath out of me.

Mum comes out with another couple of words from my Converses.

Which is reassuring, because I was starting to think I'd entered some sort of parallel universe where this sort of thing was normal.

I 
t's the twentieth of February. Mum's ringed it in red on the calendar. Today's the day.

I'm standing opposite a photographer's gallery just off Bond Street. Watching the scrum.

Mum's photography friend has lent us the space and we've turned it into a mad artist's Parisian studio based on my dad's – not that he's mad or anything. Actually, he's in the audience. We spent the whole of last night talking about the show when he came over and we hardly got any sleep. Dad's brilliant that way. He says you can always sleep when you're older. And he's wangled loads of invitations to fashion parties while he's here. And he says I've grown up so much he can't really call me his little cabbage any more. But he does anyway, luckily.

He went into the gallery hours ago. Normally you'd hardly notice the place, but right now it's impossible to miss because it's surrounded by a heaving mass of women in high heels and Louis Vuitton scarves and
clothes you can't buy in shops yet, all desperate for a decent seat and waving their BlackBerries and shouting out that I've personally said they can be in the front row. I said it was a nightmare.

Fortunately, there's security on the door. Amanda said we'd need it, particularly after Svetlana announced she was modelling. I've got my arms full of coffees and muffins (models need loads of energy and we massively under-ordered). In order to get back in, I have to get through the scrum so I duck my head down, flash my pass, and leave them to it.

Inside, seven leggy, exquisite models are being turned into golden dancing princesses, with tumbling hair and glittering skin. At the fittings, they all looked pale, jet-lagged and emaciated. This morning, after a bit of hair and makeup, they look like goddesses. Goddesses listening to their iPods, or scoffing muffins, or catching up on a bestseller, but goddesses nevertheless.

I check the rails. Eight models. Twelve outfits. Fifty pieces. Six minutes. I can do this. If I concentrate hard enough, I think I can do this.

Jenny's become a hairdresser's assistant, dressed in her ‘Less Fashion More Compassion’ tee-shirt and – finally – some cropped jeans that look Marilyn-fabulous on her. She teases me that I have, after all, pretty much ended up making the tea, but I simply poke my tongue out at her. I am VERY IMPORTANT today and everyone needs my opinion on stuff.

Granny's hairdresser has agreed to work for us as a favour. Everyone looks gorgeous. Even the models seem to have more cheekbones after he's finished with them. I realise that my problem is not my face, it's my HAIR. If only I'd discovered this years ago.

Through the doorway, I can hear Harry's sound check in the main gallery. Snatches of Tchaikovsky and Ella Fitzgerald, David Bowie and Chopin. It's very eclectic, but it makes sense to us. The models are tapping their elegant feet. Fingers crossed.

Crow looks like a taller version of the girl I first saw sketching the court dress in the V&A. Same serious expression. Same faraway look in her eyes. Today she's in home-made black satin dungarees. It's the models who'll be wearing the interesting stuff. She's talking to the producer we've hired (at vast expense – bye bye budget), who'll be ensuring the show runs like clockwork. Unlike DJ Rémi, he doesn't seem to mind working with infants and he seems to be having a good time.

Svetlana isn't here yet. She told us she might be late. She's finishing off another show and she's got a taxi booked to get here pronto, so there's nothing we can do except wait.

Before security let the scrum through, Amanda and I make last-minute changes to the seating, to reflect the INCREASINGLY IMPORTANT people who've managed to beg, borrow or steal invitations to the show.

Skye is chief wardrobe mistress. She's dyed her hair to
match the precise pink of her tee-shirt. Mum is our makeup maestro. She and her tee-shirt are covered in stray gold glitter. It suits her. She grins when I come back to check on everyone. Recently she's been turning her BlackBerry off a lot so she can talk to me about how things are going. And confiding that she's seriously wondering if Harry will ever graduate from St Martins. It's as if she's suddenly noticed me. Which is really nice. And she's been positively complimentary about my cobweb-sleeve mini-dress. I almost miss the snarky comments.

Gradually, the gallery fills with eager fashionistas, all busy talking about what they did last night, how hungry they are and which parties they're going to later.

Granny's making do with her second-row seat and leaning forward to have an animated conversation with the editor of a national magazine. From Japan. Florence and Yvette, beside her, look simply happy to be here. Dad is a few seats away, looking like a man who badly needs a Gitane. Edie slips in at the back and gets someone to let me know that our most important guests have arrived.

Still no Svetlana. We're starting to run out of champagne. I wonder how long the fashionistas will be prepared to wait, but they seem used to it.

Then suddenly there's a sort of ruffle in the air, like a breeze blowing through, and I realise something big must have happened. Svetlana arrives and throws her coat off, into the arms of her waiting dresser.

Mum comes out with a couple of French swear-words that didn't even make it on to the Converses. I look over. The show was due to start ten minutes ago and Svetlana is covered in blue foundation. From head to toe. Even her hair is blue.

‘I know!’ she says, stripping casually to her knickers. ‘Nightmare. It was a sort of space-alien show. I tried to warn you.’

She had tried to warn us. Yesterday. But what she meant by ‘a bit of blue makeup’ and what we thought she meant were two different things. Mum gets to work on her with industrial quantities of Nivea and makeup remover, while I go and warn Harry that he's going to have to keep the crowd entertained for a while.

Eventually, only fifty minutes late, Svetlana is looking as goddess-like as the rest of them. Possibly more so. Harry pauses the music. The anxious rustling from the audience dies down a bit. The photographers run off a few practice shots. It's time to start.

For a moment, the only sound is my heart beating VERY LOUDLY. I'm sure they can hear it at the back. Then Harry kicks off with Ella singing jazz. Six minutes. That's all the time Crow has to show the fashion world what she's made of, and what her dreams are. In six minutes it will be over.

I'm wearing a headset so the producer can tell me when to send the models down the catwalk. He gives me the signal.

‘Romance,’ I whisper.

The first model sashays onto the catwalk. Her dress is garnet-red, short, petal skirt swaying. Her headdress twinkles in her hair. Behind me, Crow is busy adjusting skirts and arranging sleeves. Mum and Granny's hairdresser are poised beside me, ready to make last-minute tweaks. The models seem to ignore us. They're thinking about the choreography, not falling over, and projecting the look.