Passion for Fashion

by Coleen McLoughlin

  Four

  The sun was blazing down as I jogged to the bus stop the following Monday morning. I knew how the sun was feeling, because I was feeling it too. My favourite lesson first thing, and I’d actually enjoyed doing my homework for once! I was feeling pretty confident about my fashion theme, and not even Dave Sheekey making pig faces at me by pressing his nose up against the approaching bus window was going to put me off my stride.

  “Good work, Dave,” I said as I climbed on board. “Keep it up and your nose might stay there. Believe me, it would be an improvement.”

  Dave slid away from the window with a scowl on his face. I felt the world go all slow-mo as Ben slung his arm over the back of his seat and grinned at me as I went past. My excellent morning immediately went stratospheric.

  “Drunk your happy juice today?” Mel teased as I sat down with a huge smile plastered all over my face. “You really ought to cut down, Col. Smiling that hard can’t be good for your facial muscles.”

  “Did you do your theme?” Lucy asked anxiously. She was looking at a crumpled piece of paper on her lap. “I did mine on rainbows, but it’s not very good.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure her. I could imagine floaty outfits in all the colours of the rainbow swishing down the catwalk.

  “I got my inspiration from our catwalk show,” said Mel. She waved her piece of paper at me. “Ta-da! New Eighties! What about you, Coleen?”

  “Wait and see,” I said primly.

  “Col!” Lucy wailed. “Tell us!”

  But no matter how hard my mates pressed me about my theme, I just smiled and tapped my nose at them. They were practically ready to kill me by the time we got to Miss O’Neill’s classroom. And when Miss O’Neill looked around at us all and said, “So, who wants to be the first to argue their theme for our fashion show?” Mel actually pushed me out of my seat.

  “Trust Coleen to barge to the front,” Summer said in a loud voice.

  “Trust Summer to have a voice like a foghorn,” I snapped straight back.

  Summer glared as Mel and Lucy giggled. Everyone else just looked expectantly at me. And I found that all of a sudden, my mouth had gone dry. What was my theme? I hadn’t even got round to taking my homework out of my bag, and I was stood there in front of everyone like a lemon. Everything drained out of my brain and escaped through my ears like slippery spaghetti.

  “Take your time,” Miss O’Neill said kindly, seeing that I’d frozen to the spot.

  Time! Everything came back into my head just in – well, just in time. And with a rush of relief, I realised that I didn’t even need my notes. I’d practised it in front of my bedroom mirror so many times that I could’ve recited it in my sleep. And so – trying not to think too hard about the horrible combination of high-waisted brown trousers and yellow frilly blouse that Miss O’Neill was wearing today – I began to speak.

  It was an amazing feeling, talking to a class full of people when you know they’re all listening really hard. Well, Summer and her mates Hannah and Shona were whispering, and all the lads were looking bored, but you don’t expect much of boys when it comes to fashion, do you? It helped when a sunbeam shot across the classroom floor in a brilliant stripe of yellow just when I was talking about my ideas for dawn and morning. I could see Mel’s eyes misting over and just knew that she was imagining a fabulous sunrise outfit. And, unlike my dad, Miss O’Neill nodded like crazy when I got to my moths idea for dusk.

  “And last of all,” I finished excitedly, “the blues, blacks and silvers of the midnight sky will sweep down the catwalk, before a tinge of red signals that the new morning is approaching.”

  Mel and Lucy started clapping. Even Summer clapped – if slow clapping counts.

  “Great ideas, Coleen,” said Miss O’Neill warmly as I floated back to my seat. “Let’s see if anyone out there can match that. Who’s next?”

  I couldn’t believe some of the rubbish the boys came up with. They had everyone dressed as space explorers / aliens / football players. Mel’s eighties idea went down really well until some of the lads started singing old Kylie tracks that drowned out what she was trying to say. To Lucy’s horror, three other girls did a rainbow theme – though Lucy’s was way the best. And last of all, it was Summer’s turn.

  “I would like to propose Beach Time: the perfect theme for our fashion show,” Summer announced, tossing her blonde hair back over her shoulders.

  Beach time? I gawped. That was like – sand and donkeys. Wasn’t it?

  “Clothes as wild as crashing waves. Crisp linen in gorgeous ice-cream colours. The coolest surf gear for the lads,” Summer continued.

  The lads stopped whacking each other around the heads with their books and cheered.

  “She’s going for the lads’ votes!” I whispered to the others in dismay.

  “Hot bikinis,” Summer continued with a smirk, “and cool guys in shades.”

  There was more whooping from the boys. Mel made sick faces at me.

  “Flaming bonfire colours and glamorous beach parties,” Summer said. “The sound of the sea in the background, and songs that make you think of summer.” She gave a stomach-turning little curtsey. “That’s it.”

  “I hate to say it,” Mel muttered as Summer minced back to her seat with a smirk on her face, “but that’s a good idea.”

  “She is sooo annoying!” I said indignantly. I had thought my idea was a winner, but a tiny worm of doubt was starting to chew away my confidence.

  “Time for our discussion,” said Miss O’Neill, cutting through my thoughts. “I think the first thing we should do is take a vote.” She consulted her list. “Who liked Coleen’s idea of time?”

  There was a decent show of hands. Mel and Lucy loyally stuck both their hands in the air in an attempt to boost numbers. I was pleased that a couple of the cool lads – who usually sat at the back of the class and didn’t join in – put their hands up, while Summer and her mates made a great show of sitting firmly on theirs. Predictable, huh?

  It was a relief when the space explorers, aliens and footballers sank without a trace. Mel’s eighties idea did OK, and so did all the rainbows. Then came the bit I was dreading.

  “And last of all,” said Miss O’Neill. “What did everyone think of Summer’s beach theme?”

  My heart plummeted as loads of hands flew up. Lucy and Mel looked sympathetically at me.

  “Summer’s not allowed to vote for herself, Miss!” I shouted, peering over at Summer’s table where she was sneakily waving both hands in the air behind Shona.

  “Thank you, Coleen,” said Miss O’Neill drily. “I had noticed.”

  “Sneak,” Summer hissed at me, narrowing her eyes so much that she looked like a Siamese cat.

  “Cheat,” I hissed back.

  Summer and I were so busy shooting evils at each other that we almost missed Miss O’Neill’s verdict.

  “It looks like we have joint winners,” Miss O’Neill was saying. “Coleen and Summer both achieved eight votes each – even accounting for a bit of double-handed voting.”

  Mel and Lucy blushed. So did Hannah and Shona.

  “There’s no way I’m working with her, Miss,” Summer snarled, looking at me.

  Miss O’Neill looked irritated for the first time. “Enough, Summer,” she said sharply. “We’re all going to work together here. Can I suggest a compromise?”

  I don’t mean to be nasty, but Miss O’Neill and fashionable ideas go together like chocolate and gravy. I could feel my gorgeous time theme slipping away.

  “What kind of compromise, Miss?” I said dully.

  “Mixing your two ideas, so we have a day and a night at the beach,” Miss O’Neill said, to my total and utter surprise. “Cool sea-spray mornings, boiling beach afternoons, bonfire colours for early evening and a show of glamorous beach-party outfits to take us through to midnight. The set designers can create seascapes for both day and night, and the band can sing – I don’t know – some songs by the
Beach Boys?”

  Half the class groaned at the Beach Boys bit, and Summer rolled her eyes at the fact that she’d be sharing the limelight with me. Me? I was sat there like a stunned kipper. Miss O’Neill’s suggestion was brilliant.

  “All those in favour?” Miss O’Neill glanced around the room.

  Nearly everyone stuck their hands in the air. Miss O’Neill scribbled something briskly on her clipboard. “Good,” she said. “So that’s decided, then. Next step – writing to the town boutiques to ask if they would donate suitable outfits to be auctioned for charity at the end of the show. Can everyone make a list, please, of the shops you want to invite to take part.”

  A burst of excited chatter broke out across the room. Even the lads stopped larking about and looked enthusiastic, imagining themselves dressed up like surfer dudes.

  “That’s perfect!” Lucy said, clutching my arm. “There are loads of fantastic beach songs we can do!”

  “I want a sunrise-coloured outfit,” Mel decided. “There’s a brilliant orange and yellow kaftan dress in the window of that shop by Woollies. We should write to them for definite.”

  “I know exactly what I want,” I announced. “There’s this gorgeous midnight-blue top that I saw in the window of Forever Summer at the weekend. It just needs a bit of magic to make it perfect!”

  As you’ve probably guessed, Forever Summer is Summer’s dad’s boutique. Summer boasts that her dad named it after her. If he’d really done that, he would’ve named it Spoilt Princess.

  The others made faces at the mention of Forever Summer.

  “Assuming Summer’s dad donates that top to the show – and remember, Coleen, his stuff is really expensive. I can’t see Summer letting you wear it without putting up a fight,” Mel said after a moment. “Can you?”

  For pretty much the first time that day, my megawatt mood dimmed right down. “OK,” I said, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that was suddenly swamping me. “Assuming Mr Collins donates it, Miss O’Neill will decide who wears it. Not Summer Collins.”

  I glanced across at Summer. She was staring right at me. With a nasty swoop in my stomach, I had a feeling that she’d just heard every word.

  Five

  “Did you hear what I just said, Coleen?” Mum’s words brought me back down to earth with a bump. “Can you move your stuff off the table and lay it for tea?”

  “Oh Mum,” I groaned. “Can’t Em do it? I’m just finishing my maths homework.”

  “I did it yesterday,” Em answered quickly.

  “I’ll do it tomorrow and the day after,” I pleaded.

  “And the day after that?” asked Em.

  “All right, you’ve got a deal,” I said, sighing.

  I peered down at the page of fractions. If I could just finish this last one…There! Quickly I collected up the mass of papers and went into the other room where my plans for the midnight-blue top from Mr Collins’ boutique lay on the couch. The first thing I decided was that it needed two rows of tiny pearl buttons down the front. But by Tuesday, I’d decided that buttons was my worst idea ever.

  “I’ll look like a calculator,” I declared as I sat down for tea, scrumpling up my design and lobbing it across the room. “Anyway, I don’t suppose I’d be allowed to do anything to the top anyway. We’re not meant to use needles on the clothes, cut them up or do anything that’ll change them so they can’t be changed back again.”

  Rascal chased my balled-up design hopefully across the floor, skidded on Mum’s freshly washed tiles and bumped his nose into the bin. Em snorted with laughter.

  “I hope you’re laughing at Rascal and not at me,” I grumbled, taking up a fresh piece of paper. “This is harder than it looks, you know. It’s got to be a glamorous beach outfit, like the type of thing movie stars wear. We’re talking South California, not Southport.”

  “You don’t even know if Mr Collins will donate it, Coleen,” Mum pointed out, fiddling with the stove until the friendly sound of blopping baked beans filled the air. “And why do you want it so badly if you’re going to change it anyway?”

  I thought about trying to describe to Mum the gorgeousness of silk jersey – the super-cool fabric that the top was made out of. Silk jersey was slippery and fine, and it hung in fabulous folds if you wore it right. I also wanted the top because it was totally plain: a blank canvas for my fashion experiments. But there are some things that no amount of talking can ever totally explain.

  “Maybe I could scoop it up at the sides somehow,” I murmured, sketching again. “With a silver camisole peeping through—”

  “Beans, beans are good for your heart,” sang Dad, coming into the kitchen with wet hair from the shower he always took after work. He’s a plasterer, and he’s always covered in white dust at the end of the day. “The more you eat, the more you—”

  With perfect timing, the sound of our toast popping up drowned out the rest. I put my drawing of the midnight-blue top on the side, my head still full of beach thoughts. Rascal lay on my feet as we ate, his whiskers tickling my ankles. I munched my tea as daintily as I could, pinching up my face to look gorgeous and haughty and imagining I was hanging out somewhere on a beach in California.

  “Who are you trying to be, love?” Dad said, eyeing me over a forkful of beans. “Angelina never-very Jolie?”

  “I don’t suppose movie stars eat beans for their tea much,” Mum said.

  “Poor things,” said Em.

  And I guess my little sister had a point.

  By the time the next drama lesson came around, my plans for the midnight-blue top had changed again.

  “I’m going to make a silver sash to tie around the waist,” I told Mel and Lucy as we filed into the classroom. “Showing off your waist is a big thing at the moment. There’s some fabric I’ve seen that would look brilliant. I—”

  “Thank you, Coleen,” Miss O’Neill called. “Time to concentrate, I think.”

  Summer sniggered as I subsided.

  “Last week we made a list of possible shops that we could approach for our fashion,” said Miss O’Neill, handing out sheets of headed paper with the Hartley High address on. “Today we are going to be writing to them.”

  “I can just ask my dad, Miss,” said Summer loftily. “He’ll give us loads of stuff. Why do I have to bother writing to anyone else?”

  “Everyone gets a letter,” Miss O’Neill continued, ignoring Summer. “It’s good manners. The list is on the board, and your name is beside the shop I want you to write to.”

  To Mel’s delight, she got the shop with the orange and yellow kaftan she wanted. Lucy had to write to the big department store at the top of town. And I got Tuckers, a fairly cool men’s outfitters that had just opened in the town centre.

  But you know when you have an idea that gets into your head and takes root? I was like that with the midnight-blue top, and I was determined to do all I could to get it.

  “You’re writing that fast,” Lucy commented, looking over from her corner of the table.

  “I want to write to Mr Collins as well,” I explained, my hand flying over the page as I explained to Tuckers the importance of our project and how it would give them a chance to introduce themselves to everyone in Hartley and show us all the great stuff they sold. “Just to make sure he includes that top.”

  “You’re obsessed, Coleen!” Mel sighed, shaking her head.

  “Maybe I am,” I said, finishing my letter with a flourish and grabbing my second, totally more important piece of writing paper, “but this is the coolest project we’ve ever had. Mum and Dad and all our friends will be at the show and I just want to do my best.”

  Walking down to the park on Wednesday afternoon to meet my dad and little sister after school, I just happened to take a detour down Foxton Row. It was a dead glamorous shopping street full of quirky fashion boutiques, and I loved checking out the window displays for the latest looks. Forever Summer stood on the corner, its big plate-glass window glinting in the afternoon sun. I check
ed my watch. I still had five minutes before I had to meet Dad and Em. Five long, luxurious minutes to stare through the window at what I couldn’t help thinking of as My Top.

  At first glance, it wasn’t much. Most people’s eyes would drift over it, caught by the silver minidress that sparkled in the centre of the window display instead. The silver dress was an example of something hideous that got window-time because it came with a big flashy label. In my opinion, it looked like a deflated helium balloon. No, the midnight-blue jersey top was much more interesting. I couldn’t see the label because – unlike the silver dress, which had a screaming logo sewn on its sleeve – it was tucked round the back of the mannequin’sneck. I sighed with pleasure, and tilted my head so I could catch the top’s delicate shimmer. Once I’d given it my magic touch, it would go perfectly with my old white cut-offs and a pair of sparkly-flip flops, which I still had to persuade Mum to buy for me. I would be the last model to take to the catwalk. There would be a standing ovation. I’d see Mum and Dad in the front row, with proud looks on their faces. I’d catch a glimpse of Ben’s admiring grin from further back. The bidding would go crazy. And the top would be sold to someone super-stylish…

  Ten pounds? Who’ll give me ten pounds for this unique piece of fashion history? Ten pounds, thank you, Madam! Twelve pounds – fourteen – sixteen – slow down, everyone, I can’t count this sea of waving hands – eighteen pounds forty-seven…going…going…gone to our model and designer, Coleen herself!

  I sighed. The top would probably go for more than £ 18.47, but since that was all the money I had in the world, my daydream would have to do.

  Somehow, five minutes had slipped into ten. Tearing myself from the window, I raced down Foxton Row. Dad would kill me if I was late for Em’s match.

  My little sister plays football for our local undereights team on Wednesdays in the park. I’ve never fancied playing myself. Still, I do the big-sis thing and support from the sidelines, while Dad trots up and down playing ref. Sometimes he gets a bit carried away, and forgets that it’s only a bunch of seven and eight year-olds. He yells and jumps and blows his whistle like he’s pounding the sidelines at Old Trafford.