Passion for Fashion

by Coleen McLoughlin

  Ben grinned and waved. I grinned back my manic torch-beam smile. And then Dave Sheekey decided that he’d had enough keepie-uppies, and kicked the ball straight at me.

  I panicked, did a half-jump like I was trying to head it, missed, slipped in another puddle that was lurking on the path and landed flat on my bum in a flowerbed. Mel rushed to help me up as the lads burst out laughing. Yup. Even Ben.

  You know when you think, can I just die right now and get this over with? Well, this was one of those times. I was totally on fire with embarrassment. The man in the moon could’ve lit a bonfire from the heat coming off my face. There was a massive streak of mud down my purple tights, and the edging had come away from the hem on my left leg.

  “How bad was it?” I said in a low voice as Mel helped me inside.

  “On a scale of one to ten?” Mel asked, pushing me through the open patio door as the lads doubled over out on the lawn. “About eleven and a half.”

  “Oh Coleen!” Lucy gasped. “Your clothes!”

  I don’t cry easily, so I was horrified when I felt these hot tears prickling behind my eyeballs. Desperate not to smudge my mascara – Dad’s makeup radar doesn’t stretch as far as mascara – I sniffed hard and fumbled for a bit of kitchen paper to catch the drips. My outfit was a wreck. I had mud under my fingernails. And now Ben was looking in through the kitchen door.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  I nodded tragically. I wasn’t sure what was worse: Ben seeing me like this or the wriggly lines around his mouth that proved he was still laughing but desperately trying not to show it.

  “Take Coleen upstairs, Lucy,” said Mrs Hanratty from where she was loading the washing machine. “I’m sure you’ve got something you can lend her? Bring your clothes down when you’ve changed, Coleen love. I’ll pop them in this wash for you. And if you leave your shoes by the door, I’m sure Dave can clean them up. Can’t you, Dave?”

  There was a glint in Mrs Hanratty’s eyes which told me she’d seen everything that had just happened. It’s amazing how much she can look like a sabre-toothed tiger when she wants to. Dave skulked into the kitchen and scooped up my pumps like an obedient little puppy.

  Smiling weakly at Mrs Hanratty, I trailed out of the kitchen and followed Lucy and Mel upstairs.

  Lucy’s bedroom is not at all what you’d expect – not for such a girly girl. One wall is painted black, and the rest are a really hot pink. The pink walls have loads of shelves on them, and the black wall has Lucy’s massive collection of music and movie posters. They look brilliant, and always make me dream of Hollywood.

  Strains of Here Comes The Sun were floating out of Lucy’s computer speakers when we shut the door behind us. It sounded like our mate had been practising her solo when we arrived. It reminded me of Lucy’s nerves about the show, and I hoped she was feeling braver about it now. She is such a brilliant singer – I just wish she knew it. Why was nothing ever simple?

  “Take your pick, Coleen,” said Lucy, flinging open her wardrobe.

  I stared at the rows of pastel blouses, jeans and plain jumpers inside the wardrobe. Hmm. Some fashion magic was badly needed here.

  Lucy was looking at me anxiously. “I’m sorry it’s all a bit boring,” she said.

  “There’s no such thing as boring,” I said. “It’s just how you mix it up.”

  Lucy pulled armfuls of clothes on to her bed and stood back, looking embarrassed.

  “This is like a makeover,” Mel said in excitement, plunging her hands into the pile of clothes and pulling out a couple of tees that matched her red jeans.

  My spirits were rising. I pounced on a stretchy little navy-blue dress that I instantly knew would look great over my white T-shirt – which, somehow, was still mudless.

  “You’re not serious,” Lucy said when I held the dress up to myself. “I wore that to my aunt’s wedding when I was like, nine!”

  “Then, it was a dress,” I said. “Now, it’s a tunic top. Perfect.”

  Mel flopped back on the bed amongst all the clothes and grinned at Lucy’s expression. I pulled off my muddy tights, shorts and hoodie. Then I wriggled into the dress and checked myself out in the mirror.

  “That’s mad,” said Mel approvingly.

  “And way too short,” Lucy pointed out, grinning.

  I glanced through her trousers. Most of them were too long for my little legs. But then I spotted a white pair of leggings. They probably reached just past Lucy’s knees, but on me they almost hit my ankles.

  “Ta-da,” I said, giving a twirl. “What do you think?”

  “Mum won’t believe she’s seeing that dress again,” said Lucy, shaking her head at me.

  “Good choice, Col.” Mel nodded approvingly.

  The flowerbed nightmare was almost forgotten. And Ben had been kind of sweet about it, hadn’t he? But we still hadn’t broached the subject of the fashion show.

  “Right,” I declared. “Remember our plan?”

  “Yes indeedy,” said Mel.

  “Go for it!” said Lucy confidently.

  “Just say it like we practised,” I told them as we made our way back downstairs. “We’ll have Dave Sheekey eating out of our hands by the end.”

  “I always thought Dave looked like a horse,” Lucy giggled.

  The lads were all inside now, sitting round the kitchen table with packets of crisps and glasses of Coke. Dave broke into the theme from Match of the Day when we came into the kitchen, but that was no surprise.

  “Thanks for cleaning my shoes, Dave,” I said sweetly, taking my scrubbed-up pumps and slipping them on. “It’s great having you at my feet where you belong.”

  Ben and Ali laughed, and Dave made a squishy kind of face that meant one-nil to me. Mel nudged me in the back. If we were going to pull this off, I needed to be nice to all the lads. Even Dave.

  “That’s never Lucy’s gear you’re wearing, Coleen.”

  I almost fell over. Ben was speaking straight at me.

  “Um, yeah, yeah, it is, mmm…” said Coleen, winner of the Silvertongue Award 2008.

  “It looks totally different,” said Ben. “Good one.”

  Mel nudged me fiercely in the back again. We had to move on with Phase One of our plan. I held down the beach-ball and cleared my throat.

  “Exercise suits you lads,” I began, looking round at the table. “You don’t look bad for it – quite toned, in fact.”

  “Yeah, not bad at all,” Mel added.

  Ben rolled his eyes and Dave did a few strongman impressions. Ali wriggled a bit, but you could tell he was pleased.

  “Anyway,” Lucy said, “we’re going next door to watch a DVD for a school project we’re doing. See ya.”

  I casually waved Gary Lineker’s Action Replay in the air. I’d borrowed it off Em, with the promise that I’d buy her a bar of chocolate that afternoon. If our plan worked, I was going to make it two.

  Satisfied that we’d baited the trap, me, Lucy and Mel tripped back out of the kitchen and into the living room. Now all we had to do was wait.

  “Quick,” I hissed, handing Mel a glossy mag as Lucy slipped the footie DVD into the player. Lucy’s mum loves fashion mags, and there were half a dozen on the living-room coffee table. “They’ll be in in a minute.”

  We flung ourselves down on the couch. Mel opened her magazine. I grabbed a pen and pad to complete the ‘project’ look. And, just as the music started up, Ben and his two mates wandered in.

  Boys are so predictable, aren’t they? Phase Two of our plan was about to begin.

  Eight

  “Reckon you need all the footie lessons you can get, Coleen,” said Dave, flumping down on the couch beside me. “Tell me the part about offside again?”

  I bit down the retort that rose to my lips and tried to focus on the Plan. Everyone settled down as the DVD began.

  Mel ruffled the pages of her mag really loudly.

  “Oi,” said Dave. “I’m trying to listen.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to
be watching this?” Ben said, his eyes glued to the screen.

  “In a minute,” Mel said, just like we’d practised. “There’s just this brilliant page of male fashion models I want to look at in my magazine.”

  On cue, Lucy and I both jumped up and rushed over to Mel.

  “Give us a look,” said Lucy.

  “Check out that leather jacket,” I said loudly, looking sideways at the lads to see if any of this was sinking in. “It makes him look really buff.”

  “I like that white shirt,” said Lucy. She glanced at the screen, where David Beckham was belting a ball up the pitch. “David Beckham wears one just like that,” she improvised.

  Ben glanced round at this.

  “Rio Ferdinand too,” I added, laying it on a bit. “Those footie lads really know how to look good, don’t they?”

  “Give us that.” Dave pulled the mag from Mel’s hands.

  Trying not to grin, I made a show of grabbing it back again. It was time for the killer blow.

  “You’d be great as a model, Ben,” I said, as casually as I could.

  “Oh, Ben doesn’t care about fashion,” said Lucy at once. “He could wear a bedsheet and think it looked OK.”

  “Wait up,” said Ben, looking annoyed. “I take pride in my appearance, thanks very much.”

  “Yeah, right,” Lucy said. “You’ve got like, two T-shirts in your wardrobe, and they’ve got holes all over them. Admit it, Ben. Fashion just isn’t your thing.”

  “Just because I don’t have loads of stuff, doesn’t mean I’m not into fashion,” Ben argued. He snatched the magazine off Dave and peered at the pictures we’d been looking at.

  Mel winked at me. Everything was going perfectly.

  “So prove it,” said Lucy, folding her arms and staring at her brother. “Let Coleen style you. You can choose the clothes, and Coleen will add the finishing touches. Then we’ll judge whether you can look fashionable or not.”

  Dave burst out laughing and jabbed Ben in the ribs. “Oooh!” he crowed. “Ben’s going to be a mo-del!”

  Ben scowled. “Shut up Dave,” he said. “OK, I’ll prove it. But only if you guys do it too.”

  Dave stopped laughing immediately. Ali went a bit pale. We glanced anxiously at each other. This had never been part of the plan. There was a horrible pause as Ben’s mates frowned. I didn’t see a problem with styling all three of them – so long as they all agreed. Please, I prayed to myself. This bit was crucial to the Big Plan. I’ll do anything. I’ll get three bars of chocolate for Em. I’ll tidy my room. I’ll even sort my sock drawer. Please…

  Dave clapped his arms around Ali and Ben. “Show us the way to the catwalk then, girls,” he said.

  I let out the breath that I didn’t even know I was holding. It was hard not to cheer out loud.

  “We’ll stay here and be the judges,” said Lucy, looking at Mel who nodded.

  “We’ll be back in twenty minutes,” I said, trying not to jump up and down. “And you won’t believe your eyes!”

  There was no time to feel nervous about being upstairs with Ben Hanratty and his mates. I marched towards Ben’s room and flung open the door, with Ben and the others following me.

  “Phew,” I said, fanning my nose at the pong of old socks and teenage boy. “Don’t you ever open a window in here?”

  Embarrassed, Ben opened it immediately. Then he opened his wardrobe while I braced myself for its contents.

  It was worse than I had imagined. Four old shirts hung on coat hangers. A bundle of old trackies and jeans lay in a blue heap on the floor. And a tangle of hairy jumpers in seven shades of brown huddled on the shelves like a bunch of really embarrassed rabbits.

  Ben reached into the depths of his cupboard while Dave and Ali poked around in his music collection. “This is my favourite T-shirt,” he said, holding it up. “It’s fashionable, isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t bad: white with a faded red and black picture on the front that was supposed to be a kind of warning sign like the ones you see at electrical substations. It was also the dirtiest T-shirt I’d ever seen.

  “What’s it warning you about?” I said, taking the T-shirt between my fingers like it was going to explode. “Health and hygiene?”

  I was stumped. Five minutes had already passed. The lads were going to get bored really quickly. And then our Plan was dead in the water.

  Mr Hanratty put his head around the door. “Everyone all right in here?” he asked.

  Lucy’s dad looked just like Ben, but older. He was wearing a really nice light blue jumper and a pair of decent jeans. Shame that Ben didn’t have the same sense of style, I thought with a sigh.

  Then inspiration struck. Call me crazy, but I was desperate.

  “Mr Hanratty?” I said, as Lucy’s dad started to withdraw. “Do you think we could borrow some of your clothes?”

  Twenty minutes later, I peeped around the living-room door. “Ready?” I asked Lucy and Mel.

  “Bring it on,” Mel declared.

  Borrowing Mr Hanratty’s clothes had been a brilliant move. It had just been a matter of totally ignoring the lads’ yells of protest. They’d stopped protesting pretty quickly when they saw how hot they looked.

  Ben was wearing a white shirt, open to his waist with his favourite T-shirt showing through underneath. He had on one of his dad’s jackets with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. On the bottom half, he was wearing the cleanest pair of jeans that I could find in his wardrobe, and trainers at the bottom which I’d fixed with different coloured laces. Ali was in a black jumper and Mr Hanratty’s suit trousers, a very shiny pair of Mr Hanratty’s work shoes peeping out at the bottom and a trilby hat on his head. And Dave – well. All I can say is that it had nothing to do with me.

  “Whoo,” said Dave, pirouetting into the room in one of Lucy’s mum’s best dresses. “Look at mee-hee!”

  Lucy and Mel cheered and clapped. Ben broke into a slow grin, and opened his jacket to show off his shirt. Ali even did a bit of a shoe shuffle, looking like Justin Timberlake struggling to stay upright on an ice rink.

  “Whoo!” Dave yelled, cantering across the room and lifting his skirts to point his toes.

  “Brilliant!” Lucy gasped, gawping at her brother. “You too, Ali.”

  “And you look surprisingly good in a dress, Dave!” Mel added, laughing her head off.

  Ben looked made up as he tweaked the collar of his dad’s jacket and stuck his hands in his pockets. I’d never seen Ali looking so confident either. Dave bounced up to the couch and did a somersault on the cushions, ending up on the floor in a pile of frills with his boxers flashing at everyone. As the whole room fell about, I knew it was now or never.

  “How about modelling for our end-of-term show, then?” I asked. “The lads in our class refuse to wear the brilliant stuff we’ve got. You’d be total heroes if you helped us out.”

  Ben grabbed Ali’s trilby and grinned out from underneath the brim. “Sure,” he said. “So long as Dave gets to wear a dress.”

  Miss O’Neill was chuffed to bits when we told her about Ben and his mates helping us with the modelling – and she wasn’t the only one. Andrew Donovan slid up to me and Mel in the dinner queue that week and mumbled something that sounded like: “Cheers, you’ve saved my life,” before scurrying off to join an equally relieved-looking Daniel Thorburn.

  With our three new male models in the bag, everything else at last started falling into place. The sets were almost finished. The comperes were almost word-perfect on the introductions they were doing for each section of the show. The clothes from Forever Summer still hadn’t come, but were supposed to be arriving in time for our last drama class. Posters were stuck up all over the school, and halfway around town as well. Our charity was the local children’s hospice: they were sending someone to talk to the audience at the start of the show, and we were all really hoping that we’d make a mint for them.

  The only serious fly in the ointment was Lucy, who still hadn’t performed he
r solo for the class. She’d been practising loads and was determined not to pull out. But she was still stuggling to overcome her nerves. Even Miss O’Neill was getting impatient.

  “You’ve got to face an audience some time,” Miss O’Neill said, each time Lucy refused to sing for the class.

  “I’ll be fine at the dress rehearsal,” Lucy mumbled. “Honest, Miss, I really want to do it. It’s just not right yet.”

  Lucy’s musician mates insisted that she was sounding great in the private rehearsals they were doing. So Miss O’Neill sighed each time, and just looked a bit more worried. It seemed like we all just had to trust Lucy on this one.

  I stopped in my tracks as we came into the drama class in our final week before the show. The midnight-blue jersey top from Forever Summer trembled enticingly on its padded hanger on the clothes rail, and next to it – the dead-helium-balloon silver dress.

  Let me explain something here. Clothes had been arriving for weeks now. Most of the girls had already asked Miss O’Neill if they could wear this, that or the other, and most of it was finalised. I’d decided to hold off on asking Miss O’Neill about an outfit until something came in from Forever Summer. There was a chance that I wasn’t going to get the top anyway, but it was a chance I had decided to take. Needless to say, Summer Collins had done exactly the same thing. We’d been prowling around each other for ages now, like deadly scorpions playing musical chairs. And finally, it looked like the music was about to stop.

  I raced straight up to Miss O’Neill. “Please Miss, can I wear that?” I asked, pointing with a trembling finger at the blue top. “I wrote specially to Mr Collins to ask him if he’d put it in the show. I’ve been waiting and waiting and—”

  “Summer’s already expressed an interest in the top,” Miss O’Neill interrupted. “How about the silver dress instead?”

  I gawped in horror at Summer. Smiling smugly, she waved at me with the tips of her fingers. This couldn’t be happening!

  I turned back to Miss O’Neill. “You haven’t decided for definite yet, though, have you, Miss?” I said in desperation.