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.
‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I'm Harry. I've heard so much about you.’
Svetlana giggles her stunning giggle again. Harry looks friendly and groggy but not outrageously impressed. He notices the crumbs on the table.
‘Can I get you another croissant?’
More giggling. ‘No thank you,’ she says. ‘Crow's told me all about you.’
‘All of it true,’ he says. ‘So, how do you know Crow?’
He asks as if it's the most casual thing in the world, but I'm completely dying to hear the answer. How do international fashion superstars get to meet schoolgirls who make outfits in someone else's spare room?
‘My friend Daisy got two of her dresses from the Portobello Road,’ Svetlana explains.
She leans back and crosses one impossibly long leg over the other. Harry closes his eyes briefly and breathes through his nose.
‘Daisy looked fabulous,’ she goes on. ‘I had to find out who she was wearing. Then I was at a meeting for the Yves Saint Laurent competition and of course, Crow was a finalist. I thought, she's the one. I must ask her for a dress. I'm going to this party in New York and it's going to be crazy. I have to have something new and she's it.’
‘Wait!’ I interrupt. I'm not goggling any more, I'm clutching my throbbing head. ‘I'm confused. The Yves Saint Laurent competition? Who's a finalist?’
‘Crow,’ Svetlana answers, wiggling her pretty nose at me. ‘The award's in a couple of weeks. Hasn't she told you?’
‘The competition in Harry's room?’ I ask, half to myself. (After Zoe's show, he added the poster to the rest of his Svetlana collection.) ‘The one where the prize is for you to wear the dress at London Fashion Week?’
Harry has turned round to give me a furious look over Svetlana's head and I realise that mentioning the bit about his room wasn't the cleverest, but hopefully she hasn't noticed.
‘Mmm,’ she nods. ‘Everyone was so devastated when Yves died. They wanted to do something in his memory. I never got to work for him, of course. Did you, Sally?’
Mum nods and waves a hand dismissively in the air. I can tell she doesn't want to talk about being a model about a hundred years ago with some young star who's in the middle of her career.
Harry and I have given up any hope of intelligent conversation and are back to goggling.
‘What's this about your room, Harry?’ Svetlana asks, with a hint of that giggle.
Harry, realising the game is up, goes down on both knees before her.
‘I worship the ground you walk on,’ he says. ‘Crow must have told you. My room is a shrine to your heavenly body. Go out with me.’
She gives him a smile and runs a hand down his stubbly cheek.
‘OK,’ she says. ‘As you ask so nicely. When I get back from New York. Call me.’
The door opens and Crow appears, clutching a multihued pink creation, which looks small enough to fit a doll.
‘It's ready,’ she says. ‘Oh. I see you've met Harry.’ And gradually her face becomes one big, shy smile.
A few hours later, when we've recovered from the shock of Svetlana, Crow explains about the competition.
‘I saw the poster and Harry told me about it. I thought if I won, I could introduce him.’
She makes it all sound so easy.
‘So what did you design?’
‘I drew a little black lace cocktail dress. Very simple, but the hips are padded, so . . . ’
Without thinking, she breaks off, grabs a bit of paper and a pen and draws the dress to show us what she means. It's a simple silhouette, with a fitted bodice like a lace leotard and a flared skirt. When you look closer, you realise that the hips are exaggerated, a bit like the embroidered court dress that Crow and I love so much from the V&A. In the middle, from waist to hem, is a triangle of cascading white lace. Mum, who's wandered over to have a look, puts her hand on her shoulder.
‘Velazquez,’ she says, nodding approvingly. ‘And a touch of Watteau. Yes?’
Crow nods back. For once, I don't need Edie to translate. Mum's talking about a seventeenth-century Spanish painter and an eighteenth-century French one. Both painted women in seriously big dresses, which is the reason I remember them. I think grumpily that I would have spotted their influence sooner if Mum and Crow had bothered to take me on some of their art trips recently.
‘But why didn't you tell us?’ Mum asks.
Crow looks at the floor and won't say anything. We try and get the story out of her, but it's impossible. Even Harry can't get her to talk. It's Harrison Ford all over again.
It's Jenny who works it out. We're watching Gossip Girl and it's an advert break.
‘You entered that competition, didn't you?’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘With a totally genius design. In my head. Except on paper it looked a bit like a crumpled paper bag on a Bratz.’
‘Well, there you are. Don't you get it?’
‘Nope.’
‘She didn't want to embarrass you. It's thanks to you she even found out about the competition. And you came nowhere.’
‘Thanks, Jen.’
‘And now she's a finalist. How many entries were there?’
I've checked. There were about ten thousand.
‘She didn't want to rub it in.’
I've never thought of Crow as particularly sensitive. I've never thought of her as sensitive at all. But first I discover she's been matchmaking for Harry, successfully too. Then it seems she realises that I have feelings as well. It's a bit of a revelation.
Jenny is good at this sort of thing at the moment. In fact, she's good at everything. Even being nice to Edie, which can't be easy, after everything Edie's said about her being lady bountiful. There's been a glow about Jenny for weeks and only the most stupid friend wouldn't be able to work out why. Now seems a good time to check for developments.
‘Has he been in touch?’ I ask her, reaching across for a cookie.
‘As a matter of fact, he has,’ she says, handing me the last one. ‘He's emailed me a bit.’
‘Wow.’
‘Not really,’ she mumbles, with a stilted laugh. ‘It's nothing amazing. You know, just general stuff. Lila's in Canada shooting something, and he's in New Mexico.’
Lila Riley is the Sexy Girlfriend. There's something about the way Jenny mentions her name.
‘And?’
‘Oh, nothing. He seems a bit fed up. He said how much he enjoyed being in London. Seeing the sights.’
‘Any sights in particular?’
‘No,’ she says.
I check her face. Fruit
s of the forest. Neck to temple.
‘Is he coming over again?’
‘Probably. In February. For the BAFTAs. If we're nominated.’
‘But you will be, no? Everyone's saying Kid Code‘s going to get every award going.’
‘Maybe. Except best supporting actress, of course. But you know, they've said they'd want everyone to be there, so I'd be included, and London's my home town . . . ’
Her voice is still casual. She's staring straight ahead. The fruits of the forest are dying down slightly. I'm guessing she's counting every day.
Then, during a particularly interesting part of the episode when I'm trying to concentrate, she happens to mention that it's so difficult for stars using email. Anything could get intercepted and they have to speak in code the whole time. I sense she's speaking in code herself. I wonder: what exactly is ‘enjoyed seeing the sights’ code for?
Later, I google Joe Yule and Lila Riley. Half the blogs say they've split up and the other half say they're the strongest teenage couple in Hollywood. Out of interest, I try googling Joe Yule and Jenny Merritt, but all I get is that picture of them at the National Movie Awards, with Jenny in her Marilyn dress. If Joe is missing any sights in particular, nobody in the blogosphere has picked up on it.
Now that my life is full of supermodels and fashion awards I try to imagine my best friend going out with the New Teenage Sex God, thinking maybe it will be easier. It still seems totally impossible. But I wasn't on set with him that day last year and I didn't have him whispering into my ear going into the Festival Hall.
I don't know what to think, but I do know that whatever's going on at the moment, it's making Jenny so blissed-out she practically floats into school every morning. And on a cold autumn day with double geography to look forward to, that really takes some doing.
Back at home, Mum puts the Yves Saint Laurent award date in capitals in her BlackBerry and in red ink on the kitchen calendar, which now hangs under one of Harry's photos and beside two framed pictures of Crow's dancing girls. I haven't had anything on those walls since I was five, when I apparently grew out of my ‘naif’ style.
Granny comes up to town and insists on hearing the whole story from start to finish. She also adores the dress design.
Edie mentions the competition in her blog and has the decency to admit that she's getting far more hits now it's at least fifty per cent about fashion and less about recycling and clean water.
Jenny spends ages mentally designing the dress she'll wear to the ceremony and is horrified to hear that Crow won't be allocated enough tickets for her to go.
‘But I'm her best client!’ she says, petulantly.
‘Apart from the supermodel,’ I point out. Jenny has to admit this is probably true.
Even Harry mentions the ceremony at least once a day, as it'll be the first chance he has to meet up with Svetlana again. He's tried to fix a date with her but she seems to spend most of her life on planes and must have the carbon footprint of a major company. (Edie is appalled and blogs about this too. Hits go up exponentially. It may help that Edie puts up a few images of Svetlana to illustrate her point.)
Crow ignores us all, except for Granny. They hole up in the workroom, plotting something, and only emerge for food, school (Crow) and cigarette breaks (Granny).
On the subject of the competition, Granny is less concerned about my feelings than Crow seems to be.
‘Darling, I gather you entered too.’
I admit I did.
‘How sweet. Can I see the designs some time?’
‘I didn't keep a copy.’
‘Sweet’ is not a good word in the Nonie Chatham dictionary. As soon as I can, I dig out my folderful of copies and make sure I religiously shred each one.
We don't make such a bad crowd as we get ready to go out on the big night. Mum comes downstairs in Dries Van Noten, which is very sculptural and severe, but looks good with her cheekbones, and Granny is drop-dead gorgeous in vintage velvet. Yvette Mansard is wearing an exquisite silk print dress she designed herself, although she admits Crow helped her arthritic hands with some of the tricky bits. I'm in a silver leotard (I'm still in my metallic phase) and two of Crow's original nylon skirts, which hang like delicate snowdrops – and aren't so see-through if you wear them in pairs. Crow herself is in a red brocade dress she got from a charity shop and has customised by wearing it back to front. It looks as though it's been made out of a pair of curtains, but she says there's something about the colour that makes her happy, which seems a good enough reason to choose it.
As soon as we get to the tent in Battersea Park, where they're holding the ceremony, Svetlana spots us and comes over to say hello. She's in a vintage Saint Laurent trouser suit accessorised with a long rope of pearls and is, of course, spectacular. So is the venue. The marquee has been kitted out with hundreds of white flowers and candles and tables laden with crockery and crystal. We have a big meal to get through before they announce the winner. How nervous people are expected to eat this many courses, I have no idea.
Svetlana and Harry don't seem to know what to say to each other. She's constantly being accosted by fashion people who need to kiss her several times on both cheeks and talk about how fabulous it was in Milan or Paris or New York or wherever it was they met last time. Harry knows lots of the design students from St Martins and they keep trying to sidle up to him so he'll introduce them to the supermodel. It's all a bit sticky and the rest of us quickly decide to leave them to it and go and inspect the other competition entries, to see what Crow's up against.
The six finalists’ designs are on spotlit boards along one side of the marquee. Granny, who has three original Saint Laurent cocktail dresses in one of the attics after a bit of a splurge in the seventies, processes past the boards, pronouncing on each one.
‘Too sexy. Too short. Too derivative. Perfect. Good effort, but too beige. Too clever for its own good.’
Crow's, naturally, is the perfect one. The good but beige one is by a St Martins student called Laslo Wiggins, whom I've met through Harry. He's one of their rising stars and, according to Harry, a total party animal. I spot him at a nearby table, and he's surrounded by a posse of admirers and dressed like an extra from Pirates of the Caribbean.
His table stays busy throughout the meal, which we can hardly eat. There's definitely a buzz about Laslo. Then someone says that the winner will be announced in five minutes, and lots of people get up from their places to gossip and speculate about who's won.
I'm stuck to my seat with nerves and Harry kindly keeps me company. His eyes keep flicking to Svetlana, who's sitting at the judges’ table, but he just about manages to hold an intelligent conversation. Then Mum joins us. She's been chatting with various fashion insiders and journalists who are hovering around the edges of the room. She looks serious.
‘Laslo's got it, hasn't he?’ asks Harry.
She nods. ‘Everyone says so. When they started off the judging process, before they really thought about who'd done the designs, it quickly came down to Crow and Laslo. They're obviously in a different class from the rest. And Laslo is very . . . ’
‘ . . . beige?’ I offer, quoting Granny.
Mum nods again. ‘But then they realised who was who. Laslo's already practically got a contract with an Italian fashion house for next year. And Crow is, well, nobody. They were worried it would be a waste of a prize. That she'd do that one dress and that would be it. They want to use this prize to really launch someone. And they were worried she wouldn't have the technical skill.’
‘But that's crazy. She's been teaching some of the students cutting methods.’
Mum throws up her hands.
‘They don't know her. She's just a kid with no training. Laslo is . . . news.’
After this, I decide I can't face listening to the actual announcement. My stomach's been in knots all day and I feel a bit sick. I need some air. Granny is busy chatting up some skinny old bloke with unnaturally black hair at a front table, who
m she probably knows from a house party somewhere. Mum, Yvette and Harry are all sitting miserably together at our otherwise empty table. I spot Crow, funnily enough, with Laslo's crowd of students from St Martins, looking as if she doesn't have a care in the world.
I leave the marquee by myself and wander down pathways till I find myself next to a Buddhist pagoda overlooking the river. A very pretty blonde woman in a little black dress is having a quiet cigarette at the base of the temple and waves me over to join her.
‘You from the Saint Laurent thing?’ she asks.
I nod glumly. She offers me a cigarette. I'm sad, but not suicidal, so I refuse.
‘Laslo got it yet?’ she wonders.
I shake my head. ‘He's about to, though. I couldn't bear to listen.’
‘Why?’
She sounds curious and friendly, and I need a shoulder to cry on. I pour out all my disappointment at the injustice of the judging.
‘They're just voting for their friends, that's all. They might as well not have had a competition. Why bother? This could have been Crow's big chance. I'm not sure how many big chances you get. And the stupid thing is, she's probably made more stuff for people to actually wear than Laslo's dreamt of.’
‘Oh?’
I hope she isn't Laslo's girlfriend or anything, and explain about Crow's dresses for Jenny, the Portobello stand, Svetlana – all the magazines her stuff has been printed in.
‘She's been making clothes since she was eight. She works with a top Parisian seamstress. She knows all the couture finishes. She's always drawing. I worked it out once. She must have done over ten thousand designs since she got to England. She can do Dior, or Saint Laurent, or things that are so original your eyes pop. She did these.’ I point down at my skirts, whose delicate petals are rippling in the night breeze.
The blonde woman nods quietly to herself. ‘Actually, I think I've got a couple of dresses of hers. From that stand in Portobello. I shop there all the time. They're gorgeous little things. Fairytale frocks. And you're right. She knows how to make ‘em. How do you know her?’
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