‘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.
It'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 remove
r, 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.
I suppose it must be six minutes, but what happens next feels like six totally fabulous, totally action-packed hours. Or possibly days. Each outfit is a beautiful story. The music carries the models along. The bank of photographers provides a light show all of its own. Behind the scenes, we all rush about like mad things. As each model comes off, she sticks her arms up in the air and her dresser gets busy, whipping clothes off, whipping them on; everyone's adjusting hair, retouching makeup, gesticulating frantically at me, desperately trying to ensure that we don't send one of the goddesses out in her bra.
Beyond the catwalk, I can hear lots of whirring and popping from photographers’ cameras over the sound of Harry's music, but I haven't got time to worry about what the audience are thinking. I'm just checking that we're doing justice to Crow's outfits. So far so good. At least nobody's collapsed on the catwalk.
And then suddenly Svetlana is standing in front of me in the Swan-Lite, looking magnificent. It's almost possible to imagine that Crow deliberately designed it this short to show off her truly incredible legs. She stoops to give Crow a quick gold-powder kiss and then she's off down the catwalk. And we can hear something else over Harry's David Bowie finale.
It sounds like raindrops on a tin roof.
It's clapping.
They're standing and clapping. All of them. Granny and Yvette and Florence and the Japanese editor and TWO of my favourite designers and three It-girls and as many PRs as you can humanly fit in the space. And they really love it. This isn't just ‘Didn't the kid from Africa do a nice job after all?’ clapping, this is ‘Wow – seriously wow!’ clapping.
The other models come back in to join Svetlana and there is a general call for Crow, but at first no joy. I knew this would happen. Her delight was in dreaming up these outfits, not showing off beside them. However, I've planned for this eventuality. I practically carry her on to the catwalk and the models grab at her hands, pulling her forward, forcing her to stand there and take her bow.
I lurk behind everyone, peering into the blackness near the back. At last I spot Edie. I can see that beside her are the faces from the photographs, looking older, but as elegant as ever: James and Grace Lamogi. Crow, I realise, is the image of her father. He's standing stock still, not smiling, not clapping, but I know his daughter well enough to understand that he's drinking in every moment and I have a feeling he might be verging on a tingle of pride.
I watch Crow's shoulders in front of me. They are hunched in shy, embarrassed ‘aw shucks’ acknowledgement of the standing ovation. Then I see them straighten and stiffen. Suddenly her whole body is rigid. She's staring out across the audience and I assume she's spotted her parents. I look again and then I notice what she has seen.
James and Grace Lamogi are not alone. There's another figure standing next to them. He's staring intently at Crow, as if nothing in the world will ever break the connection. He's wearing a satchel just like the one Crow has always worn. He isn't smiling either. He's asking Crow something with his eyes.
Suddenly she leaps off the catwalk and flies across the room. How she gets there, across the seats and bodies and photographers’ cameras and equipment, I'll never know. But it takes her seconds. She reaches Henry and I can hear her shriek above the rest of the commotion in the room, which is deafening.
She throws her arms around him and hugs him to her with five years’ worth of hugs. Whatever it was he was asking her with his eyes, her answer is yes. Their faces are streaked with tears.
At this moment, the catwalk lights go down and are reduced to a single spot, shining on the place where Crow was standing. The audience goes quiet. Perfect timing. NOT. There are calls throughout the audience for Crow to come back on stage. But I know she won't. We are just a background now. She's found her brother. Someone else will have to round off the show.
I step round Svetlana and into the spotlight. Strangely, my feeling of terror has gone. I think what I'm feeling is euphoria. It's like drugs, but without the rehab. Whatever it is, it makes what I'm about to do feel pretty easy.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ I say. Lots of cheers. I make sure I thank Skye and all the models and all our helpers and Andy and Amanda. Yup, turns out I could be good at this.
‘Some of you may know,’ I finish, ‘that Crow has been waiting for her big brother to come home for some time. Big brothers are important people . . .’ I suddenly remember Harry and give him a huge wave. He grins and waves back. ‘Look in your goodie bags. Go to the website. Pledge some money. Sign the petition. Tell everybody about the Invisible Children so they can all go home.’
There's a final wave of clapping as people start reaching for their programmes and goodie bags and scraping their chairs. Then the door is opened and Edie makes sure that Crow and Henry and her family are the first to disappear. Which leaves me hanging around for the next two hours answering questions, making sure the clothes are put away safely, thanking the models again, being air-kissed a lot by excited fashion people, accepting flowers, giving directions to the after-show party, making decisions and generally doing my job.
When Andy Elat puts up favoured guests in London, he doesn't do it at the nearest airport hotel. Oh no. He does it at his favourite suite at the Dorchester, popular with rock gods and movie stars. The Lamogis have it for a few days. Hollywood's Hottest Couple are due in a fortnight.
We're in the suite admiring the décor. Actually, we're not. We're bitching about the décor, which is too Art Deco for us minimalist London types and too grand for the Lamogis.
It's Sunday. Tonight, we're here to watch the Oscars on one of the suite's massive, oversize TVs. Kid Code is up for three and despite the fact that Joe-we-hate-him-Yule is nominated for one of them, Jenny is so excited she doesn't know what to do with herself.
The producers invited her to LA for all the parties and hoopla, but she couldn't face it. The prospect of spending several days trying to avoid Joe and Sigrid was her idea of hell, but she still wanted to experience the thing vicariously, from thousands of miles away. We, of course, are happy to keep her company. Oscars are fashion heaven. I require no encouragement to be glued to the screen.
Crow is sitting on Henry's lap, looking more like a little girl past her bedtime than a fashion queen. Edie, Jenny and I are cross-legged on the floor, eating Phish Food ice cream, drinking hot chocolate and feeling slightly queasy. Little Victoria is snuggled up beside me, wrapped in a blanket. Harry refuses to sully the temple that is his rock-god body with our chocolate delights. He's sullying it with beer instead, along with Crow's dad and Henry. The mothers are contenting themselves with champagne.
There's an awful lot of waffle around the Oscars. Never have so many irrelevant fashion facts been quoted by so many journalists about so few stars. And it goes on for hours. I absolutely love it. So do Jenny and Crow.
The stars start to arri
ve and the red-carpet presenters get out amongst them, asking questions about what they're wearing, or rather, ‘who’ they're wearing, and gushing about the weirdest outfits. The theme this year seems to be big skirts and tiny waists. Everybody has one or the other or both, if they're girls, and if they're blokes they show up with a girl who's got them and try not to tread on her hem.
Hollywood's Hottest Female is one exception, but in a good way. I expect we'll see her in all the magazines next week. She's gone for a vintage Saint Laurent tuxedo and trousers, which look completely fabulous on her and get her twenty trillion fashion points for being slightly daring and honouring the great man's passing. (She doesn't look as good as Svetlana did in the Battersea marquee, but only us fashion insiders know that.) She's in serious contention for the Best Actress Oscar, given that she's up for Kid Code and an arthouse movie she released in December, so she gets a lot of attention. In simple lines and black and white, she stands out against the crowd. Her husband just looks his usual gorgeous self.
We give the other stars points. Natalie Portman gets loads. Meryl Streep not so many. Angelina Jolie's earrings are so beautiful it hurts. Mum wants them. I want them. Even Grace Lamogi can't help sighing at the thought of them.
Then Jenny spots Joe Yule on the red carpet. I watch her carefully. She's very, very still, but she doesn't look as ghostly as she did a month ago. I think she's getting over it. I turn back to the screen. For a moment, I'm distracted by the green lasers. Then I suddenly realise what's coming next. I'm the one to look ghostly this time. I catch my breath and hold it. The whole room is completely silent.
Where is she? What has she chosen? Jenny said it was the three ‘V's. Eventually I asked her what they were and she said: vintage, Versace or Valentino. We can't bear it. Edie clutches my arm and the skin around her fingers goes white.
The camera pans to Sigrid. And there she is.
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