Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  As the train pulls in to Gare du Nord, Granny arrives. She’s supposed to be chaperoning us, but she can’t bear sitting in carriages where people are allowed to use mobile phones, so she’s avoided us for the actual journey and sat in the quiet bit.

  Granny is already in her funeral gear. Black cashmere and fox fur over Balmain boots. Granny thinks fur is WONDERFUL and very practical for cold winters. Getting her and Edie talking on the subject is very funny. I secretly love fur but I would never wear it, unless I was an Eskimo or something. You can’t, can you? Except – Granny can.

  ‘Are you ready, girls? Ah, French Vogue, Nonie. Well done. C’était bon?’

  I don’t answer. Granny’s French accent is truly horrendous and the only way to discourage her from using it is to ignore her. She thinks I’m being rude, but it’s for her own good.

  We gather our stuff and get ready to get off the train. I catch sight of Crow and for once, she’s not dreamy or frowning. She looks . . . different.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  She nods and whispers one word, like it’s a magic wish: ‘Paris!’

  Of course! Paris is the centre of her fashion universe. It’s the home city of her favourite designer of all time – Christian Dior – and now she’s about to step into it, having imagined every detail since she was eight. I only hope it’ll live up to her expectations.

  There’s the Eiffel Tower, of course, and the River Seine and the Louvre and Notre Dame and the boutiques. But there’s also the dirt and dog poo and mad taxis and tourist menus, and some pretty impressive rudeness from Parisians if you do the wrong thing. But then there’s the Pompidou centre and the croissants and the crêpes and the hot chocolates and the cafés and the other boutiques.

  She’ll be fine. Whatever she’s expecting, she’ll be fine.

  In the middle of the station concourse, a short guy in an ancient Burberry mac is standing alone, looking a little bit lost.

  I drop everything and rush towards him, launching myself into his arms.

  ‘Papa!’

  It’s a shock to realise I’m finally as tall as him. A little bit taller, actually. He really is microscopically small. I guess he must have stood on a step to kiss Mum when they were dating. I quickly check for thinning hair on the top of his head, but luckily what Dad lacks in height he makes up for in hair follicles. Loads of them. They add at least an extra two centimetres.

  ‘Nonie! Trésor!’

  Lots of big hugs. The others join us and Dad finds a hug for Edie and Crow as well. He came to Crow’s first show, so he knows how amazing she is, even though he sounds like he’s coughing when he tries to pronounce her name. She almost wraps him in her poncho when she hugs him. Wow. Even Crow’s as tall as Dad now. Poor Dad.

  With Granny, Dad exchanges a nervous smile and a nod of the head. Granny thinks Dad is a sad, artistic loser and Dad thinks Granny’s an elegant, posh headcase with a bad accent. Luckily, she’s off to stay at the Ritz, so they won’t have to see too much of each other.

  ‘See you tomorrow, girls,’ she says, gripping her suitcase handle tightly. ‘Eleven-thirty. Get as much sleep as you can.’

  She heads off for the taxi queue, fox fur trailing, and Dad guides us towards the Métro. Dad doesn’t have a car, doesn’t drive and doesn’t see the point of taxis when Paris has underground trains and buses. He brandishes white cardboard Métro tickets for us all and I feel a sudden glow. Paris Métro tickets are in my top ten most romantic things in the world.

  As Dad leads us through all the gates, stairs and corridors to the right underground platform, I give Crow a nervous glance. I mean, the Métro’s great, but it’s not exactly the Eiffel Tower. However, I needn’t have worried. Her mouth is slightly open and she looks as if her brain is elsewhere, but I happen to know that what she’s doing is processing every image around her.

  Crow has a photographic memory. She’d be brilliant in a crime scene.

  ‘Miss Lamogi, at what angle of tilt was the trilby worn by the woman you saw for two seconds behind the victim two weeks ago last Thursday?’

  ‘Thirty degrees, Your Honour.’

  Well, she wouldn’t know to say ‘thirty degrees’, but she’d be able to draw it.

  She’s mentally recording every step, tile, poster, light, every expression and outfit on all the passers-by. I don’t think Crow sees stuff as good or bad. Just interesting or boring. And the Métro is definitely interesting. When we get to Dad’s apartment she’ll start jotting down her favourite impressions. Soon we’ll be seeing little glimmers of these images appearing in her designs.

  In fact, she starts drawing as soon as we sit down in the train. So far we’ve been in Paris for half an hour and she hasn’t said more than its name and a whispered ‘Bonjour’ to Dad. I catch his eye and shrug. Most people find Crow a bit strange to start with. But he’s an artist. He gets it. He just gives me a grin and turns to Edie.

  ‘Nonie says you ’ave a . . . website. That is so marvellous. ’Ow’s it going?’

  Oh dear.

  Or, as we say in Paris, zut alors.

  It’s eleven-thirty on the dot and we’re in the Église Saint-Roch, not far from the Ritz. This is the church where Yves Saint Laurent had his funeral last year. It is SO classic and beautiful and glamorous and French.

  It’s my first funeral and I’m not sure how I’m supposed to look. I mean, I know I’m supposed to be upset and I AM upset. Very. But I’m also surrounded by famous fashion people and I’m kind of impressed and overawed. And Crow is a bit of a fashion star, even in Paris, so people keep staring at all of us like they’re impressed to see us too. I keep wanting to enjoy myself, then remembering I can’t.

  Yvette’s coffin is amazing. It’s shiny and black but you can hardly see it because it’s smothered in white lilies. Big, small, star-shaped, bell-shaped. I had no idea you could get lilies in so many shapes and sizes. But the fashion crowd have obviously decided that they are the ONLY flower worth having this season.

  When we first heard about Yvette, we thought she was a figment of Crow’s imagination. How was it possible for anyone who had worked with the master, the great Christian Dior himself, to still be alive, even, never mind to know a little girl from Uganda who lived with her aunt in a flat in Kensington? Then Granny met her and it turned out they’d sort of known each other in the old days, when Granny used to be a Dior client and came in for fittings. Then, thanks to Crow, all these London fashion types met her, and we realised she was practically a goddess.

  Yvette was a genius with silk. At Crow’s level, designers mostly make their couture designs themselves, but in the big fashion houses there are specialists. The designer chooses the fabric and does a bit of a sketch and it’s taken away by these incredible women to be turned into a real outfit. The women are called mains, which just means ‘hands’. You’d think that would be pretty rude, but they seem OK with it.

  Balmain spent years trying to poach Yvette from Dior’s atelier flou. So did a young Valentino. But instead, she fell in love with a young seamstress from the atelier tailleur, who did wizard things with jackets and trousers, and they moved to London to live a quiet life together. Which they did for years, running an old furniture shop and generally being happy.

  I love this story. It has a happy beginning, middle and end, which is how things should be, in my opinion. And because Yvette taught Crow to be so super-amazing at sewing, Crow managed to become a designer about ten years earlier than normal, and I got to meet all my fashion heroes – or most of them, anyway – before my sixteenth birthday. I’ve already decided that my first child is going to be called Yvette. Or Yves, if it’s a boy, after Saint Laurent. I’ve got the whole thing totally worked out.

  The funeral is packed with fashion royalty. People who really knew Yvette, people who wish they’d known her, people who work for people who knew her, and people who just want to talk to the people who knew her.

  Everyone is wearing an Outfit. Black or grey. Chic. Expensive.
r />   Almost everyone, that is. My outfit is white. Very white. Very short. Very Sixties. Very original Mary Quant. I AM SO LUCKY I FOUND IT IN A CHARITY SHOP LAST WEEK; IT’S PRACTICALLY A MUSEUM PIECE. True, a couple of extra inches on the hem wouldn’t have done any harm. I’m wearing safety knickers and super-thick tights, just in case I have to bend over. But it goes perfectly with my white plastic lace-up boots, which are completely irresistible. Yvette would understand.

  Edie looks like the President’s wife, all grey coat and tiny hat and soulfulness, so she makes up for me. Crow, naturally, has ignored the black/grey thing and is in a purple and blue printed dress with a crimson poncho. All clothes that remind her of Yvette, because they made them together. I can sense some of the other designers wishing they’d thought of something like that. Crow can’t help standing out.

  We get to the hotel where they’re having the reception afterwards and Crow’s besieged. Normally I have to save her from moments like this, because she hates talking to strangers. But this time it’s different. People want to talk about Yvette, whom she adored, or about how to make clothes really, really well, which is Crow’s passion, so suddenly she’s the one having all the interesting conversations and Edie and I are left talking to each other.

  Granny’s supposed to be looking after us, but she keeps bumping into people she used to know forty years ago, or people who knew my mum when she was a model here, and for a woman at a funeral she’s giving the strong impression of having the time of her life.

  I’m back to thinking about Yvette and how much we’ll miss her. I’m not having the time of my life, but talking to Edie is better than moping by myself. Edie’s still thinking about her website, or more to the point, about these Californians she’s never met who seem to hate her so much.

  ‘They live five thousand miles away. Why did they pick on me?’

  Ignoring the fact that she knows California is five thousand miles away (how does she pick UP this stuff?), I point out that she’s constantly interfering in the lives of – sorry, helping – people she’s never met.

  ‘You go on about what’s happening in South Africa. That’s not exactly close. And Uganda.’

  ‘Well, Crow’s from there,’ Edie says, hurt.

  ‘Yes, but she lives in Kensington now. You’ve been to Uganda more recently than she has.’

  Edie went this summer, to say hi to Crow’s parents and her little sister, and to check up on the school she’s been raising money for.

  ‘But that’s taking an interest,’ she protests. ‘Not being nasty for no reason.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ I say, ‘for some people, the world’s a tiny place. You taught me that. Crow gets fan mail from Japan. It’s weird. I guess people can be angry long-distance too.’

  ‘But what have I done?’

  ‘I don’t know! You just got a tiny bit famous, I suppose, so they noticed you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to be. And do you realise your dad hasn’t got wi-fi? Or any kind of internet connection? So I can’t do a THING about it till we get back to England.’

  Edie’s mouth keeps moving and I can tell she’s going on about my dad’s lack of technology, but I’ve just noticed that, behind her, a boy with blond floppy hair is looking at me. And has been for a while. And he’s EXTREMELY CUTE. If Robert Pattinson had a blond, floppy-haired, younger brother, this would be him.

  I smile at him. Then I remember that Edie’s life has been RUINED by hackers and go back to being ‘worried friend’. Cute guy gives me a grin and winks at me.

  I look at Edie for a while, pretending to listen, then flick my eyes back up for a moment to check out cute guy again. Still looking at me. Winks again. Mouths something. I do my quizzical look. He mouths it more slowly.

  I think it’s ‘Like the boots.’

  He’s flirting! Cute Robert Pattinson-lookalike hunk is flirting! With me! At a funeral!

  This is sort of cool. I should feel really bad about it, but I can’t help smiling some more. He sees me smiling and trying not to and grins at me again.

  Gorgeous, gorgeous smile.

  ‘Are you listening to me AT ALL?’ Edie demands.

  ‘Oh. I was,’ I promise.

  ‘Sorry. Am I boring you?’

  ‘A tiny bit, to be honest. And look. Cute guy over there likes my boots.’

  ‘I am telling you about the MOST STRESSFUL MOMENT OF MY LIFE and you’re staring at some guy who LIKES YOUR BOOTS?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I decide to make a stand. ‘I know about the most stressful moment, Edie. Honestly. You told me yesterday. And last night. And this morning. I can’t possibly feel more sorry for you than I already do. But he’s really cute.’

  Edie sighs deeply and turns round. Then she turns back, all pink.

  ‘Ooh. He is cute. He reminds me of someone.’

  ‘Robert Pattinson.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  I’m not sure if she’s agreeing, or just daydreaming. RPattz is her only secret vice.

  She turns around again for a second look but by now he’s come over and he’s standing right behind her. She makes a sort of shrieking sound and goes the colour of Crow’s poncho.

  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Alexander.’

  Gorgeous voice too. English, but with the faintest French accent. Maybe he grew up here. And totally confident. It’s quite possible he’s aware of his effect on girls, but the twinkle in his eye stops him from seeming too smug.

  ‘I’m Edie,’ Edie says, holding her hand out.

  He shakes it with a serious sort of smile, then leans over to me and kisses me on both cheeks.

  ‘Hello, Boots,’ he says.

  ‘Nonie,’ I squeak.

  ‘Boots,’ he insists. ‘Are you two busy this evening?’

  ‘Well, actually, I was going to try and find an internet café,’ Edie starts.

  I give her the Look. She sighs and gives up.

  ‘Can I show you Paris?’

  Now he’s starting to annoy me slightly, despite the gorgeous voice.

  ‘I’ve known it since I was a kid,’ I tell him. ‘My dad lives here.’

  ‘Not my Paris,’ he continues, with his wicked, self-confident grin. ‘Bring your dad, if you like. I promise I’ll look after you. And definitely your pretty friend.’

  ‘Oh!’ Edie’s poncho colour had died back down to pink but now it ramps back up to crimson. I wonder if she’s about to have a feminist moment and say something extremely rude, but instead she simpers like one of her Jane Austen heroines and starts fiddling with her coat buttons.

  ‘And my granny?’ I ask, cheekily. ‘And my friend Crow?’

  ‘The designer girl? Wow! Definitely her. Which one’s your granny? Cool lady in Balmain? Sure. Her too. We’ll make it a party.’

  I breathe a sort of a sigh of relief. He’s almost too gorgeous and probably too old for me, but he’s obviously gay, so that’s OK.

  What straight boy would instantly know that Granny’s boots were Balmain?

  After the reception, Edie, Crow and I make our way back through the streets of Paris to the Île Saint-Louis, in the middle of the River Seine, where Dad lives. His apartment is beautiful, romantic and tiny, with amazing views over trees and water. The ceilings are high, the walls are covered in tatty old peeling silk panels and there are piles of books and half-painted canvases everywhere. It looks extremely messy, but the clutter never changes. What some people might call piles of old rubbish (Mum does) turn out to be carefully collected knick-knacks from famous arty friends. The place has been photographed loads of times for magazines.

  There’s a sitting room and a studio overlooking the river, next to a kitchen so small you might mistake it for a cupboard, and a bedroom and an antique shower room at the back. At night, the three of us are in sleeping bags wherever we can fit. It’s why poor Henry had to stay in London: nowhere to squeeze him in, sadly.

  Dad’s in the middle of an experiment with paintings that look like photographs taken too slow
ly, where the subject has moved and gone out of focus and left a sort of trail of light behind them. His model is a woman with dark hair, who can’t be much older than Alexander and who I suspect is Dad’s latest girlfriend, but he’s not saying. There are canvases of her all over the place. In the studio, propped up in the kitchen, even in the shower room, behind the towels.

  ‘What do you think, trésor?’ he asks, pulling one out from under the basin.

  ‘Chouette,’ I say.

  Chouette is sort-of French for cool. It’s also a word you can say very quickly and hopefully Dad won’t notice that I’m not being entirely truthful when I say it. Sometimes his experiments are brilliant works of genius and sometimes they’re not. But you never tell an artist that or they go all moody and can’t work for weeks. Art appreciation is ten per cent honesty and ninety per cent ego-massaging. It can get quite tiring if you’re not used to it, but luckily Mum does it for a living, so I am.

  ‘Merci,’ Dad says, putting an arm around my waist and looking at us both in the mirror. We’re weirdly alike, in a vertically challenged, no-cheekbones, curly-hair sort of way. ‘Champagne?’

  He has a bottle open in the kitchen. Not that I’ve seen him open it. It’s just that he always has a bottle open in the kitchen. Like milk. It’s so tempting to say yes to a glass, but I can feel Mum’s presence looming over me. She saw me once after a couple of sneaky glasses at a fashion party and she SO wasn’t impressed. And I really don’t want to be tipsy tonight, what with my sort-of-date and everything. So I decline and wish I was about five years older.

  Luckily Crow takes my mind off my very boring Orangina, by talking at me through the open shower room door. Crow hasn’t stopped talking since the funeral ended. This is unheard of for her. She’s normally too busy dreaming up designs to actually say much. But not today.

  ‘I spoke to so many ladies from the workrooms. They all said Yvette was a legend. But they’re all cool. Can you imagine? There’s this lady called Gina who specialises in making lace rosettes. That’s it. Just lace. All day. But she said it’s great. And she had this high-necked lace shirt on and a contrasting lace jacket she made and it should have been . . .’ Crow struggles for the word. Not a good one, obviously, and flutters her hands to relay the potential fashion disaster. ‘But she was gorgeous.’ Crow sighs and stifles a yawn. It’s been a busy couple of days.