She ignores me.
I ignore her ignoring me and concentrate on unpacking my pencil case. I’m still a six-year-old at heart when it comes to my pencil cases. This one is customised with Swarovski crystals I’ve ‘borrowed’ from Crow’s stash. Crow has doodled her famous dancing girls in ink all over the lining for me. I’d like to think of it being left to the V&A when I’m dead and famous . . .
This was the actual pencil case that Nonie Chatham (or Nonie Taylor?) used at school the year she masterminded the launch of the most successful fashion collection ever to reach the UK high street . . .
It’s only when I hear a tear splash on to the desk that I realise that Edie is not only ignoring me, she’s crying. The lesson’s supposed to be starting, but that tear demands attention. I whisper as quietly as I can.
‘Is it those Californians again?’
She nods. More splashy tears.
‘Have they done more stuff to your website?’
She shakes her head and sniffs.
‘No. Actually, they apologised. One of them did, anyway. This boy who manages their communications – Phil. He said they got a bit carried away. I told him that Miss Teen’s really careful about who makes their stuff. Mr Elat’s always going on about how good they are, but the No Kidding people won’t back down. Phil says they’ve got pictures of kids working on pieces from Crow’s collection in these horrible back rooms in Mumbai. He says it’s not just Miss Teen. It’s happening all over.’
That’s the trouble with wanting to save the world. There’s an awful lot of world to save.
Something’s confusing me, though.
‘How did he tell you all of this?’
‘Phil? By email.’
‘They hacked into your website and you gave this boy your EMAIL address?’
‘Only after he apologised. He left lots of comments on my blog saying how sorry they were.’
‘Edie, for someone so clever, you’re completely bonkers.’
She nods. She’s not feeling particularly proud of herself right now.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What can I do? I don’t know what to do.’
This isn’t like Edie at all. Edie always knows what to do. It isn’t always the right thing, but she knows anyway.
‘Have you talked to Crow?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Last night.’
‘And?’
‘Crow says if I’m not happy, she won’t work with Mr Elat any more.’
‘But he’s funding her red-carpet dresses. She can’t work without him!’
‘I know,’ Edie says. ‘But she said she’d just make the clothes herself. If she just made one dress a year, and it was perfect, that would be OK for her. You know she felt guilty about designing anyway, when she thought Henry might be dead.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘I told her to keep going. I said not to worry again. I told her I’d do all the worrying.’
‘And this is you worrying?’
She nods again.
‘Well, there’s only one thing to do,’ I decide. ‘Get proof. They say they’ve got these photos. Have you seen them?’
‘No,’ she admits, sniffling.
‘Ask for them.’
It’s so easy when it’s someone else who’s got the problem. If I had to stand up to these people myself, I’d be terrified, but telling Edie to do it feels fine.
‘You’re right,’ she says. She sits up a bit straighter and flashes our geography teacher a smile to show her that we’ve been paying total attention.
Crow adores the Royal Opera House. She loves the thick red velvet curtains and the gold embroidery and the plush seats and the little girls with their mummies, all dressed up and on their best behaviour.
In the little girls’ honour, she’s worn a new set of pink fairy wings over her gold satin dungarees. And four purple velvet bows in her hair. It should look weird but she wears her clothes as if everyone dressed that way and actually, she’s gorgeous.
It seemed natural for Crow to use the spare ticket. Edie has orchestra practice and Jenny’s busy with the thing she’s got to do with her playwright, whatever that is. And Crow enjoys the ballet more than them anyway. Yvette used to save up and bring her occasionally and she loves everything about it. The scenery, the costumes, the choreography, even the sound of the ballerinas’ block shoes rapping across the floor when they do something complicated en pointe.
I love it too. Even when I’m not PERSONALLY INVITED by one of the dancers. Mum used to bring me when I was one of those little girls on their best behaviour. We used to sit at the back, because Mum liked to see the patterns made by the corps de ballet. And it’s cheaper. It’s where all the die-hard ballet fans sit, so you get to hear the gossip about who’s not dancing so well this week and who’s about to get promoted.
But today, Crow and I are in a box, at the side, right up close to the stage. Because I have been personally invited by one of the dancers and these are the tickets he left for me. You can practically hear the dancers breathe from here. It’s scary. I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather be at the back.
There are three short ballets tonight, featuring the company’s rising stars. Alexander is in the first and last. The opener is famous for its athletic jumping and I’m guessing he uses the middle one to get his breath back before lifting a bunch of ballerinas round the stage at the end.
As the curtain rises, Crow nudges me and hands me something – red opera glasses – so I can admire the dancers even more close up.
Wow.
They really are very athletic. All of them. But Alexander most of all.
They don’t muck about in the first ballet. They start as they mean to go on, with lots of leaping about everywhere and showing off their tights and incredibly muscly legs. Alexander leaps beautifully. He takes off and then seems to hang in midair for about twenty minutes, before landing delicately with a flourish and a smile. Then he whizzes round the stage doing pirouettes just to show how much energy he’s still got.
My insides are pirouetting too. It seems that every third smile is aimed at our box and I’m guessing he’s not directing them all at Crow, although she’s certainly grinning at him fit to bust.
‘He’s amazing, isn’t he?’ she whispers cheerfully.
I nod. I’m not actually capable of speech right now. I can’t really believe this is happening. Cute guy in the tights, the best dancer on the stage of the ROYAL OPERA HOUSE, is flirting with me FROM THE STAGE.
I must be dreaming. I keep waiting to wake up. But whenever I open my eyes, I’m still here, Crow’s still grinning and Alexander is still rushing about, smiling straight at me whenever he’s got a spare moment.
The first interval comes as a relief.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Crow says while we’re queuing for ice creams (the Royal Opera House does the best ice creams in London, needless to say), ‘Miss Teen want me to do another collection for next winter.’
WHAT?
‘Sorry?’ I mumble. ‘I wasn’t concentrating.’
So she says it again. The same words, in the same order.
Miss. Teen. Want. Her. To. Do. Another. Collection.
OH. MY. GOD.
My brain parks Alexander in the ‘deal with later’ section, and switches from being incredulous to excited to a bit confused. Crow normally needs me to tell her information like this, because she’s rubbish with things like phones and letters and emails.
‘How did you find out?’
‘Amanda Elat rang after school today,’ she explains. We usually work with Amanda. We only see her father on big occasions, like launches. ‘You were busy getting ready so I picked up the phone.’
Thank goodness she did, for once.
‘That’s fantastic!’ I say. ‘They must really believe in you.’
Then I remember the bit where Edie said Crow might not work with Andy any more and my insides crunch themselves into a knot so tight I’m not sure they’ll ev
er pirouette again.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said OK,’ Crow says simply.
‘What about Edie? And the No Kidding people?’
Crow obviously hasn’t thought this one through.
After a minute of deep contemplation, she shrugs.
Great. Another problem for her business manager, then. I’ll talk about it with Edie later, and see if we can think of a plan.
We get our ice creams and go back to our seats. I really don’t notice the middle ballet at all. My brain is much too full of new collections and retailing supremos and child labour accusations.
Then it’s time for the final ballet, which opens with Alexander centre stage, smiling straight at me before carrying a whole flock of ballerinas round the stage, one-handed.
My brain retrieves him from the ‘deal with later section’ and passes instructions to my insides to react accordingly. And to my surprise, it turns out that they’re still fully capable of pirouetting after all.
Afterwards, Henry is waiting outside, as arranged, to take Crow home.
‘How was it, Crow-bird?’ he asks, with a smile for both of us.
‘Good,’ we say together. Crow is a girl of few words and I’m still a bit speechless.
He grins and guides her off towards the Tube. Which leaves me on my own to wait for Alexander. He’s suggested a place nearby with a bar and a restaurant, so I go in and try to look as old as I possibly can and sit at a table by myself, pretending that I do this sort of thing all the time.
Luckily, someone has left a newspaper lying around at a nearby table and I grab it and bury my head in it. It’s one of the free ones they give out on the streets, full of gossip interspersed with interviews with the Prime Minister. Even more luckily, Alexander arrives while I’m still on the gossip pages, so I’m not reduced to finding out any more about the Prime Minister than I strictly need to know.
‘Boots!’ he says, and smiles that smile again.
I get up and he kisses me on both cheeks, before looking me up and down.
‘Nice dress.’
It’s not a dress, really. More of an overgrown tee-shirt. One of Harry’s, from an old band tour, which I’ve smartened up with a belt and leggings and one of Mum’s waistcoats that she doesn’t actually know I’ve borrowed. And hopefully won’t.
‘Drink?’
‘Er, yes,’ I say. ‘Coke, please.’
Great. The one time I could ask for champagne and get away with it and even look a bit sophisticated in the process. And it doesn’t even occur to me until it’s too late.
But Alexander grins again and orders two Cokes and a large bowl of chips.
Now he’s sitting still, I realise that he hasn’t taken off all his makeup, which is probably why he was so quick getting changed. He’s still got foundation on and there’s a definite hint of eyeliner. It’s strange, but not in a bad way. When he kissed me hello (on the cheeks, like I said), he smelt of sweat and lemony aftershave. He’s got a huge linen scarf wound round his neck and, a bit like Jenny doing ‘actress in disguise’, he definitely looks ‘dancer off duty’.
Robert Pattinson-lookalike dancer off duty. Talking to me about Paris. Asking what I thought of his performance tonight. Playing with his Coke straw with those long-fingered hands of his.
Am I in heaven or what?
Actually, I’m not totally sure. The chips come and Alexander tucks in like a man who’s just carried a dozen ballerinas round the stage in a hurry. I’m quite peckish myself, but there isn’t a fork for me and I don’t know if we’re supposed to be sharing. He didn’t say. And for some reason I don’t dare ask.
So I spend the next few minutes watching his beautiful hands and talking about Paris and feeling extremely grown-up but also getting increasingly hungry and wishing I could nick a chip or two but not daring to.
And then someone comes into the restaurant with a group of friends and notices me and waves.
No. No no nooooooooooo.
It’s my brother Harry. I hang my head in shame.
‘Hi, sis,’ he says, coming over. ‘Is this your dancer? Hi. I’m Harry. Happened to be passing. Mind if I join you?’
MIND IF I JOIN YOU? Is he UNHINGED?
‘Course,’ says Alexander, smiling his usual smile and indicating the nearest chair. ‘Have a chip.’
Oh great. So the chips were on offer. I grab several. But I’m still furious with Harry.
‘Oh look,’ he says, casually glancing at his wrist. ‘Ten to eleven. Got to get you home in a minute, little sis.’
‘I have taxi money,’ I hiss through my teeth.
‘Don’t waste it,’ Harry says. ‘I’ll pay. Big brother treat.’
He’s enjoying this. Every minute of it. He’s not even pretending this was a coincidence. And at one minute to eleven he gets up and shrugs his shoulders in a ‘time to go’ sort of way.
Alexander gets up too and gives me a regretful smile. ‘Bye, Boots,’ he whispers in my ear as he gives me a goodbye kiss ON THE CHEEK again. Because my BROTHER is watching. I’m so angry I could dance all over Harry in Doc Martens.
‘What was that all about?’ I practically spit at him, once he’s bundled me into a black cab.
‘Mum had a rethink,’ he says. ‘Just wanted to make sure Alexander knew where he stood.’
‘Well, it’s a very long way away from me, isn’t it?’ I point out. Pointedly.
I fold my arms and face away from him for the rest of the journey. And try to pretend I can’t hear him sniggering to himself on the other side of the cab.
Jenny, of course, thinks Harry saved me from a fate worse than death. She thinks the whole thing sounded hilarious. I assure her it absolutely wasn’t. Anyway, she’d think anything sounded funny at the moment. She’s in such a good mood.
We’re all in Crow’s workroom, in my basement, watching her drape fabric on tailor’s dummies. She’s working on a couple of dresses for her stall in the Portobello Road market, where stars and It-girls do their shopping. Jenny has loads of ideas for new styles, which Crow politely ignores, but luckily she’s soon too busy talking about acting to pay much attention.
It turns out Jenny’s ‘thing’ was an audition, and she passed it. They told her there and then. They were pretty sure they wanted her already for Bill’s new play and they were just making sure. She’s practically playing herself, so it’s not going to be too much of a stretch.
She starts rehearsals at the end of January. She’s very, very excited and if I wasn’t a humiliated little puddle of shame, I’d feel pleased for her too. As it is, I just fake enthusiasm as well as I can. Fortunately, she’s thrilled enough for both of us and doesn’t notice.
Edie is still trying to understand Alexander, like he’s some sort of maths problem.
‘I don’t get why he didn’t offer you a chip,’ she says. ‘Or order for you. Or ask you what you wanted. I mean, he obviously likes you, so . . .’
I point out two things: one, he’s a boy, and two, he’s a few years older than me, so obviously he’s going to do loads of things I don’t understand. It’s part of the deal. The excitement. The thrill.
‘Yes, I see . . .’ she says, the way she says she trusts Andy Elat when she doesn’t.
‘He’s a really good jumper,’ Crow adds. ‘He can leap for miles.’
This is true, of course, but not totally relevant. We all nod anyway.
At this point, my phone goes. It’s a text from an unknown number.
Hi Boots, it says. Touring Cuba for a bit. See you Jan 23rd? Your brother’s DJing. He can keep an eye. Look after those legs. A xxxxx.
We spend the next hour and a half analysing it. Our Eng. Lit. teacher would be proud of us.
What do five kisses mean?
What legs?
Does he want Harry to keep an eye? Or is he being ironic? Or sarcastic, Edie wonders. We spend ten minutes arguing about what the difference is. Edie knows, but can’t explain it very well.
What does ‘t
ouring Cuba’ mean? Is it code for ‘Your brother is such an idiot I can’t bear to see you again for the foreseeable future’?
In the end, we Google him.
Turns out, ‘touring Cuba’ is code for ‘touring Cuba’. With a bunch of other dancers, in a bid to build relations with their amazingly good ballet schools.
That bit, at least, I can understand.
Christmas last year was a bit rushed. Crow was busy preparing her first couture collection for London Fashion Week. This year, because she’s been working for Miss Teen, she’s not doing one. But she’s still doing her normal party dresses, and she’s been asked by a couple of actresses to do their dresses for the BAFTA awards, and she’s got her new high-street collection to think about. The first one was pretty small, but this time they want about forty pieces: tops, trousers, skirts, dresses, jackets, you name it. If I was Crow, my brain would probably burst.
Jenny is so excited about her new play she’s just longing for the holidays to be over. I have January 23rd to look forward to. Harry’s admitted he’s doing a set at a club in Shoreditch that night, near where lots of the designers have their studios. He seems very relaxed about it, as normal. Whereas I’m terrified that I have less than six weeks to work out what to wear. Only Edie seems to want to get into the Christmas spirit.
Edie’s the one who makes sure we get presents for all the right people, and do our holiday homework, and book tickets to see a pantomime. She even makes sure we go skating on the temporary rink outside Somerset House. We look like something out of a Victorian Christmas card. Except I’m in neon legwarmers and my old pink fake polar bear jacket, which isn’t totally traditional.
Jenny and I must be the only girls in our school who fast-forward through the holidays so we can get on with interesting stuff. January comes at last and I can start counting down the days on Mum’s calendar in the kitchen. Harry has threatened to draw a big pink heart round the 23rd, but if he does, he knows I’ll kill him.
Crow, in the middle of everything, has offered to make me a dress for the Big Date. Harry has promised not to leave his decks or even glance in our direction, so hopefully things will go more smoothly this time. Crow and I spend ages choosing fabric and end up going for some silver lace made by our favourite fabric designer, Skye, who’s always inventing new materials and doing clever things with old ones. I will look gorgeous and incredible. More so than ever before. Alexander will forget I even have a brother.
Beads, Boys and Bangles Page 5
