Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  I’m in a fitting when Edie calls. Crow is perfectly used to adjusting things on clients while they have a mobile phone clamped to their ear, so she just sighs quietly and lets me take the call.

  ‘They’ve sent them,’ Edie says.

  I sigh.

  ‘Who’s sent what, Edie?’

  Then she sighs, exasperatedly.

  ‘No Kidding. They’ve sent the photos.’

  ‘What? Just now? It’s taken them long enough.’

  ‘I know. All through the holidays, I was starting to think they’d forgotten or even that they’d made this whole thing up about child labour. That’s why I was having such a nice time. But they were just being inefficient. They sent them this afternoon.’

  ‘And?’

  Long pause at Edie’s end.

  ‘Are they bad?’

  Sniffle at Edie’s end.

  ‘Yes,’ very quietly. ‘Yes, they are.’

  Oh.

  ‘Are they real?’

  ‘I DON’T KNOW!’

  I hold the phone away from my ear. Edie can be very loud when she’s upset.

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘They look like CHILDREN! Tiny, exhausted children. In a room with no windows, no proper light. Sitting behind these things that look like drums, with fabric stretched over them. Sewing crystals on pieces I recognise from Crow’s collection. On pieces I’ve actually WORN!’

  I sigh again. So does Crow. Without a word, she helps me out of the silver lace dress.

  ‘I’m coming over,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks, Nonie.’ Another sniffle. Edie ends the call.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ I promise Crow.

  ‘I know,’ she says simply, looking at me with her totally trusting brown eyes like I’m Super-Nonie or something, which makes it worse. I’ll just have to tell her when we’ve fixed everything.

  In Edie’s bedroom, we look at the photos on her computer screen. Some of the children are tiny. Others could be our age. It’s impossible to tell. They’re only wearing scraps of clothing because it’s obviously hot in that room. They’re sitting in a circle, with huge piles of crystals in the middle, all concentrating hard on what they’re sewing. It’s like something out of Oliver, except without the music, or the costumes, or the happy ending.

  If the pictures have been faked, they’ve been faked very well. And why would anyone want to fake them? Nobody hates Crow, as far as I know. Or Edie. Or even Andy Elat. I can’t see why they’d deliberately want to hurt us by making this up.

  On the other hand, the reports by Andy’s minions look very believable too. He sends people out three or four times a year to tour the factories he uses, and they don’t just pop in for a quick visit. They spend several days there and talk to all the workers, and everyone seems to be reasonably happy and well-paid. And grown-up.

  Somebody’s lying, but who? And meanwhile, over Christmas the news has leaked out that Crow’s been asked to do her second high-street collection. Even though Edie didn’t mention it herself because it isn’t official yet, her website is full of comments from all over the world asking if it’s true, and what happened about the child labour claims that were mentioned in The Sunday Times, and what is Edie doing about it now?

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she says. ‘What do I tell them?’

  Super-Nonie considers this for a while. Super-Nonie gets every little grey cell in her brain working on the problem. Super-Nonie gives up and plays with a stray thread in her jumper.

  ‘You don’t know either, do you?’ Edie asks.

  I shake my head.

  Super-Nonie could do with a few more little grey cells.

  Pointless asking Jenny for advice. She’s busy learning her part and being happy. It’s like four years ago, when we were twelve and she was Annie in the school musical. She’s not being prima donna-ish exactly. But unless we want to talk about vocal exercises, or projection issues, or the inner struggle of her character, she’s not really interested.

  She’s been to visit the Boat House Theatre and she says it’s perfect. It’s close enough for her to get to quite easily for rehearsals after school, but far enough away that lots of people won’t even notice that the play’s on, and she won’t have to worry about scary reviews like last time.

  It wasn’t her fault, but last time one critic said, ‘In a movie of true stars, Jenny Merritt’s performance was so wooden I was tempted to make a dining table out of it.’ Which was pretty accurate, unfortunately. Then her father sold that ‘troubled, talented teen’ story. Then Joe Yule, the boy she thought she loved, abandoned her for the Queen of Evil, as we call her. You’d know her as Sigrid Santorini, super-starlet and fashion cutie, who wore one of Crow’s dresses to last year’s Oscars. Apart from that, ‘last time’ went very well.

  Because of all of that, even though I have other things on my mind, I’m determined to be nice to Jenny. So I go over to her house and pretend to be the crazed egomaniac father in the play so she can practise her lines. And I don’t say anything when she begs me to tell Alexander I’m busy on the 23rd and never see him again.

  I don’t even try to find out her thoughts on child labour. I don’t think she has any, unless it’s to do with the trials of young actresses trying to combine GCSE homework with rehearsal schedules.

  ‘Honestly, Nonie, you wouldn’t believe the nightmare. I’ll have to have special deadlines and permissions from all the teachers.’

  OK. She can be a bit prima donna-ish sometimes.

  On the morning of the 23rd, Crow and I have a meeting to talk about the new Miss Teen collection with Amanda Elat.

  ‘What’s your plan?’ Edie asked me, when I told her about the meeting.

  I don’t know why she bothered. There is no plan. I’m going to wing it like I usually do. I was about to lie and tell her something impressive-sounding when she saw the look on my face and just said, ‘Oh. Good luck, then.’

  Which was kind of her. I’ll need it.

  One thing is certain, though. It’s going to start well. Before we get on to all the dodgy stuff about factories, Crow will completely wow the Miss Teen team with her new designs and hopefully they’ll all get so excited they’ll agree to pay everyone double and the problem will go away.

  Crow’s work over Christmas has paid off. Her designs are always astonishingly amazing, but she’s given me a sneak preview of the new ones and they’re even more extraordinary than usual. Dancing girls in tweed and lace and sequins, jewels and feathers, prancing all over the place like 1920s society queens crossed with exotic birds. You can just see all her conversations with the mains in Paris being translated into teenage party gear, with an incredible twist.

  We get to the offices on Oxford Street and everyone is super-friendly, which helps my nerves, and Crow’s too, I think. Someone arrives with a tray of hot chocolates and a large plate of biscuits. Amanda comes in, dressed in a Miss Teen sweater dress with an antique shawl over her shoulders, and gives us a warm smile.

  Amanda is like your favourite aunt. She drives her little Mini like a maniac, can beg clothes off all the best designers and is an expert on Top London Burger Joints. She works too hard, making sure that Miss Teen is always ahead of the fashion trends. This makes her pale and thin, despite her impressive appetite for burgers and biscuits, so sometimes you just want to wrap her up and tell her to calm down. But then she tells you about what Miuccia Prada said to Tom Ford on Valentino’s yacht last summer and you realise her life is OK, actually.

  Today, she’s full of enthusiasm about how quickly the first deliveries of Crow’s Jewels collection sold out, and how much coverage they got for the launch, and how pleased they are. I feel like I’m in a warm bath of fashion loveliness. Then Crow gets out her incredible sketches and everyone huddles round to have a look.

  Nobody says anything for a while. And I feel the temperature get colder.

  ‘Interesting,’ Amanda mutters eventually.

  Amanda never says ‘interesting
’. She says ‘amazing’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘gorgeous’ and ‘beautiful’. Never just ‘interesting’.

  ‘I like this lace bit,’ says Kazuko, a girl on the design team who’s going to help with choosing fabrics and trimmings to turn Crow’s vision into reality.

  The lace bit is a very small part of a very big outfit.

  Another girl breathes in to say something, then doesn’t say it.

  ‘Well,’ says Amanda after a very long pause indeed. ‘I think we have a problem.’

  My tummy contracts into a teeny, weeny ball and I can hear a sort of ringing in my ears. It’s like being in double maths when you haven’t done your homework and the teacher’s just asked a question and everyone’s looking at you.

  ‘Really?’ I ask. ‘What?’

  Amanda sighs.

  ‘For a start, these designs are very adult. I can’t see them working on the average teenager.’

  I glance at Crow. She looks a bit shocked and hurt, but doesn’t say anything. I reach across and squeeze her hand under the table. She squeezes back. This hasn’t happened before. We’re not sure what to do.

  ‘We need something . . . fresher,’ Amanda goes on. ‘And I don’t want to worry you, but we need to get a move on. Soon our lead times will be getting quite tight.’

  I nod wisely. We business managers understand all about lead times. And tightness. Talking of which, the neoprene mini-skirt I chose for today was a definite no-no, on reflection.

  You’d think the process would be: design dress, make dress, sell dress. Which doesn’t necessarily take much time at all. But when it comes to a new high-street collection, it gets more complicated. Crow’s bit is OK: design dress. But then the Miss Teen people have to make pattern for dress, choose fabric for dress, get sample of dress, check fit of dress in several different sizes, get new sample of dress, order production of dress, advertise dress, put dress on their website, and a whole bunch of other stuff that explains why their headquarters looks as if it’s designed to run an airline, or a small country, rather than some shops selling cute stuff for teenagers. This is why they need ‘lead times’.

  But Amanda hasn’t finished yet. She’s still looking at the designs and sucking her teeth.

  ‘Also, they’re not as commercial as I was expecting. They’re just too . . .’

  ‘Busy?’ suggests Kazuko.

  ‘Complex?’ adds one of the boys.

  ‘Undoable?’ sighs another.

  ‘They’ve got zips,’ I point out, feeling a bit lost. ‘And buttons.’

  ‘Lloyd means we can’t do them,’ Amanda says. ‘Not in vast quantities. Not at the right price points.’

  I nod wisely again. We business managers understand all about price points. Actually, I really do. I’d forgotten, but Crow’s designs have to retail for very specific amounts. So much for a tee-shirt. So much for a dress. So much for a skirt. And that’s what the shop sells them for. They have to be made for a fraction of that. Which can’t be done if they’re covered in sequins, lace and feathers.

  Everyone just sits around the table, looking at each other, sighing.

  Crow squeezes my hand again. She looks dazed and deflated – even the butterflies in her hair seem to be drooping slightly – and for once she doesn’t seem to have any bright ideas to fix the problem.

  Now doesn’t seem the ideal time to bring up the whole child labour issue.

  ‘And by the way,’ Amanda adds, through the sighing, ‘we’ve also got to deal with this child labour issue.’

  Oh help.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ She’s starting to look less like a favourite aunt and more like my headmistress. ‘We’re already getting lots of questions about our ethical policy. And most of the people mention No Kidding, or that Sunday Times piece, or Edie’s website, or all three. They actually believe these rumours about children being used to sew.’

  ‘I see,’ I say. ‘It’s really difficult. I mean, I know you’ve got people who go and visit the factories to check and everything, but—’

  Amanda cuts me off.

  ‘We have. And they do a good job. Can you get your friend to say so publicly and put an end to this nonsense? Our clothes are made by adult workers who are paid a proper wage.’

  I gulp. Amanda doesn’t usually sound like this. Where are the amazings and wonderfuls and gorgeouses? Where did ‘nonsense’ come from?

  ‘We’ll see what we can do,’ I whisper.

  For the first time in ages, she smiles again. ‘Thanks. I’m sure you’ll be brilliant. And I’m sure Crow can rethink the sketches and come up with something a bit simpler and more workable in a week or so. Can’t you, Crow?’

  ‘Yes,’ we say. ‘No,’ we think.

  This is SO not amazing and wonderful.

  Five minutes later, we’re standing back outside Miss Teen on Oxford Street and I can’t believe it all just happened.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask Crow.

  She shrugs and frowns and hesitates for a moment, before shrugging a bit more.

  I know what she means.

  ‘Price points? Let me get this straight. PRICE POINTS?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say nervously. ‘You see, if they can’t sell them for the right amount of money, people won’t . . .’

  ‘Children are being used as SLAVES. Working SIXTEEN-HOUR DAYS. In filthy back rooms. No breaks. No play. No school. And you’re worried about PRICE POINTS?’

  ‘Not me. Amanda.’

  Edie isn’t taking this as well as I hoped. I thought I’d phone her as soon as she got in from her latest chess tournament. Now I’m wondering if it was such a good idea.

  ‘You haven’t exactly got any proof that children are being used,’ I say.

  ‘Yes I have. You’ve seen the photos.’

  ‘They could be faked.’

  ‘So could that note from Roksanda Ilincic you’ve got framed on your bedroom wall. But it’s not.’

  I’m impressed she’s remembered it’s Roksanda Ilincic. Her stuff is soooo romantic and Crow’s a real fan. But that’s not the point.

  ‘We agreed that we didn’t know who to believe.’

  ‘We agreed we didn’t know what to do about it. But I do now. I’ve been thinking.’

  I sigh. It’s always dangerous when Edie’s been thinking.

  ‘It’s not just Crow’s collection, anyway. It’s happening all over the place. Every time you buy some cheap jeans in a supermarket you have to ask yourself how they got so cheap. Who made them? How much did they get paid? Was it fair?’

  I have to say, she lost me at the ‘cheap jeans in a supermarket’ bit. I just don’t wear jeans. And I don’t often buy clothes from supermarkets. I make my own stuff, mostly. Or buy it from charity shops. Or ‘borrow’ from Mum. OK, when I don’t get it free from Crow and Roksanda and people, but that’s just part of my job . . .

  ‘Nonie? Are you concentrating?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘You were saying it’s happening all over the place.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m going to start a new campaign. Phil’s right. We have to take action.’

  ‘Phil?’

  ‘From No Kidding,’ she huffs. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You’re going to make tee-shirts. With slogans on. And sell them.’

  She’s done this before. I know the procedure.

  ‘Yes I am, actually. Fairtrade ones that we’ve paid a good price for. Made out of Fairtrade cotton by people who aren’t exploited. I’m just working on the slogan now. I was going to do “No More Fashion Victims”, but Katharine Hamnett’s already thought of it.’ Edie sounds very fed up about Katharine Hamnett. ‘Instead, I’m thinking of “Cheap Clothes Cost Lives”.’

  Edie certainly doesn’t muck around when it comes to slogans. I imagine myself telling Amanda Elat about it at a price point meeting. Not a good image.

  ‘Er, I don’t suppose you could wait until Crow’s done her second collection and Andy Elat isn’t so . . .’

&n
bsp; ‘Yeah, sure,’ Edie says. ‘No problem. I’ll just hang about while the CHILDREN run up some more nifty little numbers for fashionable teenagers to wear, in their SLAVE FACTORIES.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ I say.

  She sighs. ‘Besides. There’s something else I ought to tell you.’ Her voice changes and goes low so I have to strain to hear her. ‘I’ve been nominated for this ethical blogging award. I mean, I can’t exactly ignore the photos now, can I? Not when they’re saying I’m a “teenage role model for engagement with issues of world poverty and injustice”.’

  ‘Wow! Edie? An AWARD!’

  She sounds sheepish. ‘It’s just a nomination. The other people are really amazing, though.’

  She describes them to me. They are a law student from Brazil who’s saving the rainforest, a high-school student from Arizona with a record-breaking IQ, an Indian nun (yes, really) and some kid from Ukraine who is radioactive as a result of the Chernobyl disaster years ago, and is bound to win. God, Edie lives in an exciting world. I mean, Marc Jacobs is a hero to me, but even he can’t claim to be radioactive. Not that he’d want to, I suppose.

  ‘And it’s not the top award or anything,’ Edie continues. She really is so embarrassed about this. ‘It’s just the “rising star” category.’

  ‘OH MY GOD!’

  ‘Nonie? What’s happened?’

  It’s what’s about to happen. The words ‘rising star’ have reminded me: I have a DATE with my nearly-boyfriend in TWO HOURS! What have I been thinking?

  ‘I have to go. Alexander . . . but well done. And good luck. And do the tee-shirts, of course. I’ll even buy one. And Crow’ll be fine. I’ll just . . .’

  ‘Oooh, Alexander!’ she yells at me, excitedly. ‘Shut up and get going! We’ll sort it out later. Just have a good time, OK?’