Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  It’s how we stay friends. She can switch from Saviour Of The World to normal person, just like that. And she totally understands how cute my nearly-boyfriend is.

  Ninety minutes later, I’m in Crow’s workroom, staring at myself in the mirror. Crow’s staring at me too, needle in hand, just in case I need any last-minute adjustments.

  She gives me one of her rare, incredible smiles.

  ‘I think we’re done,’ she says.

  We are. I have been transformed from wonky-haired midget into glamorous fashion queen. I’m in a gorgeous, silver knee-length dress that makes me look at least eighteen. I have proper, grown-up tights on without any patterns, sequins or holes. I have not only high heels but PLATFORMS that give me ten precious extra centimetres in height. Designer platforms by Prada that I shall probably leave to my children in my will.

  I’m wearing enough eyeliner for an emo convention and individual fake eyelashes, for extra oomph. And possibly a tiny spritz too much perfume, but it’s too late now.

  I have never looked like this before and I probably never will again. I’m a hot babe, basically, and Alexander is going to adore me.

  ‘Jewellery?’ I ask, panicking suddenly.

  Crow shakes her head. She’s probably right. There’s enough going on already.

  I grab my jacket and my vintage bag from a little pile on the workroom floor (I’m not totally careful with my clothes, I admit), and I’m ready to go.

  Mum’s standing in the hall, waiting.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘You look . . . different. Go gently on him, darling. He won’t know what’s hit him.’

  Different good or different bad? It’s too late to find out, so I give her a quick kiss and head out of the door before she realises quite how much of her perfume I’ve borrowed.

  ‘Back by midnight, don’t forget,’ she shouts after me.

  SO Cinderella. I’ve been given an extension because Harry will be there.

  ‘And don’t let him . . .’

  Yada yada yada. I can’t hear because I’m rushing into the taxi and concentrating on not doing a Naomi Campbell in my platforms down our front steps. They’re not quite as easy to walk in as I’d hoped. Especially for a girl who lives in Converse.

  Harry’s doing his set in a posh members’ club, which is on several floors of an old East End warehouse building. I’ve been sort-of hoping Alexander would be in the reception area, waiting for me, but he’s not. I guess real, proper grown-up boyfriend types don’t behave like your friends and meet you as soon as they can. But this club is big, and he could be anywhere.

  By the time I track him down in the bar my insides have already performed several ballets and my ankles are starting to hate Prada with a passion I didn’t know they were capable of. I’m feeling hot in more ways than one. I hope I look cool and sophisticated.

  He’s sitting on a bar stool, relaxed and glamorous. I pause and flutter my eyelashes in his direction. One of them comes off and gets stuck to my eyeball. I have to pick it out with a finger.

  Meanwhile he comes over and kisses me on the cheek again, smiling. He looks me up and down and the smile fades slightly.

  ‘Where are the legs, Boots?’

  ‘Er, still here,’ I say.

  I wait for him to say something nice about my dress or my makeup or my hair or something.

  ‘Want a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes!’ I gulp. ‘How was Cuba, by the way?’

  ‘Stop sounding like Her Majesty!’

  He says it with a laugh, but I’m just trying to be polite. I can’t help it if the Queen’s polite too. What else do you ask someone who’s just come back from Cuba? If you can’t bring yourself to ask if they like your dress?

  We go over to the bar and I order champagne. YES YES YES!

  It’s a bit of a surprise when the barman eventually passes me a smoothie. I look at it through my droopy fake eyelashes, confused. The barman grins. ‘Your brother was round earlier. He told me how old you are. And that this is your second favourite drink.’

  ‘Did he tell you how much I loathe every millimetre of him?’

  ‘Yup,’ the barman says, still smiling. ‘He did.’

  ‘Cheers,’ says Alexander, clinking his glass against mine. ‘So. Tell me about school.’

  This quite simply has to be The Worst Date In History. I’m wondering whether to just leave my smoothie and find my taxi money and go. But luckily Alexander sees the look on my face and leans forward and brushes a lock of hair away from my face.

  ‘Only joking, Boots,’ he says, a bit huskily. ‘I missed you. Tell me all about you.’

  The next hour is nice. We sit and talk. He tells me about performing in Cuba and helping young kids from the streets who might become future stars. I tell him about Crow’s new party dresses and the agonies I went through choosing these shoes (although not the agonies I’m going through now, wearing them). I watch his long fingers playing with the rim of his glass. His sky-blue silk shirt tucked into designer jeans. His blond hair curling slightly over his collar.

  Then we hear the thump thump thump of Harry’s music and go through to a room where you can hardly move for dancing bodies, grooving the night away. Alexander miraculously finds an empty spot and whirls me around, making me look like I’m some sort of trained dancer myself.

  Even in this confined space, he is the best possible dance partner. Totally concentrated, totally cool, totally brilliant at thinking of the perfect move at the perfect time, whisking me out of the way just in time to avoid being whacked by a stray limb from some other dancer who’s not quite so together.

  I completely lose track of how long we dance for. I even forget that I’m wearing impossible shoes and in severe danger of breaking an ankle every time I move. It’s impossible to talk, because the music’s so loud, which means I don’t even have to think of any intelligent conversation. So I’m a bit disappointed when eventually Alexander nods his head towards the seating area at the back of the room.

  I hadn’t really noticed it before. Lots of dark velvet armchairs around low tables with little candles on. Lots of couples sitting around, chatting and . . . snuggling. Etc.

  Quite a lot of etc., actually.

  Alexander finds one empty armchair and guides me towards it. But where’s he going to sit?

  Oh. He flings himself into the armchair in front of me and deftly sits me on his knee, so our faces are level. Then he puts one of his beautiful, long-fingered hands on my thigh. I look at his angular cheekbones. Even in this low light, I can see little beads of sweat forming on his upper lip.

  So there he is, looking at my face. And I’m looking at his. And getting quite obsessed with the little beads of sweat. I get the sense that his upper lip is going to be moving closer to me any time now, so I’ll get to see them from even more close up. I try to find them sexy.

  I don’t.

  My insides are impossibly confused. They’re doing a major finale now, full of arabesques and grand jetés and multiple pirouettes. But they’re also seriously wishing that the upper lip would stay where it is and not come any closer to mine.

  It does, though.

  At the last moment, I drag my eyes away from it. Alexander kisses me properly. And guess what, the sweat rubs off his upper lip onto mine. NO NO NO NO NO.

  The kiss itself is OK. So-so. I’ve had better practising on the back of my hand, to be honest. And certainly with a French exchange boy last year, and that was in a Eurostar duty-free shop and lasted about three seconds.

  By now, Alexander has started poking the tip of his tongue between my teeth. I can’t help myself. I clamp them shut. YUK! I’m not up for the whole tongue-in-mouth-kissing-in-public scenario.

  EW EW EW EW.

  I let the kiss last as long as it needs to, but my jaw stays firmly shut.

  When Alexander pulls away at last, his eyes are closed. He seems not disappointed, as I’m expecting, but dreamy.

  Then he opens his eyes and smiles at me in a ‘How was
it for you, baby?’ sort of way.

  I smile back and pretend I’ve got another fake eyelash in my eye. I use the opportunity to wipe my lip.

  EW EW EW EW.

  How am I ever going to admit this to Jenny? I’ll have to lie and say it was wonderful.

  And just as I’m thinking this to myself about Jenny I could swear I spot the Queen of Evil, Sigrid Santorini herself, disappearing through a door in the far corner of the room. Sigrid, the woman who stole Jenny’s first nearly-boyfriend. Sigrid, the woman who stole the star piece of Crow’s first couture collection. Sigrid, who lives in California and couldn’t possibly be in a club in Shoreditch where my brother is DJing.

  I’m confused. My brain is doing pirouettes now. This must be some sort of nightmare mirage, brought on by the stress of the First Proper Kiss.

  I put my arm around Alexander’s neck and secretly check my watch. Ten past eleven. Only twenty minutes to go until I can ask him to get me a taxi.

  ‘Fancy another dance?’ he asks.

  I nod with relief. Dancing I can handle.

  ‘By the way,’ I ask. ‘What’s through that door over there?’

  I point to the far corner of the room.

  ‘That’s the VIP section,’ he says. ‘Where the stars go. I know the guy on the door. Want a look?’

  I shake my head violently. ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Rather dance, hey?’

  He gives me a confident wink, certain of my complete adoration of his every move.

  Nineteen minutes left. I follow him onto the dance floor.

  ‘It was incredible,’ I say. ‘He was such a good dancer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Did he kiss you, you idiot?’

  I nod.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was lovely.’

  Jenny gives me a very suspicious look.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Totally sure. It’s just, you know, hard to describe.’

  She should know. She made a rubbish job of describing her first serious kiss to me. And that was with a MOVIE STAR on the set of Kid Code and he KISSED HER FACE ALL OVER.

  ‘Try.’ She still looks very suspicious.

  Instead, I tell her about the room and the velvet armchairs and Harry’s set. I almost tell her about the Queen of Evil, but manage to stop myself. It must have been my imagination.

  Jenny can see I’m avoiding the important stuff, but she doesn’t push it. Instead, she smiles a quiet smile to herself and asks, ‘So when are you seeing him again?’

  ‘We haven’t fixed a day,’ I say. Which is code for ‘He hasn’t called or texted, so I have no idea.’

  I ought to be devastated, but I’m sort of not. I’m more relieved, so far, but I wouldn’t admit that to Jenny in A MILLION YEARS.

  We’re in the school cafeteria, having lunch. Edie’s supposed to be joining us after a debating club session she does on Mondays. Edie does extra stuff most days of the week, but Mondays are the worst. She needs one of those Hermione Granger things that make you go back in time, but sadly we’re not at Hogwarts.

  When she does come, she sits down with a smile, takes a sip of her water and says something that has Jenny and me spluttering our lunch all over the table.

  ‘Did you know, by the way, that Sigrid Santorini’s in town?’

  Oh. My. God. I was so sure I was wrong about seeing her.

  But more importantly, HOW ON EARTH COULD EDIE KNOW? It’s not exactly the kind of news they announce in the Financial Times. I’ve seen Edie less than a metre away from one of the most famous women on the planet and she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘My mum told me this morning,’ she says casually. ‘She thought I’d be interested. I wasn’t, I have to say, but I thought you would be. There’s some film festival Sigrid’s going to. Mum heard her on the radio, talking about it.’

  Straight after school, we go home together to my house, to Google Sigrid. We meet Crow in the hall. Her school finishes earlier than ours and she usually beats us to it.

  ‘Sigrid’s in town!’ we say, all together, like some sort of stressed-out girl group.

  Crow looks at us calmly.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘She’s just left a message. She wants another dress.’

  For the next hour, we surf the web.

  Eighteen months ago, Sigrid made a smash-hit comedy with Joe Yule, Jenny’s heart-throb (and mine and half the female universe’s – but Jenny got an actual snog out of him before Sigrid came along). The movie’s being shown at a festival next week. Joe’s busy being the New Teenage Sex God on a film set somewhere, so Sigrid is going along to greet the crowds. Meanwhile, she’s staying in a chic little hotel in Soho, going to a couple of European awards ceremonies and generally ‘catching up with all her old friends from previous visits to the ancient city of London’.

  And some of her old enemies, apparently. Crow says she’s due for her first fitting tomorrow.

  ‘I have to go over to her hotel. She doesn’t have time to come here. Can you come with me, Nonie?’

  At first I say yes, assuming it’s straight after school. But then it turns out Sigrid can only do an appointment at nine pm. And for once, I’m accompanying Mum to a private view by one of the artists she represents. She doesn’t ask me very often and I can’t possibly turn it down.

  Jenny can’t go, with rehearsals starting in a few days and lots of advance homework to do. And hating Sigrid’s guts, of course. Which is how Edie ends up agreeing to keep Crow company. We don’t think anything of it at the time, apart from the fact that Edie is very kind, which we knew anyway.

  We think a lot about it later, but by then it’s much, much too late.

  ‘It was fine,’ Edie says.

  We’re back in the school cafeteria. Edie has promised to tell Jenny and me exactly how it went last night.

  ‘And?’ I ask.

  ‘And?’ asks Jenny.

  Edie looks up from her shepherd’s pie, surprised. She thinks that ‘fine’ is a perfectly reasonable description of a Hollywood starlet’s fashion fitting in a posh London hotel.

  ‘And WHAT?’ asks Jenny at last.

  ‘Oh,’ Edie says. ‘Well, Sigrid was very nice.’

  Edie does this. If you ask her to describe someone in Jane Austen or Thomas Hardy she’ll use about fifteen adjectives you’ve never heard of and you need a dictionary to keep up. But normal people are just ‘very nice’. I think Edie spends most of her time thinking about chess club or orchestra or going to Harvard and hardly notices real people at all.

  Not that it’s a surprise to hear ‘nice’ associated with Sigrid Santorini. Despite being the Queen of Evil, this is how she comes across when you first meet her. The thing with Sigrid is, she doesn’t know she’s the Queen of Evil. She thinks she’s an adorable cutie and the rest of us just can’t wait to be a part of her fabulous world. She bounces around, smiling at everyone and radiating joy. It’s only later that you find she’s ripped your life to pieces, stabbed you in the back, stolen something precious and disappeared.

  And she seems to think even that’s OK, because simply being in the presence of somebody so famous will make everything better for you. What’s worse, she’s often right. The night she stole Crow’s star catwalk outfit last year she said to me that she’d wear it on television and we’d get loads of publicity out of it and we’d be really grateful. Well, she wore it to the Oscars and Crow became an overnight sensation. But she didn’t tell me she was saving it for the Oscars and in the meantime Crow had to make another one and I nearly died. So I’m not as grateful as I might be. And I still think she’s the Queen of Evil.

  ‘Nice HOW?’ asks Jenny. Jenny likes detail.

  ‘She offered us loads of stuff from her hotel suite. They had five kinds of juice and this massive fruit bowl and some really interesting biscuits I hadn’t seen before . . .’

  Jenny jiggles with frustration.

  ‘What was she wearing? What kind of dress
did she want? What was the fitting for? How long is she staying in London? Did she say anything about . . . anyone?’

  Jenny says this as one very long word, but Edie gets the gist.

  ‘Well. She was wearing her hotel bathrobe. I think it was white with a pocket and . . . oh, all right. She wanted a dress to wear to an awards do in Italy in a few days. She knows all the Italians are going to be in amazing stuff so she’s after something special. And she’s only supposed to be in London for a week or so, but she just heard her next film’s been cancelled or something so she’s not sure what she’s doing exactly. She was on the phone about it a lot while we were there. Actually, she said a lot of rude things for someone so nice. And – what was the other thing?’

  ‘Did she talk about anyone we know?’ Jenny asks.

  ‘Oh. No. Not exactly. She asked after both of you, of course. Well, sort of all of us in general. But mostly she just looked at the dresses Crow brought along and said how she’d need them adapted to show off her legs. Oh, and I told her about the new collection for Miss Teen and the play and everything.’

  ‘Right,’ Jenny says.

  All she really wants to know is whether Sigrid had anything interesting to say about Joe Yule, the boy who broke her heart, but she’s too shy to ask and Edie is too dim about these things to work it out for herself.

  ‘To be honest,’ Edie goes on, ‘I’d been starting to wonder about Sigrid a bit. I mean, she said some very rude things on the phone. But she was so interested in the new collection. And the play. She wanted to know about the actors and the theatre and the director and everything. I couldn’t tell her much, but it was nice to see she cared.’

  Edie goes back to her shepherd’s pie. Jenny and I are both pondering something. Perhaps it’s the use of the words ‘Sigrid’ and ‘cared’ in the same sentence. Something definitely doesn’t feel quite right, but we’re not sure what.

  ‘Oh, and I told her about my website and she gave me these,’ Edie adds suddenly. She scrabbles around in her backpack and pulls out a red silk purse, which she lays on the table. Inside is a pair of pearl and silver dangly earrings, each about the size of my hand. ‘Sigrid said she doesn’t need them and I can auction them for charity. When I auctioned off Jenny’s shoes last year they made loads of money. These might make even more.’