This is just how Jenny wants it. It also helps that Sigrid has told Joe Yule to stay away for now, so she can get the chance to act in a bit of privacy. When Jenny told me, it was the first time I heard her talk about that girl without sounding as though she was about to cry. For once, they were just two scared young actresses, doing their best and hoping people would like them.
Until Sigrid decided to celebrate their opening night by presenting everyone involved in the play with a boxed set of her and Joe’s movies on DVD, and a signed photo of them both in a silver frame. So now it’s one scared young actress and one CRAZED CELEBRITY and we’re back to normal.
I’ve never been to the Boat House Theatre before. It’s down a little alleyway that you think will just lead to a dirty bit of river, but in fact leads to a tiny square, with a rickety half-timbered building at one end. There’s no room inside for people to mill about, so the square – which has been hung with fairy lights – is full of theatregoers drinking out of plastic cups and chatting excitedly about the play.
Because it’s the opening night, lots of the audience are family and friends. I’ve come with Mum and Harry and we quickly catch sight of Jenny’s mum, looking incredibly nervous and drinking too fast out of her plastic cup. We go over, and Mum tells her how fabulous Jenny will be and how proud she must be of her talented daughter. Mum is SO good at this stuff. Jenny’s mum looks totally grateful and starts sipping slower.
When we get inside, the theatre is what Mum would call ‘intimate’ and Harry and I would call ‘cramped’. It’s not much bigger than our school hall. Everything is painted black and there’s no curtain. Or opera glasses. Or space. There’s only about two hundred of us there and we’re all perched on top of each other, in practically vertical rows. The seats are hard – many of them are just benches, really. But the whole effect isn’t miserable. It’s actually quite jolly. It’s as if everyone enjoys suffering a little to see what their friends can do on stage and to share the experience. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone started a sing-along while we were waiting.
Then the lights go down. My tummy is the size of a pea, in sympathy with what Jenny must be feeling right now. Honestly, with the amount I’ve been through recently I’m surprised I can even digest.
Luckily, though, Jenny’s friend Bill isn’t known as a brilliant playwright for nothing. When the play gets going it’s surprisingly funny and, after all the conversations about line-hogging by Sigrid, Jenny has more to say than I expected. Everyone on stage seems to be enjoying themselves and they should be. So are we.
As they take their bows, Jenny looks happier than I’ve seen her for weeks. Almost as happy as she did before Sigrid joined the production. The colour’s back in her cheeks and she’s soaking up the applause, which is loud and long and enthusiastic. I’m glad she decided to do the play. Hopefully she can rebuild her confidence after the Kid Code disaster. She deserves to. I know I’m her friend and I’m biased and everything, but she was great and I’m totally proud of her.
Next day, Edie, Jenny and I go back to my room after school and trawl the papers and the internet for news about the play. There are, of course, loads of pictures of Sigrid arriving at the theatre, and leaving it, with her sunglasses and her ‘I’m an authentic actress, please no pictures right now’ face on. But, with most people waiting for the West End version, there are only four tiny reviews.
All of them are about six lines long, but are very complimentary about the play and everyone in it. Everyone points out how stunning Sigrid is in the flesh. And a couple of people also mention what a surprisingly good actress Jenny is ‘for a sixteen-year-old’. She’s obviously better when movie cameras aren’t involved.
‘What d’you think?’ I ask.
Jenny beams happily. This is exactly what she hoped for.
We even check on Twitter.
@sigsantorini was totally awesome, says Joe Yule, as if he was there. He forgets to mention the play, or any of the other people in it, but then, he’s not going out with them.
By now, Jenny has to head off for her next performance. Her phone goes and it’s a text from Sigrid. ‘I’m with Crow. The mom says ur here. Wanna share a car?’
This is a bit creepy. When you’re Googling someone famous on the internet, you don’t usually expect them to be downstairs in your friend’s house, texting you. But then we remember – a dress fitting. She must have been trying on the sea-goddess dress for Crow. We troop downstairs and there she is, in the hall, wearing jeans and a jumper, her hair scraped back, but looking, as Joe would say, ‘awesome’.
I congratulate her on her performance last night, as you do. She gives me a breathless ‘thank you’, without recognising me from last year, when she PRACTICALLY RUINED MY LIFE. Or Edie, who’s standing, frozen, beside me. Crow and Jenny get squealy kisses, however, before Sigrid trips daintily out of the house and down our front steps, where a white Bentley is waiting to take her to work. I’m not sure how ‘authentic actress’ this is, but from the grin Jenny gives us over her shoulder as she follows Sigrid into it, she’s happy to give it a go.
Crow comes to stand beside us and wave them goodbye.
‘How’s the dress?’ I ask.
She smiles. ‘It’s OK, I think. So far, anyway.’
We all go to take a look at it, half-finished on its tailor’s dummy, which has been adjusted to Sigrid’s precise proportions for when I’m not around to do my ‘house model’ thing. Even now, you can tell it will be stunning. It’s the most over-the-top, complicated, deluxe, gorgeous creation Crow’s done yet.
By now, she’s constructed the bodice, with its inbuilt corset that would probably stop a tank. She’s in the process of finely pleating several lengths of ultramarine silk for the skirt, until they look as if they could float away on a puff of wind. The results will be embroidered by the woman who lives outside Toulouse, before Crow handsews the waiting jewels into place, one by one.
I know I shouldn’t, but I ask Edie what she thinks of it.
Edie peers hard at the bodice, and the pinned-on jewels and the metres and metres of silk. ‘It looks very heavy,’ she says doubtfully, after a long pause to think about it.
Heavy? HEAVY?
I’m just glad she’s not writing for Vogue right now. That’s all I’m saying.
Jenny’s lucky to have something to take her mind off exams as we hurtle toward the end of term. For four weeks, she heads off to the theatre with her duffel bag over her shoulder, moaning about revision and looking as bouncy and happy as a teenage Shirley Temple.
Edie’s absorbed with her ‘Cheap Clothes Cost Lives’ campaign and researching Mumbai like it’s some sort of extra GCSE. I’ve got my textiles project to think about, but although it’s fun, it isn’t exactly on the same level as organising a collection. And I’m trying not to think about Mumbai, because if we don’t sort things out there, I’m probably out of a job. Which is why I spend far too much time in the workroom with Crow, watching the sea-goddess dress come together while making sure I don’t come into contact with spillable stuff of any kind.
Sigrid stops by for more fittings, and spends most of the time on her phone, complaining about the London weather and gossiping about the incredible party she was at last night, before the other party, and how difficult it is being a working actress in this town.
The dress goes to Toulouse and comes back, looking even more incredible. And Crow just keeps working silently, adjusting, pinning, rethinking, until the fit is so perfect it’s impossible to imagine Sigrid in anything else.
One afternoon, an editor who works for Elle calls to say she’s heard a rumour that Crow’s designing something truly exceptional for Sigrid to wear to the Elysée Palace, and that they’d love to do a photo shoot featuring it afterwards, and would I like to suggest some of Crow’s other designs they can use?
That night I go to bed imagining page after page of Crow’s dresses on a beautiful model in Elle and remembering why I love working in fashion so much, despit
e the occasional stressful moment. It’s hard to be grateful to the Queen of Evil for anything, but I suppose I’m going to have to give it a try.
The Elysée Palace do is at the end of term, just after the play ends at the Boat House and before we head out to India. Crow and I have agreed that I’ll go to Paris with Sigrid and help her with her outfit. This is almost better than organising dresses for a photo shoot at Elle. I only have to miss one afternoon of school and I get to stay overnight with Dad. And I’ll be travelling on the Eurostar with a couture dress in my luggage, which is THE MOST ROMANTIC THING IN THE WORLD.
Sadly, Edie isn’t jealous, because of her whole I-don’t-get-fashion thing, and Jenny isn’t, because it isn’t to do with the theatre, and Crow isn’t, because she just isn’t. Crow is too cool to be jealous.
So I’m completely thrilled when Granny comes up to London on a shopping trip and she’s totally jealous.
‘You’ll be like something out of Funny Face,’ she says. I look blank. ‘It’s a film with Audrey Hepburn, darling. A classic. God, you’re so young. Anyway, il sera ravissante.’
Which is not only painful to hear, it’s also ungrammatical. One doesn’t correct Granny’s grammar, but I try to look like my Eng. Lit. teacher does when I talk about Shakespeare. It’s mildly disappointed bordering on annoyed. Granny doesn’t notice, of course.
I’m in the middle of this look when I get a text. For a minute, I flinch, wondering if it’s Alexander. He hasn’t contacted me since the whole horror-movie kiss scenario, and I’ve been hoping he won’t, but you never know.
However, it’s not Alexander. It’s a number I don’t recognise. It says: ‘No need to go to Paris. My stylist’s coming. Just give her the dress. S xoxoxoxo’.
Granny sees the look on my face. The new one.
‘Bad news, darling?’
I try and show her the text but she hasn’t got her glasses on, so I read it out, including the xoxoxoxo.
Granny says a rude word, in English, perfectly pronounced, that you wouldn’t expect to hear from someone her age.
‘We call her the Queen of Evil,’ I tell her.
‘I can understand why.’
I’m still half hoping that the text is a joke by Jenny or Edie, not that I could imagine them doing it. Or even Harry. But it’s not.
Next morning, Sigrid’s stylist appears. She is small, Italian and dressed in head-to-toe Louis Vuitton. Not just the scarf, but the top and skirt and boots and bag and everything. She’s on her mobile and the whole time she’s with us, she doesn’t speak a word of English. She just chats away in Italian down the phone and mimes to us what she wants.
She mimes the dress. We take her down to the workroom and show it to her. She nods. She mimes putting it in its bag, supported by acid-free tissue paper, which we do and it takes ages. All the time, she’s still sorting out whatever Italian problem she’s got. Then she mimes us giving her the bag, which she has to hold high above her head so the bottom doesn’t drag on the ground.
Then she goes. That’s it.
First Paolo, and now whatever-her-name-is in Vuitton. What is it with me and Italians? Have I done something?
Oh, no. I look down. I’m wearing the leggings with the swearwords on that my pen pal Marco taught me. Great. So I’ve probably managed to deeply insult her without even saying a word to her.
Fabulous.
I don’t tell anyone about the leggings moment. Luckily. Because I don’t think it was my fault this time. I really don’t. Well, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. Probably. It’s just that Sigrid is the Queen of Evil and THE DISASTER was destined to happen. Our only mistake was not to see it coming.
Harry and Crow join me to watch every news channel we can find for hours and hours, looking for coverage of the Elysée Palace event. We’re all so excited. It’s like the Oscars all over again, but better, because this time we’re not nervous. Eventually, an entertainment show on Sky has a clip of all the famous people arriving.
French famous people. Italian famous people. English famous people. American famous people. Other famous people I don’t recognise. All the women are beautiful and all the men are Johnny Depp-gorgeous. It’s as if they had to pass some sort of beauty test before they were invited.
Every designer has gone to town. The women shimmer and flutter and glitter and glow, depending on what version of ‘incredibly stunning’ their chosen designer has gone for. We’re just congratulating ourselves that Crow designed something so difficult and dazzling and EXPENSIVE when I spot Sigrid. She’s with a man who looks vaguely familiar. Jenny squeals. It’s her director, again. He looks as if he’s died and gone to celebrity heaven.
Sigrid, as always, looks magnificent. She is one of the most beautiful people there, which is saying something. She has an extra-special glow to her, as if she’s spent the whole day in a spa, being covered in gold leaf, which I wouldn’t put past her. But her dress isn’t blue, it’s pink. Dolce & Gabbana pink satin, with a black cummerbund as wide as my geography exercise book, and a single black cuff for jewellery. I’d like to say she looks like a liquorice allsort, but she doesn’t. She looks incredible. Possibly because I still can’t believe what she’s wearing.
The sea-goddess dress is nowhere to be seen. Presumably still in its bag in some chic hotel, like a Cinderella who never got to go to the ball.
We should have guessed. Of course we should. But what with the dress being SPECIALLY ORDERED FOR THE EVENT and everything, we stupidly didn’t. Even with Sigrid involved. We just never learn.
Harry makes a snorting noise and turns off the TV in disgust. Crow looks shell-shocked and her fingers are trembling. My ears are suddenly full of that ringing noise again. Harry goes straight back to his room and puts on the Russian folk music at full volume. Mum takes Crow and me into the kitchen for smoothies and popcorn and hugs.
The phone goes. Mum hands it to me. It’s Andy Elat.
‘What happened?’
‘She had a stylist,’ I say. ‘I guess the stylist knows Dolce & Gabbana.’
‘Stylist? You should have told us!’
‘But the stylist came to pick up Crow’s dress!’
There’s a pause while Andy decides whether to shout at me any more and obviously decides not to.
‘Well, enjoy India,’ he mutters and ends the call. I’m not sure he said it in his most cheerful voice. I get the impression he wouldn’t be too devastated if we all did get a bug of some sort.
Why did I go into the fashion business? Why? I know there have been times when it seemed like a pretty good idea, but I must have been mad.
Next morning, I’m supposed to be packing for our trip, but I’m too depressed. Mum suggests revision, which is just pure sadism. Harry’s still listening to Russian folk songs, which make it worse.
I realise that there are only two places that can make me vaguely happy. The first is the V&A, but that’s where I’ll find the last dress Sigrid used to make my life a misery. The second place is Oxford Street. You can’t pack until you’ve bought a few things to go in your suitcase. This is what I tell myself. And it might be a bit mad, buying clothes to take to India when the place is FULL OF GORGEOUS, CHEAP STUFF, but you never know. It pays to be safe.
Edie would be horrified. I really should be sticking to charity shops and my sewing machine. But today I can’t face them. I need to do something fun and frivolous. I need fashion.
I take the bus to Oxford Street and my first stop is Miss Teen. I like their latest styles, but I find I can’t concentrate because I keep remembering Crow’s launch, and how terrifying it was, and picturing the wooden boardroom upstairs, and how terrifying that was, and it doesn’t put me in the mood to choose tee-shirts.
Then there’s a whole range of shops all the way down to Oxford Circus. I can’t help looking at the designer collections and realising how extremely difficult they are to do. In fact, the more I look, the less I feel like buying anything. Fashion is a scary business. I’m not sure I’m made for it after al
l.
Finally, I get to Topshop. It’s impossible to do an Oxford Street fashion adventure without including Topshop, so I go down the escalators and hope that the sheer quantity of amazing clothes will cheer me up.
They don’t. They simply prove that there are hundreds of designers out there who can do high-street collections – really good ones – and we can’t. We just got lucky with the first one. Out of sheer habit, I load myself up with things to try on and join the queue for the changing rooms. Which is where I am when I suddenly hear my name being called out.
I look up. An eight-foot goddess is approaching me, all smiles. Actually, it’s Svetlana in a jumpsuit and strappy heels.
She gives me a big kiss. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages! How are you?’ she asks.
‘Fine,’ I lie.
Then she turns back. ‘Lulu,’ she shouts, ‘come over! See who it is.’
My first thought is how sweet Svetlana is. I’m pretty certain, thanks to all the Russian folk music, that things are wobbly between her and Harry at the very least, but that doesn’t mean she feels the need to avoid me in shops. I think that’s really brave and amazing and I like her even more than I did before, which was a lot.
My second thought is ‘Oh. My. God.’
Lulu is Lulu Frost. And she’s not just here with her model pal, she’s here with her off-again on-again BOYFRIEND. I see him look up from about three racks away and his face freezes. So does mine.
‘Hi,’ says Lulu, coming over. ‘You must be Nonie. Svetlana’s told me all about you.’
Oh no, I hope not, I think madly to myself. But then I realise I haven’t seen Svetlana since I got that first call from Alexander. She might not know that we ever met up.
He approaches slowly. His face is blank, except for a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but I know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking PLEASE GOD FAST FORWARD THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES OF MY LIFE SO I DON’T HAVE TO LIVE THEM.
‘This is my boyfriend,’ Lulu says cheerfully. ‘Alexander Taylor.’
Beads, Boys and Bangles Page 12
