Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  He holds out his hand. ‘Good to meet you,’ he says, giving me a long, steady, dead-eyed gaze.

  I grasp his cold, confident fingers. Then drop them. I want to say something witty and cutting that only he will understand and that will make him feel like the two-timing evil toy-er he obviously is, but I can’t think of anything, so I just say, ‘Hi, Alexander’. Except it comes out as ‘Hggmmphh, Aaruugghdder,’ because my voice isn’t working properly.

  Svetlana says something. I don’t hear it because my brain is fizzing with embarrassment, so she has to repeat it. She blushes delicately. Which of course makes her look even more stunning.

  ‘Tell your brother hi from me.’

  I nod. I get the impression that this is a sad, wistful ‘hope you’re OK’ hi, not a ‘hey, let’s get back together’ hi.

  I don’t know why they would have split up. They were so good together. But I bet their break-up was noble and slightly tragic, not totally mortifying, like mine. And it’s not as if mine was a break-up. According to frozen-face in front of me, there was nothing to break up. We hadn’t even met. He was going out with Lulu all the time.

  Then, as if by magic, I reach the front of the changing room queue. I say goodbye and practically run into the nearest cubicle and slide my back down one of the walls until I’m crouched on the floor, under a huge pile of clothes I’m never going to wear, wishing I’d followed Mum’s advice and invested in waterproof mascara.

  I have the perfect moment to give Harry Svetlana’s message. It’s on the flight to Mumbai. He’s ended up as our chaperone, as he’s been here before and everyone else is either too busy (like Mum, with her business, and Edie’s parents, who have their teaching jobs and her little brother to look after, and Henry, who has exams) or too worried about sunstroke and ankle-swelling (Granny).

  We’re stuck beside each other for nine hours. I’ve been dreading it, because I know it’s physically impossible for me to sit near my brother for so long and not tell him all the gory details about Alexander. It was bad enough watching him snigger when we were going out. Telling him about the non-break-up after the non-relationship is going to be worse.

  To start off with, we sort of ignore each other. Harry has his iPod and I have FIVE BOOKS OF REVISION, which I’m supposed to read on the trip. As if. There are also magazines to read and movies to watch, and I can sit on the arm of Edie’s seat, across the aisle, and chat to her and Crow. But when they serve the first meal, I have to sit back next to Harry with no distractions. I put off the Alexander moment by asking him about Svetlana.

  ‘Is it really over?’

  He nods.

  ‘Why?’

  He looks at me as though I’ve lost it. This is quite normal for Harry. Fifty per cent of the looks he gives me suggest my brain doesn’t work properly.

  ‘You know,’ he says. ‘Life.’ This is not entirely helpful.

  ‘Did she do something?’ I ask. ‘Or you?’ I sort of gulp this last bit. The trouble is, I can’t imagine either of them doing something. How do relationships between two nice people end? I mean, I know there’s Romeo and Juliet and that was misunderstandings and fake death and suicide, but that’s a bit extreme.

  ‘No,’ he says at last. ‘She didn’t do anything. Nor did I. Bad timing, I suppose.’

  I have no idea what this means. None at all. There is so much about relationships I don’t understand.

  ‘At least you ended things with Fancy Pants before it all got stressful,’ he adds, searching around his tray for something edible.

  I’m astounded.

  First, Harry has a pet name for my ex-not-boyfriend. Not a good one.

  Second, he thinks there was a time when things weren’t stressful. When? When?

  Third, he sounds a bit jealous of how quickly it ended.

  ‘Things were stressful, believe me,’ I say. I sort of feel as if I need to reassure him of the rubbishness of my love life, to make him feel better. The boy who picked up a SUPERMODEL, just by ASKING HER. He’s right: my brain doesn’t work properly.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘We’ve got a few hours left. Tell me.’

  So I do. Once I start, I can’t stop. The awfulness of the sweaty lip. The windy bench. The horror-movie kiss. The Topshop moment. And he doesn’t snigger once. He doesn’t even look tempted.

  ‘Mum said I ought to get you to bop him on the nose for me.’

  He nods to himself, as if it might have worked.

  ‘There’s a couple of guys at college like that. It’s all about them. They just use pretty girls to make themselves look good.’

  Harry’s so sweet. About the ‘pretty girls’ bit. Although I’m surprised he knows what the boys at college get up to because he’s hardly ever there.

  Mum has gone beyond sheer terror that he’s not going to get his degree this summer. She’s just sort of numb now. The trouble is, she can’t exactly have the usual ‘How on earth are you going to get a job?’ conversation, because he’s already a very popular DJ and booked up for a lot of the spring/summer catwalk shows in September. And she can’t accuse him of not working, because he works at his music all the time. So she just takes it out on me and explains once a week that Harry is an ‘exceptional case’ and if I don’t work hard and get a good degree some day I’ll ‘regret it for the rest of my life’.

  I could point out that she modelled through her teens and only managed one A-level and she’s now super-successful in her art dealing career, and that by the way, I ALREADY HAVE A JOB AND I HAVEN’T DONE MY GCSES YET. But I don’t. There’s a look she does, which is totally logic-proof. It’s just not worth it.

  ‘So I was right to dump him, then?’ I ask Harry.

  He pats the top of my head in a brotherly way. ‘You were brave to dump him. Really brave, kiddo. You amaze me, the things you do.’

  I amaze myself sometimes, the scary situations I get myself into. It’s great to have Harry to back me up. I realise I’ve missed him so much since the first sniggering incident, even though he’s been around. Watching somebody mope around the house is different from actually talking to them. And not only that, he now passes his iPod over and puts on a playlist of Bollywood tunes to get me in the mood for our trip.

  ‘What about the Russian folk music?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve decided to give it up,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t helping. Try this.’

  ‘This’ is happy and mad and groovy and wild and makes you want to dance round the aeroplane with your arms waving. It’s much better. I try listening to it while attempting French revision and he’s right: it helps. It might even make geography bearable, when the time comes.

  People say India is strange, and crazy, and chaotic, and colourful. They go on about the heat and the crowds and how it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.

  The people who say this haven’t run a catwalk show in the middle of Fashion Week.

  We get to Mumbai airport and even though it’s night, the air is warm and muggy. I see hundreds of people rushing about looking totally focused or completely confused. There’s activity everywhere, lots of loud shouting and talking urgently into mobile phones, and every type of outfit from string vests to sharp suits and flowing shawls. There are queues of excited people and other, harassed individuals trying to make some sort of order. This is just what it was like during the shows last year and I instantly feel at home.

  I look over at Crow and see the same expression on her face: happy wonderment. We know we’re going to have a good time. Edie looks a bit overwhelmed and is sticking as close to Harry as she can. For someone who wants to work in the United Nations one day, she’s going to have to get a bit more relaxed about travelling.

  We’re being met by the man who runs the main factory that makes Miss Teen clothes in India. His name is Mr Patil and he turns out to be rotund, loud, impeccably dressed in a silk suit, and pleased to see us when we eventually make it through. He’s brought his wife and children and two cars, so we can all fit in them on the way to our hotel
.

  While our cases are being loaded in the cars, Mr Patil arranges that he’ll take Harry and Crow, while Edie and I travel behind with his wife and kids. The journey isn’t quite what I was expecting. While I’m busy looking out of the windows, trying to make out the lights of Mumbai, Mrs Patil decides that now is a good time for a bit of revision.

  ‘Suraj is a maths champion,’ she says proudly of her son, who looks about nine.

  ‘Oh, so’s Edie,’ I say, without thinking.

  Edie gives me the Look, but it’s too late.

  ‘How wonderful,’ says Mrs Patil. ‘Let’s do a test. What is four thousand and seventy-four divided by seven?’

  I assume this is a friendly joke and go back to looking out of the window, but a second later, Suraj says ‘five hundred and eighty-two’ and Edie looks really annoyed. Mrs Patil does another one and this time Edie gets it first, to her relief. But now the heat is on, and we do maths all the way into the city. Or at least, Edie and Suraj do. His little sister and I keep quiet and look out of our respective windows. Her excuse is she’s five. Mine is that I’m saving maths revision till much later in the holidays.

  Through my window, I watch Mumbai emerge from the darkness. Some bits are all skyscrapers and swooping freeways. Others aren’t much more than tents. Lots of blocks of flats wear little corrugated shacks around their bottoms, like skirts. The traffic is mad, even at midnight, and noisier than Piccadilly Circus, with horns competing for who can beep louder. Even through the car’s air conditioning, the air smells sweet and spicy. I try and catch Edie’s eye to see if she’s enjoying the sights as much as I am, but she’s still focusing on long division and her eyes are half-closed with concentration.

  As we get closer to our hotel, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. The bits of Mumbai that aren’t shacks or skyscrapers look amazingly like the V&A. As if its bulky gothic buildings have been cloned and transported to India, replanted by the sea and adorned with bird poo. Will this help in geography GCSE? I’d like to think so, but I doubt it.

  When we get to our hotel, the Patils kindly offer to take us out to dinner, but we’re suddenly shattered. Edie, Crow and I are all sharing a room. We go to bed and start talking about our plans, but Edie quickly moves onto the subject of mental maths and Crow and I are soon asleep.

  * * *

  When I wake up next morning, Edie’s already on her computer.

  ‘You’re not revising, are you?’ I ask, blearily. This simply wouldn’t be fair.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Just updating my blog. And sending emails. Phil wants to know how we get on.’

  I think if we were on a desert island, Edie would be on her laptop, updating her blog and emailing Phil at No Kidding. She’s been emailing him a lot recently. And he keeps emailing back. He’s really excited about this trip.

  Over breakfast, Harry says that Mrs Patil has offered to take us sightseeing and, if we don’t mind, he’d like to spend the day at a jazz festival he’s heard about, at some venue by the sea.

  ‘Aren’t we going to the factory?’ Edie asks, looking massively disappointed.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Harry says. ‘The Patils thought we’d need a day to acclimatise.’

  He catches Crow and me staring at him. ‘Get used to the hot weather,’ he explains.

  ‘Oh.’

  Mrs Patil arrives and Harry heads off. After a round of cheerful hellos, Mrs Patil looks at me and her smile falters slightly. I can sense something is wrong. It’s to do with my legs. I look around the hotel lobby and realise that even though it will soon be thirty degrees outside, lace hot pants are not the in thing in Mumbai.

  Mrs Patil’s in a stunning blue sari, as are a few of the other women. Most are in modern skirts, tee-shirts and trousers, but all of them are what Mum would call ‘respectable’. Whereas I look more like something out of a Christina Aguilera video.

  I run back up to the room to change. Harem pants will have to do. Normally, they’re not my favourite look, but I packed a spare pair for evenings and otherwise my suitcase features hot pants a bit too heavily. Edie, needless to say, looks like a visiting governess and Crow has chosen a gold and purple kaftan that she made in about thirty seconds while I was packing and is gorgeous.

  When I get back downstairs, Mrs Patil waves me quickly through the front doors. Her driver is waiting outside and can only pause briefly before the traffic jam he has caused gets nasty. Once we’re in the car, she turns round in the front seat and says, ‘Now. Sightseeing. Mumbai has many interesting and fascinating buildings. Also galleries and museums. The zoo is excellent. The harbour also. Where shall we begin?’

  We all look at each other. I twist my fingers around the folds in my harem pants and we say nothing. Edie can’t choose between all the options and Crow and I SO don’t care. Crow will do anything, as long as it involves watching people and getting ideas. There’s only one thing I want to do and I don’t dare mention it.

  Mrs Patil sees our faces and bursts out laughing.

  ‘I’m teasing you. I take girlfriends round Mumbai all the time. I know what you would like to do. And that is shopping. Yes?’

  YES!

  Sometimes in life, even when your rubbish ex-not-boyfriend pretends not to recognise you in public, and your Elle shoot will probably be cancelled because of the Queen of Evil, and you have exams coming up, you get given special moments of pure happiness. One of these is sitting in a fabric shop, drinking tea, watching your designer friend choose length after length of incredible, rainbow-coloured sari silk for ‘research purposes’, while you know for a fact that most of your school friends are back at home, doing revision.

  Even better is standing in a bazaar, with a freshly-bought embroidered bag full to the brim with cheap jewellery and souvenirs, eating mango ice cream from a stall and discussing which other shops and stalls to visit. Endless types and sizes of them, from marble-tiled malls playing Bollywood hits to street vendors selling flip-flops, and Mrs Patil seems to be an expert on them all.

  Even Edie gives in and starts bargaining for some scarves that catch her eye. She draws the line at mango ice cream, though: ‘It’s from a stall! You’ve no idea what might be in it!’

  I don’t care. She has no idea how delicious it is. So much more fun than the bottled water she’s sticking to.

  Crow’s back in her trance, just like she was in France. If the Paris Métro kept her eyes busy, the overcrowded streets of Mumbai, with the heat and the dirt and the smoggy blue sky, and the colourful stallholders and beggars and busy professionals and endless traffic, are enough to keep her going for a lifetime.

  Only two things make life less than perfect. One is the stares from some of the men and boys. Mrs Patil tells us to ignore them and we sort of do, but I’m REALLY glad I didn’t go out in hot pants this morning. The other thing is the begging. It’s not being asked for rupees – that’s fine, we’ve got loads. It’s the children who do it. Barefoot and eager. They have the same look in their eye as Miss Teen shoppers on a mission (although that’s all they’ve got in common) and whatever we give them, they seem desperate for more. Mrs Patil shoos them away but they keep flocking round us. Edie is positively upset.

  ‘They’re so young! And so thin! Who’s looking after them?’

  Mrs Patil laughs. ‘Nobody! They’re just part of the city. You’ll get used to it.’

  She nods to Crow, who’s letting an astonished little girl feel her super-curly hair, which by now is adorned with a couple of pinwheels from a market stall. Mumbai is a city of many sights, but even here, Crow’s unusual.

  Edie gives Mrs Patil her polite smile, but I can tell she doesn’t want to get used to it. She’d take every child home, if she could, and give them new clothes, reading practice and a decent meal. As it is, she empties her wallet and then tries to ignore their outstretched hands and cries of ‘beautiful lady’. She’s super-relieved when Mrs Patil suggests lunch and points us in the direction of a café with lots of bug-free food to concentrate on instead. />
  The afternoon is more markets and malls. By late afternoon, Edie and Crow are completely shattered again and even I’m wondering if I can manage another sari shop. Mrs Patil decides it’s time to call it a day. She takes us back to the hotel.

  ‘Tomorrow, the factory,’ she says. ‘My husband will send a car to pick you up at seven.’

  Seven? That’s a bit early. It sounds like work, not holiday. Then I remember, it is work. We nod and agree to get an early night.

  Harry’s waiting for us upstairs.

  ‘How was the festival?’ I ask.

  He grins. ‘Fantastic. Heard about twenty people. They want me to come back in October for Fashion Week.’

  ‘They have a fashion week here?’ Edie asks.

  Harry nods. It’s slightly odd to have a brother who’s as up on the fashion world as you are, but then, he is going out with a supermodel. Or was. A pained look flashes across his face for a second, then disappears. I want to hug him, but obviously I don’t. We catch each other’s eye and say nothing.

  He’s nice enough to ask us about our day, and even though it was pure shopping, he manages to look interested. We lay out all the things we’ve bought on our beds. Reds and pinks and yellows and blues; silks and cotton; simple scarves and a gold brocade coat that I will probably wear for the rest of my life.

  ‘It’s research,’ I say, gesturing at Crow, who helpfully nods. ‘For the label.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Harry says. ‘If that’s what you want to call it.’

  My last thought as my head hits the pillow is that, surprisingly, I haven’t seen Crow pull out a notebook since we got here. So different from Paris. She’s thinking about something. Worrying about something, probably, if it’s stopping her from drawing.

  Yvette? The street children? How to design for teenagers? I think her trust in Edie and me is wearing off and I start to worry about her worrying, but the next thing I know I’m tobogganing down a mountain of mango ice cream on a carpet of rainbow silk and I have a sneaky feeling I might be dreaming.