I try to comfort her that nobody will notice, nobody will mind. But we both know that in a few days, theatre critics from England and America will be sitting in the front rows for the official first night, and they will notice and they will mind. And they will tell everyone.
In the end, Jenny sighs.
‘It’s not as though I haven’t been through it before.’
She even manages half a laugh. If being ‘wooden’ in a major blockbuster has prepared her for anything, it’s prepared her for this. All I can do is remind her about Project Jenny. At least the first night party won’t be a total disaster.
On the way out, we notice two burly men standing at the stage door, their arms full of bowls of orchids.
‘That’ll be for the star’s dressing room,’ Jenny says. She sighs. ‘They got me a nice cactus. It’s very sweet. I’ve painted a smiley face on it.’
When I get back home, a parcel has arrived. Crow shows it to me. In it is the bottom half of the fabric from the sea-goddess dress that Sigrid won’t be needing any more, because she HAD IT CUT OFF.
Crow and I just look at each other. God, we hate that girl.
Crow is madly busy. I’m not sure if she’s sleeping at all now. On the rare occasions I see her, she looks hungry and is busy stuffing down a sandwich before going back to her workroom for another session. She’s finally let me see what she’s doing and I personally think it’s brilliant, but also EXTREMELY RISKY. It’s certainly very different from the undoable designs she was working on before we went to India.
Will the Miss Teen people love it, or think she’s having a laugh? And more to the point, what will Andy Elat think about all the other ideas we’ve had since we got back from Mumbai?
While Crow’s been busy working, Edie, Harry and I have been busy thinking. About how to help Sanjay, who made everything seem so easy when just finding enough to eat every day must be a struggle. And Ganesh, who was so desperate to look after his little sister, whatever it took. And most of all, about Lakshmi, with her shy smile and her fused fingers and her fascination with beautiful sewing, in spite of everything that’s happened to her.
I have one of Harry’s pictures of Lakshmi on my phone, after he sent it to me from his. I can’t help looking at it. I can’t bear that she’s so far away and it should be me, somehow, who’s looking after her. She chose me. I chose her back. And right now only Crow, Harry and Edie understand exactly how I feel.
Edie wants me to go over to her house, so that we can talk through our Miss Teen strategy. Now that she’s involved, we don’t wing things so much any more. We have strategies. We are SO grown-up and organised.
When I get there, her laptop is on as usual, and she’s looking at someone’s Facebook page. I look a bit closer.
‘Wow! He’s gorgeous! Who’s that?’
‘Oh, that?’ she says, as if she hadn’t noticed. ‘That’s Phil.’
‘THAT’S PHIL? That is Phil?’
Phil from No Kidding is not at all the nerdy communications guy I’d always assumed he was. In fact, he makes Joe Yule look like a hobbit. He has surfer-blonde hair, gorgeous blue eyes and a jawline that you just want to run your fingers over, to check if it’s real. Phil from No Kidding is SUPER-CUTE.
‘You never said he was hot.’
‘Oh,’ she says again, vaguely. ‘Is he?’
‘Yes,’ I point out slowly but firmly. ‘He is.’
She goes a shade of pink that I’ve never seen before. It would make a good lipstick colour.
‘Anyway, there’s a children’s charity based in Mumbai that can provide schooling for the kids if we can get some funding and encourage them to go. And it can also find them jobs so they’re not reduced to begging and they can find somewhere safe to sleep.’
‘How do we get them in touch with it?’
‘This is where your brother’s plan comes in. We can put it all in the letter. The address for them to go to. A note to the charity about their background, and how we’ll raise money to help look after them.’
‘By selling tee-shirts?’ I ask cautiously. Edie’s tee-shirts are OK, but I’m not sure they could fund an education.
‘Whatever it takes,’ Edie says firmly. ‘We’ve raised money before. We can do it again. We just will.’
I love the way she says ‘we’. She’s very sweet about not taking all the credit for the amazing stuff she does. And she’s right, of course. We just will.
‘And we’ll find a way of staying in touch. I’m missing them already, aren’t you?’
I instantly feel my eyes welling up, Jenny-style. YES, I am missing them despite only seeing them that one, hot afternoon. YES, of course I want to stay in touch. YES, my friend is incredible for assuming that we even can, what with them being five thousand miles away (I know the distance, yay!), and not having a home, never mind a phone, or being able to read or write or MINOR DETAILS like that. But minor details don’t bother Edie.
I nod, and there’s a bit of a huggy moment, until something occurs to me. I can’t help it. I pull back.
‘Did Hot Phil tell you about this charity and the jobs and everything?’
‘Look, he’s just a friend, OK?’
I give her the look that Crow shared with Harry in India when she was explaining about Edie’s ‘internet friend’.
‘A friend that you email and message on a daily basis, even when you’re literally – check out my geography – on the other side of the world.’
‘He’s just very nice,’ she protests. ‘Very charming and caring. He was so worried about us when we got lost in that market. He was ringing people up all over the place, trying to get them to check up on us that last day, even though it was the middle of the night in California.’
‘All of us?’ I ask. ‘Or one of us in particular?’
Lipstick-pink again.
‘D’you want to know what the strategy is for the meeting with Mr Elat, or what?’
Actually, I do. And she tells me. And it’s a good strategy. I like it very much. Almost as much as I like the look of Hot Phil.
Edie tries to make me promise not to call him that any more, and to stop teasing her about him. I promise to stop.
I’m lying.
We’re standing in the King’s Road, staring at a blue front door. It looks like nothing at all – just any old front door of any old flat in London – but to me it’s like something out of a horror movie. What lies behind it is VERY SCARY INDEED.
What lies behind it is Andy Elat. Well, actually, not him right now, because he’s already texted to say he’s going to be late for our meeting, but his flat. Or his lair, as I like to think of it. When I think about what we’ve come to say to him, I can feel little beads of sweat forming on my forehead. This reminds me. I check my upper lip. Sweat-free, luckily. I would so hate to take after my ex-not-boyfriend.
I look across at Crow. She looks tired and grumpy, which I happen to know means she’s secretly mega-nervous too. She looks across at Edie, who straightens her shoulders and rings the doorbell. Edie is a class prefect. Edie chairs the debating society. Edie eats scary things for breakfast. Not literally – she likes Weetabix – but you know what I mean. Edie is the sort of friend you want to have right now. Crow and I sort of cluster behind her, wishing we were invisible. Which would be easier if I hadn’t decided that my neon pink legwarmers and bottle-top Converses were appropriate for the occasion.
The door opens. It’s a man I’ve never seen before. He introduces himself as ‘Mr Godbold’ and looks like the headmaster of a posh school, dressed up in a perfectly-fitted, handmade suit. Turns out he’s Andy’s butler. Cool! Although it adds to the whole horror-movie effect. He guides us across a little lobby to a lift and presses the button for the third floor. We arrive in another little lobby and Mr Godbold opens a heavy front door, plain wood this time, and leads us through a wide hallway to a large room with rooftop views. Suddenly here we are, in Andy Elat’s home.
I’ve been picturing this place for a long
time. Andy Elat has famously lived in a flat above the King’s Road for the last forty years. He arrived soon after Twiggy drove her Mini down it on the way to modelling shoots. He was here when Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren started selling punk tee-shirts and trousers held together with safety pins. He stayed as the posh shops started arriving and it turned from a little, independent, quirky place into one of the main fashion high streets of London.
What style has he gone for? Will there be waterfalls cascading from the roof? Or wall-to-wall granite? Or gold-leaf ceilings? Or plasma TV screens on every available surface?
I’ve braced myself for pretty much anything, but what I haven’t braced myself for is a sitting room that looks like an old-fashioned junk shop, with sofas. I look around in astonishment. So do Edie and Crow. I’m not sure this place has been redecorated since around the time Twiggy started modelling. No plasma screens. No gold leaf. Just lots of pictures of fishing boats and a collection of coloured glass ashtrays that screams anything but chic.
Amanda Elat comes in, looking more tired than I’ve ever seen her. There are rumours that Miss Teen hasn’t been doing as well as normal recently. And all the press coverage from Edie’s website can’t be helping. However, when she sees our faces, she gives us a wan little smile.
‘I know. Strange, isn’t it? When Mum died, he couldn’t bear to redecorate.’
‘Oh,’ we say.
I’d known that Andy Elat was single nowadays, but assumed he was divorced and leading a crazy, millionaire, bachelor lifestyle. Not widowed, pining and living in an old-fashioned flat. The more I know about him, the less I feel I know him.
‘You’re privileged,’ she goes on. ‘He doesn’t usually agree to see people here. But he thought the headquarters at night-time would be a bit scary.’
We all laugh politely, as if the thought of being scared by Andy Elat anywhere is simply ridiculous. How could anyone be so silly?
The reason we’re here this evening is that it’s the only time he could fit us in before he goes on holiday, which is first thing tomorrow morning. I grump about having the odd meeting on a Saturday morning. Andy Elat seems to have them all day, every day, seven days a week. No wonder he needs this holiday. And I hope Amanda’s going with him. She looks as though she really needs one too.
Looking even tireder than two minutes ago, she leads us through to a dining room, where we arrange ourselves on mahogany chairs around a super-shiny mahogany table. Andy definitely has a thing about wood.
We order drinks from Mr Godbold, who serves them in coloured glasses on a silver tray. When he’s done it, Amanda starts off the meeting with a deep sigh. ‘Dad told me to get going. Otherwise we’ll be here all night. So. Tell me about Mumbai.’
I’m sitting opposite Amanda, with Crow next to me, then Edie. Part of our strategy is that I’ll go first and they’ll help me out when I need it.
‘It was fine,’ I start, nervously. ‘Sort of fine. The factory’s great.’ I try to sound enthusiastic, but Amanda’s not here to hear about how great the factory is, and she knows it. I take a breath and just go for it. ‘We found the children who embroidered the Svetlana dress.’
She sighs even more deeply, but she’s not surprised. ‘Yes, I’ve heard. It turns out that the factory occasionally subcontracts work that’s too expensive to do in-house. It’s against the contracts. Completely illegal. I don’t know how they managed to fool our inspectors. Anyway, it won’t happen again.’
‘How can you be sure?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you already had people visiting. We’ve talked about it, and Edie can’t change her website until we’re certain that everyone’s doing what they say they are. At least for Crow’s new collection, anyway.’
‘If she makes one,’ Amanda points out, and I know she’s thinking about undoability. I would be too, if I were her.
I carry on regardless. ‘We think someone we trust must be at the factory all the time, checking how every piece is made. And making sure it’s possible for them to make each piece properly for the price they say.’
Amanda’s lips form a hard line and she really doesn’t look like anyone’s favourite aunt at all right now. ‘It’s more complicated than that, Nonie. Business is a complex world. We can’t control everything. How could we? But you can be sure we’re doing what we can.’
Edie looks across and catches my eye. She gives me a tiny, encouraging smile. I go on.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s not enough,’ I say. ‘I mean, you’re right about it being complicated and everything. But we feel responsible for each piece that Crow designs. There’s this little girl who . . . anyway.’I pause and collect myself. ‘We can only put the “Crow” label on pieces we absolutely know are made fairly – because we’ve checked.’
I know there’s other stuff too, but my brain has suddenly gone completely empty. I think it’s something to do with the look Amanda’s giving me. Crow senses me struggling and steps in. I’m starting to like the idea of having a strategy.
‘Plus we want labels that warn people to check how their clothes are made,’ she adds. ‘Because if we all keep buying cheap stuff without thinking about it, there are people who’ll keep forcing children to make it cheaply, too.’
By now, Amanda’s lips are such a hard little line that they’ve almost disappeared. I think it would be a good idea to stop here. But Edie doesn’t.
‘And we want some of the profits from each piece to go towards rescuing child labourers and giving them a proper life,’ she says firmly.
Amanda raises one eyebrow.
‘Is that it?’
‘Pretty much,’ I admit.
She looks at Edie. ‘And this is all your idea, I assume?’
Edie’s about to say something, but I butt in furiously.
‘No, it’s not! It’s what we all think. I mean, Edie’s the one who discovered the problem, but we’re agreed. Aren’t we, Crow? This is what we want. All of us.’
Crow nods. ‘All of us.’
‘Well, it’s nice to see you’re all such good friends,’ Amanda says, ‘but I’m afraid you girls are in no position to dictate terms like this to Miss Teen. If we like the designs, it’s up to us how we produce them. And there’s no guarantee that we will like them, of course.’
She gets up and starts striding around the room, sipping Diet Coke from her glass and explaining how we’re still children, and just because Crow has done two collections it doesn’t make her Giorgio Armani, and we can’t really tell anyone how we want things done.
‘Of course, we’ll bear your ideas in mind,’ she adds. Then her phone goes. It’s a text from her dad. ‘His meeting’s over. He’ll be here in five minutes,’ she says. Then she sees our faces.
‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to walk out again! Grow up, girls. This is the real world.’
If this is the real world, I don’t like it. None of us do.
‘I’d be sad not to work with Miss Teen any more,’ Crow says in a tiny voice. ‘It’s been great. You’ve helped me so much. So has your dad. But if I have to go back to just making a few dresses for clients by myself, that’s OK. It’s how I started.’
I nod. I grab her hand and squeeze it. Edie grabs the other one and squeezes it too.
‘There’s something I don’t think you realise,’ Amanda says coldly.
I can feel the stillness of the night. The quietness of the room. The darkness outside. The tension in Crow’s shoulders. But also her stubbornness. It used to drive me crazy, but now it’s one of my favourite things about her.
‘Miss Teen owns the “Crow” label,’ Amanda continues. ‘We own the name. If you go on your own, you’ll have to find another one.’
Crow does a sort-of hiccup. Edie gasps. My mouth goes dry. No, we hadn’t realised this.
We look at each other in shock. Of course, Crow could always use her real name, but ‘Elizabeth Lamogi’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, and it would take up a lot of space on labels.
I can see tears wel
ling up fast in Crow’s eyes. Then I remember that it was her brother who chose her nickname, before he was kidnapped. For five years, while Henry was forced to fight in a rebel army and she didn’t know if he was alive or dead, her name was the only thing she had that he’d given her. It’s more precious to her than her sketchbooks, her life in London, even her ability to sew.
Crow pauses, willing the tears not to fall. I’m thinking of little Lakshmi sheltering in a railway carriage, her scarred face, her fingers that don’t work any more, and the way she hugged me with those arms that were hardly there. I know what I’d do. But it’s not my name that’s at stake.
‘You can keep it,’ Crow whispers to Amanda. She gulps. She was going to say more, but she can’t.
We have nothing left. Amanda is right. We’re only children. There’s very little we can do in this complicated business of fashion. And this seems to be it.
I open my mouth to say something to back Crow up, but I can’t talk either. Edie is silent and white-faced. She’s trying to catch Crow’s eye and I know she’d tell her not to make such a sacrifice for her sake, but Crow’s ignoring her. She knows what she wants to do and she doesn’t want to be talked out of it.
Amanda sits down, looking more exhausted than ever and we stay there in silence until the door opens and Andy Elat comes in, quickly followed by Paolo the PR man in his wraparound sunglasses. (It’s totally dark outside.)
‘Blimey, I’m glad that’s over!’ Andy says cheerily. ‘Worst meeting of my life.’ Then he sees us all sitting there. ‘What’s happened? Cat died?’
I get my voice back from somewhere.
‘No. But I’m afraid I don’t think we can do the collection. And Edie can’t change her site.’
Beads, Boys and Bangles Page 18
