Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  Out of all of us, how did Edie end up being the first one with a proper, normal boyfriend with acceptable kissing ability? I’d never have guessed it, but then, that girl surprises me all the time.

  ‘How’s it going, darling?’

  Granny’s watching as they stretch the Taj Mahal canvas back over its scaffolding. I’m glad to see her here, as it means she’s not shopping. She already seems to have bought most of Mumbai’s pashmina collection, and enough embroidered silk and knick-knacks to keep her going for twenty years. Shopkeepers love Granny, and she loves them back. ‘Everyone here is so utterly charming, darling,’ she keeps pointing out. Which they would be, if you were constantly staggering out of their shops, laden with parcels. I think Mum’s inheritance is going to be about two pounds fifty by the time Granny’s finished.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘The photographer says he just needs another five shots or so. I’m making sure we cover every outfit, and we nearly have. They’ll be done soon.’

  The street children are teaching Jenny bhangra dancing while they wait. Jenny’s OK for someone who hasn’t done it before, but she’s still working out what to do with her hips, and next to the local kids her arms look like jerky windmills.

  I look for Lakshmi in the crowd. Normally, when she isn’t with the other kids she’s with me, but suddenly I can’t find her. We’ve hardly been parted since I got to Mumbai and I can feel panic starting to rise. What’s happened to her? Where can she have got to on this huge Bollywood set? Is she OK?

  Then I spot her, sitting next to a clothes rail with a sketchbook on her lap and a doll tucked under her arm. She’s staring intently at Crow, who’s sketching beside her. I go over to say hi, and as I approach, Crow looks up at me and grins.

  ‘She’s really good,’ Crow says. ‘Take a look.’

  I watch as Lakshmi eagerly copies a couple of Crow’s dancing girl pictures for me. Even though her fused fingers mean she has to hold the pen at a crazy angle, she sketches with the same easy grace as Crow. And the results are just as sparkling.

  I don’t believe it. I’ve wanted to draw like that all my life and even tiny little Lakshmi is already better than me.

  ‘They’re amazing,’ I say, hoping she hasn’t noticed how totally jealous I am.

  Lakshmi gives me her shy smile. She’s still wearing the gold necklace I gave her in spring. How she’s managed to hang onto it all this time, I can’t imagine. I think she’s a tougher cookie than she looks – a bit like Crow.

  ‘Maybe I’ll go to fashion school one day,’ she says. Well, she whispers it, really. I know that whisper. It’s the same whisper I used in my head when I thought about my dream of working for a designer. It’s the whisper that means ‘it’s too wonderfully impossible to say it out loud properly, but if it happened it would be the most amazing thing ever’.

  ‘You will,’ I tell her.

  After all, here’s me, working in the fashion industry right this minute. Well, not working. Taking a five-minute break and chatting. But I’ll be working again as soon as they’ve got the Taj Mahal sorted. And if Lakshmi’s good enough to go to fashion school, I’ll make sure she gets there.

  I’ll have help. Crow has been asked to stay on for an extra week and teach cutting techniques on a fashion course at one of India’s best design schools. They think Crow is incredible and they love the idea that they’ll be learning from someone who learned from someone who learned from Christian Dior. So there’s me, with my textiles GCSE, and Crow is TEACHING the stuff to INTERNATIONAL COLLEGE STUDENTS. You get used to it.

  ‘Right, we’re ready!’

  The photographer is waving, Jenny’s getting back into position and Sanjay is running around, making sure everyone else is doing what they’re supposed to be doing.

  Then my phone goes.

  Normally, I wouldn’t answer it at such a crucial moment, but when I see who’s calling, I do.

  ‘Hi, Andy.’

  ‘Hi, kid. Everything OK?’

  ‘Totally fine,’ I tell him happily.

  ‘Good. Thought you’d like to know – Vogue have seen some of the samples from the collection. They want to do a piece to time with the launch in summer. They might use one of the dresses on the cover. And they’d like that friend of yours to model it. She worked well in the September issue. Curves are in this year. Pass the message on, will you? Nonie? Nonie?’

  But I’m not answering. I’ve dropped the phone in shock. Lakshmi rushes over and tries to help me rescue it. We bump heads, scrabbling on the floor, and giggle. She gets to it first and hands it over.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, breathlessly, into it. ‘Yes, Andy. I’ll pass the message on.’

  I imagine telling Jenny that in a few months’ time she may be a Vogue cover girl. And Crow that Jenny will be in one of her dresses. Then I realise that I really have to learn bhangra dancing, because I just want to wave my arms in the air, and those dancers seem to have worked out the best way in the world to do it.

  ‘Nonie!’ the photographer shouts at me. ‘Come over here! You have a job to do.’

  I sort of dance over to him, with Lakshmi following close behind. He’s right. I do.

  What can YOU do?

  If you’d like to help children like Sanjay, Ganesh and Lakshmi, you can! You can find out more at www.oxfam.org.uk and www.savethechildren.org.uk. I also support www.soschildrensvillages.org.uk, where you can sponsor a child and help a whole village of children get the food, shelter, healthcare and education they need.

  The other thing you can do is write to the owners of the shops where you buy your clothes and get them to check how they were made. If you care, they will care. You are more powerful than you know!

  Acknowledgements

  Writing this book was such a pleasure. And a big part of that pleasure was getting the chance to talk to old friends, and new ones, in the name of research. If by ‘research’ you can include having a delicious curry cooked for you and chatting deep into the night about the delights of Mumbai.

  I’d like to thank Lola Gostelow (again) and this time her husband Harry, too, for their advice about charities and the theatre. And to Scott Thomson, who read the draft while actually travelling far and wide to help make a difference.

  Alison Stratton cooked the curry, and her husband Jake was just as helpful in describing Mumbai. As was my brother, Christopher Pett, who gave me the idea for the cricket match (which he did in real life).

  Ann Ceprynski and Modus are my fashion world gurus. Tanielle Lobo designed the cover dress, advised on Mumbai and gave me moral support. Go, Tanielle!

  Sophie Lachowsky gave me more moral support and lots of useful advice just when I needed it.

  The Longchamps and the Dampierres made Paris a magical place for me a long time ago, and the magic still lingers. Merci, tout le monde.

  Claire Potter, Katie Rhodes and Anna Linwood were joined by the wonderful Sophie Elliott in advising me on the first draft. Those jobs as book critics are still looking good.

  And a big thank you, as ever, to everyone at Chicken House. Barry, Rachel, Imogen, Claire and all of you. It’s lovely to be part of a team.

  Finally, my family. Without you, it wouldn’t happen.

  I should mention that I’ve played with Mumbai’s geography for the sake of the story. Please don’t use this as a guide book! The train journey is real, though. Imagine! Twenty hours . . .

  VISIT www.threadsthebook.com

  TO:

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  I’m sitting in the back row of a mega-tent in Paris, surrounded by fashion students, buyers, edito
rs and movie stars, and watching THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CATWALK SHOW I WILL EVER SEE IN MY LIFE.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s hot in here. It doesn’t matter that everyone around me looks so unbelievably chic I might as well have shown up in my pyjamas (actually, the kimono I’m wearing does have a hint of pyjamas about it). It doesn’t matter that beside me a fifteen-year-old in a serious afro is jiggling with excitement and making her chair wobble.

  It’s just good to be here. Dior Haute Couture. John Galliano at his most incredible best. Skirts and jackets that are so huge and theatrical they’re almost impossible to wear, but so exquisite you want to spend the next year examining every inch of them. Fabrics that burst with colour and drape like magic. Shoes that are perfect pieces of sculpture in their own right and belong in a museum. Hair that . . . Well, you get the picture. Galliano didn’t exactly skimp on this one. And we’ve only seen ten outfits so far. We’re not even halfway through.

  My friend Crow – the girl in the afro beside me – is a designer. She’s constantly thinking up new ideas for beautiful clothes, and drawing them, and making them. She’s been doing it for years and has a queue of people who want to wear her outfits. But she is a teenager. She does most of it from a workroom in the basement of my house in Kensington, in between GCSE classes and remedial maths. She doesn’t have a building full of seamstresses on tap, like they do at Dior. Or access to the best makeup artist, hairdresser, DJ and set designer in the world, like John Galliano does. Actually, she does have access to the best DJ, or one of them. He happens to be my brother. But that’s beside the point.

  What I mean is that my friend makes clothes in a spare room and here we are, witnessing the absolute height of fashion. This is as bold and creative and luxurious and EXPENSIVE as it can possibly get. It’s the toughest ticket to get hold of in the fashion world, and when my brother said he could wangle two of them for us, we practically fell over. Now, sitting in the middle of it all, surrounded by models, lights, photographers, music and fashionistas, I’m still recovering from shock.

  The outfits keep on coming. Galliano seems to have hired pretty much every supermodel in the world to wear them. And the skirts are getting bigger and longer. As we reach the eveningwear section, the trains are long enough to cover half the catwalk. Wear one of those on a red carpet, and you’d have half of Hollywood standing on the silk embroidery. I assume that Dior’s clients will have them adapted to make them more realistic, but right now the spectacle has us all sighing with fashion happiness.

  Finally, Crow stops bouncing for a minute and grabs my sleeve.

  ‘This is it,’ she whispers. ‘The bride.’

  I’m not sure whether she’s been counting the outfits or whether she can just tell that we’ve reached the show-stopper moment, but she’s right. I know this because the music suddenly changes from Handel’s ‘Hallelujah Chorus’ to ‘Zadok the Priest’. My brother Harry doesn’t exactly do chart tunes for major fashion shows. This is his biggest gig as a DJ and he’s been practising for weeks. Also, the supermodel who will be wearing the bride’s dress happens to be his girlfriend, so he wants to get the music right.

  I don’t want to give the impression that I spend my life surrounded by supermodels. I really don’t. Although Harry does. My brother is, in many ways, a very normal person. His room is slightly pongy and he doesn’t wash his tee-shirts enough. His hair looks like he cuts it over the bathroom basin (which he sometimes does). But he has a cool vibe and VERY HIGH expectations in terms of a girlfriend. He likes them long, leggy and gorgeous. And if they happen to be the most beautiful girl in the world right now, that’s fine by him. As Isabelle Carruthers is his second supermodel in a row, it’s obviously fine by them, too.

  Harry’s been going out with Isabelle since the summer and it’s now January. Last night she was round at my dad’s apartment scoffing pasta and now here she is, on the Dior catwalk, in a gold wedding dress decorated with crystals, pearls and quite possibly diamonds, and looking so stunning that Crow has to use my sleeve to wipe away her tears.

  After a final walk-through by all the models, Isabelle is joined on the catwalk by Galliano himself and we all jump up and down and clap so hard that I really think our tiny gilt chairs are going to give way any minute. Everyone’s applauding. Very Famous Magazine Editors who are never knowingly seen to smile are suddenly grinning all over their faces.

  All the models cluster round. Or as closely as they can with trains the size of a small country. Galliano kisses Isabelle’s fingers and comes forward to accept an enormous bouquet of roses. I watch him closely. He is quite simply a fashion god, and has been for years and years. But once upon a time, he was just a student from south London, studying at Central St Martins, hanging around with his mates and dreaming of being a designer one day.

  Not every St Martins student gets their graduate collection displayed in the windows of Browns – the chicest boutique in London – and becomes an overnight sensation, but even after this happened to Galliano, he still struggled. His most famous collection was made in two weeks, out of bits of black silk because that’s all he could afford, and he drove it to Paris himself in a friend’s Mini and got the best girls to model for him as a favour. This is why I love Galliano so much. Not because of where he is now, but because he came so far and never gave up, and just when you thought it was all going to go horribly pear-shaped, he made something amazing happen.

  Do I sound like I could give classes on The History of Galliano? I probably could. Such a pity it’s not an A-level subject. Anyway, I’m busy daydreaming about him driving that Mini to Paris all those years ago when I suddenly realise there’s a shushing sound in the air and something strange is happening.

  Galliano has handed the roses to Isabelle and whispered something to her, before turning to leave the catwalk. However, you can’t whisper in front of that many telephoto lenses without somebody working out what you just said. Another whisper is making its way around the tent as everyone struggles to get in on the secret.

  ‘What?’ everyone’s asking. ‘What did he say?’

  It takes ages to reach the back row. By the time it gets to us it sounds as though he’s just congratulated Isabelle on getting engaged in real life. But that can’t be right. Because if Isabelle’s engaged, there can be only one person she can possibly be engaged to, and that person is my big brother. Which would make me the future sister-in-law of the most beautiful girl in the world.

  Crow looks at me, confused. She’s probably wondering if the future sister-in-law had the faintest idea this was about to happen.

  I didn’t. I’m in shock. I’m staring at the spot where Isabelle was just standing: a stunning vision in a Dior gold dress, cradling a bouquet of roses and holding hands with a fashion icon. Who, by the way, was dressed in doublet and hose, thigh boots, two silk sashes and a cloak.

  I simply have to be dreaming.

  Crow rubs my arm. It’s her way of asking how I am. I rub hers back, very lightly, which is my way of saying, ‘Fine, but don’t talk to me about it.’ I need to find Harry quite badly. Can it be true? I have to know. But it’s going to take him ages to sort his decks out and fiddle with kit before he’s ready to go. I don’t know why this is. I’ve just watched him often enough to know it’s a long process and that he doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s doing it. Especially to be asked if he is really GETTING MARRIED and accidentally forgot to tell his FAMILY before it got leaked out to THE WHOLE WORLD.

  Crow and I join the queue to leave the tent. We get several looks from the other people in the crowd. I assume they’re mostly aimed at Crow, who has recently grown tall for her age, and is fragile-looking, black and beautiful. She may look fragile, but she’s about as brittle as a steel girder. A very brightly dressed girder. Today her outfit consists of a red, tightly pleated silk poncho that makes her look like a poppy, with homemade gold rubber boots (she’s experimenting with footwear) and an origami paper headdress that Galliano happened to have lying around
yesterday, when we came to watch rehearsals, and gave her. As you do.

  As we head into the gardens of the Musée Rodin, a few people come over to air-kiss us and ask Crow what she’s up to. She’s sort of ‘on the radar’ for fashion people. Not totally famous yet, but people who know fashion know to look out for her. And, of course, she’s hard to miss, especially in her origami headgear. By the time we get clear of the tent, she has a little cluster of fans around her and it takes a while for a lanky young man wearing a bright yellow fleece and a satchel to make it through to us.

  ‘Henry!’ Crow shouts, as if he’s the only person there. She is good at many things, but schmoozing fashionistas isn’t one of them. Not if there’s family around to be hugged.

  ‘Crow-bird! Was it good?’ he asks.

  Henry Lamogi is Crow’s older brother (currently single, as far as I know, and not rumoured to be engaged to any supermodels whatsoever) and, if possible, where she goes, he goes. Their parents are still in Uganda with their little sister, Victoria, so she and Henry stick as close as they can.

  ‘It was incredible,’ she breathes. Her hands, as usual, start dancing as she attempts to describe the show. She’s about to go through it, outfit by outfit, when Henry stops her.

  ‘There are some people who want to meet you. I said I’d find you for them. They’re waiting over there.’

  He guides us across the gravel to a spot where three men in suits and matching camel overcoats are waiting. They are clearly not fashion people. Men in fashion don’t do suits and matching overcoats, unless it’s for a shoot. They do wacky velvet jackets, or wacky oversize scarves, or wacky cashmere layering, or something clever with a hat, but the whole suit/overcoat thing is just too easy, unless the overcoat is in some way wacky, which these are not.