Beads, Boys and Bangles

by Sophia Bennett

  Crow does her shy smile and Henry introduces us. The men hold out their hands and say they’re from some company I’ve never heard of. One is English, one is American and one, I think, is German, although his accent is so slight it’s hard to tell. The American does most of the talking. He goes on about how impressive it is that Crow already has a dress in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and how quickly her first high street collection sold out at Miss Teen last winter.

  It’s true. Crow may do her designs in a basement, but one was worn by a starlet to the Oscars (sounds great, nearly killed me) and her Miss Teen party outfits became prized bestsellers on eBay. Unlike my designs, by the way, which were made in the same basement and have only managed to get me GCSE Textiles. I did get an A, though. Yay!

  However, Crow’s eyes quickly glaze over. Talking about what she’s already done doesn’t interest her very much. She’s too busy thinking about what she’s going to do next. That’s one of the reasons why she needs me as her business manager. I am the schmoozer of the operation, and also the schmoozee, if required.

  Annoyingly, the men persist in not catching my eye. Is there something wrong with me? Do I have cappuccino foam on my lip again? Even though I’m the one nodding and saying ‘absolutely’ and ‘how interesting’, they insist on talking only to Henry (who hates fashion and is wearing a YELLOW FLEECE, for goodness’ sake) and Crow, who isn’t listening.

  Eventually, I give up. I have other things on my mind right now. Like how cold it is in the Paris winter in nothing but a kimono, how stupid I was to leave my embroidered pashmina (a present from my granny) at Dad’s apartment, and how MY BROTHER MIGHT BE MARRYING A SUPERMODEL.

  I notice that the American keeps glancing behind me, distractedly. I look round and spot a mini-stampede going on near a side entrance to the tent. Every photographer in the vicinity – and there are lots – is rushing over to get into position. Somebody mega-famous is about to emerge. And then I spot the halo of blonde ringlets and see Isabelle Carruthers, caught for a second like a deer in the headlights as the flashbulbs pop and the pack of paparazzi shout out their questions.

  A tall, good-looking young man with floppy hair comes to stand beside her. My brother. The flashbulbs go into a frenzy. Harry puts a protective arm around Isabelle. I strain to hear what they’re saying in answer to the questions, but we’re too far away. However, what they are not doing is shaking their heads and denying all knowledge of whatever’s being shouted out to them. In fact, Harry is kissing Isabelle for the cameras and grinning, which is a bit of a clue.

  So maybe Galliano was right. I can’t see an engagement ring, but Isabelle is stroking the empty space on her finger as if there might be one there any minute.

  Meanwhile, German guy has taken over from American guy. I hear the words ‘investment vehicle’ and ‘archive potential’ and ‘major breakthrough opportunity’. Compared with ‘your brother is about to get married’, they don’t really register on the Richter scale.

  Crow’s eyes are still glazed. I tune out again and try to watch Harry and Isabelle’s body language. Isabelle is smiling and posing and doing clever things with her hair. She is a supermodel after all. Harry still seems a bit wary, but the way he’s snuggled up to Isabelle suggests that here is a man who found himself in Paris last night with the most beautiful girl in the world and decided to round off the evening by proposing.

  He might have mentioned it, that’s all. So I could congratulate them before every paparazzo in Paris and practically every magazine editor in the world.

  I look back and the overcoat men are shaking hands. The English one is giving me a funny look, as if he’s noticed that I haven’t really been paying attention. I’d explain why, but it would sound too totally weird for words. Instead, I just say goodbye politely and flick my eyes back to the press posse hovering around Harry and Isabelle. I mean, it seems normal when you see it happening to George Clooney or Angelina Jolie, but when it’s happening to somebody you know, it’s just bizarre.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Henry Lamogi asks, now that we’re alone.

  I explain as best I can. Henry takes in my shocked expression and puts a kindly arm around me. This is one of his specialities. He has world-class kindly arms and I instantly feel a bit better.

  ‘We’d better go over and rescue them,’ he says.

  This seems an excellent idea.

  We get to Harry and Isabelle just as they’re about to make their getaway. But for a split second we’re caught beside them, in the midst of the flashbulbs, and I realise I’d have thought a bit harder about the whole kimono thing if I’d known there was a chance of it appearing in Hello! magazine in a couple of days’ time.

  I catch sight of the overcoat men across the gravel, staring back at us thoughtfully.

  ‘Who were they?’ I ask Crow.

  She shrugs. We have better things to think about right now. I assume.

  ‘Oh my God! Harry! Isabelle! Oh my GOD!’

  Twenty-four hours later, Mum is meeting us off the Eurostar at St Pancras station in London. Or at least, I think it’s Mum. It’s how Mum would be if you seriously speeded up the video and turned the sound up to max. I’ve never seen her like this before.

  ‘I’m so THRILLED! You dark horses! I had no IDEA! You’re so amazing! Come here! Let me hug you.’

  Henry, Crow and I huddle around the luggage trolley, waiting for the enormous hugs and crying to die down so we can say hello.

  It’s been a bit like this since yesterday evening, except mostly on the phone. We were whisked by limo back to Isabelle’s hotel room (massive, and overlooking the Eiffel Tower, naturally) and over the next few hours I opened the door to increasingly large bouquets of flowers and intriguing designer shopping bags with big bows, while Isabelle and Harry answered non-stop calls from people all around the world, checking the story was true and shouting their congratulations. Crow and her brother headed back to my dad’s apartment after a while. They just couldn’t take the excitement any more.

  ‘Hi, darling,’ Mum manages eventually, with a peck on the cheek for me and a quick hug for Crow. ‘Isn’t it thrilling? Granny’s on her way up, of course. Oh, and Harry, Vicente will be here at the weekend. Isn’t that wonderful? We must organise something for him. Big celebrations!’

  Vicente (pronounced Veh-SEN-te – it’s a Portuguese thing) is Harry’s dad. Mum used to go out with him before she met my dad. He lives in Brazil, where he’s a gazillionaire with loads of land and hundreds of eco-projects on the go. We like him, but we hardly ever see him. Isabelle’s never met him. So the news that he’s coming is the cause of more hugs and squealing.

  At this point, Henry Lamogi makes his excuses and goes home on his own by Tube. I don’t blame him. Crow accepts a lift with us in Mum’s car and spends the journey staring at me, wide-eyed. As Crow makes her dresses in our house, she sees Mum all the time, so she knows what she’s like normally – and this is SO not normal. You’d honestly think Mum had never had a wedding to look forward to before.

  And then it hits me.

  She hasn’t.

  And she’s obviously really potty about them. And it’s all my fault.

  Crow sees me suddenly crumple and holds out her hand to me. I take it, and I’m grateful that it’s she who’s here and not one of my other friends. They’d be asking me what the matter was, and of course I couldn’t possibly tell them. Crow doesn’t ask. She’s just there, and that’s all I need right now.

  The next hour is a blur. We get home and the downstairs is full to the brim with yet more flowers and packages. There is a man in a black pac-a-mac lurking outside and it’s quite possible he’s our first very own paparazzo. Isabelle and Harry quickly disappear to Harry’s room and turn the music up loud. Everyone pretends they’ve gone to unpack. Mum makes a hot chocolate for Crow and cappuccino for me (new obsession – still haven’t got the knack of maintaining foam-free lips) and goes on and on about how perfect Isabelle is for Harry, and how she’d been hoping he
’d find the right girl, but how amazing it is that he’s managed to do it so soon – he’s only twenty-three – and when are they going to set a date?

  As soon as I can, I drag Crow up to my room and we slump into a couple of chairs and just stare at each other.

  ‘Things are going to be different,’ she says.

  I nod. My eyes brim. I don’t want things to be different. I like them just the way they are.

  I look around my room at the curling posters from the V&A, my wall of Vogue shoots stuck up with Blu-Tack, the butterfly duvet cover I haven’t replaced since I was ten, the view of treetops from my window and the old, familiar mess. I meant to tidy up before we went to Paris for the Dior show, but it didn’t quite happen and actually the place is worse than usual. The wardrobe doors are open and several pairs of leggings are trying to make their getaway from the bottom shelf. My scarf collection is hanging precariously from the top of one of the doors and judging by the tee-shirts, tops and underwear on the floor, I’m pretty sure my chest of drawers must be nearly empty.

  Mum asked me to ‘edit’ my magazine collection before I went (by which she meant throw most of it away) but I only got as far as piling everything in the middle of the room, where it looks like a piece of modern sculpture. The nearest pile makes a very useful footstool. I rest my feet on it and pick up an old Grazia from another pile to take my mind off things, while Crow goes through my book collection, looking for something inspirational. By which I don’t, of course, mean Thomas Hardy or Jane Austen, but a guide to platform shoes through the ages.

  She still doesn’t talk. I know exactly what she means.

  She means, ‘I love Harry too, and I’m sorry we’ll be seeing less of him.’ She means, ‘Your mother’s gone totally loopy, hasn’t she? What is it with all that conversation? She’s usually too busy to say hello.’ She means, ‘I can tell you’re not OK about something. I’m not sure exactly what, but if you wanted to talk about it, you could. I’m here if you need me.’

  ‘Crow?’ I say eventually.

  She looks up from a Salvatore Ferragamo gold padded platform illustration. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She smiles and nods. She doesn’t ask what for. I’ve known her since I was fourteen and she was twelve. She’s practically lived in my house for most of that time. She just knows.

  Beads, Boys & Bangles

  Published by Scholastic Australia

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  First published by The Chicken House, 2010

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2014

  E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978-1-925063-66-0

  Text © Sophia Bennet 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.

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  The characters portrayed in this book are fictitious and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text © Sophia Bennett 2011

  First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2011

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  Sophia Bennett has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

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  Cover design and interior design by Steve Wells

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  PB ISBN 978-1-906427-58-0