‘Oh, and they’ve been in touch about Vogue next month.’
‘Oh, have they?’ she asks. Her voice is tiny. We’re both glad the Belles aren’t here to listen to this conversation.
‘The photographer’s fixed, and the studio,’ I say. ‘You need to have your hair cut and coloured next week, but they’re sorting that too.’
‘Mm hmm.’
But this isn’t a bored ‘mm hmm’. This is an old-Jenny, super-nervous ‘mm hmm’.
‘You’ll be fabulous,’ I assure her.
‘Mm hmm?’
She looks at me as if I’ve signed her up to star at the Coliseum. Facing the lions.
We’re not talking about buying Vogue here, or even visiting their offices. We’re not talking about Isabelle being in Vogue (which she is, of course, on a regular basis). We’re talking about Jenny being in the June issue. And on it. On the cover. And as far as Jenny’s concerned, it’s all my fault.
It’s not actually my fault – it’s Crow’s. Two Christmases ago, Crow launched her first high-street collection for Miss Teen. Just a few pieces. Jewel-coloured party dresses, skirts and crystal embroidered tee-shirts, mostly. Finally it meant that thousands of girls could wear her stuff, instead of just a lucky few. The collection sold out almost overnight. So naturally, they asked her to design another one. This time it’s a summer one – all white cotton, layering and clever cutting. It’ll be launched in May, but they’re already busy on the publicity for it.
Making Jenny the face of the new collection was, admittedly, my idea. Jenny is curvy and gorgeous and looks fabulous in Crow’s clothes. When the news first started to leak out about how good this collection was going to be, the editor of British Vogue decided to stick her neck out and put Jenny on the cover in one of Crow’s new designs, despite the fact that she’s a size 14 and isn’t exactly super-famous, having been in one school musical, one film and one play. At first Jenny was thrilled, but the closer the shoot gets, the more she’s changing her mind about me being a fashion genius and deciding that I am, instead, DELUDED AND CRUEL.
But that’s just nerves, as I keep telling her. She looks great, in her redheaded, bouncy, bubbly way. And even if she gets the zit outbreak to end all zit outbreaks, they can just airbrush it out. All she has to do is smile. She’s an actress. Can’t be that difficult.
You’d think.
Jenny’s seventeenth birthday is coming up soon and in the past few years she has learned many things. One is that you can’t trust a Hollywood Teenage Sex God as far as you can throw him. Another is that yellow trouser suits (Tokyo premiere for the movie three years ago) are a no-no. And finally, if you’re not super-confident about the way you look, don’t get your best friend to sign you up for the cover of Vogue. But if it’s too late to back out, blame her and look at her accusingly whenever you get the chance.
When the day of the photo shoot comes, Jenny sits in front of the wall-size mirror at the studio, having her newly-coloured hair done and looking like she’s about to be shot by a firing squad, instead of Ted Regent – otherwise known as ‘the new David Bailey’ or ‘the man who makes cool hot’. The expression in her eyes flits between terror, whenever she catches sight of herself in her cover-ready makeup, and fury, whenever she catches sight of me, bobbing around behind her.
They’re going for a sort of ‘visiting alien’ look. Jenny’s wearing super-pale foundation (unnecessary, given how white her face looks already), loads of multicoloured eyeshadow, feathery false eyelashes in peacock colours and silver lipstick. She’ll be almost unrecognisable, I assure her.
‘They’ll recognise my boobs though,’ she says miserably. ‘Even under all the clothes. And my fat shoulders.’
‘They’re not fat. They’re curvy.’ How often do I have to tell this girl?
‘And my fat arms.’
I sigh and give up. Luckily the hairdresser takes over. He seems to be used to reassuring nervous models before a big shoot.
‘You’ve got gorgeous, delicate wrists. I’ve been admiring. And your hair is to die for, girl! The shade! That colour’s taken like a total dream. Everyone will want Jenny Burnt Orange by the time you’re done. E-ver-y-one. Trust me.’
Eventually, when hair and makeup and wardrobe and nails and the fashion editor from Vogue and Crow and Amanda Elat, who runs Miss Teen, are satisfied, Jenny shuffles out to pose for Ted Regent. We’re in a studio in Shoreditch that used to be a workshop or a storage area, I’m guessing. All white-painted brick, with a glitter ball in the centre and a large white background for Jenny to pose against.
‘I could picture doing a show here,’ Crow says happily.
I agree. It would be perfect for a little catwalk show. Atmospheric and exciting, especially with Lady Gaga playing at full volume on the sound system, like she is now. I imagine where I’d seat the photographers and the audience, and how I’d organise the models coming out and what I’d do with the cute little gallery upstairs . . .
In front of the white background, Ted Regent is arranging Jenny on a chair. He looks like a model himself – all skinny jeans and designer stubble. He seems to have the energy of a hyperactive four-year-old. One minute he’s on his knees, adjusting Jenny’s ankle. Then he’s back on his feet, changing the angle of her head. Then he’s dancing around, calling out emotions for Jenny to act and singing along to snatches of Poker Face. Jenny, on the other hand, looks like she’s taken the song literally: her features are set rigid and it’s impossible to tell what’s going on behind her eyes. I bet it isn’t like this when Isabelle’s in front of the lights.
There’s a break, while everyone who can clusters round a laptop to look at what they’ve done so far. They tweak the clothes, try another few poses, cluster round the computer again and then Jenny’s taken off to put on outfit number two. Meanwhile, Crow and I stare at each other. She’s done a beautiful job with this collection and personally I can’t wait to wear it. This is the moment when it should all come to life. It’s about to get the biggest splash of publicity we could ever imagine. But so far, our model looks more like something out of a wanted poster. My mistake, of course, but Crow’s too nice to say so out loud. Instead, she gives me a wonky smile.
Jenny comes back in a tunic and leggings, accessorised with a big scarf and chunky jewellery. She tries out a few more poses. Increasingly, Ted gets her to turn away from the camera and shoots the back of her head. Understandably. It’s the most animated part of her.
It’s early evening before we get to go home.
‘God, I’m glad that’s over!’ Jenny says, slumping into a taxi beside us in jeans and a puffa jacket. Oh, and still wearing the feathery eyelashes. She wants to show them to Gloria before she takes them off. Then she’s going to give them to Stella, the cat, as a present. Stella will love chasing and killing them.
She rootles through her handbag for her phone, to tell Gloria she’s on her way. When she pulls it out, she looks surprised.
‘Ooh, a text. From Jackson Ward. You know, the composer.’ She frowns. ‘Oh, he sent it ages ago. Damn.’
She checks her watch. But as I vividly remember from her call, New York is five hours behind. Although it’s quite late in London, it’s still a perfectly reasonable time of day over there. She calls him back.
‘Hi! Jackson? It’s Jenny Merritt. You called me?’
And from that moment on, her face gradually transforms. By the end of the call, she’s glowing. If Ted Regent could have got that out of her for even a couple of frames, he’d be going home a happy man.
‘What is it?’ Crow asks, as Jenny stuffs her phone back into her bag.
‘Jackson wants me,’ she says. ‘A couple of the producers who saw the first workshop are interested in staging the show. They want to do another workshop and make some tweaks.’
‘With you? Again?’ I say, to be sure.
Jenny gives me a hurt look for ever doubting her. ‘Jackson says, as far as he’s concerned, he’s found his princess. Bill agrees. I just have to
convince these producers. Jackson said, “You’re my Elizabeth, Jenny.” Imagine!’ Her eyes sparkle.
This is fantastic, of course. A tiny part of me wishes that she could have received this call about four hours ago, when we really needed it, but hey – it was only a Vogue cover shoot. What’s to stress about?
Amanda Elat calls from Miss Teen next morning. Vogue liked the editorial shots of Jenny for the six-page spread inside, but they’ve decided to use Kate Moss on the cover. I’m not surprised.
Crow finally admitted it, after we’d dropped Jenny off at her flat.
‘I love her and everything. I mean, she’s really special and great. But next time, shall we use a professional?’
And, despite the fact that Jenny is my best friend from primary school, and my favourite person to look at in Crow’s clothes, and using her was my idea, I said, ‘Absolutely.’
‘Blimey, girls, what a disaster. I should never have listened to you. We should have used a professional.’
‘It’s not a disaster at all. Jenny was fantastic!’ I say hotly.
Crow and I are in the boardroom of Miss Teen. It’s a week later and we’re discussing the PR campaign for the launch of Crow’s collection. The centrepiece of this campaign, naturally, was going to be the Vogue cover. Now it’s not. Oops. But it’s one thing for Crow and me to point out Jenny’s less-than-perfect modelling ability, and quite another for elderly adults to do it. Especially as Andy Elat, Amanda’s father and the man who owns Miss Teen, is hardly a cover girl himself.
‘Oh?’ he says, looking at me sceptically. ‘Fantastic? Explain.’
Hmm. This is tricky. How do I explain that what happened on the shoot was a triumph? However, I’ve started so I’d better finish.
‘Well,’ I say, trying to squash the rising waves of panic and defend my friend, ‘Jenny was amazing in the editorial shots. Six pages of them. She’s got a very different look from all the super-skinny supermodels.’ Gradually, I start to remember why I wanted Jenny in the first place. ‘And the way she wears the clothes, girls will be able to imagine looking good in them too, because she’s one of them. And it was because she wasn’t a professional model that Vogue found her so interesting. So without her, we might not have got to shoot the collection for them at all.’
I sit back, panting slightly, and hide it by taking a sip of water. There are a few nervous faces around the table. But a few nods too.
‘Fair point,’ someone mutters.
Andy Elat smiles very slightly and is about to move on when Crow jabs me, hard, in the ribs with her elbow and I remember the other thing I was supposed to say about Jenny. This time, it’s a bit easier because we’ve been practising. I take another quick sip of water.
‘Oh and by the way,’ I say as casually as I can, ‘it’s thanks to Jenny that we’ll be getting some extra coverage. She’s going to the Met Ball in May, just before the launch, and she’s wearing a ballgown of Crow’s to it. She’s going with Isabelle Carruthers, so we should get quite a lot of publicity from that too, I guess.’
The reaction around the room is everything we’d hoped for. Spilt coffee. Impressed swear words. A moment of stunned silence. And then a babble of conversation. Crow and I look nonchalant throughout the whole thing. We rehearsed it in the mirror last night, so we know we’ve got nonchalance sussed.
After that, the meeting goes much better.
Andy Elat catches me as I’m leaving the boardroom at the end and gives me a grin.
‘Nicely played, Nonie,’ he says. ‘Some people get overwhelmed by these meetings but you’ve got . . .’ He searches for a word suitable for my delicate teenage ears. ‘Chutzpah. I like your style, kid. And you know your stuff.’
Crow tucks her arm into mine as we make our way downstairs. She helps anchor me, as otherwise I’d probably float out of the building and off down Oxford Street. I love these moments. They’re the ones I live for: sharing Crow’s vision, persuading people to be on our side, turning things around . . .
‘It worked!’ Crow says. ‘You were sweet about Jenny. And you really sounded like we planned all that Met Ball stuff.’
‘I know!’ I giggle. ‘Do you remember my face when Isabelle first mentioned it?’
She does.
The day after the Vogue shoot, Jenny got a call from New York to give her the dates of the new workshop. Crow was there when we rang Isabelle to ask about Jenny using her apartment again. Isabelle said ‘Sure! First week in May, did you say? Oh, I’m going to the Met Ball that week. Would Jenny like to come?’
Me: ‘Hahahahah!’
Jenny: ‘Why are you laughing, Nonie? What did she say?’
Me: ‘She said would you like to go to the Met Ball?’ Jenny: ‘What’s the Met Ball?’
Me: ‘WHAT?’
Jenny: ‘Don’t look at me like that! I’ve never heard of it. What is it?’
Me: long sigh. And then, to Isabelle, ‘I’ll call you back, if that’s OK. But . . . hahahahaha.’
Jenny: ‘Stop giggling and tell me.’
So I told her. Crow helped.
The Met Ball is THE fashion party of the year. The biggest, the glitziest and the best. It’s the gala held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York to launch their annual Costume Institute exhibition, and it’s attended by anyone who is anyone in fashion. It’s where Tom Ford will be queuing up for drinks behind Marc Jacobs. Well, probably not queuing, but whatever they do. And Anna Wintour will be wafting around, impressing people with her amazing haircut and the fact that she knows EVERYBODY, while Gwen Stefani chats to Claudia Schiffer in a corner and John Galliano struts about in his cloak. Film stars – major film stars – will be BEGGING to go along. And every fashion editor in existence will be aching to see what they wear, so they can publicise it to the world.
That’s the Met Ball. The chances of them wanting a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl actress and wannabe musical star on their guest list are minimal. But by the time I’d finished describing the event to Jenny, she badly wanted to go.
So I called Isabelle back and said, ‘Look, I know it’s practically impossible, but if you can make a miracle happen, that would be amazing.’
Isabelle said, ‘Jenny’s just done a Vogue shoot, hasn’t she? And I keep meeting people in New York who are talking about her. Jackson Ward’s a big fan, apparently. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get her in.’
Being Isabelle, she did.
When she called back, Crow and Jenny were still in my room. We did a sort of Indian war dance around the room, whooping and hollering and laughing. Jenny suddenly stopped and said, ‘Oh my God. Who’s going to make my dress?’
Crow and I looked shocked and hurt and stopped dancing. Jenny laughed and said, ‘Got you!’ Crow grinned too and instantly sat down and started designing something. On what happened to be the cover of my Business Studies workbook, which is now decorated with sketches of full-skirted ballgowns, evening coats and Crow’s attempts at Christian Louboutin shoes.
We celebrated with hot chocolate and popcorn. Then we called Edie to tell her, and even Edie was pleased. Then we started practising our nonchalant expressions for today’s meeting. They took a lot of practising, because we kept bursting into fits of giggles. But practice makes perfect, as I have just proved. It’s a chutzpah thing.
The next few weeks are packed with activity. School gives way to the Easter holidays, thank goodness, because I have better things to do than endless assignments and organising Keep your head down Friday outfits. Finally, I can concentrate on checking Jenny’s Vogue interview to go with the photos (it’s great) and discussing launch events with Miss Teen. In fact, if I had to describe my life right now, I would have to admit it feels glamorous. Like somebody else’s life – not the sort of girl who still has the butterfly duvet cover from when she was ten, but the sort of girl who knows people who do photo shoots and design collections. The sort of girl the Belles would really hate, if they knew. Another good reason it’s the holidays.
Crow,
meanwhile, is happily designing the perfect ballgown for Jenny, using every spare minute to get the right white satin, the right black velvet and the perfect fit. Her original sketch has been refined into something simple and dramatic: a bit Audrey Hepburn, a bit Grace Kelly, and – to Jenny’s delight – a bit the young Queen Elizabeth, when she looked like a film star herself, before she hit her matching-hat-and-coat phase.
There is one slight complication, which Edie is the first to notice when we get back to school. Jenny will have to miss two AS papers while she’s in New York. Our head has this thing about missing exams. She doesn’t like it. Which is why we leave it until the last possible minute to tell her. Alarmingly, she seems to be on the brink of saying no. Then, three days before Jenny’s due to fly, the head summons her to her office. We meet her in the cafeteria afterwards, to find out the decision.
‘How did it go?’ Edie asks. She’s got a SAT test this afternoon, so her eyes are glassy and her cheeks look drawn with nerves, but she’s doing her best to pay attention.
‘Well, you’ll never guess—’ Jenny says breathily.
‘No,’ Edie interrupts, ‘we won’t. Tell us.’
‘OK. Well, apparently Jackson Ward rang her yesterday and kind of begged,’ Jenny grins. ‘It was great. He said he had to be quick, because Shirley Bassey needed to call him about something and he had to keep the line clear. She loved it! Plus she looked him up afterwards and found out all about his Tonys and Oscars . . .’
‘Oscars?’ I ask.
‘Yup. He has two. For film scores. He’s really good. I keep telling you. Anyway, he explained that the workshop wouldn’t be the same without me. How could she say no? As long as I take my books with me and revise blah blah blah. There’s just one thing, though,’ she adds, fiddling about with Edie’s discarded paper napkin and avoiding our eyes.
‘What?’
‘Could one of you look after Stella while I’m away? Her kittens are due soon and I’d hate nobody to be there when they come. She’ll need help.’
Stars Page 5
