She shrugs and turns back to her essay.
‘How’s the writing going?’ I ask.
‘This? Ugh.’ She groans.
‘Is it really bad? How much do you have to do?’
She frowns at the thought of it. ‘Only a page or so. But it’s got to stand out. They get so many applications. People describing how amazing they are. They’ll be going through millions of these.’
‘Millions?’
‘Well, thousands, anyway. From all around the world. How can one English girl who plays the clarinet stand out? I mean, what have I been doing with my life?’
She holds her head in her hands. Anyone would think she’d spent the last seven years watching TV, or hibernating. I try to reassure her, but she’s beyond listening.
Even when you’re sure what you want to do and you’re a super-genius, it’s not that easy. Me? I haven’t got a chance.
However, a part of my brain can’t help hoping. As my internship comes to an end, I’ve started visiting a new fashion Mecca. Every day at about five-thirty, when all Miss Teen’s fashionistas have drunk their fair share of tea, coffee and milkshakes, I head down Oxford Street and round the corner. There’s a nondescript concrete building along a dead-end road. I stand on the other side of the street and stare up at the windows, above the sign that says ‘London College of Fashion’, and imagine the lives of the students that get to go there.
In my head I’m a successful, Edie type with lots of A levels and professors who hang on my every word. I’m studying fashion Public Relations or whatever (something spreadsheet-free, anyway) and getting qualified for my mega-job as a . . . still haven’t thought of it yet. I excel in class, and at night I go out with my gorgeous, studenty boyfriend and we meet up with all our fabulous fashion-student friends and check out each other’s outfits and go to cool parties, where people like Harry DJ till dawn.
One day I’m standing there as usual and I’ve just got to the gorgeous, studenty boyfriend bit when I notice someone standing beside me. He’s very close and I have a feeling he’s been there for a while, but I’ve been so busy daydreaming I haven’t noticed. I turn to look at him properly and nearly jump out of my skin.
Liam. Not in Starbucks uniform now, but simple jeans and a tee-shirt. A nicely cut tee-shirt, actually, that shows what good shoulders he’s got . . .
‘Hi Nonie,’ he says. He gives me his smile. I melt. ‘Come here often?’ he asks.
I look up the windy, dead-end street and across at the nondescript concrete building.
‘Well, recently, a bit,’ I admit. I might as well.
‘Me too,’ he says.
‘WHAT?’
He grins. ‘Me too. Boys think about careers in fashion too, you know.’
‘I know,’ I stutter. ‘It wasn’t that. It was . . .’
It was that boys I like don’t think about careers in fashion. But I can’t say that. I just look at the pavement and feel stupid.
‘So, are you thinking of applying?’ he asks.
‘I wish.’
‘Why, you wish?’
I sigh. ‘Because I won’t get the grades.’
‘But you’re quite good in French.’
That’s it. Quite good. And it’s my best subject. And my dad’s French. If that’s the best I can do, what hope have I got?
‘Yeah,’ I say out loud.
He smiles at me again. ‘Not very talkative, are you?’
At this, I can’t help smiling. I am totally talkative. I can talk for England. I get told off for talking all the time. I’ve talked myself into and out of some of the trickiest situations in my life. But Liam is the one person I know who’s only ever seen me when I’m deliberately keeping my head down – in French – and when I just can’t think of anything to say, like now. This is typical. He’s looking at me in quite an interested sort of way, I’ve just noticed. This will almost certainly be because he likes quiet women. So if he ever did get to really know me, he’d be horrified.
‘I am usually,’ I say. ‘Talkative, I mean.’ Then I lapse into silence again.
‘Anyway,’ he says, filling it. ‘I want to come here to study fashion journalism. Then I’m going to get an editing job at a major magazine and become a style guru. Everyone’s going to turn to me to find out what’s going to be big next season.’
I look at him in his jeans and tee-shirt. He looks at me in my frilly dress, worn as a top and wrapped round with Harry’s bicycle chain belt, over neon-pink cycling shorts and clogs.
We know what he thinks about my freaky style-free zone. But now that I look more closely, I realise that as well as his beautiful tee-shirt, he’s wearing really interesting sneakers. Interesting because, even though they’re old and scuffed and well-used – perhaps because of all these things, they are perfect. They are exactly how a sneaker should be. Not showy, just . . . natural. Like his tee-shirt. Like his jeans. He looks as if he doesn’t think about his wardrobe at all, but to get it looking that relaxed, but right, you often have to think about it really hard, or just be naturally talented at styling.
‘I didn’t know you were interested in fashion,’ I say.
‘Huh! Thanks!’
I realise that didn’t come out quite as complimentary as I meant it to.
‘I mean . . . Wow. Good. Sorry. I mean . . . I like your sneakers.’
Liam’s lips curl up and he gives a sexy laugh. ‘I like your belt,’ he says.
‘Thanks.’
‘And your dress-top thing.’
I’m blushing, I can feel it.
‘Er, thanks.’
‘And your shorts.’
My cheeks get hotter. He’s teasing me, of course. His teasing makes me tingle. I can’t believe I just said I liked his sneakers. I mean, of all the stupid, childish things to say.
‘Well, they are an interesting colour . . . the shorts, I mean.’ Like my face. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. See you on Keep your head d— I mean, see you in French.’
‘Keep your what?’ Liam seems intrigued. He’s the sort of boy who’s intrigued by a lot of things. A bit like I’m intrigued by him, I suppose. Or maybe not. I’m more than intrigued. Intrigued isn’t the right word at all. Embarrassed is close, though.
For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him about Keep your head down Friday. For a moment, I really, really want to have a conversation with him and tell him what’s going on in my head, and find out what’s going on in his. But that would be crazy. It would get out, and that would give the Belles something else to tease us about. Anyway, I’m ‘the girl who’s not very talkative’.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I say.
He gives me his perplexed look again. Yup – that’s me. Destined to perplex the boys I like. We talk about nothing for a minute or two and he heads off home.
I stay where I am for a while. Now, in my dream, the gorgeous studenty boyfriend has black hair, get-lost-in blue eyes and a half-amused smile. I desperately try to make him blond and serious. Or frizzy and spotty. Anything. But the image won’t shift. And it hurts. My heart actually hurts.
So do my hips. Harry’s bicycle chain is a lot heavier than it looks. I go home to change and make at least one ache go away.
Harry, for once, is home, sitting in the kitchen with a men’s magazine (the sort Liam wants to edit one day) and a Coke.
‘Are you OK, little sis?’ he asks when he sees me.
I explain about the bike chain hurting.
He smiles. ‘I was wondering where that had got to.’
I feel guilty. ‘I thought you weren’t using your bike any more.’
‘I’m not. I need to sell it. It’s taking up too much space, Mum says. She needs the place tidy. For . . .’
He doesn’t say it. For when people come round to look at the house, so they can buy it and Mum and I can go to our converted warehouse somewhere trendy. Yaaay.
‘How’s your flat-hunting coming on, by the way?’ I ask. I sort of don’t want to know the answer, but I sort of do.
>
He shrugs. ‘Isabelle’s in charge. I’ll just go where I’m told.’
I give him a sharp look. Harry is passionate about his surroundings. If I touch anything in his room – any tiny thing – I hear about it for weeks. Not in a good way. I’m surprised to hear him sounding so uninterested.
‘Don’t worry, sis!’ he says, catching my eye. ‘It’ll be fantastic. Isabelle’s dreamed about this for years. She wants to find the absolutely perfect place. And you’ll have to come and visit. Often. Promise?’
I promise. Something wasn’t quite right about that conversation and I’m not sure what, but Harry’s gone back to his magazine and it’s too late to find out. And I’m already picturing Liam writing an editorial piece about men’s fashion trends and working out which photos to use . . .
Harry’s bike is in the basement, in the corridor outside Crow’s workroom. I go downstairs to put the chain there, so Harry can re-attach it before he sells the bike. Afterwards, I stand in the workroom for ages. It’s so empty and dark without Crow.
She’ll probably be making school bags with Victoria at the moment. I bet that’s fun. Maybe it’s such fun she won’t even want to come home. When I first met Crow, I couldn’t understand how she could want to live in London when her family were in Uganda. I didn’t know how dangerous their life was back then. But it’s much safer for them now. The war that caused so much killing and kidnapping is mostly over. Her mum and dad have returned to their village. They have a great school (the one Edie helped raise the money to build). Soon Henry will be teaching there, along with Crow’s dad. I wouldn’t blame her for deciding to stay, if she wanted to.
Suddenly I feel lonely and frightened. I decide to go up the steps into the garden for some warmth and sunshine. It’s not good to stand here like this, shivering. I need some air.
Outside, Mum is talking to a man I don’t recognise about lawn sizes and property values in our street. She turns round, sees me and looks startled.
‘Oh. Darling. Hi.’ She doesn’t seem desperately thrilled to see me. ‘Er, this is Peter Anderson. From next door.’
The man steps forward and I realise I do recognise him. He looks like a thinner, taller version of Colin Firth. The last time I saw him properly, he was standing in the middle of our living room and swearing loudly about Harry’s music. He smiles at me and I smile back, although I don’t really feel like smiling right now.
‘Great house,’ he says. ‘I’ve always liked it.’
He looks almost proprietorial. Mum looks totally guilty. And I realise why. Mr Anderson must be a potential buyer for the house. Perhaps he’s going to knock the two together and make a mega-home. The people a few doors down did that and built a swimming pool under the lawn. ‘More money than sense,’ Mum muttered at the time, but it sounded pretty cool to me.
‘I’ve always liked it here too,’ I whisper. Mum gives me a half-smile, but doesn’t say anything. Things have been even more difficult since my exam results arrived last week. If anything, my school was over-optimistic. My chances of going to college are virtually nil. In fact, I’d be lucky to get a job in Starbucks at this rate. I head back indoors. Mum calls after me, but I don’t hear what she says. I don’t think I really want to know.
I see Mr Anderson a couple more times before the holidays end. He’s not quite holding a tape measure and paint samples yet, but you can just tell he’s mentally redecorating. It’s a relief when I go and spend a few days with my dad in Paris, before school starts again.
I tell Dad all about Crow, and he’s reassuring. He says she’s made her home in London now and he’s sure she’ll want to come back, however great the holidays were. I also tell him about us moving and he tries to be understanding, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to be mean about Mum behind her back. That’s the funny thing about my parents. They’re hopeless when they’re together, but they’re generally quite nice about each other when they’re apart.
Dad’s right about Crow though. When I get back to London there’s an email waiting for me from her, saying which flight she’s on and how she can’t wait to see us all again. I’m so relieved I feel like a cork bobbing up from the bottom of the ocean. I spend the evening making a huge, glitter ‘Welcome home’ sign, so I can take it to the airport when I meet her off the plane.
It must be something about the African sun: she’s grown about ten centimetres. And she’s got extra poise and confidence too. She’s wearing a tribal print maxi-dress with a contrasting turban and bead sandals. She comes running over, sending passengers and trolleys flying. We hug as hard as we can. I have weeks of hugging to catch up on.
‘How was it? How was your dad? Did he make you work all summer? How was Victoria? What did you do? I love your dress! Is your mum OK?’
‘Hey! Stop!’ she says. She laughs. I realise this is normal me. Talkative me. Possibly too talkative. But it’s so good to see her.
‘It was good,’ she says. ‘Henry! Over here!’
Poor Henry is trying to steer an overloaded baggage trolley. He looks relieved when he spots Crow and comes to join us. We lug the heavy bags down to the Tube and Crow and I talk non-stop the entire way home. If only Liam could see me now.
If only I could see him now . . .
But anyway, Crow is full of news about her family, her village, the school and all the new facilities they’ve got thanks to the support of people like Edie, and the textiles project.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘All the girls and some of the women meet after school,’ Crow says. They design fabrics, and there’s this factory that prints them, and they make things to sell. Dresses, shawls, blankets . . . Victoria had the idea of making the school bags. Look! Here’s mine.’
Instead of her normal satchel, she is wearing a rectangular cotton bag, lined on the inside to make it stronger, and big enough to hold a few school books and files. Hers contains her sketchbooks and pens, as always.
‘For every bag they sell, they raise a dollar for the school. I brought some to sell in London. D’you think anyone will like them?’
‘Well, I do,’ I say. And I realise I don’t feel quite so bad now that she wanted me to buy one. I hadn’t realised they raised money for the school. Golly. Victoria’s not only an entrepreneur, she’s a fundraiser too.
‘Your little sister’s amazing,’ I add.
Crow smiles happily and takes my arm in hers.
‘Yes she is, isn’t she? It was so good to see her. I want to spend much more time with her. I didn’t know she missed me so badly. And I missed her too.’
She turns to put the bag away, so I can’t see her face. It’s quite good that she can’t see my face now, either. I’m wondering how soon it will be before she goes to Uganda again. And whether she’ll come back next time.
Henry, who’s sitting opposite us, catches my expression and gives me a kind smile.
‘How was your summer, Nonie?’ he asks. Henry is very thoughtful that way.
‘Great,’ I lie. ‘Busy. You know . . . working . . . and stuff.’
He smiles again, polite but confused. I haven’t made it sound particularly incredible.
‘Ready for your final year at school?’
Henry, like his dad, can’t think of anything nicer than a whole year of lovely school to look forward to.
I nod and grin. If there was an A level in lying, I would ace it.
I’m not ready at all. I’m terrified. I always thought being in the top year at school would be amazing. We’d be the oldest, tallest, coolest girls and everyone would look up to us. I’ve been looking forward to it since Year Seven. But I hadn’t realised that this is it: our exams are about five minutes away and then we have to start on the rest of our lives. In my case, a full-length career of hot beverage manufacture and boy-perplexing.
I let Crow settle back into London life for a week or so before I catch her in the workroom and explain to her about my summer of rubbish discoveries.
‘You know that label?’ I s
tart.
‘Which one?’
‘Yours. Well, you’ll have to count me out, I’m afraid. You need people with experience to run it for you. And qualifications. Which it would take me years to get, if I even could, which I can’t, because my grades will be so pathetic. Plus I don’t know what I’d do anyway.’
‘Nonie!’ She looks shocked. Disapproving too. ‘Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m not. I’m just being realistic.’
She shrugs. ‘We’ll talk about it later.’
‘We haven’t got a later,’ I say. ‘This is your moment. Andy Elat said so. You’ll have to do it on your own.’
Her eyes widen with hurt. But it’s for her own good. She doesn’t need me dragging her down.
‘At this “moment”,’ she says, almost mocking me – which she’s never done before – ‘I’m thinking about school. A label is too much work right now.’
‘Did your dad say that?’
‘He did,’ she admits. ‘But it’s what I think too.’
‘OK, no label,’ I sigh. But I haven’t given up yet. If I can’t actually help Crow, I can at least advise her. She was on the brink of something truly amazing in the spring. Just because I can’t do it, doesn’t mean that she can’t. I don’t say anything more, because I can tell she wants to change the subject, but my brain is ticking away. Project Flying Pig isn’t dead yet.
Meanwhile at school, I notice for the first time how my teachers sigh when they hand me my first assignment. As if they know they’re going to get the answer back in bullet points and it’s going to look as if I spent ten minutes on it, which I probably did. For the first time, it makes me sad. For the first time, I realise, I actually care.
I try asking Edie for advice, but she just tells me about ‘splitting the workload into rational, weekly sections’. This is not helpful to me in any way. Nor is the rest of Edie’s behaviour, which is to bury herself so hard in her books and personal statements that I hardly ever see her, even at school.
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