‘Wow.’ I hand Jenny back her shades, which she obviously needs more than I thought, and pick up my ‘Welcome home Jenny’ sign. I feel a bit embarrassed about it now. The last thing she wants is a big sparkly arrow pointed at her head.
I start to head for the Tube, but Jenny holds me back.
‘Don’t worry. My publicist said I should just get a cab. Those flights are so tiring.’
We make our way slowly to the taxi queue while I work out how much the cab is going to cost (probably as much as I earned at Miss Teen last summer, I should think) and Jenny talks non-stop about how well the show went, and how the cast party at the end of the run was THE BEST NIGHT OF HER LIFE and how she cried the whole of the next day at the thought of not working with them all again.
She’s moved on to describing their knitting obsession, and the hot pair of legwarmers she made for the Queen Mother, when she suddenly realises she’s lost my attention.
‘What is it?’ she asks, looking in the same direction as me, towards the front of the queue. She even puts her Tom Fords on her head, so she can see properly.
‘It must be my imagination,’ I whisper. ‘It’s just – I could have sworn I saw—’
‘Vicente!’
Jenny has a loud voice, honed by many hours on the stage, and she’s just spotted him too. A head whips round, to reveal a silhouette with a chiselled jaw and straight nose. He’s peering in our direction. Jenny calls the name again. She may be small, but she is redheaded and was recently in Vogue. When she wants to, she stands out.
He sees us and looks amazed. It’s definitely him. Jenny runs up to him and kisses him on both cheeks. I’m not sure what to do: keep our place in the increasingly long taxi queue, or go over and say hi. However, with Jenny beckoning like a mad thing, I don’t have much of a choice. I struggle with her bags and deposit them around Vicente’s feet, looking as embarrassed as I feel. ‘Nonie! What a charming surprise,’ he says. ‘And Jenny too. It is Jenny, isn’t it? Have you been somewhere exciting?’
By the time Jenny’s finished telling him about the musical, he’s at the front of the queue and the other people in it are staring at Jenny and me with such intense hatred that he really has to offer us a place in his cab, to save us from the mob. We gratefully accept.
Jenny looks around the spacious, black interior of the cab with its tip-up seats and sighs happily, settling into one of them so she’s facing Vicente and me.
‘A London taxi,’ she says. ‘What a treat. This is strange, though, Vicente. Shouldn’t you be in a limo or something?’
Vicente laughs. ‘Why? When one can find such attractive company on a taxi ride.’
‘Are you going to be in London long?’ I ask.
‘A couple of weeks,’ he says. He’s still looking surprised and uncomfortable, despite all his charm. As if he hasn’t recovered from seeing us yet. Then his phone goes off and he discreetly checks a text. Instantly, he gets that warm glow that I know so well from Mum. He looks up, catches my eye and looks as self-conscious as Jenny did when I asked her about the paparazzi.
Jenny coughs quietly. Then she coughs again. I realise she’s trying to get my attention. She gives me the Look. I pretend to ignore it, but she won’t let me. Luckily Vicente is busy texting back, so he doesn’t notice. I do my ‘Shut Up’ Look to Jenny, but her eyes are almost completely round with staring by now. She flicks her glance to Vicente and back to me, and nods knowingly, before smiling a sickly smile.
I’ve known Jenny a long time. Most people might assume she had a piece of grit in her eye and was trying to get rid of it, but I know what she’s trying to say is: ‘D’you think that was your mum texting Vicente? Is he here on a secret romantic visit, maybe? Ahh, look, he’s texting her back! Isn’t that cute?’
I shrug. I’m desperately trying to tell myself I’m wrong about this, but the trouble is, I agree with Jenny. That’s exactly how it looks to me too. And I realise why Vicente’s so uncomfortable. Mum’s been trying to keep her new relationship quiet from me for months now. I can’t say it’s the greatest feeling, from my point of view, but the fact is, she’s in love. And the man she loves has flown all the way from Brazil to spend Christmas with her. She might as well come out with it.
I decide to spare her the trouble.
‘You should come to dinner again,’ I tell him, when he’s finished pressing send. ‘I’m sure Mum would love it. Harry’s over for the holidays – for some of the time, anyway. He’d love to see you.’
Vicente looks flattered, but mortified. ‘Oh. That’s very kind of you, Nonie. Of course, I was going to get in touch and invite you out somewhere. Harry and I have already fixed something up . . .’
Oh, God. This is awful. Here’s me trying to be all generous and helpful, and I’m just making myself look stupid. He obviously had the whole holiday arranged so that he could see Mum and Harry and spare me from knowing. And now I’ve ruined it. But it’s too late.
I look across at Jenny, hoping the conversation didn’t seem as awkward as it felt. But as soon as Vicente looks out of the window she rolls her eyes at me and mouths ‘Ouch’.
Great.
Christmas is a succession of awkward meetings. I’m used to them in the fashion industry, but these are happening in the kitchen at home. Mum looks shocked when I tell her about meeting Vicente in the taxi queue, but she graciously makes the best of it and invites him round to supper. Granny’s staying in town and comes round too, thrilled to see him and eager to talk about weddings. Again. Vicente has offered to help pay for Harry and Isabelle’s, and Granny wants his opinion on every detail. I can tell Mum and Vicente would rather be alone together, but there’s not much they can do about it now.
For a few days Harry and Isabelle are there in person, and these are the most awkward times. Isabelle, as always, is delighted to discuss tiara size, veil length, place settings and flowers. Harry isn’t. Watching him, I realise that big weddings aren’t his thing. He and Vicente have the same ill-at-ease posture, as if they’d rather be anywhere but here, but they’re both too polite to say so and try to be as helpful as they can. They look comically similar, and I can’t help feeling sorry for them both.
I catch Harry on the landing one day and say, ‘You know, you don’t need to do this big affair if you don’t want to. I’m sure Isabelle would get married on a beach if you asked her.’
He looks at me as if I’m totally crazy. He often does that. Then he laughs.
‘I couldn’t do that to her. She’s been planning this day for years. And Granny would kill me. Slowly. Besides, all I have to do is show up in a top hat and tails, not get too drunk and tell Issy I love her. I can manage that.’
I nod, because I sort of agree, as far as it goes. But it must be very different for boys, because my idea of my wedding day SO does not boil down to looking smart, not getting drunk and telling someone I love them. Although all of these are a good start, obviously.
I wonder if Isabelle realises how uncomfortable all the wedding talk makes Harry, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Nor do Mum and Granny. It’s as if Harry is just a necessary piece of a very large and lovely jigsaw puzzle. I feel more and more sorry for him. I mean, if I loved a boy and he asked me to marry him (let’s say, a few years after fashion college, when we were living in Paris and I was managing the career of a super-top designer) and he wanted to do it in – oh, I don’t know – jeans, a beautiful tee-shirt and perfect sneakers, somewhere quiet in Ireland, I’d go along with it, to make him happy. As long as our day was romantic and special and meant something to us. But Isabelle is so used to everybody doing exactly what she wants that she’s probably forgotten to check that it’s what Harry wants too.
I’m tempted to say something to her, but I made such a big mistake with Vicente that I decide to keep out of it. I limit myself to encouraging smiles to Harry every now and again, and trying to change the subject when Granny gets on to her third hour of Successful Friends’ Weddings In Gorgeous Country Houses, and precis
ely which brand of champagne to use for the toasts.
Jenny doesn’t help. Her jet lag turns into a major cold and she’s in bed for a week, then moping around the flat feeling sorry for herself for a week after that. However, a few days after New Year, she calls me, sounding much better. Positively chirpy, in fact.
‘Can you meet me at the V&A in an hour? I’m trying to get hold of Edie and Crow too. It’s time we all got together. Oh, and I’ve got some news.’
I leave the house and skip down the steps to the street. This is more like it. The V&A, my friends, and a bit of intrigue. Perfect! Exactly what I need to cheer me up with term starting soon. I just hope the news isn’t that Stella is pregnant again. I’m not sure I could go through all that kitten naming a second time.
I’m the first to arrive. Or at least I think I am. Then I spot Jenny by the information desk, signing autographs.
She grins when she sees me and comes over.
‘Tourists from Chicago. Said they saw the show three times.’
Crow joins us. She’s wearing a cream dress that seems vaguely familiar, and about seven fake pearl necklaces, accessorised with silk flowers. The overall effect is graceful, unusual and cool. I look at the dress and realise it’s the toile for Isabelle’s wedding dress, hoisted up with a belt and worn over a jumper. Crow is still a few centimetres shorter than Isabelle, so it looks totally different on her. I give Crow my quizzical look. Toiles are for mannequins and, occasionally, models to wear in the studio. They aren’t worn in public. This one is all half-finished seams and chalk marks.
Crow shrugs. ‘I liked its unmade-ness. It was like a sketch of a dress. What do you think?’
Now that I look at it properly, I think it looks absolutely great. Strange, but great. The way it drapes reminds me of the new designs she’s not telling me about.
‘Is the proper dress finished now?’ I ask. ‘Isabelle’s, I mean.’
‘Nearly,’ Crow says. ‘She’s going to use it at this model award ceremony she’s got in a couple of weeks.’
‘WHAT?’
Crow shrugs again. ‘She changed her mind about getting married in it. She was worried in case it made her look like a human waterfall. She wants me to do something with antique lace now.’
Oh well. At least Isabelle listens to Harry on some things. But Crow must be on her tenth design for this dress by now. Meanwhile, Jenny is dragging us through to the café at the back of the museum without waiting for Edie, who’ll know where to find us anyway.
Heads turn. Not on an Isabelle level, but nevertheless, they turn. Jenny has an aura about her now. Even though she’s in jeans and the mismatched knitted cardigan, she’s still got the chic, burnt-orange hair, the Tom Ford glasses (on top of her head) and a sort of a glow. But even more heads turn to look at Crow. I wish I’d thought to wear a toile before. It’s such a good idea. My own zebra-print leggings and orange mohair shrug look positively tame by comparison.
We settle at a table and Jenny updates us on the kittens.
‘I’ve found a home for Fosse and Stella! Our downstairs neighbour’s taking them. Oh, and Fosse’s called Eliza now. After Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. The lady refused to call a girl kitten Fosse. Or Bob.’
‘Or Flossie?’
‘I told you, Nonie. Flossie’s such a stupid name.’
‘Unlike Sondheim.’
‘Stephen Sondheim is, like, the composer! Apart from Jackson, of course. He’s totally famous!’ Jenny seems shocked that I don’t get this. I guess it’s her equivalent of me and the Met Ball. I notice no-one’s adopting Sondheim the kitten yet, though.
‘Wait a minute,’ Crow interrupts. ‘Did you say your neighbour’s taking Stella and Eliza. Stella too? Why?’
‘Ah,’ says Jenny. ‘Yes. Well. That’s part of my news, you see, so it’ll have to wait till Edie gets here.’
We fall into one of those awkward silences. Crow gets out a sketchbook and starts filling in a sort of doodle she did earlier. Hard to tell exactly what it is. It looks like an animal print from far away, but when I peer more closely, I realise it’s made up of lots of silhouettes of girls holding hands. Pretty.
While we wait, I tell Jenny about the Harry and Isabelle situation at home, and Granny going on about weddings.
‘Mm hmm. Sounds good.’
She’s not listening. Talking about someone else’s wedding doesn’t really compare to having your dressing room filled to the brim with flowers on opening night, or jamming with pop stars into the early hours.
‘Any news on Starbucks boy?’ she asks.
I shake my head. I think I’ve caught him looking at me a few more times since the ruler conversation, but that hardly counts as news. Luckily, Edie arrives to rescue the conversation.
‘I was reading. Sorry,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Missed the bus stop. Had to run back . . . Anyway, hi guys. What’s it all about, Jen?’
‘Well,’ Jenny says, taking a deep breath and grinning from ear to ear. ‘Get this. We’ve got a new theatre. The owners are really excited about the show. They confirmed yesterday. It’s all incredibly fast and scary. We open on Broadway in the summer. I. Am. Going. To. New. York.’
There’s a stunned silence. Jenny grins some more.
‘Wow!’ says Crow, who’s the first to speak.
‘Really?’ I ask.
Oh my God. In six months’ time, it’s just possible that all my friends will be in America, and I’ll be in London, working at a hot drinks counter somewhere. What’s going on here? I feel shaky and slightly sick.
‘Yeah,’ Jenny says, bouncing on her seat. ‘Not Off-Broadway. The actual Broadway. Well, not Broadway exactly, it’s 43rd Street, but that’s practically 42nd Street, so it’s even better for a musical, really, because of the tradition, you know? It’s practically unheard of nowadays for a new musical to get such a prestigious theatre straight away. But they love us. And we’re going to get bigger sets and better costumes . . .’
‘Better costumes?’ Crow interrupts. ‘That’s interesting. I’ve always loved theatre design . . .’
But Jenny and I aren’t listening. By now, we’re both looking at Edie, who hasn’t said anything yet.
‘Well?’ Jenny asks.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Edie whispers. ‘You’ve only just come back.’
‘I know!’ Jenny says happily. ‘Oh, and there’s a few more tweaks we need to make to the show, but that always happens . . .’
She’s sounding like an old pro now and relishing every minute.
Edie, on the other hand, isn’t. Judging by her expression, when she said ‘I can’t believe it’, she didn’t mean it was unbelievably great. She meant something else entirely.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
She sits there, stock-still, staring at Jenny.
‘And you’re going to go? To New York? In the summer? For months, presumably?’
‘No,’ Jenny says, crossing her arms and getting those two bright spots on her cheeks that always make me nervous. ‘Not in the summer. In two weeks. I can stay with Jackson. I need to take more dance classes and he knows some great people I can work with.’
‘Presumably they’re talented artists,’ I suggest. Everyone ignores me.
‘I could be gone for a year,’ Jenny sums up.
She stares defiantly at Edie. Edie stares angrily back.
‘So that’s why your neighbour’s taking Stella,’ Crow says.
Edie looks grim. ‘This isn’t about Stella, Crow. This is about Gloria. This is about the fact that Jenny’s mum has been living on her own since last summer, and she is positively ill. And her only daughter is going to live in New York for a year. For a whole year. So she can be in a show.’
All the time, her eyes are boring into Jenny’s. If I were Jenny, I’d be pulling down those Tom Fords any time now, but Jenny’s braver. She continues to stare right back.
‘There’s something you don’t understand, Edie,’ she says quietly. ‘You’ve been visiting Mum since t
he summer and looking after her. And that’s fantastic. But I’ve been doing it since I was three.’
I gasp. ‘Three?’
‘That’s when she had her first episode. She blames Dad for walking out on her. I’m not so sure. Maybe it would have happened anyway. But all my life, I’ve never known if my mum was going to be the bright, fun one, baking shortbread and making up skits for us to do, or the silent one in the corner, who couldn’t even take me to school.’
‘Jen!’ I say. ‘That’s terrible. I never knew. All this time I’ve known you – you never said.’
For the first time, Jenny looks away from Edie, and towards me. She shrugs.
‘I don’t know . . . I thought about it. But at school I just wanted to be normal. I was glad you didn’t know.’
She might have been, but I’m not.
‘I could have helped!’ I point out.
‘You did. You were always nice to me. You just didn’t know that you were helping.’
There’s a silence, while we take it all in.
‘And now?’ Edie says. ‘Now that she needs you more than ever? I suppose I’m expected to step in?’
Jenny shakes her head. ‘Not at all. It’s great if you do, but if you don’t want to . . . The thing is, guys, this is my biggest chance. Starring in a Broadway show? At eighteen? That doesn’t happen to you twice. You have to take it and go. Mum will understand.’
‘Huh!’ says Edie, affronted. ‘You would say that.’
‘No, I mean it. She’ll understand, because it’s what she’s always wanted for me. It’s what she wanted to do herself, before she met Dad. She’d be devastated if I didn’t go. She was her happiest ever when I was in Annie. And she loved it when I did the play last year. She even liked me being in that movie. But this is on another level.’
‘I agree,’ Edie says, folding her arms.
Crow and I sigh with relief.
‘It’s certainly on another level,’ Edie continues. ‘Because this time, she’s really ill. If you go, I dread to think what might happen.’
Stars Page 13
