Beads, Boys and Bangles (14 page)

Poor Edie is upset too, for giving Sigrid all the information she needed about the play, but it wasn’t her fault. Even Jenny has to admit this. Once a girl like Sigrid gets an idea, there’s nothing you can do to stop her. And you never know what she’s going to do next.

She’s part of a trend. Some Hollywood movie stars aren’t happy with earning gazillions and being on thousands of cinema screens. For a little while at least, they like to be ‘simple acting folk’ and earn a tiny amount of money appearing live on stage to a small audience. And some of their favourite stages to act on are ours, in London, which are as close to the stages that Shakespeare performed on as you can physically get. Although I don’t think Shakespeare did
Phantom of the Opera
.

Mum takes me to see the big names sometimes, when we can get tickets, and they’re mesmerising. It’s kind of strange seeing them normal size, as opposed to three metres high and in Technicolor, but you get used to it.

We’re not the only ones who enjoy going, of course. The plays usually sell out. Now,
Her Father’s Daughter
will too. In fact, the Boat House isn’t big enough. With a Hollywood name involved, especially one who’s going out with the New Teenage Sex God, the backers have managed to get the play transferred to a major West End venue at the end of its run.
That’s
why there was talk about a new theatre. Everybody is thrilled.

Jenny is devastated.

‘It’s not
her
, particularly,’ she mumbles. ‘I’m not in that many scenes with her and I’m supposed to hate her in the play, so that bit’s easy. It’s the whole publicity thing. Look!’

We look. Every paper has a piece about the play. Even the
Financial Times
, which is where Edie spotted it this morning, naturally. We know what Jenny’s thinking. From now on, there will be paparazzi outside the rehearsal studio. It will be worse once the play opens. Everyone will have their picture taken on the way in, clutching their coffees, and on their way home, looking tired and drawn. Jenny’s every spot breakout will be analysed in celebrity magazines. And if she’s rubbish again, like she was in her movie, everyone in London and half the country will know.

Apart from that, it’s great news.

‘Was Sigrid at the meeting?’ I ask.

Jenny nods. ‘She was her usual, bouncy self. She said she was totally psyched to be working with us all, and just to treat her like any normal actress. She was wearing a mink jacket.’

Edie growls. I’ve never heard her growl before. It’s quite scary.

Jenny goes on. ‘They’re giving us an extra week of rehearsals to let Sigrid get up to speed. The director says he’s decided to make the stepmother character even younger, so she’s twenty-two instead of thirty-two. He
says it adds tension to the mother-daughter relationship. And they’ve decided to expand the part slightly, to give Sigrid more to do.’

‘How slightly is “slightly”?’ Edie asks.

I remember the picture of Sigrid and the director coming out of that club. Her dress was minuscule and he was looking extremely happy. I’m betting ‘slightly’ is ‘really quite a lot’.

‘She’s coming to rehearsals tomorrow,’ Jenny says. ‘They’ve given us the day off while Bill does some rewriting. She’s already texted me to say how thrilled she is to be acting with me, and that I must have a lot to teach her. I think she did that to everyone.’

Jenny says this with a straight face, but we all suspect that this is Sigrid-speak for ‘how lucky you are to be working with me and you have so much to learn from me’.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ I tell her, holding out my hand to touch hers. It’s the best I can think of.

‘Sure, as long as Sigrid has a personality transplant,’ Edie adds glumly.

I give her the Look, but she ignores me. She’s too busy looking surprised when Jenny starts crying again.

On Tuesday, Alexander texts me after school suggesting a club in Chelsea where I happen to know the cocktails cost £100. Mum says I absolutely categorically cannot go. This is a mega-relief, although of course I’d never tell her.

How many sweaty kisses is a £100 cocktail worth?

He texts back in the middle of my
Romeo and Juliet
essay, suggesting an evening viewing at the National Portrait Gallery instead. I happen to love the National Portrait Gallery. If you’re obsessed with clothes it’s perfect: men and women in some of the most incredible fashions through history. And I love evening viewings, when it’s quieter, and the light’s more interesting, and you come out into the London night afterwards.

I know how it’s going to go. Great date. Lots of interesting conversation. Then a bench somewhere. I’m tempted to say no, but Jenny will be SO full of herself if I do that I can’t bear it. I say yes and pretend to myself that I’m looking forward to it.

Two seconds later, the phone goes and I think, Oh no, he wants to talk about it. I answer warily. Even more so, when I discover it’s actually Amanda Elat on the other end. What have we done now?

‘Hi, Nonie,’ she says brightly, in a sucking-up sort of way. ‘How
are
you?’

‘Fine,’ I say cautiously.

‘Oh,
good
. How’s Crow?’

I think this is code for ‘Has Crow said anything about the truly scary experience she had at our offices three days ago?’ And she hasn’t said much on the subject, so I say in code back, ‘Er, fine.’

‘Great!’ Amanda bubbles. ‘Fantastic!’

I wonder if this is code for ‘I’m really sorry we gave
you both such a horrible time and please can we start again?’

But I’m not sure, so I don’t say anything. There’s a long silence over the phone.

‘Are you still there?’ she asks, eventually.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Right.’ She’s panting a bit now. I wish I knew what she wanted so we could get it over with.

‘Edie hasn’t changed her mind about the website, I’m afraid,’ I add, to speed things up.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she says lightly.

Excuse me? DON’T WORRY?

We’ve just sat round a big, scary table with lots of people staring at their cappuccinos because what’s happening is so awful they can’t bear to look at us, and then we’ve walked out of the meeting with the super-terrifying supremo who runs the company, and she says, ‘Don’t worry’?

‘We’re working on it,’ she says. ‘And I’m sorry about Saturday. But something you said has given us an idea.’

I stare at the phone. It was weird on Saturday but this is weirder.

‘I’ve got some thoughts I’d like to discuss with you,’ she continues. ‘Can you fit in a meeting? I could come to you, if that makes it easier. And Crow’s finalising some party dresses, isn’t she? I bet they’re fabulous. I’d love to see them.’

Fabulous? What about ‘preposterous’ and ‘disastrous’ and ‘lose me millions’?

We fix a time for Amanda to come round. When she rings off, I go back up to the top of the house and find Mum in her cubbyhole office, texting on her BlackBerry.

She sees the look on my face and pauses mid-sentence. ‘What is it, darling?’

I explain the conversation I’ve just had. Mum laughs.

‘Remember when you told Alexander you were too busy to talk to him? What happened next?’

Three offers of dates is what happened next. And a windy bench.

‘You played hard to get. Without meaning to. This is the same story.’

‘You mean the Elats are
flirting
with us?’

‘Sort of. Crow’s reminded them how valuable she is to them. She’s just done an incredibly successful high-street collection for them. And what did they do? They invited you both in and made you miserable.’

‘Andy said we might lose him millions.’

‘He forgot to mention that you might
make
him millions. He was a clever man to find Crow and he’s clever enough not to let her go.’

‘But what about Edie? And the award? And “Cheap Clothes Cost Lives”?’

Mum smiles. ‘Amanda said she’d fix it, didn’t she? See what she comes up with. Just don’t do anything you don’t believe in.’

I give Mum a hug and go to my room and sit on my bed, trying to work things out.

One thing I know for sure: my mum is amazing and a very useful person to know at times like this. She may be slightly too addicted to her BlackBerry, but I love her.

Everything else is a mess. Why are people nice to you when you’re mean to them? How does that work? And how can Amanda possibly fix the mess with Edie? And what exactly
is
it I believe in?

Well, I believe in Crow. I go down to the workroom, where she’s fiddling with a ball-dress made out of green and gold ribbons that’s so lovely you could just sit and stare at it for hours. I tell her what Amanda said, and Mum too.

‘What do you think?’ I ask her.

Crow ponders for a moment.

‘I think I’ve unbalanced it by putting this corsage on the shoulder.’

She starts unpinning and hands the pins to me as she goes. You have to concentrate on this job, or it gets painful.

‘I
meant
about Amanda.’

‘We’ll find out when she comes,’ she answers with one of her shrugs.

‘Yes, but what d’you think in the
meantime
?’

Crow turns to look at me as if I’m crazy and repeats, ‘In the
meantime
, that corsage wasn’t working. I’ll do something more delicate. With wire, maybe.’

I’m about to flip out, but then I suddenly realise what she’s saying. She means she’s not going to waste that bit
of her brain that could be thinking about corsages by worrying about Amanda Elat, when there’s nothing she can do about it now anyway. As a plan of action, it’s not as dumb as I thought.

In fact, how about if I used it myself?
I
could stop worrying about Amanda and use that part of
my
brain to think about Alexander. And how to manage the whole windy bench scenario. Which, come to think of it, is entirely avoidable if I . . .

I give Crow a big surprise hug and she screams. Oops. Forgot about the pins. Luckily there’s only a tiny drop of blood on her arm and none of it goes on the dress. She sucks the wound better and glares at me.

‘What?’ she asks accusingly.

‘Just that you’re a genius, that’s all.’

‘Oh,
that
,’ she says, and giggles. ‘You think the wire will work, then?’

‘I have no idea,’ I call behind me. ‘I’ve got to practise something.’

T
wo evenings later, my National Portrait Gallery date with Alexander starts well. He is beautiful. He greets me with a smile and a gentle kiss on my forehead, as he sweeps my hair away from my face. His fingers are as long as ever and they gently touch mine as we walk round the paintings. He waits as I spend ages looking at the Elizabethans, admiring their ruffs and corsets and jewellery. I wait as he spends ages looking at the contemporary portraits of performers, including ballet dancers. I suspect he’s partly planning his own portrait, for when the time comes.

We talk about ballet and fashion and the usual stuff and it’s lovely. Then he takes me down the street to Trafalgar Square. I see him heading towards a fountain’s edge, where we could possibly sit down in the moonlight. The time has come.

I initiate ‘Operation Prada’, which I thought up in Crow’s workroom. I have deliberately worn my super-high
platforms tonight, even though I suspect Alexander doesn’t really like them. I pretend to twist my ankle and collapse in agony.

He calls me a taxi. I get in it and he gives me a quick peck on the lips goodbye, looking worried. I smile bravely.

YES!

‘You’re home early,’ Harry says when I get in.

He’s in the kitchen, making himself some toast and looking sorry for himself.

‘I twisted my ankle,’ I explain, putting more bread in the toaster. ‘It’s very painful.’

Harry looks down at my un-swollen ankle. I’ve forgotten that I cannot lie to my brother. I’ve tried over many years but it rarely works.

‘Rubbish kisser?’ he asks.

HOW DID HE KNOW?

‘Svetlana said something,’ he adds with a strange, lopsided smile. ‘A rumour. Not to be repeated, of course.’

I look up at him sharply. I can’t lie to him and he can’t really hide things from me.

That look on his face when he mentioned Svetlana. And the way he said ‘
said’
. Like they’re not talking any more. He’s not looking too cheerful right now, either.

‘Everything OK?’ I ask.

‘Yup,’ he says.

We look at each other uncertainly over our toast and
then retire to the sitting room to watch reruns of our favourite programmes. But they’re all about relationships or models, so we give up and end up watching something about police cameras, which is so boring we fall asleep in front of it and Mum has to wake us up for bed.