laughs.
‘Well, I’m going to check out your website,’ Harry adds, ‘so that’s one new reader, anyway.’
‘I always knew you were the best,’ says Crow, in the same way she says she’s going to design for the Royal Ballet one day – like it’s a simple fact.
We carry on dancing, despite loud knocks from next door, and I lead a conga around the room. You wouldn’t think you could conga to Memphis Soul, but if you try hard enough, you can. Then my phone goes in my pocket. Without thinking, I grab it and press the ‘Answer’ button.
‘Yes?’ I shout.
‘Er, hi. Nonie?’
‘Yes. What?’
‘It’s Alexander. Er, are you OK?’
I explain to Alexander that yes, I am indeed OK. I am also busy celebrating and I’ll call him back later. Then I put the phone away and get back down to dancing. I mean, of all the stupid times to call.
It’s only as I’m going to bed and it’s suddenly all quiet that I realise what I’ve done, and what an idiot I am.
Except I’m not. He texts first thing in the morning, begging for another date as soon as possible.
S ure enough, Edie’s site crashes on Saturday morning. She gets it fixed and five minutes later, it crashes again. Apparently she’s going to need another machine to run it on or something. Anyway, it’s complicated and technical and expensive but she doesn’t really mind because other people start blogging about the fact that it crashed and that gives her even more traffic and she’s becoming really quite famous on the web.
I try not to think about the number of people who now get a daily update on what I’m wearing. If you do, you go mad. Especially if you’re going through a bit of a 1930s phase and you spend a lot of your time in vintage bias-cut satin dresses that your mother thinks look more like moth-eaten nighties. Worn with your trusty old pink polar bear jacket – now a bit short and more of a shrug – and winkle-pickers.
Crow and I have our follow-up meeting at Miss Teen this morning. Before I started working in the fashionbusiness, Saturday mornings were strictly for shopping and smoothies. Now they’re also for meetings. Not our favourite thing, but no meetings, no collection. So we dress up nicely and smile bravely and go.
I don’t wear bias-cut satin for this. Miss Teen people don’t do ‘moth-eaten’. I wear a lime-green gingham pleated mini-skirt, braces and one of Harry’s shirts. And a new pair of Converse All-Stars that I’ve covered with bottle tops in an effort to recycle. I look perfectly respectable and business-like. Well, next to Edie I might look a bit relaxed, but I’m going for ‘normal teenager’, not ‘aspiring member of the Royal Family’.
Crow’s wearing her standard working outfit of tee-shirt and dungarees, with a floor-length tartan cloak. And a huge tartan scarf wrapped around her hair. Took her five seconds to do. Looks incredible. Sigh.
On the way to the Miss Teen HQ, I buy a celebrity magazine in a newsagent and flip through it. Two girls in Crow dresses – one couture, one high-street. Good. Interestingly, the girl in the couture dress has teamed it with pixie boots. PIXIE BOOTS? Is she crazy? But the more I think about it, the more I like it. Oh, and there’s a picture of Sigrid Santorini falling out of a club with a man whose name I recognise. It takes the whole bus journey to remember why.
Then I realise. It’s Jenny’s director. Sigrid is stalking us.
When we get to the HQ we’re shown into the boardroom, not the design/chatting/everything room that wenormally go to. This room is large and grand and full of wood. The walls are lined with wood. The table is made out of an enormous chunk of it. The chairs are wood-colour. Even one of the artworks on the wall is made of wood blocks. If Edie saw it, she would think of the rainforests and weep. It would probably remind Jenny of her performance in Kid Code .
Hot chocolates are handed round, as per usual, with cappuccinos for the
‘Well, I’m going to check out your website,’ Harry adds, ‘so that’s one new reader, anyway.’
‘I always knew you were the best,’ says Crow, in the same way she says she’s going to design for the Royal Ballet one day – like it’s a simple fact.
We carry on dancing, despite loud knocks from next door, and I lead a conga around the room. You wouldn’t think you could conga to Memphis Soul, but if you try hard enough, you can. Then my phone goes in my pocket. Without thinking, I grab it and press the ‘Answer’ button.
‘Yes?’ I shout.
‘Er, hi. Nonie?’
‘Yes. What?’
‘It’s Alexander. Er, are you OK?’
I explain to Alexander that yes, I am indeed OK. I am also busy celebrating and I’ll call him back later. Then I put the phone away and get back down to dancing. I mean, of all the stupid times to call.
It’s only as I’m going to bed and it’s suddenly all quiet that I realise what I’ve done, and what an idiot I am.
Except I’m not. He texts first thing in the morning, begging for another date as soon as possible.
S ure enough, Edie’s site crashes on Saturday morning. She gets it fixed and five minutes later, it crashes again. Apparently she’s going to need another machine to run it on or something. Anyway, it’s complicated and technical and expensive but she doesn’t really mind because other people start blogging about the fact that it crashed and that gives her even more traffic and she’s becoming really quite famous on the web.
I try not to think about the number of people who now get a daily update on what I’m wearing. If you do, you go mad. Especially if you’re going through a bit of a 1930s phase and you spend a lot of your time in vintage bias-cut satin dresses that your mother thinks look more like moth-eaten nighties. Worn with your trusty old pink polar bear jacket – now a bit short and more of a shrug – and winkle-pickers.
Crow and I have our follow-up meeting at Miss Teen this morning. Before I started working in the fashionbusiness, Saturday mornings were strictly for shopping and smoothies. Now they’re also for meetings. Not our favourite thing, but no meetings, no collection. So we dress up nicely and smile bravely and go.
I don’t wear bias-cut satin for this. Miss Teen people don’t do ‘moth-eaten’. I wear a lime-green gingham pleated mini-skirt, braces and one of Harry’s shirts. And a new pair of Converse All-Stars that I’ve covered with bottle tops in an effort to recycle. I look perfectly respectable and business-like. Well, next to Edie I might look a bit relaxed, but I’m going for ‘normal teenager’, not ‘aspiring member of the Royal Family’.
Crow’s wearing her standard working outfit of tee-shirt and dungarees, with a floor-length tartan cloak. And a huge tartan scarf wrapped around her hair. Took her five seconds to do. Looks incredible. Sigh.
On the way to the Miss Teen HQ, I buy a celebrity magazine in a newsagent and flip through it. Two girls in Crow dresses – one couture, one high-street. Good. Interestingly, the girl in the couture dress has teamed it with pixie boots. PIXIE BOOTS? Is she crazy? But the more I think about it, the more I like it. Oh, and there’s a picture of Sigrid Santorini falling out of a club with a man whose name I recognise. It takes the whole bus journey to remember why.
Then I realise. It’s Jenny’s director. Sigrid is stalking us.
When we get to the HQ we’re shown into the boardroom, not the design/chatting/everything room that wenormally go to. This room is large and grand and full of wood. The walls are lined with wood. The table is made out of an enormous chunk of it. The chairs are wood-colour. Even one of the artworks on the wall is made of wood blocks. If Edie saw it, she would think of the rainforests and weep. It would probably remind Jenny of her performance in Kid Code .
Hot chocolates are handed round, as per usual, with cappuccinos for the
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