noticed. And Jenny now has FREEBIES SENT TO HER instead. But I do.
One day after school, I’m walking down Kensington’s High Street and I could swear I see Jenny’s white dress in one of the shop windows. I look closer and realize it’s a good copy. It’s got the crystal embroidery and the clever cutting of the full skirt. It’s not as well made, of course, and the material’s not as classy, but it’s still a great dress to wear to a party.
Then I see another copy, and another. Rock royalty are wearing it two sizes too large, over white cotton petticoats that peep out from under the hem. Sienna Miller is photographed in a black version on a film set. Kate Moss wears something dangerously similar under a black leather jacket to go to a club. I buy a version myself and take it home to show Crow, who immediately takes it apart, fascinated to see how it’s made.
“Do you mind?” I ask her. After all, nobody’s exactly asked if they can borrow the design.
“Why would I?” She looks confused. “I always wanted to see girls wearing this shape. Anyway, now I’m doing it differently.”
She gestures around the workroom, which is full of new versions of the dress, in paper, in toile, in delicatepink satins. She’s been learning from the pieces in Granny’s attic and now all the bodices are boned and draped and fitted. The skirts still do clever petal things like before, but they also have a hidden cell phone pocket, held in place by stays. Of course, Dior didn’t do that, but he gave her ideas of how to cheat and hide stuff.
She lets me try on a dress to show me her latest invention. It’s designed to look as if the sleeve has accidentally fallen off your shoulder, and there’s some very clever sewing and taping on the inside to arrange the sleeve in the perfect position. The dress also gives me boobs, hips, and model-length legs.
“Golly!”
“You can have it if you like,” she says, scrunching up her eyes a bit, which I know means that it’s promised to a client.
“I’d better not,” I say, taking it off regretfully. It’s not only that someone else needs it. It also makes me look a bit too much like a model/princess/ballerina, which is never a look I’ve gone for. I’m a flat-faced midget and I might as well accept it and rock the look I’ve got.
I’m not typical, of course. There are a lot of girls out there who are totally happy with the model/princess/ballerina look. Rebecca has a permanent waiting listfor new dresses, and if Crow ever has time to run off one of her Arctic-cobweb creations, it sells in seconds. Several of the Saint Martins students require new outfits on a regular basis and pay Crow in fabrics or embellishments from their own collections. She now gets letters from girls begging her to make them something. All teenage, all leggy, all rich enough to pay eye-popping prices.
The letters provide good reading practice. Edie still practices with her every week, but they’ve moved on from the House of Dior to Vogue articles and notes from costume exhibitions. Crow seems to have missed out on the Roald Dahl and J. K. Rowling stages entirely.
I ask Edie how Crow’s getting on at school and she says that, apparently, it’s better. She’s still rubbish with homework, but at least she can understand what’s going on in class now. The Bitches are still there, but Crow just seems to tune them out. Her head is always full of fabrics and finishes and design details that she’s spotted.
At home, Mum has taken to asking Crow out whenever there’s a new exhibition on.
“You don’t mind, do you, darling?” she asks me. “It’s just that you’re much happier texting your friends and she needs the visual stimulation.”
Of course I mind. I don’t text my friends THAT much. I message them, mostly. And I like seeing art. I particularly like getting a chance to chat to Mum while we’re doing it. She seems to have much more free time when Crow needs something. I cope with my
One day after school, I’m walking down Kensington’s High Street and I could swear I see Jenny’s white dress in one of the shop windows. I look closer and realize it’s a good copy. It’s got the crystal embroidery and the clever cutting of the full skirt. It’s not as well made, of course, and the material’s not as classy, but it’s still a great dress to wear to a party.
Then I see another copy, and another. Rock royalty are wearing it two sizes too large, over white cotton petticoats that peep out from under the hem. Sienna Miller is photographed in a black version on a film set. Kate Moss wears something dangerously similar under a black leather jacket to go to a club. I buy a version myself and take it home to show Crow, who immediately takes it apart, fascinated to see how it’s made.
“Do you mind?” I ask her. After all, nobody’s exactly asked if they can borrow the design.
“Why would I?” She looks confused. “I always wanted to see girls wearing this shape. Anyway, now I’m doing it differently.”
She gestures around the workroom, which is full of new versions of the dress, in paper, in toile, in delicatepink satins. She’s been learning from the pieces in Granny’s attic and now all the bodices are boned and draped and fitted. The skirts still do clever petal things like before, but they also have a hidden cell phone pocket, held in place by stays. Of course, Dior didn’t do that, but he gave her ideas of how to cheat and hide stuff.
She lets me try on a dress to show me her latest invention. It’s designed to look as if the sleeve has accidentally fallen off your shoulder, and there’s some very clever sewing and taping on the inside to arrange the sleeve in the perfect position. The dress also gives me boobs, hips, and model-length legs.
“Golly!”
“You can have it if you like,” she says, scrunching up her eyes a bit, which I know means that it’s promised to a client.
“I’d better not,” I say, taking it off regretfully. It’s not only that someone else needs it. It also makes me look a bit too much like a model/princess/ballerina, which is never a look I’ve gone for. I’m a flat-faced midget and I might as well accept it and rock the look I’ve got.
I’m not typical, of course. There are a lot of girls out there who are totally happy with the model/princess/ballerina look. Rebecca has a permanent waiting listfor new dresses, and if Crow ever has time to run off one of her Arctic-cobweb creations, it sells in seconds. Several of the Saint Martins students require new outfits on a regular basis and pay Crow in fabrics or embellishments from their own collections. She now gets letters from girls begging her to make them something. All teenage, all leggy, all rich enough to pay eye-popping prices.
The letters provide good reading practice. Edie still practices with her every week, but they’ve moved on from the House of Dior to Vogue articles and notes from costume exhibitions. Crow seems to have missed out on the Roald Dahl and J. K. Rowling stages entirely.
I ask Edie how Crow’s getting on at school and she says that, apparently, it’s better. She’s still rubbish with homework, but at least she can understand what’s going on in class now. The Bitches are still there, but Crow just seems to tune them out. Her head is always full of fabrics and finishes and design details that she’s spotted.
At home, Mum has taken to asking Crow out whenever there’s a new exhibition on.
“You don’t mind, do you, darling?” she asks me. “It’s just that you’re much happier texting your friends and she needs the visual stimulation.”
Of course I mind. I don’t text my friends THAT much. I message them, mostly. And I like seeing art. I particularly like getting a chance to chat to Mum while we’re doing it. She seems to have much more free time when Crow needs something. I cope with my
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