teachers have been careful to explain that we have less than two years before we'll be TAKING SOME OF THE BIGGEST EXAMS OF OUR LIVES and that we should be suitably, and increasingly, stressed. It's working for Jenny and me.
Edie, on the other hand, is coasting. Take Eng. Lit. By now, she's read all our set texts for the whole year and an additional three books by each author, just to become ‘fully conversant with their style’. I think that means being able to copy them at will, which she can. Her only regret is that Emily Brontë didn't write enough books to enable such thorough research. Emily Brontë is a bit weedy and lazy, in Edie's opinion, and should have done less wandering on the moors getting a chill and put pen to paper more often.
Oh, and there's shopping. Obviously Edie doesn't shop, so far as I've noticed. And Jenny now has FREEBIES SENT TO HER instead. But I do.
One day after school, I'm walking down Kensington High Street and I could swear I see Jenny's white dress in one of the shop windows. I look closer and realise 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 leather jacket to go to the pub. 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 round the workroom, which is full of new versions of the dress, in paper, in toile , in delicate pink 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 mobile 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 list for new dresses and if Crow ever has time to run off one of her Arctic-cobweb creations it goes in seconds. Several of the St 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 practises 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 the Roald Dahl and Jacqueline Wilson stage entirely.
I ask Edie how Crow's getting on at school and she says that, apparently, it's
Edie, on the other hand, is coasting. Take Eng. Lit. By now, she's read all our set texts for the whole year and an additional three books by each author, just to become ‘fully conversant with their style’. I think that means being able to copy them at will, which she can. Her only regret is that Emily Brontë didn't write enough books to enable such thorough research. Emily Brontë is a bit weedy and lazy, in Edie's opinion, and should have done less wandering on the moors getting a chill and put pen to paper more often.
Oh, and there's shopping. Obviously Edie doesn't shop, so far as I've noticed. And Jenny now has FREEBIES SENT TO HER instead. But I do.
One day after school, I'm walking down Kensington High Street and I could swear I see Jenny's white dress in one of the shop windows. I look closer and realise 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 leather jacket to go to the pub. 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 round the workroom, which is full of new versions of the dress, in paper, in toile , in delicate pink 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 mobile 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 list for new dresses and if Crow ever has time to run off one of her Arctic-cobweb creations it goes in seconds. Several of the St 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 practises 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 the Roald Dahl and Jacqueline Wilson stage entirely.
I ask Edie how Crow's getting on at school and she says that, apparently, it's
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