Crow rubs my arm. It’s her way of asking how I am. I rub hers back, very lightly, which is my way of saying, ‘Fine, but don’t talk to me about it.’ I need to find Harry quite badly. Can it be true? I have to know. But it’s going to take him ages to sort his decks out and fiddle with kit before he’s ready to go. I don’t know why this is. I’ve just watched him often enough to know it’s a long process and that he doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s doing it. Especially to be asked if he is really GETTING MARRIED and accidentally forgot to tell his FAMILY before it got leaked out to THE WHOLE WORLD.
Crow and I join the queue to leave the tent. We get several looks from the other people in the crowd. I assume they’re mostly aimed at Crow, who has recently grown tall for her age, and is fragile-looking, black and beautiful. She may look fragile, but she’s about as brittle as a steel girder. A very brightly dressed girder. Today her outfit consists of a red, tightly pleated silk poncho that makes her look like a poppy, with homemade gold rubber boots (she’s experimenting with footwear) and an origami paper headdress that Galliano happened to have lying around yesterday, when we came to watch rehearsals, and gave her. As you do.
As we head into the gardens of the Musée Rodin, a few people come over to air-kiss us and ask Crow what she’s up to. She’s sort of ‘on the radar’ for fashion people. Not totally famous yet, but people who know fashion know to look out for her. And, of course, she’s hard to miss, especially in her origami headgear. By the time we get clear of the tent, she has a little cluster of fans around her and it takes a while for a lanky young man wearing a bright yellow fleece and a satchel to make it through to us.
‘Henry!’ Crow shouts, as if he’s the only person there. She is good at many things, but schmoozing fashionistas isn’t one of them. Not if there’s family around to be hugged.
‘Crow-bird! Was it good?’ he asks.
Henry Lamogi is Crow’s older brother (currently single, as far as I know, and not rumoured to be engaged to any supermodels whatsoever) and, if possible, where she goes, he goes. Their parents are still in Uganda with their little sister, Victoria, so she and Henry stick as close as they can.
‘It was incredible,’ she breathes. Her hands, as usual, start dancing as she attempts to describe the show. She’s about to go through it, outfit by outfit, when Henry stops her.
‘There are some people who want to meet you. I said I’d find you for them. They’re waiting over there.’
He guides us across the gravel to a spot where three men in suits and matching camel overcoats are waiting. They are clearly not fashion people. Men in fashion don’t do suits and matching overcoats, unless it’s for a shoot. They do wacky velvet jackets, or wacky oversize scarves, or wacky cashmere layering, or something clever with a hat, but the whole suit/overcoat thing is just too easy, unless the overcoat is in some way wacky, which these are not.
Crow does her shy smile and Henry introduces us. The men hold out their hands and say they’re from some company I’ve never heard of. One is English, one is American and one, I think, is German, although his accent is so slight it’s hard to tell. The American does most of the talking. He goes on about how impressive it is that Crow already has a dress in the Victoria and Albert Museum, and how quickly her first high street collection sold out at Miss Teen last winter.
It’s true. Crow may do her designs in a basement, but one was worn by a starlet to the Oscars (sounds great, nearly killed me) and her Miss Teen party outfits became prized bestsellers on eBay. Unlike my designs, by the way, which were made in the same basement and have only managed to get me GCSE Textiles. I did get an A, though. Yay!
However, Crow’s eyes quickly glaze over. Talking about what she’s already done doesn’t interest her very much. She’s too busy thinking about what she’s going to do next. That’s one of the reasons why she needs me as her business manager. I am the schmoozer of the operation, and also the schmoozee, if required.
Annoyingly, the men persist in not catching my eye. Is there something wrong with me? Do I have cappuccino foam on my lip again? Even though I’m the one nodding and saying ‘absolutely’ and ‘how interesting’, they insist on talking only to Henry (who hates fashion and is wearing a YELLOW FLEECE, for goodness’ sake) and Crow, who isn’t listening.
Eventually, I give up. I have other things on my mind right now. Like how cold it is in the Paris winter in nothing but a kimono, how stupid I was to leave my embroidered pashmina (a present from my granny) at Dad’s apartment, and how MY BROTHER MIGHT BE MARRYING A SUPERMODEL.
I notice that the American keeps glancing behind me, distractedly. I look round and spot a mini-stampede going on near a side entrance to the tent. Every photographer in the vicinity – and there are lots – is rushing over to get into position. Somebody mega-famous is about to emerge. And then I spot the halo of blonde ringlets and see Isabelle Carruthers, caught for a second like a deer in the headlights as the flashbulbs pop and the pack of paparazzi shout out their questions.
A tall, good-looking young man with floppy hair comes to stand beside her. My brother. The flashbulbs go into a frenzy. Harry puts a protective arm around Isabelle. I strain to hear what they’re saying in answer to the questions, but we’re too far away. However, what they are not doing is shaking their heads and denying all knowledge of whatever’s being shouted out to them. In fact, Harry is kissing Isabelle for the cameras and grinning, which is a bit of a clue.
So maybe Galliano was right. I can’t see an engagement ring, but Isabelle is stroking the empty space on her finger as if there might be one there any minute.
Meanwhile, German guy has taken over from American guy. I hear the words ‘investment vehicle’ and ‘archive potential’ and ‘major breakthrough opportunity’. Compared with ‘your brother is about to get married’, they don’t really register on the Richter scale.
Crow’s eyes are still glazed. I tune out again and try to watch Harry and Isabelle’s body language. Isabelle is smiling and posing and doing clever things with her hair. She is a supermodel after all. Harry still seems a bit wary, but the way he’s snuggled up to Isabelle suggests that here is a man who found himself in Paris last night with the most beautiful girl in the world and decided to round off the evening by proposing.
He might have mentioned it, that’s all. So I could congratulate them before every paparazzo in Paris and practically every magazine editor in the world.
I look back and the overcoat men are shaking hands. The English one is giving me a funny look, as if he’s noticed that I haven’t really been paying attention. I’d explain why, but it would sound too totally weird for words. Instead, I just say goodbye politely and flick my eyes back to the press posse hovering around Harry and Isabelle. I mean, it seems normal when you see it happening to George Clooney or Angelina Jolie, but when it’s happening to somebody you know, it’s just bizarre.
‘What’s going on?’ Henry Lamogi asks, now that we’re alone.
I explain as best I can. Henry takes in my shocked expression and puts a kindly arm around me. This is one of his specialities. He has world-class kindly arms and I instantly feel a bit better.
‘We’d better go over and rescue them,’ he says.
This seems an excellent idea.
We get to Harry and Isabelle just as they’re about to make their getaway. But for a split second we’re caught beside them, in the midst of the flashbulbs, and I realise I’d have thought a bit harder about the whole kimono thing if I’d known there was a chance of it appearing in Hello! magazine in a couple of days’ time.
I catch sight of the overcoat men across the gravel, staring back at us thoughtfully.
She shrugs. We have better things to think about right now. I assume.