‘Blimey, girls, what a disaster. I should never have listened to you. We should have used a professional.’

‘It’s not a disaster at all. Jenny was fantastic!’ I say hotly.

Crow and I are in the boardroom of Miss Teen. It’s a week later and we’re discussing the PR campaign for the launch of Crow’s collection. The centrepiece of this campaign, naturally, was going to be the Vogue cover. Now it’s not. Oops. But it’s one thing for Crow and me to point out Jenny’s less-than-perfect modelling ability, and quite another for elderly adults to do it. Especially as Andy Elat, Amanda’s father and the man who owns Miss Teen, is hardly a cover girl himself.

‘Oh?’ he says, looking at me sceptically. ‘Fantastic? Explain.’

Hmm. This is tricky. How do I explain that what happened on the shoot was a triumph? However, I’ve started so I’d better finish.

‘Well,’ I say, trying to squash the rising waves of panic and defend my friend, ‘Jenny was amazing in the editorial shots. Six pages of them. She’s got a very different look from all the super-skinny supermodels.’ Gradually, I start to remember why I wanted Jenny in the first place. ‘And the way she wears the clothes, girls will be able to imagine looking good in them too, because she’s one of them. And it was because she wasn’t a professional model that Vogue found her so interesting. So without her, we might not have got to shoot the collection for them at all.’

I sit back, panting slightly, and hide it by taking a sip of water. There are a few nervous faces around the table. But a few nods too.

‘Fair point,’ someone mutters.

Andy Elat smiles very slightly and is about to move on when Crow jabs me, hard, in the ribs with her elbow and I remember the other thing I was supposed to say about Jenny. This time, it’s a bit easier because we’ve been practising. I take another quick sip of water.

‘Oh and by the way,’ I say as casually as I can, ‘it’s thanks to Jenny that we’ll be getting some extra coverage. She’s going to the Met Ball in May, just before the launch, and she’s wearing a ballgown of Crow’s to it. She’s going with Isabelle Carruthers, so we should get quite a lot of publicity from that too, I guess.’

The reaction around the room is everything we’d hoped for. Spilt coffee. Impressed swear words. A moment of stunned silence. And then a babble of conversation. Crow and I look nonchalant throughout the whole thing. We rehearsed it in the mirror last night, so we know we’ve got nonchalance sussed.

After that, the meeting goes much better.

Andy Elat catches me as I’m leaving the boardroom at the end and gives me a grin.

‘Nicely played, Nonie,’ he says. ‘Some people get overwhelmed by these meetings but you’ve got . . .’ He searches for a word suitable for my delicate teenage ears. ‘Chutzpah. I like your style, kid. And you know your stuff.’

Crow tucks her arm into mine as we make our way downstairs. She helps anchor me, as otherwise I’d probably float out of the building and off down Oxford Street. I love these moments. They’re the ones I live for: sharing Crow’s vision, persuading people to be on our side, turning things around . . .

‘It worked!’ Crow says. ‘You were sweet about Jenny. And you really sounded like we planned all that Met Ball stuff.’

‘I know!’ I giggle. ‘Do you remember my face when Isabelle first mentioned it?’

She does.

The day after the Vogue shoot, Jenny got a call from New York to give her the dates of the new workshop. Crow was there when we rang Isabelle to ask about Jenny using her apartment again. Isabelle said ‘Sure! First week in May, did you say? Oh, I’m going to the Met Ball that week. Would Jenny like to come?’

Me: ‘Hahahahah!’

Jenny: ‘Why are you laughing, Nonie? What did she say?’

Me: ‘She said would you like to go to the Met Ball?’ Jenny: ‘What’s the Met Ball?’

Me: ‘WHAT?’

Jenny: ‘Don’t look at me like that! I’ve never heard of it. What is it?’

Me: long sigh. And then, to Isabelle, ‘I’ll call you back, if that’s OK. But . . . hahahahaha.’

Jenny: ‘Stop giggling and tell me.’

So I told her. Crow helped.

The Met Ball is THE fashion party of the year. The biggest, the glitziest and the best. It’s the gala held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York to launch their annual Costume Institute exhibition, and it’s attended by anyone who is anyone in fashion. It’s where Tom Ford will be queuing up for drinks behind Marc Jacobs. Well, probably not queuing, but whatever they do. And Anna Wintour will be wafting around, impressing people with her amazing haircut and the fact that she knows EVERYBODY, while Gwen Stefani chats to Claudia Schiffer in a corner and John Galliano struts about in his cloak. Film stars – major film stars – will be BEGGING to go along. And every fashion editor in existence will be aching to see what they wear, so they can publicise it to the world.

That’s the Met Ball. The chances of them wanting a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl actress and wannabe musical star on their guest list are minimal. But by the time I’d finished describing the event to Jenny, she badly wanted to go.

So I called Isabelle back and said, ‘Look, I know it’s practically impossible, but if you can make a miracle happen, that would be amazing.’

Isabelle said, ‘Jenny’s just done a Vogue shoot, hasn’t she? And I keep meeting people in New York who are talking about her. Jackson Ward’s a big fan, apparently. Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll get her in.’

Being Isabelle, she did.

When she called back, Crow and Jenny were still in my room. We did a sort of Indian war dance around the room, whooping and hollering and laughing. Jenny suddenly stopped and said, ‘Oh my God. Who’s going to make my dress?’

Crow and I looked shocked and hurt and stopped dancing. Jenny laughed and said, ‘Got you!’ Crow grinned too and instantly sat down and started designing something. On what happened to be the cover of my Business Studies workbook, which is now decorated with sketches of full-skirted ballgowns, evening coats and Crow’s attempts at Christian Louboutin shoes.

We celebrated with hot chocolate and popcorn. Then we called Edie to tell her, and even Edie was pleased. Then we started practising our nonchalant expressions for today’s meeting. They took a lot of practising, because we kept bursting into fits of giggles. But practice makes perfect, as I have just proved. It’s a chutzpah thing.