I should be jealous, but I’m not. I have fun stuff of my own to think about. Andy Elat has arranged a preview party to show Crow’s new Miss Teen collection to influential people on the London fashion scene. We’re off to the Tate Modern gallery, which is an ex-power station with enormous industrial spaces that are now full of modern art. And also, tonight, full of waiters with canapés and models in Crow’s pared-back, white, layered clothes, which will look appropriately minimalist and artistic.
I’ve been planning my outfit for this event for weeks. I’m now on version twenty-seven, which is a chain-mail tunic over two dresses and some leggings from the collection, and a borrowed pair of plastic Vivienne Westwood platforms. Crow, being Crow, started to think about her outfit at about half-past three. When she shows up at the Tate Modern, it’s in patchwork dungarees, her gold wellies and the origami headdress that John Galliano gave her in January, and which she’s kept like a religious relic ever since.
Edie is here with her mum, both wearing jackets and skirts that make them look like air hostesses for rival airlines. However, what they lack in fashion fabulousness, they make up for in friendliness. They’ve wordlessly adopted Jenny for the evening, not mentioning Gloria’s absence. Edie’s mum beckons me over with a smile and a wave.
‘Nonie! At last someone I recognise! I mean, goodness, there are so many faces here that look familiar from magazines, but you’re someone I actually know. How are you?’
As she says this, her face adopts a concerned, motherly look. She is, after all, the parent of one of the school’s resident geniuses, so as far as she knows our lives are wall-to-wall exams and clarinet practice at the moment, when we’re not volunteering and getting other brownie points for our CVs.
I’m about to tell her I am absolutely fine, but then I wonder if that will make me look a bit too laid-back.
‘Oh, you know, coping,’ I say.
‘My poor girl. All of this . . .’ she gestures around the Tate Modern at the models and fashion editors, celebrities and canapés, ‘. . . and end-of-year exams. I don’t know how you do it. I keep telling Edie to slow down, but she won’t hear of it. You’re all such high achievers these days.’
I like Edie’s mum. I like being bundled in the ‘high achiever’ category with her frankly quite scary daughter. I like the way she feels sorry for me for being surrounded by fashion editors on a Friday night after school. I don’t agree with her, but I love her natural kindness. It’s easy to see where Edie gets it from.
‘Well, some of it’s not too bad,’ I say, catching sight of the editor of Grazia.
‘You’re so brave,’ Edie’s mum says. ‘And busy, I imagine. I’ll leave you to it.’
By now Crow, Edie and Jenny have moved to the other side of the room. She goes off to join them and I glance around me to see who I should talk to. Then I realise I’m standing next to a smart, grey-haired lady, about Granny’s age, wearing a cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. Even now, she has cheekbones to die for and a lively gleam in her eyes.
My heart goes fluttery. I realise I’m within touching distance of a fashion legend. The legend who discovered Alexander McQueen and bought up John Galliano’s first collection and put it in the window of her shop in South Molton Street. I turn to her, not sure what to say. I need to let her know how amazing I think she is.
‘Mrs Burstein,’ I cough, ‘you don’t know me, but I just wanted to tell you how much I love Browns. I think you’re incredible.’
She looks at me and smiles. ‘Thank you. It’s Nonie Chatham, isn’t it? Actually, I do know you. I’ve been following your progress recently – well, your friend Crow, anyway. She has a very unusual eye. Will she do her own label one day?’
‘I guess she’d love to,’ I say, once I’ve got my voice working properly. The first two attempts are so squeaky only dogs could hear them. ‘Miss Teen has kept us busy so far. And school. And her dresses for clients.’
Joan Burstein nods, as if this is familiar news. ‘Every time someone appears in one of her dresses my daughter says we get people coming into the shop asking if we stock Crow. And of course we don’t, but the staff keep telling me how much they’d love to.’
‘Oh!’ I squeak. ‘Really?’ I sound as if I’m on helium.
She smiles at me in a sympathetic way. I assume she thinks I have some kind of awful vocal condition. Then she spots someone she knows and heads off into the crowd.
Did that really just happen? Did the woman who discovered John Galliano just practically OFFER to stock Crow’s stuff?
‘What’s the matter?’ asks a voice.
I shake myself and focus. It’s Crow. She looks worried about me.
‘Joan Burstein,’ I croak. ‘Browns. Offer. Label. Stock. Shop.’
‘Really?’ Crow asks, just as I did.
I nod. My voice has completely given up now.
I shake my head. This is not cool. This is beyond cool. This is the woman who started the coolest fashion boutique in the world saying she and her staff could sell your clothes to the coolest customers in the world. This would be so different from Miss Teen. Designing a high street collection was great, but for a ready-to-wear collection Crow could use more luxurious fabrics and trimmings, and more intricate sewing techniques. The dresses would be more expensive, but they would also be BE-AUTIFUL, and exactly the way Crow wanted them. It’s like being asked to design a Porsche instead of a VW. But with sequins instead of headlights. You know what I mean.
Crow’s smile turns into a grin. ‘She had quite an effect on you, didn’t she?’
She laughs. At this point, Andy Elat joins us.
‘I saw you chatting,’ he says to me. ‘Do you know who that was?’
I nod.
‘Nonie’s in shock,’ Crow says. ‘Apparently, Mrs B’s interested in my dresses.’
Andy’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. A couple of words slip out that shouldn’t. I gibber for a while, giving a rough idea of the conversation.
‘And are you?’ Andy asks Crow. ‘Thinking of doing your own label?’
Crow looks at me. ‘We haven’t really got that far. I just make things for people who ask me. You know, with school and everything. But one day . . .’
Andy looks from her to me and back again. ‘Well, I don’t say this to many people. In fact, I spend most of my life saying the exact opposite, but you should think about it. You’ve got the talent. You’ve got an unbelievable knack for publicity. I’ve always thought of Miss Teen as just a stepping stone for you.’
Crow looks uncertain.
‘I mean it,’ he says. ‘You’re hot property. This is your moment, kid. Anyway, think about it. Call me.’
He spots someone important waving at him and heads back into the crowd. Crow stares after him, her eyes round as saucers.
My imagination starts to go into overdrive. Crow has done one catwalk show before, but that was just twelve pieces. A label means designing regular collections and buyers ordering them for shops around the world. Maybe there will be handbags one day, and shoes. And maybe a line of pencil cases . . . OK, maybe not pencil cases, but cute stuff anyway. Lots of cute stuff. And there’ll be advertising campaigns, and more catwalk shows. We’ll walk into cool boutiques around the world and see Crow’s dresses on little racks of adorableness . . .
‘Nonie? Nonie?’
‘What?’
Crow’s grinning at me now. ‘You’re wanted.’
It’s the journalist who interviewed Jenny for Vogue, coming over to say hi. It’s great to see her, but I’m almost smiling too much to talk.