“Did you hear what I just said, Coleen?” Mum’s words brought me back down to earth with a bump. “Can you move your stuff off the table and lay it for tea?”
“Oh Mum,” I groaned. “Can’t Em do it? I’m just finishing my maths homework.”
“I did it yesterday,” Em answered quickly.
“I’ll do it tomorrow and the day after,” I pleaded.
“And the day after that?” asked Em.
“All right, you’ve got a deal,” I said, sighing.
I peered down at the page of fractions. If I could just finish this last one…There! Quickly I collected up the mass of papers and went into the other room where my plans for the midnight-blue top from Mr Collins’ boutique lay on the couch. The first thing I decided was that it needed two rows of tiny pearl buttons down the front. But by Tuesday, I’d decided that buttons was my worst idea ever.
“I’ll look like a calculator,” I declared as I sat down for tea, scrumpling up my design and lobbing it across the room. “Anyway, I don’t suppose I’d be allowed to do anything to the top anyway. We’re not meant to use needles on the clothes, cut them up or do anything that’ll change them so they can’t be changed back again.”
Rascal chased my balled-up design hopefully across the floor, skidded on Mum’s freshly washed tiles and bumped his nose into the bin. Em snorted with laughter.
“I hope you’re laughing at Rascal and not at me,” I grumbled, taking up a fresh piece of paper. “This is harder than it looks, you know. It’s got to be a glamorous beach outfit, like the type of thing movie stars wear. We’re talking South California, not Southport.”
“You don’t even know if Mr Collins will donate it, Coleen,” Mum pointed out, fiddling with the stove until the friendly sound of blopping baked beans filled the air. “And why do you want it so badly if you’re going to change it anyway?”
I thought about trying to describe to Mum the gorgeousness of silk jersey – the super-cool fabric that the top was made out of. Silk jersey was slippery and fine, and it hung in fabulous folds if you wore it right. I also wanted the top because it was totally plain: a blank canvas for my fashion experiments. But there are some things that no amount of talking can ever totally explain.
“Maybe I could scoop it up at the sides somehow,” I murmured, sketching again. “With a silver camisole peeping through—”
“Beans, beans are good for your heart,” sang Dad, coming into the kitchen with wet hair from the shower he always took after work. He’s a plasterer, and he’s always covered in white dust at the end of the day. “The more you eat, the more you—”
With perfect timing, the sound of our toast popping up drowned out the rest. I put my drawing of the midnight-blue top on the side, my head still full of beach thoughts. Rascal lay on my feet as we ate, his whiskers tickling my ankles. I munched my tea as daintily as I could, pinching up my face to look gorgeous and haughty and imagining I was hanging out somewhere on a beach in California.
“Who are you trying to be, love?” Dad said, eyeing me over a forkful of beans. “Angelina never-very Jolie?”
“I don’t suppose movie stars eat beans for their tea much,” Mum said.
“Poor things,” said Em.
And I guess my little sister had a point.
By the time the next drama lesson came around, my plans for the midnight-blue top had changed again.
“I’m going to make a silver sash to tie around the waist,” I told Mel and Lucy as we filed into the classroom. “Showing off your waist is a big thing at the moment. There’s some fabric I’ve seen that would look brilliant. I—”
“Thank you, Coleen,” Miss O’Neill called. “Time to concentrate, I think.”
Summer sniggered as I subsided.
“Last week we made a list of possible shops that we could approach for our fashion,” said Miss O’Neill, handing out sheets of headed paper with the Hartley High address on. “Today we are going to be writing to them.”
“I can just ask my dad, Miss,” said Summer loftily. “He’ll give us loads of stuff. Why do I have to bother writing to anyone else?”
“Everyone gets a letter,” Miss O’Neill continued, ignoring Summer. “It’s good manners. The list is on the board, and your name is beside the shop I want you to write to.”
To Mel’s delight, she got the shop with the orange and yellow kaftan she wanted. Lucy had to write to the big department store at the top of town. And I got Tuckers, a fairly cool men’s outfitters that had just opened in the town centre.
But you know when you have an idea that gets into your head and takes root? I was like that with the midnight-blue top, and I was determined to do all I could to get it.
“You’re writing that fast,” Lucy commented, looking over from her corner of the table.
“I want to write to Mr Collins as well,” I explained, my hand flying over the page as I explained to Tuckers the importance of our project and how it would give them a chance to introduce themselves to everyone in Hartley and show us all the great stuff they sold. “Just to make sure he includes that top.”
“You’re obsessed, Coleen!” Mel sighed, shaking her head.
“Maybe I am,” I said, finishing my letter with a flourish and grabbing my second, totally more important piece of writing paper, “but this is the coolest project we’ve ever had. Mum and Dad and all our friends will be at the show and I just want to do my best.”
Walking down to the park on Wednesday afternoon to meet my dad and little sister after school, I just happened to take a detour down Foxton Row. It was a dead glamorous shopping street full of quirky fashion boutiques, and I loved checking out the window displays for the latest looks. Forever Summer stood on the corner, its big plate-glass window glinting in the afternoon sun. I checked my watch. I still had five minutes before I had to meet Dad and Em. Five long, luxurious minutes to stare through the window at what I couldn’t help thinking of as My Top.
At first glance, it wasn’t much. Most people’s eyes would drift over it, caught by the silver minidress that sparkled in the centre of the window display instead. The silver dress was an example of something hideous that got window-time because it came with a big flashy label. In my opinion, it looked like a deflated helium balloon. No, the midnight-blue jersey top was much more interesting. I couldn’t see the label because – unlike the silver dress, which had a screaming logo sewn on its sleeve – it was tucked round the back of the mannequin’sneck. I sighed with pleasure, and tilted my head so I could catch the top’s delicate shimmer. Once I’d given it my magic touch, it would go perfectly with my old white cut-offs and a pair of sparkly-flip flops, which I still had to persuade Mum to buy for me. I would be the last model to take to the catwalk. There would be a standing ovation. I’d see Mum and Dad in the front row, with proud looks on their faces. I’d catch a glimpse of Ben’s admiring grin from further back. The bidding would go crazy. And the top would be sold to someone super-stylish…
Ten pounds? Who’ll give me ten pounds for this unique piece of fashion history? Ten pounds, thank you, Madam! Twelve pounds – fourteen – sixteen – slow down, everyone, I can’t count this sea of waving hands – eighteen pounds forty-seven…going…going…gone to our model and designer, Coleen herself!
I sighed. The top would probably go for more than £ 18.47, but since that was all the money I had in the world, my daydream would have to do.
Somehow, five minutes had slipped into ten. Tearing myself from the window, I raced down Foxton Row. Dad would kill me if I was late for Em’s match.
My little sister plays football for our local undereights team on Wednesdays in the park. I’ve never fancied playing myself. Still, I do the big-sis thing and support from the sidelines, while Dad trots up and down playing ref. Sometimes he gets a bit carried away, and forgets that it’s only a bunch of seven and eight year-olds. He yells and jumps and blows his whistle like he’s pounding the sidelines at Old Trafford.
I zoomed around the corner and raced into the park. Out of nowhere, a small, fluffy black poodle came trotting out of the hedge, straight across my path. I leaped and twisted into the air like something out of Strictly Come Dancing (I wish!), missing the poodle by about a millimetre of fluff.
“Where did you come from?” I panted, putting my hands on my hips and staring down at the fluffball. “I could’ve squashed you flat.”
The poodle blinked at me with a pair of very shiny black eyes. It wasn’t wearing a lead, but it had a fancy tartan collar on with a dangly silver name-tag.
“Gucci?” I said in amazement, peering at the name tag. “Your name is Gucci?”
Don’t get me wrong: Gucci is an amazing fashion label. But who in their right mind would give that name to a dog?
A tall blond man came running down the path towards me, an empty lead dangling from his hand. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him before.
“Gucci!” he called anxiously. “Come here, you bad boy!”
Gucci panted happily at me as I held his collar, waiting for his owner to reach us.
“Thank you,” gasped the man, seizing the poodle’s collar and snapping the lead back on. “You bad Gucci poochie,” he said as the dog licked his fingers.
I was starting to get the giggles. Gucci was bad. But Gucci poochie was worse.
“Oochie coochie, Gucci,” said the owner, tickling the poodle under the chin.
When I laugh, I snort. Honest. I sound like a pig. Dad always teases me about it, which of course makes me snort even louder. I clapped a hand over my nose. It’s the only way to stop the snorting once it gets going.
“Thank you, young lady,” said the man. “My daughter would’ve killed me if Gucci had got out of the park. He’s terrible at escaping. I think we should’ve called him Houdini.”
It was no good. The snort was about to escape, just like Gucci. But then my urge to laugh vanished, like it had never been there. Summer Collins was slouching along the path towards us, scowling with boredom.
“Dad,” she whined. “Can we go home now? My feet hurt.”
Cogs whirred in my brain. Dad? Mr Collins! The blond man was Summer’s father, and the owner of Forever Summer! Suddenly a poodle called Gucci made sense.
“It was no trouble, Mr Collins,” I said, composing my face.
Summer recognised me. Her scowl turned as sour as month-old milk.
“Hello, Summer,” I said cheerfully, like we were best mates.
“Do you two know each other?” asked Mr Collins in surprise.
“We’re in the same class,” I said. “I’m Coleen.”
I held my breath. Would he know who I was?
“Coleen? Hey, I received your letter this morning,” said Mr Collins, his face clearing. “You’re doing the fashion show with Summer, aren’t you?”
“Come on, Dad,” Summer mumbled, tugging at Mr Collins’ sleeve.
I was determined not to let Mr Collins out of my sight until I knew whether there was any chance of getting the top for the show. “Yes, I am,” I said earnestly. “And having some clothes from your store would really make our show special. Like the blue top I mentioned.”
“I’ll certainly think about including it,” Mr Collins said with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Coleen. And thanks again for catching Gucci.”
Summer gave me a super-fake smile. Then, as her dad turned away, she dropped the act. “If you think you’re getting that top, you’d better think again,” she hissed.
I wagged my finger at her. “Now, Summer,” I said, “remember what Miss O’Neill said about working together?”
I tell you, if lasers could shoot from human eyes, I would’ve been a smoking pile of dust on the path.
By the time I got to the park, they were well into the first half and Em was already covered in mud. She beamed from ear to ear when she saw me arrive. My little sis can be so cute, even dressed in shorts, footie boots and a liberal spattering of mud.
I suddenly felt really warm inside. I’d done all I could to get the top. Now I’d just have to wait. But I like to think I was one step closer to persuading Mr Collins – and to seriously annoying stuck-up Summer. Erm…Gucci the dog? As if!