Beads, Boys and Bangles (32 page)

‘Who were they?’ I ask Crow.

She shrugs. We have better things to think about right now. I assume.

‘
O
h my God! Harry! Isabelle! Oh my GOD!’

Twenty-four hours later, Mum is meeting us off the Eurostar at St Pancras station in London. Or at least, I think it’s Mum. It’s how Mum would be if you seriously speeded up the video and turned the sound up to max. I’ve never seen her like this before.

‘I’m so THRILLED! You dark horses! I had no IDEA! You’re so amazing! Come here! Let me hug you.’

Henry, Crow and I huddle around the luggage trolley, waiting for the enormous hugs and crying to die down so we can say hello.

It’s been a bit like this since yesterday evening, except mostly on the phone. We were whisked by limo back to Isabelle’s hotel room (massive, and overlooking the Eiffel Tower, naturally) and over the next few hours I opened the door to increasingly large bouquets of flowers and intriguing designer shopping bags with big bows, while Isabelle and Harry answered non-stop calls from people
all around the world, checking the story was true and shouting their congratulations. Crow and her brother headed back to my dad’s apartment after a while. They just couldn’t take the excitement any more.

‘Hi, darling,’ Mum manages eventually, with a peck on the cheek for me and a quick hug for Crow. ‘Isn’t it thrilling? Granny’s on her way up, of course. Oh, and Harry, Vicente will be here at the weekend. Isn’t that wonderful? We must organise something for him. Big celebrations!’

Vicente (pronounced Veh-SEN-te – it’s a Portuguese thing) is Harry’s dad. Mum used to go out with him before she met my dad. He lives in Brazil, where he’s a gazillionaire with loads of land and hundreds of eco-projects on the go. We like him, but we hardly ever see him. Isabelle’s never met him. So the news that he’s coming is the cause of more hugs and squealing.

At this point, Henry Lamogi makes his excuses and goes home on his own by Tube. I don’t blame him. Crow accepts a lift with us in Mum’s car and spends the journey staring at me, wide-eyed. As Crow makes her dresses in our house, she sees Mum all the time, so she knows what she’s like normally – and this is SO not normal. You’d honestly think Mum had never had a wedding to look forward to before.

And then it hits me.

She hasn’t.

And she’s obviously really potty about them. And it’s all my fault.

Crow sees me suddenly crumple and holds out her hand to me. I take it, and I’m grateful that it’s she who’s here and not one of my other friends. They’d be asking me what the matter was, and of course I couldn’t possibly tell them. Crow doesn’t ask. She’s just there, and that’s all I need right now.

The next hour is a blur. We get home and the downstairs is full to the brim with yet more flowers and packages. There is a man in a black pac-a-mac lurking outside and it’s quite possible he’s our first very own paparazzo. Isabelle and Harry quickly disappear to Harry’s room and turn the music up loud. Everyone pretends they’ve gone to unpack. Mum makes a hot chocolate for Crow and cappuccino for me (new obsession – still haven’t got the knack of maintaining foam-free lips) and goes on and on about how perfect Isabelle is for Harry, and how she’d been hoping he’d find the right girl, but how amazing it is that he’s managed to do it so soon – he’s only twenty-three – and when are they going to set a date?

As soon as I can, I drag Crow up to my room and we slump into a couple of chairs and just stare at each other.

‘Things are going to be different,’ she says.

I nod. My eyes brim. I don’t want things to be different. I like them just the way they are.

I look around my room at the curling posters from the
V&A, my wall of
Vogue
shoots stuck up with Blu-Tack, the butterfly duvet cover I haven’t replaced since I was ten, the view of treetops from my window and the old, familiar mess. I meant to tidy up before we went to Paris for the Dior show, but it didn’t quite happen and actually the place is worse than usual. The wardrobe doors are open and several pairs of leggings are trying to make their getaway from the bottom shelf. My scarf collection is hanging precariously from the top of one of the doors and judging by the tee-shirts, tops and underwear on the floor, I’m pretty sure my chest of drawers must be nearly empty.

Mum asked me to ‘edit’ my magazine collection before I went (by which she meant throw most of it away) but I only got as far as piling everything in the middle of the room, where it looks like a piece of modern sculpture. The nearest pile makes a very useful footstool. I rest my feet on it and pick up an old
Grazia
from another pile to take my mind off things, while Crow goes through my book collection, looking for something inspirational. By which I don’t, of course, mean Thomas Hardy or Jane Austen, but a guide to platform shoes through the ages.

She still doesn’t talk. I know exactly what she means.

She means, ‘I love Harry too, and I’m sorry we’ll be seeing less of him.’ She means, ‘Your mother’s gone totally loopy, hasn’t she? What is it with all that conversation? She’s usually too busy to say hello.’ She means, ‘I can tell you’re not OK about something. I’m not sure exactly
what, but if you wanted to talk about it, you could. I’m here if you need me.’

‘Crow?’ I say eventually.

She looks up from a Salvatore Ferragamo gold padded platform illustration. ‘Yes?’

‘Thanks.’

She smiles and nods. She doesn’t ask what for. I’ve known her since I was fourteen and she was twelve. She’s practically lived in my house for most of that time. She just knows.

Beads, Boys & Bangles

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First published by The Chicken House, 2010
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited, 2014
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978-1-925063-66-0

Text © Sophia Bennet 2010

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Text © Sophia Bennett 2011
First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2011
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