Beads, Boys and Bangles (5 page)

‘But what have I
done
?’

‘I don’t know! You just got a tiny bit famous, I suppose, so they noticed you.’

‘Well, I don’t
want
to be. And do you realise your dad hasn’t got wi-fi? Or any kind of internet connection? So I can’t do a THING about it till we get back to England.’

Edie’s mouth keeps moving and I can tell she’s going on about my dad’s lack of technology, but I’ve just noticed that, behind her, a boy with blond floppy hair is looking at me. And has been for a while. And he’s EXTREMELY CUTE. If Robert Pattinson had a blond, floppy-haired, younger brother, this would be him.

I smile at him. Then I remember that Edie’s life has been RUINED by hackers and go back to being ‘worried
friend’. Cute guy gives me a grin and winks at me.

I look at Edie for a while, pretending to listen, then flick my eyes back up for a moment to check out cute guy again. Still looking at me. Winks again. Mouths something. I do my quizzical look. He mouths it more slowly.

I think it’s ‘Like the boots.’

He’s flirting! Cute Robert Pattinson-lookalike hunk is flirting! With me! At a funeral!

This is sort of cool. I should feel really bad about it, but I can’t help smiling some more. He sees me smiling and trying not to and grins at me again.

Gorgeous, gorgeous smile.

‘Are you listening to me AT ALL?’ Edie demands.

‘Oh. I was,’ I promise.

‘Sorry. Am I boring you?’

‘A tiny bit, to be honest. And look. Cute guy over there likes my boots.’

‘I am telling you about the MOST STRESSFUL MOMENT OF MY LIFE and you’re staring at some guy who LIKES YOUR BOOTS?’

‘Yes.’

I decide to make a stand. ‘I know about the most stressful moment, Edie. Honestly. You told me yesterday. And last night. And this morning. I can’t possibly feel more sorry for you than I already do. But he’s really cute.’

Edie sighs deeply and turns round. Then she turns back, all pink.

‘Ooh. He
is
cute. He reminds me of someone.’

‘Robert Pattinson.’

‘Mmmm.’

I’m not sure if she’s agreeing, or just daydreaming. RPattz is her only secret vice.

She turns around again for a second look but by now he’s come over and he’s standing right behind her. She makes a sort of shrieking sound and goes the colour of Crow’s poncho.

‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I’m Alexander.’

Gorgeous voice too. English, but with the faintest French accent. Maybe he grew up here. And totally confident. It’s quite possible he’s aware of his effect on girls, but the twinkle in his eye stops him from seeming too smug.

‘I’m Edie,’ Edie says, holding her hand out.

He shakes it with a serious sort of smile, then leans over to me and kisses me on both cheeks.

‘Hello, Boots,’ he says.

‘Nonie,’ I squeak.

‘Boots,’ he insists. ‘Are you two busy this evening?’

‘Well, actually, I was going to try and find an internet café,’ Edie starts.

I give her the Look. She sighs and gives up.

‘Can I show you Paris?’

Now he’s starting to annoy me slightly, despite the gorgeous voice.

‘I’ve known it since I was a kid,’ I tell him. ‘My dad lives here.’

‘Not
my
Paris,’ he continues, with his wicked, self-confident grin. ‘Bring your dad, if you like. I promise I’ll look after you. And definitely your pretty friend.’

‘Oh!’ Edie’s poncho colour had died back down to pink but now it ramps back up to crimson. I wonder if she’s about to have a feminist moment and say something extremely rude, but instead she simpers like one of her Jane Austen heroines and starts fiddling with her coat buttons.

‘And my granny?’ I ask, cheekily. ‘And my friend Crow?’

‘The designer girl? Wow! Definitely her. Which one’s your granny? Cool lady in Balmain? Sure. Her too. We’ll make it a party.’

I breathe a sort of a sigh of relief. He’s almost too gorgeous and probably too old for me, but he’s obviously gay, so that’s OK.

What straight boy would instantly know that Granny’s boots were Balmain?

A
fter the reception, Edie, Crow and I make our way back through the streets of Paris to the Île Saint-Louis, in the middle of the River Seine, where Dad lives. His apartment is beautiful, romantic and tiny, with amazing views over trees and water. The ceilings are high, the walls are covered in tatty old peeling silk panels and there are piles of books and half-painted canvases everywhere. It looks extremely messy, but the clutter never changes. What some people might call piles of old rubbish (Mum does) turn out to be carefully collected knick-knacks from famous arty friends. The place has been photographed loads of times for magazines.

There’s a sitting room and a studio overlooking the river, next to a kitchen so small you might mistake it for a cupboard, and a bedroom and an antique shower room at the back. At night, the three of us are in sleeping bags wherever we can fit. It’s why poor Henry had to stay in London: nowhere to squeeze him in, sadly.

Dad’s in the middle of an experiment with paintings that look like photographs taken too slowly, where the subject has moved and gone out of focus and left a sort of trail of light behind them. His model is a woman with dark hair, who can’t be much older than Alexander and who I suspect is Dad’s latest girlfriend, but he’s not saying. There are canvases of her all over the place. In the studio, propped up in the kitchen, even in the shower room, behind the towels.

‘What do you think,
trésor
?’ he asks, pulling one out from under the basin.

‘
Chouette
,’ I say.

Chouette
is sort-of French for cool. It’s also a word you can say very quickly and hopefully Dad won’t notice that I’m not being entirely truthful when I say it. Sometimes his experiments are brilliant works of genius and sometimes they’re not. But you never tell an artist that or they go all moody and can’t work for weeks. Art appreciation is ten per cent honesty and ninety per cent ego-massaging. It can get quite tiring if you’re not used to it, but luckily Mum does it for a living, so I am.

‘
Merci
,’ Dad says, putting an arm around my waist and looking at us both in the mirror. We’re weirdly alike, in a vertically challenged, no-cheekbones, curly-hair sort of way. ‘Champagne?’

He has a bottle open in the kitchen. Not that I’ve seen him open it. It’s just that he
always
has a bottle open in the kitchen. Like milk. It’s so tempting to say yes to a
glass, but I can feel Mum’s presence looming over me. She saw me once after a couple of sneaky glasses at a fashion party and she SO wasn’t impressed. And I really don’t want to be tipsy tonight, what with my sort-of-date and everything. So I decline and wish I was about five years older.

Luckily Crow takes my mind off my very boring Orangina, by talking at me through the open shower room door. Crow hasn’t stopped talking since the funeral ended. This is unheard of for her. She’s normally too busy dreaming up designs to actually
say
much. But not today.

‘I spoke to so many ladies from the workrooms. They all said Yvette was a legend. But they’re
all
cool. Can you imagine? There’s this lady called Gina who specialises in making lace rosettes. That’s it. Just lace. All day. But she said it’s great. And she had this high-necked lace shirt on and a contrasting lace jacket she made and it should have been . . .’ Crow struggles for the word. Not a good one, obviously, and flutters her hands to relay the potential fashion disaster. ‘But she was
gorgeous
.’ Crow sighs and stifles a yawn. It’s been a busy couple of days.

I grunt a reply while trying not to jiggle my face too much. We spent ages meandering back here and now Edie and I are in a bit of a rush. Edie’s getting changed and I’m focusing on major eyeliner issues in the shower room mirror. In the end, Granny put her foot down about Crow coming out with us this evening. Underneath all the excitement she’s obviously exhausted. But
she doesn’t seem to care. She’s too busy gushing about the
mains
.

‘I met the lady who makes the trimmings for Chanel suits. And two people who do embroidery for jewelled shoes. Just . . .’ She flutters her hands again, but this time in a good way. ‘Did you know, they have these rooms full of pearls and beads from all over the world? And one full of feathers. Just feathers – in drawers. Some of them are seventy years old. The birds they came from are extinct.’

I decide not to point out that the feather collection and the bird extinction might be connected. Edie does, though, of course. Crow sounds a bit crestfallen for a minute, but soon she’s off again, talking about the difficulties of working in silver thread.

Even when we’re all dressed and made up and Alexander arrives (and my tummy does a mini-rollercoaster ride), Crow keeps on going. She’s rethinking trimmings and embellishments. She wants to work with lace and tweed. She’s realised she hasn’t scratched the surface of jewelled embroidery.

Alexander sits down in Dad’s only chair in the sitting room that isn’t piled with canvases, stretches himself out and enjoys the excitement in Crow’s voice as she talks. Which gives me a good opportunity to watch him from my perch on a rolled-up sleeping bag on the floor. He really is extremely beautiful. Long legs. Long fingers, which I really like. Cheekbones, which my mother (ex-model) would approve of. And he’s fit. To look at,
obviously, but also he must work out a lot. Lots of muscles. But not bulgy ones. Just nicely . . .

Oh no. He’s turned round and caught me looking at him. He gives me that smile again.

‘How are you, Boots?’

‘Fine,’ I squeak. ‘So, what do you do, er, Alexander?’

He laughs out loud.

‘You sound like the Queen. But
much
cuter. I dance, Boots. I dance.’

‘Oh.’

Pole dancing? Is he a Chippendale? The only thing this tells me for sure is that he is definitely, definitely gay. I’m even more relieved.

‘At the Royal Opera House. I joined last year.’

‘OH!’

Edie, Crow and I all say it together. A ballet dancer. Wow. Totally wow. And based in London. Interesting.

‘I’m going to design for the Royal Ballet one day,’ says Crow, as if she’s already got a contract. She hasn’t spoken to them yet, but it’s just a question of time.

‘Well, they could do with a bit of help in the tights department,’ he says with a serious expression and a sly glance at me.

I’ve gone poncho colour, I know it. And I’m so hot I want to fan myself. Which is SO not the effect I’m going for.

After that, the evening goes surprisingly well, though. Granny arrives and we head off together, leaving Crow
and Dad poring over his collection of art books and comparing notes on favourite painters. Meanwhile, Alexander is totally sweet and polite and doesn’t try anything on with anybody. He takes us to a jazz club in a cellar somewhere cool and is a fabulous dancer,
naturellement
. He dances equally with Edie, me and Granny. After we’ve boogied away for a couple of hours, he politely escorts us home, via a lovely walk along the river.

Granny is charmed.

‘Such a shame about him,’ she says, as he disappears off towards the Left Bank, where the taxis are.

‘You mean the whole “ballet dancer” thing?’ I ask, with a look.

She gives me the look back.

‘Yes. Exactly, darling.’

‘What thing?’ asks Edie.

I promise I’ll explain it to her one day, when she’s old enough.

After some pretty ineffectual eyeliner removal in Dad’s mirror, I slip silently into my sleeping bag next to Crow on the sitting room floor.

Not silently enough, as it turns out. Crow opens half an eye and asks how it went. I tell her it was fine and she gives me a sleepy smile.

‘Are you OK?’ I whisper back. After all, it’s not every day you launch a collection, go to a funeral and leave behind the one member of your close family who’s on the
same continent as you, because there’s no floor-space for him.

‘Of course!’ she says. ‘Did you know it’s bad luck to sew in a label until the very last moment? The
mains
are really superstitious about it. I never heard that before . . .’

Her voice trails off and I realise she’s asleep again.

‘
What
did she say?’ Edie asks in a hoarse whisper through the door of Dad’s studio, where she’s curled up in her own sleeping bag.

‘She’s muttering about labels,’ I tell her.

‘She would be!’

There’s the sound of distant rumbling from somewhere. I assume it must be a Métro train until I realise it’s Dad snoring. He’s a totally impressive snorer. It must have driven Mum bananas the short time they were together. Edie starts giggling and sets me off too. Then she asks me again what Granny meant about the ballet dancer thing, which leads to a bit of a chat, and next thing we know it’s four in the morning and we’re still awake.

There’s only one thing for it. Hot chocolate in Dad’s kitchen, made with real melted chocolate and the remainder of his milk. It would be
so
much easier if the recipe required champagne.