Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings (26 page)

Crow is sitting on Henry’s lap, looking more like a little girl past her bedtime than a fashion queen. Edie, Jenny, and I are cross-legged on the floor, eating Phish Food ice cream, drinking hot chocolate, and feeling slightly queasy. Little Victoria is snuggled up beside me, wrapped in a blanket. Harry refuses to sully the temple that is his rock-god body with our chocolate delights. He’s sullying it with beer instead, along with Crow’s dad and Henry. The mothers are contenting themselves with champagne.

There’s an awful lot of waffle around the Oscars. Never have so many irrelevant fashion facts been quoted by so many journalists about so few stars. And it goes on for hours. I absolutely love it. So do Edie and Crow.

The stars start to arrive and the red-carpet presenters get out among them, asking questions about what—or rather “who”—they’re wearing, and gushing about the weirdest outfits. The theme this year seems to be big skirts and tiny waists. Everybody has one or the
other or both, if they’re girls; and if they’re blokes, they show up with a girl who’s got them and try not to tread on her hem.

Hollywood’s Sexiest Female Alive is one exception, but in a good way. I expect we’ll see her in all the magazines next week. She’s gone for vintage Saint Laurent tuxedo and trousers, which look completely fabulous on her and get her twenty trillion fashion points for being slightly daring and honoring the great man’s passing. (She doesn’t look as good as Svetlana did in the Battersea marquee, but only us fashion insiders know that.) She’s in serious contention for the Best Actress Oscar, given that she’s up for both
Kid Code
and an art-house movie she released in December, so she gets a lot of attention. In simple lines and black and white, she stands out against the crowd. Her husband just looks his usual gorgeous self.

We give the other stars points. Kristen Stewart gets loads. Meryl Streep not so many. Angelina Jolie’s earrings are so beautiful it hurts. Mum wants them. I want them. Even Grace Lamogi can’t help sighing at the thought of them.

Then Jenny spots Joe Yule on the red carpet. I watch her carefully. She’s very, very still, but she doesn’t look as ghostly as she did a month ago. I think she’s getting
over it. I turn back to the screen. For a moment, I’m distracted by the green lasers. Then I suddenly realize what’s coming next. I’m the one to look ghostly this time. I catch my breath and hold it. The whole room is completely silent.

Where is she? What has she chosen? Jenny said it was the three Vs. Eventually, I asked her what they were and she said:
vintage, Versace
, or
Valentino
. We can’t bear it. Edie clutches my arm and the skin around her fingers goes white.

The camera pans to Sigrid. And there she is.

Glimmering silver. I think it’s Valentino. My vision’s gone blurry and I can’t concentrate.

Out of the corner of my eye I can just about make out Jenny jumping up and down and hyperventilating.

“It is, it is, it IS!”

Everyone turns to look at me. Gradually, it starts to sink in. I’m looking at Sigrid’s perfectly toned back above a frayed and layered waterfall skirt. Then she turns and the light catches the shimmering satin of the bustier. She’s worn it with diamanté sandals and a rope of diamonds. As you do.

She chose the Swan. Over vintage, Versace, and Valentino. Oh. My. God.

“Hey, look. Over THERE,” says Female Pre-Show
Host. “Sigrid! Sigrid! Come over here, gorgeous. You’re looking WONDERFUL.”

Sigrid comes over for a quick interview and about a billion people see the dress. Edie’s fingers are still biting into me.

“Who are you WEARING? I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s INCREDIBLE.”

Sigrid may not be my favorite movie star, but she’s a perfect clotheshorse and she knows what to do on the red carpet. She twists and poses and shows the dress from every angle.

“This is by a young designer in London named Crow. It’s from her first collection.”

She flashes a smile that I feel is aimed straight at me. A sort of triumphant apology. “A week tops,” my foot. No wonder she’s been avoiding me. She’s had that dress a half a month by now and it feels like a year.

“My! I’m LOVING the LOOK,” Female Host pronounces. “Who did you say? Crow? FABULOUS, darling. You’re the belle of the ball.”

Sigrid turns to waft up the red carpet. Jenny whacks me on the back.

I haven’t breathed yet and apparently I’ve gone slightly blue.

Chapter 41

I
t’s September. We’re standing in the costume section of the V&A. I’m beside Crow, who’s wearing painted silk skinnies and a T-shirt that was a present from Stella McCartney. I’m in a vintage Balenciaga cocktail dress that Granny has finally let me borrow. It looked much too old on me until I customized it with some felt flowers and teamed it with my tartan tights and Converses. Now I think it will just about do.

We’re staring at a new case that’s just been set up near the steps leading down toward the café. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Vivienne Westwood, whom Mum’s just introduced me to. She said (Mum, not Vivienne) that I was the person who made all of this happen and she’s totally, totally proud of me. I’m so glad I’m not wearing mascara yet. It would be all down the Balenciaga.

Vivienne said something, but my brain was going “La la la la Dame Vivienne Westwood is talking to you la
la la,” so I’ll have to ask Mum later what it was. I think it might have been how much she enjoyed Crow’s show, although I’m pretty sure she wasn’t there. Too busy with her own. Maybe she’s seen a video. It’s a total hit on YouTube. I think I’m responsible for half the views, though.

Crow’s looking critically at the case and I can tell she’s doing some mental redesign, but it’s too late now. Inside is the Swan, fitted onto a mannequin that bears more than a passing resemblance to Sigrid Santorini. The V&A asked for it after all the hoopla over Crow’s show and the Oscars. We paid for shipping and Sigrid sent it back to us, along with a glossy photo of herself wearing it on the night, which is in the case, too. The curator has stood the mannequin on a red carpet and put fake movie lights all around the case, so there’s more than a hint of Oscar about the thing.

After the Sigrid red-carpet appearance, our phones didn’t stop ringing for weeks. We had to hire people to answer them in the end, so we could find the time to go to school. Although Crow has moved away from The Three Bitches. James Lamogi has bowed to the inevitable and agreed to let his daughter stay in London, but not at that school. Edie’s mum has found another one that’s really good for children with dyslexia. And they’re
pretty good at giving her time off to design dresses for TOP HOLLYWOOD ACTRESSES to wear on GLOBAL TV. Her place at Saint Martins is pretty much booked for when she’s old enough to go, if she can be bothered by then.

Crow’s also designing her first mass fashion collection for Miss Teen. Which keeps me busy, too. I’m the one who picks up the phone, answers the e-mails, translates Crow’s shoulders, and makes sure everyone understands what she wants. I’m also learning the art of running a label. I’ve got extra-good at math recently. Understanding Crow’s finances is a lot harder than my Intro to Economics elective. What it basically comes down to, though, is that we owe Andy Elat a LOT of money.

The good side is that I get so much free fashion stuff now, I can’t even fit it all in my room. I keep some of it. A girl has to look good in this business. But the rest I give away to the charities that Edie supports to help Invisible Children return to normal life. They’ve already finished the new school. No need to name it after Henry. Instead, they named it after a friend of his, who died in the first raid.

Edie’s been to Uganda to see it. James and Grace looked after her when she visited. They’re back at home
now, helping their community as they’ve always done. It took James a while to get used to this blonde teenager from London trying to help out, too. But she found Henry for him, so he can forgive a lot of Edie-ness. I’m absolutely certain she didn’t do it for her application, but I bet the Harvard professors are going to be a lot more impressed with this than a video of Edie by a pool. She looks rubbish in a bikini, anyway.

She’s over in another corner, talking earnestly to Granny and the director of the V&A and no doubt getting them to sign her petition. She’s up to twenty thousand signatures now. She still looks as if she’s dressed for tea at an embassy and there’s nothing we can do to help her, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She still hasn’t decided about her bangs.

Jenny isn’t here. She really meant it when she said she was going to keep her head down after the awards ceremonies. She’s sick of parties, frocks, and photographs and just wants to get on quietly with her equivalency exam. She’s doing French homework tonight, I think.

Harry’s not here, either. It’s New York Fashion Week and he’s gone over there to do the music for a couple of the big designers. After Crow’s show, so many of the models raved about him that he’s got a bit of a waiting list and Mum has given up on him ever finishing his degree.
At least it means he gets to see more of Svetlana, which both of them seem pretty happy about.

Henry, on the other hand, is standing quietly in a corner, reading a book of poems and waiting for Crow to finish so he can escort her home. Where Crow goes, Henry goes. That was clear from the start.

It turns out Henry
was
that boy they’d heard about in one of the camps, who wrote poems. He didn’t talk, which was why no one knew who he was. Nobody knew if he
could
talk. But when they asked him if he was Henry Lamogi and told him how much his family wanted him back, he simply said yes, and he’s been talking ever since.

Bad stuff happens, but every now and again miracles can happen, too. (Although, admittedly, Edie helped. So did Andy Elat, with an emergency visa.) Life
can
be that kind.

Henry’s hand occasionally moves to touch a long, jagged scar that runs from his cheek to the back of his head. It’s the only visible sign of his experiences. Other than that, you’d assume he had always been the gentle student he is now. He’s moved into a new flat with Florence and Crow while he catches up with his exams. It’s hard to say who’s looking after whom.

He can see Crow’s tired and he’s itching to take her
away, but he won’t say anything until she’s ready. He’s just a quiet, steady presence in her life, making sure she’s OK.

I feel a movement behind us and realize that Mum has joined us. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

“What did Vivienne say?” I ask her.

“That the show was brilliant. But she also said it’s a tough business. Hard work. Lots of disappointments. She’s right. Are you sure you want it?”

Crow shrugs her shrug. She knows that if she wasn’t a designer, she’d go stark, staring bonkers. Thank goodness her dad understands.

I just laugh.

Me and Vivienne Westwood. Talking about the fashion business. La la la.

What You Can Do

I
f you want to show your compassion for children like Crow, Henry, and Victoria, there are people out there helping and there are things you can do. The charities that I support are www.oxfam.org and www.savethechildren.org, but there are many others that do a great job, too. So ask your family and teachers, go online, find out more, and do your part to make a difference. Check out the Invisible Children campaign on www.invisiblechildren.com. Together, we can make good things happen.

About the Author

S
ophia Bennett is a married mother of four from London who has wanted to be a writer since she was twelve years old. She has always been fascinated by those rare children who can combine talent and dedication to achieve greatness. Posy in
Ballet Shoes
is a favorite example. The fashion element in
Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings
is a long-standing passion for Sophia, but, like Nonie, she can’t draw. She continues to write about the fab, fashionable, and heartfelt: Look for
The Look
—her beautiful new story about a supermodel, her super-sister, and what each of them learns to see. Follow Sophia on Twitter @sophiabennett, and visit her website at www.threadsthebook.com.

Acknowledgments

S
itting down in my local library to write
Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings
—which was originally, in the UK, called
Threads
—I had to imagine myself in lots of different worlds. I’d like to thank all the fashion bloggers, children’s writing bloggers, the Invisible Children campaign, and bloggers about life in the Ugandan displacement camps who helped me get where I needed to be. And whoever invented WiFi.

Claire B. Schaeffer wrote a book called
Couture Sewing Techniques
. It was my couture bible and went with me everywhere (even though it’s quite heavy).

Lola Gostelow is one of those people who works out how to make life better for children caught up in disasters around the world. I’m lucky to know her, grateful for her advice, but anxious to stress that what I’ve written is partly fiction. Other people can describe the realities of life as a child soldier, displaced person, or refugee better than me.