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I suppose it must be six minutes, but what happens next feels like six totally fabulous, totally action-packed hours. Or possibly days. Each outfit is a beautiful story. The music carries the models along. The bank of photographers provides a light show all of its own. Behind the scenes, we all rush about like mad things. As each model comes off, she sticks her arms up in the air and her dresser gets busy, whipping clothes off, whipping them on; everyone's adjusting hair, retouching makeup, gesticulating frantically at me, desperately trying to ensure that we don't send one of the goddesses out in her bra.

Beyond the catwalk, I can hear lots of whirring and popping from photographers’ cameras over the sound of Harry's music, but I haven't got time to worry about what the audience are thinking. I'm just checking that we're doing justice to Crow's outfits. So far so good. At least nobody's collapsed on the catwalk.

And then suddenly Svetlana is standing in front of me
in the Swan-Lite, looking magnificent. It's almost possible to imagine that Crow deliberately designed it this short to show off her truly incredible legs. She stoops to give Crow a quick gold-powder kiss and then she's off down the catwalk. And we can hear something else over Harry's David Bowie finale.

It sounds like raindrops on a tin roof.

It's clapping.

They're standing and clapping. All of them. Granny and Yvette and Florence and the Japanese editor and TWO of my favourite designers and three It-girls and as many PRs as you can humanly fit in the space. And they really love it. This isn't just ‘Didn't the kid from Africa do a nice job after all?’ clapping, this is ‘Wow – seriously wow!’ clapping.

The other models come back in to join Svetlana and there is a general call for Crow, but at first no joy. I knew this would happen. Her delight was in dreaming up these outfits, not showing off beside them. However, I've planned for this eventuality. I practically carry her on to the catwalk and the models grab at her hands, pulling her forward, forcing her to stand there and take her bow.

I lurk behind everyone, peering into the blackness near the back. At last I spot Edie. I can see that beside her are the faces from the photographs, looking older, but as elegant as ever: James and Grace Lamogi. Crow, I realise, is the image of her father. He's standing stock still, not
smiling, not clapping, but I know his daughter well enough to understand that he's drinking in every moment and I have a feeling he might be verging on a tingle of pride.

I watch Crow's shoulders in front of me. They are hunched in shy, embarrassed ‘aw shucks’ acknowledgement of the standing ovation. Then I see them straighten and stiffen. Suddenly her whole body is rigid. She's staring out across the audience and I assume she's spotted her parents. I look again and then I notice what she has seen.

James and Grace Lamogi are not alone. There's another figure standing next to them. He's staring intently at Crow, as if nothing in the world will ever break the connection. He's wearing a satchel just like the one Crow has always worn. He isn't smiling either. He's asking Crow something with his eyes.

Suddenly she leaps off the catwalk and flies across the room. How she gets there, across the seats and bodies and photographers’ cameras and equipment, I'll never know. But it takes her seconds. She reaches Henry and I can hear her shriek above the rest of the commotion in the room, which is deafening.

She throws her arms around him and hugs him to her with five years’ worth of hugs. Whatever it was he was asking her with his eyes, her answer is yes. Their faces are streaked with tears.

At this moment, the catwalk lights go down and are
reduced to a single spot, shining on the place where Crow was standing. The audience goes quiet. Perfect timing. NOT. There are calls throughout the audience for Crow to come back on stage. But I know she won't. We are just a background now. She's found her brother. Someone else will have to round off the show.

I step round Svetlana and into the spotlight. Strangely, my feeling of terror has gone. I think what I'm feeling is euphoria. It's like drugs, but without the rehab. Whatever it is, it makes what I'm about to do feel pretty easy.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ I say. Lots of cheers. I make sure I thank Skye and all the models and all our helpers and Andy and Amanda. Yup, turns out I could be good at this.

‘Some of you may know,’ I finish, ‘that Crow has been waiting for her big brother to come home for some time. Big brothers are important people . . .’ I suddenly remember Harry and give him a huge wave. He grins and waves back. ‘Look in your goodie bags. Go to the website. Pledge some money. Sign the petition. Tell everybody about the Invisible Children so they can all go home.’

There's a final wave of clapping as people start reaching for their programmes and goodie bags and scraping their chairs. Then the door is opened and Edie makes sure that Crow and Henry and her family are the first to disappear. Which leaves me hanging around for the next two hours answering questions, making sure the clothes
are put away safely, thanking the models again, being air-kissed a lot by excited fashion people, accepting flowers, giving directions to the after-show party, making decisions and generally doing my job.

W 
hen Andy Elat puts up favoured guests in London, he doesn't do it at the nearest airport hotel. Oh no. He does it at his favourite suite at the Dorchester, popular with rock gods and movie stars. The Lamogis have it for a few days. Hollywood's Hottest Couple are due in a fortnight.

We're in the suite admiring the décor. Actually, we're not. We're bitching about the décor, which is too Art Deco for us minimalist London types and too grand for the Lamogis.

It's Sunday. Tonight, we're here to watch the Oscars on one of the suite's massive, oversize TVs.
Kid Code
is up for three and despite the fact that Joe-we-hate-him-Yule is nominated for one of them, Jenny is so excited she doesn't know what to do with herself.

The producers invited her to LA for all the parties and hoopla, but she couldn't face it. The prospect of spending
several days trying to avoid Joe and Sigrid was her idea of hell, but she still wanted to experience the thing vicariously, from thousands of miles away. We, of course, are happy to keep her company. Oscars are fashion heaven. I require no encouragement to be glued to the screen.

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 Jenny and Crow.

The stars start to arrive and the red-carpet presenters get out amongst them, asking questions about what they're wearing, 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 Hottest Female is one exception, but in a
good way. I expect we'll see her in all the magazines next week. She's gone for a vintage Saint Laurent tuxedo and trousers, which look completely fabulous on her and get her twenty trillion fashion points for being slightly daring and honouring 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
Kid Code
and an arthouse 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. Natalie Portman 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 realise 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 ‘V's. 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 Presenter. ‘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 favourite movie star, but she's a perfect clothes horse 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 called 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 fortnight by now and it feels like a year.

‘My! I'm LIKING the LOOK,’ Female Presenter 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.

I 
t's September. We're standing in the costume section of the V&A. I'm beside Crow, who's wearing painted silk dungarees and a tee-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 customised 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 towards 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. At least she had the decency to get it cleaned. The curator has stood the mannequin on a red carpet and put fake movie lights all round the case so there's more than a hint of Oscar about the thing.