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‘And Crow was one?’

‘Yes. That's why her parents sent her here as soon as they could. Florence doesn't like to talk about it in front of Crow. The memories, you know . . . ’

‘But now? You said things
were
really bad. Are they better?’

Edie frowns. ‘Not completely. They're having peace talks, but the rebels still haven't given in. I've been
checking. Look.’ She turns her head back to her screen. ‘Thousands of people are still too scared to return to their villages. Or they don't have villages to return to. They're living in camps in tiny huts all packed together, in fear of bandits. And James and Grace, Crow's parents, are trying to help them. James is one of the few qualified teachers. He's trying to help the children learn something, even without books and desks and blackboards. But he's in danger too. So Crow can't go back. You see? Or she could, but from where he's sitting how could a life in Kensington possibly be worse than a life in a camp? As far as he's concerned, she's one of the lucky ones. If things don't get better, he'll send Victoria when she's old enough.’

It's hard to imagine. I mean, I know this sort of thing is always happening somewhere in the world, but it's hard to imagine it affecting people I know. It's hard to picture that tall, elegant man in the photograph deciding to send his daughters to a country where he can't see them grow up. It's hard to think of Crow packing up her things every afternoon and walking for miles, with only other children for company. In London, you'd probably be arrested. And it's impossible to imagine what would have happened if the rebels had got her. It is for me, anyway. Edie seems to have imagined it all.

‘What are you doing now?’

Edie's rattling away at her computer, her fingers flying over the keys.

‘I'm setting up some new links on my website. You know I've got all that stuff about recycling and fresh water for villages?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I'm going to add some pages about Invisible Children. Those are all the ones who've been displaced by this war. Boys and girls with no proper homes, no proper education. Lots of them have been split up from their families. There's this campaign to help them. I'd never heard about it before. And
I'm
actually interested in this stuff. So it obviously needs lots more publicity.’

‘Edie, I hate to say this, but how many people look at your website?’

‘About two thousand a week.’

‘Oh? Really?’

Edie rarely mentions her website. She's been running it for a year now, between homework, chess, orchestra and the other stuff. As it's about water and recycling, it's not exactly YouTube for entertainment value. I was expecting her to say she gets about four visitors and I was going to explain, kindly, that putting links on her website wasn't really going to make a huge amount of difference. But two thousand sounds quite impressive.

‘Yes, really. They like my blog, mostly. I talk about what I'm up to. What you're wearing, obviously. School stuff. And what I really care about and what I think we should do about it. I get loads of comments and questions. Lots of other bloggers point to me now. Look.’

We spend the next half hour skipping backwards and forwards across links in the internet, revealing a network of Edies across Europe and America and Africa, all trying to change the world and talking to each other about it. I had no idea. I'm quite glad to realise she's not alone, because obviously she doesn't get a huge amount of sense out of me on most of these subjects. Just as I find her a bit limited on the history of punk or the advisability of the gladiator sandal.

‘Hang on a minute!’ It's just sunk in. ‘Do you tell two thousand people a week what I'm
wearing?’

‘Yes,’ Edie says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. ‘You don't mind, do you? Some of them are quite interested.’

I 
wake up next morning and my brain is aching. First, there's the thought that the little girl who likes to wear fairy wings was nearly captured by rebels and made into a soldier or a slave. And the worst thing that's ever happened to me was forgetting to wear knickers to games when I was nine. (Actually, that was pretty bad, but I still don't think it's up there against the whole rebel army scenario.)

Second, there's the memory of all those incredible outfits that Crow's been busy designing for the last couple of years. All tucked away in that tiny, overcrowded box room.

Third, there's the picture that Jenny's just texted me of herself at the LA premiere
of Kid Code
. They put her in a YELLOW TROUSER SUIT. No words come. Things can't possibly get any worse. What have they got in mind for her in Tokyo? A gold bikini?

Fourth, and worst, I have to think of something clever
to wear this afternoon, because I'm about to be surrounded by some of the coolest dressers on the planet and I now know that Edie is going to describe me to TWO THOUSAND STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET. Which is pretty freaky.

It's Moaning Zoe's degree show at St Martins. Harry's invited me for company and sweetly, Skye – who's also graduating – has invited Crow. I'm in no fit mental state to go, but I have to, to support Harry. Something bad is going on with Moaning Zoe and he may need my help. First, though: what to wear.

It takes two hours and my bed starts to look like something out of ‘The Princess and the Pea’ under all the discarded ideas. Eventually, I opt for my Converses, black sequinned leggings, a white school shirt (which is fine as long as you NEVER wear a white shirt to school, obviously), Mum's Galliano waistcoat that I'm not allowed to borrow on PAIN OF DEATH and a necklace I've made out of Haribos. Edible art. Perfect if things get really stressful.

Harry goes for jeans, a loose linen shirt with several rips in it and flip-flops, and looks great, if somewhat casual.

Things don't start well.

It takes a while to find Zoe. Eventually I spot her in a dark corner of a room lit by colourful but not very effective neon tubes. She's snogging a boy in a tailored jacket,
chains and leather jeans. I watch in disgust, waiting for one of them to look up, but they don't. They just keep at it. Eventually, they reach Discovery Channel proportions of snoggery and I am simply fascinated. How do they breathe, for example? How do they get their noses to fit so close together? And how do they manage not to get their facial piercings caught on each other?

After what seems like hours, Harry comes over and stands beside me, thoughtfully.

‘I think she's trying to tell you something,’ I say.

‘I'd noticed.’

‘Anyone you know?’

‘Her name's Zoe. She used to be my girlfriend.’

I giggle. ‘No, I meant him.’

‘His name's Sven and he's Svedish. Look, this is his stuff over here.’

Harry leads me over to a display of what looks like fisherman's netting, complete with fish, seaweed and abandoned bits of rubbish.

‘It's supposed to be a searing comment on global pollution. Particularly of the high seas. Maybe Sven's ancestors were Vikings.’

‘And people are supposed to make clothes out of it? I can't exactly see Ralph Lauren going for it. Or Prada.’

‘I think Sven's a conceptual artist, really,’ Harry muses. ‘He'll be fine with Zoe.’

We look across at Zoe's masterpieces, which are lined up nearby. They appear to be made out of melted and
stretched water bottles, complete with their old labels. In addition to looking highly uncomfortable and sweat-inducing, they are also see-through. I've never been convinced by Zoe as a designer and from what I've seen this evening I guess Harry was more attracted by her snogging skills. But he doesn't seem too distraught that he won't be on the receiving end of them any more.

Zoe breaks for air and looks across at us.

‘Oh, hi Harry,’ she says, as if she's just noticed him. ‘Hi . . .’

She and Harry have been going out for five months, which is not long enough for her to have registered my name. Sven lowers his mouth back onto hers for more resuscitation. Harry gives them a friendly wave.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask, reaching up to put a sisterly arm around his waist.

Harry nods convincingly.

‘She was a bit clingy. Like some of her textiles. And besides, I'm in love.’

I goggle. This is superfast.

‘Who? Not Skye?’

He gives me his pitying look.

‘No-ooo,’ he says, as if addressing a very small, stupid child. ‘Her picture's all over my room, dummy.’

‘Oh, not Svetlana!’

‘And why not?’

‘Hmm. Let me think. Two reasons. She's a SUPERMODEL. And her father's a Russian BILLIONAIRE.’

‘And your point is?’

My brother can be very dim sometimes.

‘Well, Harry, you're lovely and everything and you're my brother and I adore you. But . . . ’

‘But what?’

‘She's a SUPERMODEL. And her father's a BILLIONAIRE.’

‘I'm sure she's lovely underneath.’

‘She's lovely on top. That's the point. She's probably already got a boyfriend. Several.’

‘She hasn't. I checked. Crow thinks it's a good idea.’

‘Crow does?’

‘Yeah. You know she's always over to look at your picture books?’ I treat Harry's reference to my costume library with the contempt it deserves, and ignore it. ‘Well, she popped into my room one day while you were busy texting your friends. She was asking me all about the photo montage and I explained Svetlana was my future girlfriend and she thought it was great. She obviously doesn't find me quite as hideous as some relatives I could mention.’

‘She's twelve. She probably thinks Barbie's a good idea.’

Harry narrows his eyes at me and I decide it's time to change the subject.

‘Shall we go and find her? Where will Skye be?’

Harry guides me past all sorts of whacky creations – some of which are so weird they defy definition and
others are so gorgeous I want to spend all evening staring at them.

Skye is in the middle of a throng of people. The student-types look as though they've just landed from outer-space, while their friends and parents look like they've popped in from the office. Skye has won the top textiles prize so everyone wants to be seen with her. Today, her hair is Schiapparelli pink with orange streaks. She's wearing one of Crow's new silk sculpture-dresses and vintage Vivienne Westwood platforms.

Crow is busy admiring the new experimental materials that got Skye her prize. She does not look like a girl who spent her nights five years ago avoiding being kidnapped by rebel soldiers. You'd think she was born in fashion school. She's wearing gold dungarees with a purple poncho and seems more at home here than half the students who are clustering around prize-girl.

‘Look at this,’ she says, in her low, quiet way. For Crow, she sounds pretty excited.

All Skye's designs have been made into clothes for crash-test dummies. Crow's pointing at a mini-dress. The fabric is silver and stiff as a thick sheet of paper, or leather, with thicker veins running through it. In some places there are holes that give it a lacy effect. It's strong and yet delicate. It would look good combined with fine lace, cotton or tough leather. It would look good if it was simply framed and hung on a wall.

‘Wow.’ Sometimes my fashion vocabulary is a bit
limited. But ‘Wow’ seems to cover it.

Skye stands beside me, pink curls bobbing.

‘Glad you like it. It's a process I've developed using silk and rubber. It's such a pain to do, but I love the effect. Marc Jacobs was in earlier on and he really liked it.’

‘Wow.’

‘We need to talk about your friend, though,’ says Skye, looking as serious as anyone can in pink hair and platforms. ‘I know someone who runs a stand in Portobello and Crow's dresses are perfect for her. I've already had three people ask me tonight where I got this one.’

I nod dumbly. What I'm thinking is ‘Wow’. The Portobello Road market in Notting Hill, near Crow's school, is the sort of place where top fashion people go to find unusual pieces. Kate Moss shops there. Mum shops there. It may be nearby, but it's SO not the school bazaar.

‘And she needs more space to work. She keeps telling me she can't make more things because there's nowhere to put them.’

‘I'm on to that,’ I say, glad that I can finally sound organised and purposeful.

I'm hoping Skye will say, ‘Wow’, but she doesn't. She just says, ‘Good’. She doesn't seem in the least surprised – as if she assumed that my job is to sort out all Crow's logistical problems. I feel slightly hurt to be so taken for granted and slightly proud that I seem so competent. Mum would be shocked. I look down at myself just to check that I haven't turned into Edie overnight, but no,
Edie wouldn't be seen dead in sequinned leggings.

We've promised Crow a lift home. When it's time to go, Harry pauses to vandalise one of the walls. At least, I catch him in the act of taking down a poster.

‘What are you DOING?’ I ask, sounding like Mum.

‘Oh, it's OK, they've got loads,’ he says. ‘I have to have it. Look.’

I look. It's a poster for a design competition in honour of Yves Saint Laurent. He died recently and Mum dressed in black for days afterwards. I marked the moment with a series of orange and pink tribute outfits. Very YSL. Needless to say, Mum's black outfits included bits of actual Saint Laurent, which I thought was showing off, frankly.