Free Threads by Sophia Bennett Page A

‘I could try. It can't make it any worse.’
    ‘So what was it like?’ I have to know. ‘Before you turned to jelly, I mean? When he . . . ’
    There's a faraway look in her eyes.
    ‘Lovely,’ she breathes. She pauses for a long time to find the perfect description of this mega-event. ‘He'd been eating Mentos, so his breath was a bit toothpasty. But other than that, really lovely.’
    MENTOS?
    I'm not sure I'll be reading any romantic fiction by Jenny Merritt, but I get the general idea.
    We sit for a while, not talking. Then, gradually, I start picturing Jenny on that red carpet again and my skin goes goose-bumpy.
    ‘So what are they making you wear?’
    ‘Nothing.’ She giggles. ‘Well, they're not making me wear nothing , obviously. They just don't care any more. I think they've given up on me.’
    ‘Fantastic! We're free! What are you going to do?’
    There's a gleam in her eye.
    ‘What do you think?’
    I get the impression I'm supposed to know the answer to this one. But there are so many designers out there, I haven't got a clue.

    ‘Go to Selfridges?’
    ‘No, dummy. Isn't it obvious? Crow. Ever since I saw her drawings, I've been planning it. I mean, she can dress me up as a cucumber for all I care. It can't be any worse than what I've been through. But when I saw those designs in her workroom . . . Yummy! I think she can make me something really amazing. It's my contribution to helping her. My proper one.’
    I give her a big smile and she sits back looking very pleased with herself. However, I can't help feeling that simply wearing one of Crow's dresses doesn't exactly measure up with teaching her to read or setting her up with workspace and materials.
    Which only shows how much I know.

I  t starts with the shoes.
    We're in Portobello Market, admiring the stand that's now selling Crow's skirts and dresses, thanks to Skye. Crow's been sending the stuff here for a few weeks and we've come to gawp at it, but we're out of luck.
    ‘Sorry, loves,’ says Rebecca, the stand owner, who's in skinny jeans and a peasant tunic that I suspect cost the price of a small car, ‘I sold out this morning. I have a waiting list for her stock. Word's got around. I've got models who want it. Design students. Party girls. You couldn't get her to speed up production, could you?’
    Rebecca seems to imagine that Crow has a roomful of people busy making up her designs. As it happens, she's made friends with some of Skye's old crowd from St Martins and they do come and help occasionally, but mostly it's just the twelve-year-old and her little sewing machine. I'm amazed she makes as much as she does.
    Edie is itching to get home again, but Jenny and I arein fashion wonderland and won't be moved. Rebecca's stand is not so much a stall as the perfect walk-in wardrobe, crammed full of vintage pieces and little one-offs by new designers. It's obviously aimed at young people with lots of parties to go to and sackfuls of money. It's all very beautiful, but the prices are eye-popping. I had no idea things from a market could ever possibly cost so much. I'm just reeling at the price of a teeny-weeny frilly top when Jenny points at a pair of vintage silver Christian Louboutin heels and gets out her wallet.
    ‘You are joking?’ I say.
    ‘They're my size,’ Jenny answers defensively. ‘Not many are.’
    ‘But they're over FOUR HUNDRED pounds! For old shoes that someone else's bunions have worn!’
    ‘And they're too high!’ Edie splutters. ‘You'll fall over.’
    ‘They're lovely,’ she retorts. ‘Honestly, Nonie, spending some of the money from this godawful film is the only thing that's made me halfway happy recently. Count yourself lucky it's not gin. And actually I'm very good in stilettos. They make my legs look longer.’
    Edie and I shrug at each other. It's Jenny's money and if her mother lets her spend it, we can't stop her. Plus, it's kind of cool to have a friend who owns a pair of Christian Louboutins. I've