Free Sequins, Secrets, and Silver Linings by Sophia Bennett Page B

workspace and materials.
    Which only shows how much I know.

Chapter 14
    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 Saint 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 are in fashion wonderland and won’t be moved. Rebecca’s stand is not so much a stall as the perfect walk-in closet, 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 street 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 awful film is the only thing that’s made me halfway happy recently. Count yourself lucky it’s shoes, not booze! 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 never seen the famous red soles up close before. They’re very covetable. If he ever makes a flat, cheap, boot version, with laces, I’ll be sorely tempted.

    I get home dying to tell everyone about the shoes, and Crow’s stuff selling out at the stall, but the chance doesn’t come. I find Mum in the kitchen looking all dithery and trying to remember where she’s stored the bone china teacups. This can only mean one thing—and it’s more momentous than Louboutins.
    Granny has arrived.
    I head gingerly for the sitting room and poke my head around the door.
    Granny is sitting in the largest armchair with her back to the window and the light streaming through her perfect coiffure. Her posture is straight as a ruler, her ankles crossed. Her expression, as usual, is severe.
    “I’m staying,” she says, “at the Ritz. At least it has a view of the park. I notice my room here has been commandeered.”
    “Hi, Granny. Good to see you.”
    “What are you wearing, child? You look like a Brillo pad.”
    I’m in a silver net mini that Jenny brought back from LA, worn over a gray T-shirt dress, with a silver flower in my hair. It could have been a lot worse. Granny wouldn’t have liked the hot pants at all.
    “Come and give me a kiss.”
    I kiss her powdered cheek, with its signature smell of Arpège. Granny, I have to say, is looking good, as usual. She has first-class cheekbones, the Chatham speedy metabolism—so no spare fat—an expensive hairdresser, and an innate knowledge of what suits her. Today she’s in a tailored purple cotton dress accessorized with a