Gemma Riley and the Fashion Fiasco Read online

  About Gemma Riley and the Fashion Fiasco

  She has a ginger cat, a sewing tote and plenty of imagination. Can Gemma Riley catch a thief and save the fashion day?

  Fashion is in Gemma Riley’s DNA. She lives with her grandmother Cara Bonafete, a famous fashion designer, and dreams of creating her own collection.

  But there’s big trouble at the House of Bonafete. The release of the Spring Collection is looming, Cara has had an accident and someone is stealing their Top Secret designs.

  For Seb Cat. The original Monsieur Dior.

  Contents

  About Gemma Riley and the Fashion Fiasco

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Glossary of Design and Fashion Terms

  How to Make a Friendship Bag with an Appliquéd Heart

  About Jules Van Mil

  Copyright

  Newsletter

  When you see this picture in the text, turn to page 307 to find out what the word or expression means.

  Chapter 1

  I have a theory. It’s best to listen to what your stomach tells you. It’s that moment when your tummy trembles with nerves and flickering butterflies. Something’s up and you know it.

  I snap the lid back on my drawing pen and listen. There it is again. A noise—not quite a thud, not quite a bang.

  My ginger sidekick, Monsieur Dior, sweeps his fluffy tail back and forth across the large white pattern-making table and knocks my Design Journal sideways. He jumps up and arches his back.

  ‘You’re right, Mr D,’ I say, stroking his soft fur and straightening his red and white bandana. ‘I heard something too.’

  ‘Meow, meow,’ he calls as his whiskers twitch.

  His jade-green eyes stare past the row of sewing machines towards the stairs. His tail waves slowly like a flag in a gentle breeze. The design area of a fashion house is a very busy place, but once everyone has left for the day, it’s quieter than a library. Right now, only a few of the design team are still here. Either way, it’s my favourite room in the whole building. Well, apart from my home on the top floor. I can’t wait for school to finish each day so I can get back to the House of Bonafete and Mr D.

  The clock above Maria’s pattern-making table says ten past five.

  ‘Maria, did you hear a noise just now?’ I ask.

  Maria looks up from her notebook. ‘No, bella. What sort of noise?’

  ‘A sort of bang. Do you know if Carlo’s still here?’ I say.

  ‘He might be,’ says Maria. ‘I know there were a lot of garments to cut out today. Perhaps he’s working late.’

  ‘Come on, Mr D. Let’s see if it was Carlo making that noise,’ I say.

  Mr D springs from the table and takes the lead, weaving around the steaming irons and down the stairs to the garment-cutting area.

  ‘Hi, it’s me, Gemma,’ I call as we reach the bottom of the long narrow staircase. ‘Carlo, are you here?’

  The cutting area is deserted. Four long tables of fabric are ready for tomorrow’s cutting schedule—two tables of sparkling purple crepe and two tables of patchwork denim which will soon become dresses and bomber jackets.

  My hiking boots squeak as I cross the glossy floor to the loading bay. The roller door is locked and both Carlo, our head cutter, and his red scooter have gone.

  ‘Look at all those rolls of fabric and boxes, Mr D,’ I say. ‘I bet they were delivered this afternoon. Drats! I wish we’d come down here straight after school. You know I love unpacking the sewing supplies.’

  Somewhere in the distance a car horn sounds. ‘Let’s go, Mr D. There’s no one here,’ I say. Mr Inquisitive leaps onto the table covered with purple crepe and sniffs the air. I lunge forward.

  ‘Holy snapping turtles! Mr Dior, are you crazy? Get off there right now. We’ll be in mega trouble.’

  He knows he’s banned from the cutting area, and standing on the fabric is totally pushing it. But Mr D is a highly opinionated ginger cat and he has no intention of listening to me. He races down the middle of the plush purple, leaving a trail of paw prints. This is way beyond bad.

  ‘Wait until Carlo sees that you’ve been on the fabric,’ I say as I shoo him off. He dives onto the floor and races around the corner.

  I follow him into the lunchroom. Cold air blows through an open window. Paper napkins have been scattered around the room in the breeze. That’s weird. If there’s one thing Carlo is particular about, it’s making sure windows and doors are locked properly at the end of the day.

  Mr D springs onto the windowsill. He purrs deeply as I stroke his back.

  ‘Listen, buddy, the cute-cat routine won’t work. You’re still in my bad books.’

  We poke our heads out the window and survey the alleyway behind the Bonafete building, looking left and right. But there’s nothing unusual to see. Blue dumpsters and dark-grey roller doors stretch into the distance.

  During the day, trucks rumble along the narrow back lane, delivering rolls of fabric and packages to the fashion houses. Scooter riders whiz down the alleyway as a short cut. The retro scooters with the white-wall tyres are my favourite—like the one Carlo rides.

  I try to close the window but it won’t budge. I tug harder. Suddenly the frame breaks free and bangs closed. The chunky metal handle catches the wrist of my magenta long-sleeve t-shirt and the thin fabric tears like tissue paper. Now there’s a gaping hole in my left sleeve the size of a tennis ball.

  ‘Drats and double drats,’ I say. Good thing I know how to fix this. I’ve been using a sewing machine since I was six years old. I still have my tiny purple Sew & Go machine up in my bedroom.

  Mr D paws at a bottle cap on the floor. It spins across the room and bounces off the skirting board. I straighten my glasses and scoop up the cap, and find it’s not a cap at all—it’s a heavy silver button in the shape of a star, and it’s beautiful. The shank on the back of the button—the little loop that attaches the button to the fabric—is the shape of a horseshoe. This is a very unusual button. It’s not off one of our designs. I slip it into the pocket of my shorts.

  ‘One for our button collection,’ I tell Mr D.

  Mr D meows and rubs his chunky body against my favourite tights.

  ‘All right, you’re forgiven this time. But no more jumping on the cutting tables,’ I tell him. ‘Come on, we’d better tell Mrs Threadway about this window.’

  Back up in the design area, Maria is still working at the pattern-making table and Mrs Threadway and Amanda are talking. It’s Mrs Threadway’s job to make sure all the clothes are made properly and finished on time. Amanda runs the stockroom where all the finished designs are kept. They’re constantly discussing things and often stay late. There’s always so much to do in the design room.

  Gina, our head machinist, loo
ks up from her sewing machine and gives me a wave. I wave back and sit down at my table to wait. Mrs Threadway and Amanda might be talking for ages, so I open my Design Journal and start to work on designs for the top-secret Spring and Tween ranges I’m planning. I’m good at waiting, but Mr D is not. He weaves around the legs of my stool.

  ‘We can’t just butt in,’ I tell him. ‘They’re having a conversation, so be patient.’

  Mrs Threadway leans forward and runs her finger down the production schedule taped to the wall.

  ‘Amanda, how many of the “Romance” jackets do we have in stock?’ she asks.

  ‘Only seven mediums,’ says Amanda, checking her paperwork. ‘They sold very quickly.’

  ‘And the skirts?’ says Mrs Threadway.

  ‘Unfortunately we still have forty. We may have to mark them down,’ she says.

  Mrs Threadway drums her fingers on her desk. ‘Hmm, that’s all we need right now. I don’t want to have to reduce the prices on our Winter Range before the cold weather even begins.’

  Amanda hugs her folder to her chest and whispers, ‘In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen the stockroom so full. A lot of the styles are just not selling.’

  The room is so quiet, it’s hard not to hear every word they’re saying.

  ‘Well,’ says Mrs Threadway, ‘it might be best to keep that information to yourself.’ She pats Amanda on the arm.

  Amanda tucks her long blonde hair behind her ears and perches on the edge of the desk.

  ‘Mrs Threadway,’ she says in a low voice, ‘is the House of Bonafete in some sort of trouble, you know, financially?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Sales are down for everyone in fashion at the moment,’ says Mrs Threadway, turning back to the spreadsheet on the wall. ‘I see you’re receiving the “Pony Club” jackets tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, but the stockroom’s already bulging,’ says Amanda. ‘Where will I put them? I’ll have to create more space. I’m happy to stay back and move all the coats downstairs to the cutting area.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to offer, and that’s something we may end up doing. But let’s talk about it in the morning,’ says Mrs Threadway. ‘I’m too tired to discuss this now.’

  I slide off my stool and head over to Mrs Threadway’s table. Amanda lifts a pile of dresses off a rack and drapes them over her arm.

  ‘Oh, hi, Gemma,’ Amanda says, looking surprised. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Want any help?’ I say.

  ‘Oh, no thanks. I can manage,’ she says. ‘The publicity and marketing department want garments for a photo shoot in the morning. I’ll drop them in on my way out. See you tomorrow.’ She turns away, struggling under the weight of the clothes.

  Mrs Threadway plops down into her leather chair and scribbles something in her diary. ‘The hours that girl puts in,’ she says, nodding in Amanda’s direction. ‘She’s one of the first to arrive and the last to leave each day. What would we do without her?’ Her gaze falls on my ripped sleeve. ‘Oh, what a shame. What happened there?’

  ‘The window was open in the lunchroom and I caught my sleeve on the handle trying to close it. I thought it was strange because I know it’s always supposed to be locked.’

  ‘That is strange,’ she says. ‘We never open that window.’

  ‘And it wasn’t open just a little bit. It was pushed all the way up,’ I say.

  Mrs Threadway leans back in her chair and calls out, ‘Gina, didn’t you say you found the window in the lunchroom open last week?’

  Gina turns off her sewing machine and hangs a velvet jacket on the garment rack.

  ‘Yes, last Tuesday,’ she says. ‘It must have been open all night because the lunchroom was freezing.’

  ‘Gemma, please make sure you tell Ralph,’ Mrs Threadway says. ‘He’ll want to know.’

  Ralph is officially the assistant designer at the House of Bonafete, but he does a million other jobs as well.

  Mrs Threadway picks up her handbag and pushes in her chair. She wraps her scarf loosely around her neck.

  ‘I’m off. See you in the morning,’ she says as she heads towards the stairs.

  Gina looks around and waves me over. We lean in, our noses almost touching.

  ‘I’ve started sewing your Chantilly lace dress. Tomorrow I’ll sew something from your top-secret Tween Range,’ she whispers.

  ‘Could you do the cargo pants first, please?’ I say. ‘The hot-pink ones?’

  ‘Sure,’ she says with a smile.

  ‘Top secret,’ I reply.

  She gives me a thumbs up. ‘See you tomorrow afternoon,’ she says as she disappears around the corner. I go back to drawing in my Design Journal while Mr D finds a tiny patch of late afternoon sun by the window. I draw some fabric friendship hearts for our sewing club at school. Everyone’s mad about them.

  The design studio is empty now except for Maria, Mr D and me. She stands at her pattern-making table and places some cardboard pattern pieces on a hook. Then she taps her table and makes me jump.

  ‘Well, that’s me finished for today. These other patterns can wait until the morning. So much to do, Gemma, always so much to do,’ she says.

  Slowly she pulls the bright yellow tape measure from around her neck, winds it around her fingers and drops it into a box beside her scissors. She brushes a few pieces of paper into the recycling bin and wipes down her table. Maria slips on her navy coat as she looks around the room. A rack of unfinished jackets stands alongside each sewing machine. Pattern pieces are stacked neatly on the table with a style number clearly written on each piece—on a sleeve, collar and pocket. Nothing’s out of place. One thing I’ve noticed, pattern-makers and machinists are extremely tidy people.

  ‘Call me old-fashioned,’ she says, ‘but I like to make sure everything’s put away before I leave.’

  I remember the silver button and fish it out of my pocket, dropping it in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Maria, Mr D found this on the floor downstairs,’ I say. ‘Is it one of ours?’

  ‘Oh, that is a lovely button, but no,’ she says.

  ‘I wonder where it came from?’ I say.

  ‘It looks like a jacket button to me,’ she says, leaning over to get a better look. Her gaze falls on my journal. ‘What’s that you’re working on?’

  I swing the journal around for Maria to see.

  ‘Something new for the sewing club,’ I say. ‘What do you think? I want to have these ready for our club meeting on Wednesday.’

  Maria studies my sketches.

  ‘What are you going to do with these lovely shapes?’ she asks.

  ‘We’re going to stitch hearts then swap a heart with a friend. I’ve sewn one onto a friendship cushion already, but sewing a cushion is a bit tricky, so we’re going to make a friendship bag instead and attach our hearts to them,’ I say. ‘Cool, hey?’

  ‘Very cool,’ says Maria with a smile. ‘This one,’ she adds, pointing to my drawing of a heart with red flowers, ‘is my favourite. So beautiful.’

  ‘That’s the one I love too,’ I say.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ says Maria. ‘See you after school tomorrow,’ she calls as she disappears between the racks of garment patterns.

  That’s when I hear raised voices. I stop and listen carefully. Yes, definitely an argument. There’s no mistaking who it is—Cara Bonafete, my grandmother, the owner of the House of Bonafete, and Mr Bankmore, the finance manager for Cara’s fashion business.

  I know she’s a famous fashion designer and my grandmother, but she’s always just been Cara to me. My friends at school call their grandmothers Gran, Grandma, Granny, Nana or Nonna. I called Cara Grandma once when I was very little, and I remember she said to me, ‘No, Rosebud. My name is Cara and I don’t wish to be called anything else.’ So that was that.

  I’m po
sitive the shouting is coming from Mr Bankmore’s office.

  ‘Come on, Mr D,’ I whisper. ‘It’s time to investigate.’

  I slip my journal in between some rolls of red silk under the pattern-making table. Red’s my hiding colour. Last birthday, Maria gave me a red heart-shaped jewellery box with a secret compartment in the lid. That’s where I got the idea. Now I always use something red to hide my treasures in—red fabric, a red cushion, even my red fluffy slippers. I’ll come back for my journal later.

  Mr D trots beside me as we cut through Cara’s office and down the long corridor towards the reception area. We stop and peek around the corner. There’s no one in reception. The coast is clear.

  Bang! If I’m not mistaken, something just hit the floor in Mr Bankmore’s office. Maybe a book or some documents. Watch out, Mr Bankmore. These angry conversations have been going on for weeks now. They always seem to happen at the end of the day when everyone has gone.

  I bet Cara’s striding around Mr Bankmore’s office right now in her patent leather high heels, waving her arms about like an orchestra conductor as she tosses her thick wavy hair off her shoulders. Poor Mr Bankmore. What chance does he have? He’ll be trying to stay calm while his face grows redder and redder. Mr D looks up at me and meows. We both know how dramatic Cara can be. She’s not your average grandmother. She’s not your average anything.

  This argument’s the worst yet. I’ve never heard Mr Bankmore so angry.

  ‘Will you sit down and listen for once?’ he shouts.

  ‘I will not sit down and I am listening,’ Cara fires back.

  ‘I don’t believe you are, Cara. I’m simply giving you the facts,’ Mr Bankmore yells.

  Mr D weaves around my legs. ‘I know. They’re really going for it, big time,’ I whisper. I run my hand through his ginger and white fur and retie the knot in his bandana. His heartbeat races, just like mine. We slide around the corner, tiptoeing along the white glossy tiles closer to the shouting. Mr Bankmore’s door is closed and a Do Not Disturb, Meeting in Progress sign dangles from the doorknob. To be honest, they’re so loud I can’t see the point of the closed door or the sign. Why is there never a sign that says, Do Not Disturb, Argument in Progress?