Gemma Riley and the Fashion Fiasco Read online

  ‘I do not plan to ruin my own company,’ Cara bellows.

  Mr D springs into my arms. His whiskers twitch. Oh no, Cara’s in full-blown attack mode. This is not good. I adjust my glasses. Anything could happen.

  ‘So you’d better listen to me,’ Cara screeches. ‘I want those fabrics in the range. The House of Bonafete uses the best silks, the best trims, the best of everything. I will not work with rubbish!’

  I hope the customers downstairs in the store can’t hear the shouting. The Bonafete boutique is at the front of the building, right below the reception area and Mr Bankmore’s office.

  Mr Bankmore’s voice becomes louder, if that’s possible. ‘Have you even looked at the recent sales figures? No one is buying the House of Bonafete designs anymore. You can’t stick your head in the sand any longer, Cara. Something has to change. Your designs are out of date.’

  There’s a long pause in the shouting. I cradle Mr D in my arms, hoping the office door doesn’t fly open. We don’t want to be caught eavesdropping.

  ‘Out of date,’ Cara hisses. Her voice has become dangerously quiet. That’s scarier than the shouting. ‘Are you suggesting my designs are the problem? Is that what you’re saying?’

  This time the pause is even longer. Oh no. I hope Mr Bankmore’s not about to say what I think he’s about to say. Cara will explode. We’re talking volcanic eruption here.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Bankmore says finally. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. But no one wants to tell you the truth because they’re too scared of how you’ll react.’

  Mr D meows softly and looks over my shoulder. A shadow falls across the wall as someone comes up beside me, and I know it’s Ralph. Who else would be here so late in the day? Besides, if Cara’s at work, Ralph Wild is too. He’s been her loyal assistant designer for twenty-five years. Twenty-five years! Now, that’s a lot of assisting, if you ask me.

  ‘I could hear them from my office,’ he whispers. ‘It doesn’t sound good, does it?’

  ‘Cara’s shouting about the fabric she wants to buy. Mr Bankmore is going on about how Cara’s designs aren’t selling. Things are even worse than I thought,’ I whisper back.

  There’s nothing we can do but listen.

  ‘Cara, be reasonable. I’ve explained this over and over. We simply don’t have the money. The business cannot afford these extreme expenses. The bank won’t provide any more funds.’

  ‘Funds, funds, funds!’ she yells. ‘That’s all I ever hear from you. I’m about fashion. Besides, I want my Spring Collection to be spectacular—a celebration, darling, of my fifty years in the fashion industry. I want everyone to see that the House of Bonafete is on trend and still a fashion leader.’

  On trend. Still a fashion leader. Holy snapping turtles! She must be joking. I might be a kid, but I can figure out what’s going on. Our sales are way down and I think I know why. But how does anyone tell Cara her designs are, well, a bit old-fashioned? And that the House of Bonafete needs a totally new look? Cara needs to make clothes not just for grown-ups but for kids too. The truth is, I don’t think Cara wants to listen to what Mr Bankmore is telling her.

  I reach for my heart-shaped locket and rub the smooth silver shape between my fingers. I always do this when I’m a bit nervous or unsure about something. Usually it’s over simple things like whether I should get the vanilla or the strawberry choc-top at the movies, or what I would like for my birthday. But I have a habit of twisting my locket when more complicated things happen, too. Mr Bankmore and Cara’s arguments are definitely in the complicated category.

  I trace the letter G on the front of my locket with the tip of my finger. My lucky locket, that’s what I call it. Everyone thinks the G’s for Gemma, but it’s not. It’s for Gillian, which was my mother’s name. Cara gave the locket to my mother on her eighth birthday. And then Cara gave it to me. Even though I don’t remember my mother or my father, I love the locket. My parents died when I was a baby. They were on a ski trip, and Cara had come too to look after me while they were out skiing. She said she was standing at the hotel window rocking me to sleep when the avalanche rushed down the mountain. Ever since, it’s just been Cara and me, and Monsieur Dior.

  My locket might be lucky, but I know we’ll need more than luck to sort out what’s happening to my grandmother’s fashion business.

  ‘Come on. We’ve heard enough,’ Ralph says. ‘Let’s go to Bella Aroma and have a pastry. They’ll be arguing for at least another half an hour. But grab your jacket, it’s cold outside.’

  Mr D wriggles.

  ‘He’s heard enough too,’ I say. ‘I’ll take Mr D upstairs to the apartment and meet you out the front.’

  Chapter 2

  I push open the heavy glass door of the café. The spicy smell of cinnamon drifts through the air. Tony, the owner, waves at us. Lucky for us my favourite table is empty. That’s when I see my best friend in the whole world, Hannah Cross, walk past our window with her mum. Now, there’s a smart girl.

  She came straight up to me on the first day of year two. I’d twisted my ankle playing soccer and was sitting in the playground with my foot wrapped in an orange bandage.

  ‘I’m Hannah Josephine Cross,’ she said, ‘and I’m going to be a doctor when I grow up.’ She pointed at my ankle. ‘Is that a real sprain, or are you faking it? You know, to try and get out of swimming in the freezing pool this afternoon?’

  I was speechless, and I’m not speechless very often. We’ve been best friends ever since.

  Hannah is on her way to the dentist. She passed me a note in maths today—a drawing that was supposed to be of her in the dentist’s chair having her teeth checked. It looked like a map of Spain to me. Hannah is not a drawer.

  We wave madly. Hannah stops and quickly ties her dark curly hair back into a ponytail. She pulls a funny face and points to her teeth. She does the under-the-chin four-fingers wiggle wave and I do the same. She knows that means we’ll call each other later.

  ‘What would you like?’ asks Ralph as Tony comes over to take our order.

  I rest my elbows on the table.

  ‘Why do you always ask me what I’d like?’ I say. ‘I order the same thing every time.’

  He leans back in his chair. ‘Well, you might change your mind one day. I never like to assume anything. Assuming and knowing are too different things, Gem.’

  Ralph’s full of valuable advice. I’ll write that down in my journal on the Useful Information page—never assume.

  ‘I’d like a hot chocolate and an almond croissant, please,’ I say.

  ‘And my usual coffee and an apple turnover, thanks, Tony.’

  Ralph checks his messages. I stare out the French window, past the liquidambar trees and across The Avenue to the House of Bonafete building. I love the pale grey walls and the black trim around the doorframe—definitely elegant. Above the front door is a big gold B. In the huge display windows giant chess pieces surround tall mannequins dressed in black or white—coats, dresses, boots, bags and scarves. I stare up at our home on the top floor. My bedroom windows and the corner balcony glow a soft yellow in the late afternoon light. In the morning, Cara and I live in a world of sunlight and clouds. At night, the twinkling lights of the city sparkle around us and it looks like fairyland.

  Cara says visitors from all over the world soak up the atmosphere of The Avenue. Both sides of the street are lined with beautiful stores—cafés, restaurants, bookshops, and clothing boutiques with shoes and accessories. Cara calls it the stylish end of town. Across the road, two women wearing boots stop to look at the Bonafete window then walk on. High above The Avenue, the tips of the branches touch, making a leafy canopy that runs the length of the street. The leaves have turned tangerine and copper, and as I watch, a cool autumn breeze sends them spinning down the footpath. Soon the trees will be completely bare.

  When you’re a fashion designer your year
is all mixed up. The House of Bonafete is run by the fashion calendar, not a regular calendar. Take the Spring Collection. Clothes sold in the shops in spring are designed in autumn and made in winter. And in winter, when it’s freezing cold outside, we’re choosing summer fabrics and designing summer clothes. Models stand shivering in flimsy sample designs called toiles while Maria and Cara perfect the fit of the garment.

  Cara will tell Maria she wants more volume here in the skirt, less there in the sleeve, to pivot this dart away, and create a panel line down the front of the dress. When they’re working on a design it’s like hearing another language altogether. Fortunately, I speak pattern-making fluently, so I understand what they’re talking about, or disagreeing about.

  I’m thinking about how crazy things can seem in a fashion house when Tony arrives with our food and drinks and Ralph puts down his phone.

  ‘Thanks, Tony,’ he says, taking a sip of his coffee. I blow on my hot chocolate and take a bite of my almond croissant. Yum.

  Ralph turns to me. ‘By the way,’ he says, ‘your lace dresses are now finished and hanging on the rack in my office. They look fabulous. The cut is perfect.’ He makes an O shape with his finger and thumb.

  A zing of excitement tingles in my stomach. If the cut is perfect, the designs are perfect.

  ‘And more exciting news,’ says Ralph. ‘Gina’s sewing more of your Tween Range.’

  ‘I know, she just told me. She won’t say anything to Cara, will she?’ I say. ‘I mean, I’d like my Spring and Tween ranges to be a complete surprise.’

  ‘Definitely not! Gina’s on our team,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t wait to see the look on Cara’s face when I show her my designs,’ I say.

  ‘She’ll be so proud of you, Gem,’ says Ralph.

  I love designing clothes and sewing more than anything else in the world. Cara says I have a gift. I can draw anything that comes into my head. Clothes, shoes, bags and caps—I’ve even designed a backpack with a secret compartment. Of course, the compartment had to be red.

  When I imagine something, the idea flows from my brain to my hand and onto the sketchpad. Drawing is as easy for me as brushing my teeth. Just don’t get me to do spelling. Now that’s torture. I know lots of interesting words. I’m just hopeless at spelling them. I don’t know why. Hannah says reading and spelling are easy for her and drawing is hard, but it’s the other way round for me.

  So, at the beginning of the school term when Ralph said, ‘What wonderful designs have you drawn in that journal of yours, other than your Spring Range?’ I showed him the other top-secret design project I’d been working on—my ideas for kids’ clothes.

  I’d drawn pages of designs I know kids would love—pants with hidden pockets, reversible tops, and jackets that become a vest when you zip off the sleeves. I said to Ralph, ‘If only Cara would add a Tween Range to her business. Something new. Something contemporary. That’s what the House of Bonafete needs. And I know what kids like to wear.’ Contemporary is definitely one of my new favourite words.

  I couldn’t believe it when he said, ‘Wow, these designs are great. Why don’t you choose the best twelve pieces and we’ll create a small range for kids aged eight to twelve? After all, you’re already working on your own small Spring Range, so it can’t hurt to add in a Tween Range.’

  All I could say was, ‘Holy snapping turtles. Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious,’ he told me. ‘It’s about time we created something different around here.’

  I mean, having my dress designs made was exciting, but having my kids’ designs made too . . . well, that meant I’d entered a Code Gold situation—an exciting surprise or bit of luck. And Hannah and I love Code Gold situations. I ran and told Hannah and Mr D straight away. They had to cross their fingers and take the sewing tote vow of silence about my top-secret project. Well, not Mr D. He crossed his front paws.

  Ralph said I could use any leftover material in the storeroom. And whenever Mr D and I explore the storeroom, where all the sewing supplies and rolls of fabric are kept, we never know what we’ll discover. Fabrics for the upcoming season are locked in a separate location, and only Cara and Ralph have a key to that room.

  Ralph takes a bite of his apple turnover and dabs his mouth with a napkin.

  ‘So, my little protégée, how are your Tween designs coming along?’ he asks. ‘And don’t pretend you’re not working on something exciting.’ His left eyebrow shoots up. ‘I’ve seen the cargo pants. Come on. Spill the beans. What’s next?’

  Hmm, protégée. What does that mean again? It sounds like a compliment to me. I’ll ask Hannah, she’ll know. I’m about to describe my vest design, the one with the detachable hood, when Ralph’s phone hums.

  ‘I better answer this. It’s Mr I-wish-I-could-Bank-More,’ he says as he smiles and rolls his eyes.

  I giggle and a bit of my almond croissant falls out of my mouth. I need to work on my eating technique. It’s very embarrassing when you’re ten years old and can’t keep food in your mouth when you laugh. And I do both, a lot—eat and laugh.

  Ralph’s smile disappears from his face and I know something’s wrong. He grabs my hand and pulls me from my chair.

  ‘What’s happened, where are we going?’ I whisper.

  ‘Cara’s had an accident. We have to go,’ he says, and we charge out of the café.

  Before I know it, we’re racing across The Avenue, cutting a path through the crunchy leaves as my blue denim jacket flaps wildly in the wind.

  Chapter 3

  I’ve never been in an ambulance before. I’ve seen them in movies but that doesn’t count. This is the real thing. Cara’s strapped into the bed and I’m sitting opposite, clutching her glossy, oversized handbag. She looks like an Egyptian mummy with her bandaged broken wrists resting on her stomach. Ralph follows behind in his car.

  Mr Bankmore said Cara stormed from his office in a rage. The next thing he heard was a high-pitched scream and then a crash. He raced down the corridor and there she was, lying on her side, bellowing in pain with her arms stretched forward. The heels of her burgundy shoes had snagged on the fringe of the fluffy rug.

  The paramedic balances a laptop on his knees and talks into a headset. The ambulance is moving through the traffic quite slowly. But isn’t this an emergency? Where’s the swerving around cars and the wailing sirens? Where are the flashing lights? After all, it’s Cara Bonafete they have in this ambulance. If anyone deserves the excitement and intrigue of a speeding ambulance, it’s Cara.

  I notice the paramedic’s name tag. Nick Nicholberry—Paramedic. I wonder if they could pick up the pace a bit? It’s worth a try.

  ‘Um, excuse me, Nick. Could we please turn the siren on?’ I say politely.

  He looks up and smiles.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Gemma. This isn’t an emergency situation,’ he says. He goes back to typing. Cara’s eyes are closed and her head rocks gently as we roll around a corner. I lean in close to her ear.

  ‘I love you so much, Cara,’ I whisper. ‘More than all the silver sequined jackets in the world.’

  I’m not sure if she can hear me. I want to squeeze her hand but of course I can’t. The ambulance glides around another bend.

  I look at Cara’s wrists and think about how much we use our hands. Picking things up, eating, drawing and cutting fabric, brushing our teeth and waving.

  All of a sudden I start crying. I can’t stop. Tears stream down my face and I feel silly because I don’t have anything to wipe my dripping nose.

  Nick keeps talking on his headset and passes me a box of tissues without looking up. I hear him say we’re five minutes out and then he says something medical-sounding. I don’t understand medical talk so I don’t know what he means. I wish Hannah was here to explain it to me.

  Cara’s eyes flicker open.

  ‘Why the tears, my
little Rosebud, why the tears?’ she says softly, and we smile at each other. ‘Look in my handbag and find my lipstick. I can’t see a doctor without my lipstick,’ she says.

  Phone, hairbrush, diary, pens, notebook, scarf . . . I rummage through her bag but I can’t find what I’m looking for.

  ‘Try the zip-up section,’ she says.

  There it is, her gold lipstick case. I read the name on the bottom of the tube through my tears—Believa I’m a Diva. I carefully glide the creamy red colour over her lips and she presses them together.

  ‘No smudge?’ she asks.

  ‘No smudge,’ I say, and she blows me a kiss.

  So this is what a hospital looks and smells like. It’s another first for me. We’ve been waiting over an hour since Cara was wheeled away. Ralph has gone to find some water. I’ve read the poster on the wall about resuscitation four times. I never knew people had to sit and wait so long at a hospital. It’s worse than waiting for the school assembly to finish.

  I know I was born in a hospital on the first day of summer, and I’ve seen them on TV, but otherwise I’ve never actually been in a real, live hospital before. Why do the doctors and nurses have to wear such baggy outfits? Practical, yes, but that particular shade of slime green is not doing anyone’s complexion any favours. You notice this sort of thing when you design clothes.

  Ralph comes back and we sip our water and watch the passing parade from the waiting area. Ralph reaches for his humming mobile.

  ‘She’s having her wrists set in plaster now,’ he says into the phone. ‘Two very nasty breaks, I’m afraid. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve spoken to the doctor.’

  Ralph listens, motionless, and stares blankly at the muted television. He must be talking to Mr Bankmore.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do have something in mind.’

  More listening and staring.