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mother (ex-model) would approve of. And he’s fit. To look at,obviously, but also he must work out a lot. Lots of muscles. But not bulgy ones. Just nicely . . .
    Oh no. He’s turned round and caught me looking at him. He gives me that smile again.
    ‘How are you, Boots?’
    ‘Fine,’ I squeak. ‘So, what do you do, er, Alexander?’
    He laughs out loud.
    ‘You sound like the Queen. But much cuter. I dance, Boots. I dance.’
    ‘Oh.’
    Pole dancing? Is he a Chippendale? The only thing this tells me for sure is that he is definitely, definitely gay. I’m even more relieved.
    ‘At the Royal Opera House. I joined last year.’
    ‘OH!’
    Edie, Crow and I all say it together. A ballet dancer. Wow. Totally wow. And based in London. Interesting.
    ‘I’m going to design for the Royal Ballet one day,’ says Crow, as if she’s already got a contract. She hasn’t spoken to them yet, but it’s just a question of time.
    ‘Well, they could do with a bit of help in the tights department,’ he says with a serious expression and a sly glance at me.
    I’ve gone poncho colour, I know it. And I’m so hot I want to fan myself. Which is SO not the effect I’m going for.
    After that, the evening goes surprisingly well, though. Granny arrives and we head off together, leaving Crowand Dad poring over his collection of art books and comparing notes on favourite painters. Meanwhile, Alexander is totally sweet and polite and doesn’t try anything on with anybody. He takes us to a jazz club in a cellar somewhere cool and is a fabulous dancer, naturellement . He dances equally with Edie, me and Granny. After we’ve boogied away for a couple of hours, he politely escorts us home, via a lovely walk along the river.
    Granny is charmed.
    ‘Such a shame about him,’ she says, as he disappears off towards the Left Bank, where the taxis are.
    ‘You mean the whole “ballet dancer” thing?’ I ask, with a look.
    She gives me the look back.
    ‘Yes. Exactly, darling.’
    ‘What thing?’ asks Edie.
    I promise I’ll explain it to her one day, when she’s old enough.
    After some pretty ineffectual eyeliner removal in Dad’s mirror, I slip silently into my sleeping bag next to Crow on the sitting room floor.
    Not silently enough, as it turns out. Crow opens half an eye and asks how it went. I tell her it was fine and she gives me a sleepy smile.
    ‘Are you OK?’ I whisper back. After all, it’s not every day you launch a collection, go to a funeral and leave behind the one member of your close family who’s on thesame continent as you, because there’s no floor-space for him.
    ‘Of course!’ she says. ‘Did you know it’s bad luck to sew in a label until the very last moment? The mains are really superstitious about it. I never heard that before . . .’
    Her voice trails off and I realise she’s asleep again.
    ‘ What did she say?’ Edie asks in a hoarse whisper through the door of Dad’s studio, where she’s curled up in her own sleeping bag.
    ‘She’s muttering about labels,’ I tell her.
    ‘She would be!’
    There’s the sound of distant rumbling from somewhere. I assume it must be a Métro train until I realise it’s Dad snoring. He’s a totally impressive snorer. It must have driven Mum bananas the short time they were together. Edie starts giggling and sets me off too. Then she asks me again what Granny meant about the ballet dancer thing, which leads to a bit of a chat, and next thing we know it’s four in the morning and we’re still awake.
    There’s only one thing for it. Hot chocolate in Dad’s kitchen, made with real melted chocolate and the remainder of his milk. It would be so much easier if the recipe required champagne.
    ‘I’ve decided something,’ Edie says thoughtfully, balancing on her rickety stool with her chocolate and looking out at the lights rippling on the river, and the dark blue of the sky before dawn.
    ‘What?’ I ask nervously. She’s going to win the NobelPeace Prize?