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anything, including Astroturf (which looks great as a miniskirt, by the way, although it’s a bit scratchy when you sit down). I think the biggest problem is that Crow’s designs are made out of cheap fabrics in gaudy colors, which is all that she can afford. But I have a plan.
    I interrupt Harry in the middle of another drumming practice.
    “Harry, you know Moaning Zoe—”
    “I wish you wouldn’t refer to my girlfriend as ‘Moaning Zoe.’ Especially not to her face. She doesn’t like it.”
    “I bet she moans about it.”
    “Actually, she does. But I think that’s totally justified.”
    “Well, does she have any friends?”
    “Nonie!”
    “What?”
    “Please do not suggest that my girlfriend is sad and friendless.”
    “Sorry, didn’t mean to. I was just wondering if she knew anyone who made things out of ordinary stuff. Like cotton. Or even silk.”
    Moaning Zoe is in her final year at Saint Martins. She’s studying textiles. In Zoe’s case, “textiles” is a loose description, because she mostly makes things out of cardboard, as far as I can tell. Or circuit boards. Or old cell phone covers. All very trendy and eco-friendly, but not exactly what I have in mind. She makes Astroturf look positively normal.
    “Zoe is very talented,” Harry sniffs. “In her own way. But she’s got friends who do more conventional things.There’s a girl named Skye who’s nice. She sings with the band sometimes. Why?”
    I explain my theory about providing Crow with better materials but that I have no idea how to get ahold of them for her. I’m convinced that a textiles student would know. Presumably they cover that sort of thing in week one.

    And so the following Saturday—the day Jenny’s leaving for New York—Skye comes over. Girls tend to do things if Harry asks them. I like her immediately. She has orange hair with shocking-pink streaks and is wearing a floor-length dress made out of tie-dyed parachute silk, and Doc Martens. No makeup and a constant smile. She’s a walking ray of sunshine.
    Crow’s already ensconced in my room, on page three of the House of Dior book, running her finger carefully along each line. She looks up when we come in and gives a shy smile. Today she’s wearing her Wonder Woman cape (rescued from the drain) and a homemade Elizabethan ruff. It’s a look. We all cluster around a pile of multicolored nylon and I do a bit of a fashion show, whipping the skirts on and off over my leggings and showing how beautifully they move when I walk.
    Skye is impressed. She instantly gets what I meanabout using silk and offers Crow all the offcuts she doesn’t need. She explains that she’s finalizing her degree show at the moment, so she’s got loads of spare fabric, and she happens to be working with painted silk, among other things.
    Her face clouds for a moment.
    “This silk’s incredibly difficult to work with. I’ve tried it myself. It’s superslippery. Are you sure you can manage?”
    Crow looks relaxed.
    “Yvette—she’s the woman who’s teaching me to sew—she used to work for Dior. She specialized in silk. She’s shown me all the techniques.”
    Skye throws me a questioning look and I shrug. Best to humor her , we silently agree. Anyway, somebody must be teaching Crow to sew because the skirts are beautifully made and very cleverly cut. Skye says they wouldn’t look out of place in a Saint Martins show. I’m amazed, but Crow doesn’t seem particularly impressed. However, she’s excited about getting her hands on new fabrics. It turns out she’s got a notebook full of designs she’s been dying to try, but she simply can’t afford the materials to make them.
    “Are you sure that girl is twelve?” Skye asks on the way out.
    It’s weird. Crow looks about ten, and behaves like a ten-year-old in some ways. She can be very stubborn, for a start, and she just ignores you if she doesn’t want to answer a question. But as soon as you start to talk about fashion, you’d