Sequin and Stitch Page 2

  We hang it up with clothes pegs on a washing line across the flat. Stitch lies beneath it, his legs kicking and his button eyes staring up at the canopy above.

  We can no longer see the TV but we don’t care – the veil is way more interesting. We have to hop across the living room to make sure that we don’t step on anything precious. It’s like we are leaping across shark‑infested waters. We pass Stitch across the room like he’s a parcel and watch him at all times so he doesn’t put any beads or pins into his mouth.

  Mum says that when I’m older I will be able to do lots more sewing and stuff if I want to. But the princess’s dress is just so precious and the materials are so expensive that Mum can’t afford to make any mistakes or let me help.

  But she does let me thread the needle for her in preparation for the fine needlework. It’s easier for me because my hands are so small. The eye of the sharp needle winks at me. I take great care, my eyes squinted, tongue out, a frown on my face even though I’m not cross. I’m just trying to do a good job for my mum – and for the princess too, of course. The needle slides down the golden thread like a pendant on a necklace. Like it was always meant to be there. And I feel so proud because I threaded the needle for a dress that is going to be worn by an actual princess.

  I watch Mum work while Stitch sleeps on the sofa behind us. His puffy mouth is like a heart‑shaped bruise in a kiss, the soft warm glow of Mum’s working lamp lighting up his angel cheeks. I fight off sleep – I’m falling in and out of a dream. Eventually Mum says, “It really is time for bed now, Quinny.”

  I want to resist but I know she’s already let me stay up way past my bedtime to help with the dress. So I kiss her goodnight, knowing she’ll be up for hours. The radio will babble quietly in the background; tea and biscuits will keep her company.

  I fall asleep with Stitch gently snoring next to me, his baby chest rising and falling. I’m excited for the next morning, when Mum will have done even more work to the dress.

  And I can’t wait to see it.

  It’s like my birthday every morning.

  Chapter 8

  Mum has to have many meetings with the designer about the dress.

  It is the royal wedding dress after all.

  Mum doesn’t like the designers and stylists coming over to our flat.

  Mum doesn’t like anybody coming over.

  Sometimes she’s scared of people a bit.

  But secretly I like it when people come over. If it was up to me, we’d have guests here all the time. We could make them tea and pasta pesto.

  Maybe I can show the designer my glitter wand and my slime? I could show them how good I am at threading needles.

  We put the rough sample of the princess’s dress on a mannequin, which is like a dolly the size of an adult, without a head. It’s not scary. It’s just so the designers can see what the dress will look like on a person.

  We have to keep the windows shut tight the whole entire time so that none of Moany Bony Mr Tony’s smoke gets in. It’s so stuffy.

  Stitch and I watch from the crack in the door of my bedroom.

  The designers talk in annoying posh voices and say stuff that doesn’t even make sense. They don’t drink our tea from our cups. They all have takeaway coffee cups. They always make changes to Mum’s work, even when it’s already perfect.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper to Stitch. “They always do that. It’s just so they feel important.”

  I don’t think the designers would be interested in my glitter wand. Or the slime. Or watching me thread the needle.

  When they leave, Mum clears away their cardboard coffee cups and starts to make dinner. Sausages and mash with gravy and peas.

  “Did you ask them about having your name in the magazines this time?” I ask Mum.

  But I know she didn’t.

  Mum begins to cry.

  “Oh no, don’t cry,” I say. “Mum, what’s the matter? Why are you crying?”

  “Sorry, I’m not crying.” (She definitely is.) “I just get so embarrassed when they come round …”

  “Embarrassed? About what?” I ask.

  “You know … about me … about the flat.”

  “Why? We have the greatest flat ever in the whole wide world! I know it’s ugly on the outside but it’s beautiful on the inside and that’s what counts! And you, Mum? You’re just the best.”

  “Oh, Sequin, you’re so lovely.”

  “No, you are!” I tell Mum. “Our flat is! Look how lovely it is here, Mum. Look how lovely you’ve made it. Look at all your amazing wonderful drawings on the wall. Look at all the magazine pictures of your clothes, your fabrics and materials. Look how clever you are. I love it here. It’s our home. It’s warm and cosy and creative and happy and safe! It’s YOU. In a flat!”

  “Oh, thank you, Quinny. I know.” Mum cuddles me and kisses me on the forehead. “You’re right. It is our home. I love it too. It’s just … most of the professionals have fancy studios and I … Oh, I’m being silly … Sometimes I think that if I had a fancy studio I’d be taken a bit more seriously. That the designers would … I don’t know … prefer it if I was different.”

  “No, Mum, they don’t care where you work. It’s you they want. Not a studio.”

  I wipe her tears away.

  “And if they want you to have a fancy posh studio,” I add, “then they should pay you more money so you can have one!”

  Mum tuts. “Sequin, not this again.”

  “It’s true. The girls at school told me how much the dresses you make cost. Where does all that money go, Mum? Why don’t you get any of it?”

  “I’m too low down,” Mum says.

  “How are you low down? You’re the highest, Mum – you can’t get higher than up here in our flat!”

  We laugh, looking out at the city from our view. It gives me the guts to ask Mum, “Maybe it would be good to have people over sometimes?”

  “Who?” Mum asks. She looks shocked that I even suggested it.

  “I don’t know … friends? Then maybe it wouldn’t feel so scary?”

  “I don’t think so, Sequin. What friends anyway? I haven’t got any!” Mum smiles but I know she’s sad.

  “OK, well, what about us going out somewhere?” I suggest. “Wouldn’t it be nice to go out for once? The three of us? Like a … normal family?”

  “That’s the problem, Sequin,” Mum says. “I don’t think we’re very normal.”

  I feel sick. It’s like Mum herself is sewn into the walls of the flat and the thread just seems to get tighter and thicker. She’s like a spider caught in her own sticky web. I want to run away. I want to scream I HATE YOU and slam the door on her.

  But I don’t.

  I crawl into bed with Stitch and cry into his soft face.

  Chapter 9

  Saturdays are normally the best days ever, but this one is not much fun.

  In just one week, the wedding dress is being collected for the princess to try it on. The designers and stylist are coming here on Monday for the final reveal.

  And Mum is stressed.

  It’s raining so much that I can’t even take Stitch outside in his pushchair, so we feel all trapped, like we are in a boiling saucepan. We aren’t allowed the TV on because Mum needs to concentrate. And we can’t eat any hot food because Mum doesn’t want any of the cooking smells leaking into the fabric.

  “Mum, I’m bored,” I say.

  “Sequin, I’m under a lot of pressure here. It’s the final push now.”

  “But, Mum, can’t I just help you one tiny bit?”

  “Sequin, I’ve told you,” Mum says. “NO!”

  I’m annoyed.

  It’s my home too.

  And I’ve taken care of Stitch all by myself.

  How come all the designers earn loads of money and get to have their own swimming pools and we don’t? For a second I want to rip up that stupid princess dress, but I know that would ruin Mum’s whole entire life, so I don’t.

  I scr
eam really fast into a blanket and stomp back into the living room. Mum has pins in her mouth and her eyebrows are all knitted together. I eat more cream cheese sandwiches – the most boring silent unstinkiest food ever – and then I dress Stitch up in different outfits from Mum’s scrap box. I pin and stitch him like he’s my model and I’m a designer at the catwalk.

  “FABULOUS, GORGEOUS, DARLING!!” I say.

  Stitch just sits there smiling and I’m careful not to prick his soft velvet skin with any of the needles.

  Before bath time, Mum says I’m allowed a FULL HOUR of craziness because I’ve been “so good” all day and “very patient”. But we mustn’t be in the living room where the dress is, because it’s very delicate and fragile. The tiniest of vibrations could shake the beading and make the lace tremble and tear.

  I take full advantage of this opportunity and dance around the kitchen banging on the pots and pans. I totally ignore Moany Bony Mr Tony’s annoying stupid broomstick banging, because we’ve been nothing but silent all day long.

  Afterwards, I’m in the bubble bath pretending to be a mermaid and Mum knocks on the door with the greatest treat ever.

  A massive ham and pineapple takeaway pizza to eat in the bath!

  I clap my hands like a seal.

  “Sorry for snapping at you,” Mum says.

  “You’re forgiven,” I say, and bite into my cheesy pizza. “It’s all worth it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Are you going to ask them on Monday?” I say. “To mention you?”

  “Yes,” says Mum.

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  Stitch and I wake up on Sunday morning and see Mum sitting at the end of my bed. She’s beaming proudly as the sun filters through the curtains.

  “OK, it’s ready …” Mum whispers excitedly. I can tell she’s hardly slept.

  Mum leads me into the living room with her overworked hands covering my eyes. “No peeking …”

  My heart is beating.

  “Ready … steady … go …” Mum says.

  And she removes her hands for me to see the finished royal wedding dress on the mannequin.

  The dress is like a dazzling chandelier, shimmering and glinting and twinkling. It’s a mirror ball of diamonds, throwing confetti reflections onto the walls of our cramped flat, jewel sparkles hanging from the ceiling like tears.

  Or it’s a white silent blanket of snow, with glittering snowflakes of ivory lace. It’s like lashings of thick frosty icing on a Christmas cake, but light like whipped ice cream. It’s a mosaic of glass beads, swan‑like silk, of pearl sequins.

  It is perfect.

  “You’ve done it, Mum!” I say. “You’ve done it!”

  Mum admires her work and smiles, which she doesn’t often do. “All I have to do now,” she says, “is find the courage to convince Moany Bony Mr Tony not to smoke for the rest of the day. Otherwise the princess is going to walk down the aisle smelling like an ashtray.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mum. I’ll ask him.”

  *

  I don’t need to use the lift for one floor. I don’t really like the lift anyway. Stitch does – he likes the lights and the buttons. But that’s because he’s such a tiny baby and anything impresses him.

  I clatter down the stone stairs of Primrose Mansions where it’s all cold and stinky and echoey. My trainers smack on the floor. I have to be extra careful with Stitch under my arm, because if he fell his head would crack. The steps are made of concrete but if you look closely there are specks of glitter hidden in the grey. The banisters have been painted over and over so many times that the paint has cracked off. In places you can see layers and layers of different colours under the plain black paint.

  I can already smell the stink of Moany Bony Mr Tony’s smoky cigarette flat leaking into the halls.

  His doormat is old and hairy and scruffy. Written on it in big black letters are the words, “GO AWAY!”

  I take a deep breath and rat‑a‑tat‑tat on Moany Bony Mr Tony’s door, then I grip Stitch tight and wait.

  “Ello? Who are ya?” a gravelly voice thunders through the door.

  “It’s Sequin and Stitch, from upstairs?” I say.

  I hear nothing. And then a clank and clang of different locks and bolts being undone.

  The whiff of stale smoke and ash rolls out from Moany Bony Mr Tony’s front door. The darkness of his scraggy flat is like a gloomy ghostly fog hanging over a forest. We wait for his yellowy‑browny dirty skinny fingers to creep around the front door.

  “WOT?” Moany Bony Mr Tony grunts. “Don’t you know I hate kids?”

  He sniffs me like I’m a piece of rotten fish and glares at me with his scary veiny eyes. He is wearing old brown trousers covered in oily marks and a stained yellow shirt.

  “Well, what does she want this time?” he demands, talking about my mum.

  And I have to just smile. “Sorry, Tony, but Mum’s got some important fabric upstairs that—” I say it in my most polite voice, not that it matters much with Moany Bony Mr Tony.

  “You don’t want it smellin’ like fags. Make your bleedin’ mind up! I get it.”

  And he slams the door in my face.

  “Thanks, Moany Bony Mr Tony.”

  “What’d you call me?” he shouts from inside.

  “Errrr … nothing,” I say, and I skip off back upstairs.

  Chapter 11

  When I get back from school on Monday, the designers are here again – with their posh voices and takeaway coffee cups.

  Stitch and I listen from the kitchen, peeking our heads around the door. I lick peanut butter off the back of a spoon.

  This time they don’t say annoying stuff. They don’t make annoying laughs. Or sounds.

  They are totally silent.

  At first I think it’s because they are angry with Mum.

  But they are stunned.

  The head designer says, “I have never seen anything so spectacular in my whole life. I knew you were good, but I had no idea a human was capable of such work.”

  Mum blushes.

  “I would never normally say this, but …” the royal stylist adds. “Instead of us taking the dress to the palace, I wonder … if we could bring the princess here to meet you – to try the dress on with you. Would you be happy with that?”

  “The princess? Coming here to our flat?” Mum asks, shocked. She is stuttering and backtracking and already shaking her head. I see her grip the back of the chair to steady herself. Her other hand is on her chest like she is trying to keep her breath in. I peek my head out further and Mum catches my eyes with hers.

  “Would that be OK?” the royal stylist asks again.

  Mum chokes. I nod at her, telling her to say yes, yes, say yes. “But … my flat …” Mum says. “It’s … a bit … you know?”

  “Oh, please … the princess adores shabby chic,” the royal stylist tells her.

  Shabby chic? Our flat’s a palace! I want to shout.

  “OK, if you’re sure, in that case … I suppose.” Mum nods.

  WOW.

  The designer and stylist hug my mum and take photographs of the dress with them all standing next to it. Then they shake her hand and say she’ll hear from them very soon to talk about the future.

  “This is going to change my whole career – you’re my secret weapon!” the designer says to Mum. “I’m so pleased we found you. Thanks again. See you soon.”

  GO ON, MUM! I will her to speak. This is when you ask to be named in the magazines. This is when you remind them that the princess’s dress is YOUR work … Mum?

  But Mum doesn’t. She says goodbye and then tidies up their takeaway coffee cups.

  Great.

  Now I’ll never be able to prove to anybody how wonderful Mum is.

  Now I’ll always be a liar. A liar with a weirdo for a mum.

  Chapter 12

  Mum tucks me in bed, we rub noses and she swit
ches the light off. We are plunged into darkness for a tiny second before she flicks on my star nightlight and its familiar blue ray shines out.

  Mum flops onto my bed and asks, “Why don’t you try sleeping on your own tonight, Quinny?”

  “I like it when Stitch sleeps with me,” I say.

  “But you’re almost ten.”

  “So … what does that mean?”

  “Well, you’ll be at big school in a year,” Mum says. “And … it’s nice to have your own space?”

  “Where will Stitch sleep?” I ask.

  Mum gives a deep sigh.

  “Mum, can I bring a friend home soon?”

  “Shall we talk about it once everything has calmed down a bit?”

  “But what about this week?” I say.

  “Quinny, you know nobody can see the princess’s dress before the wedding.”

  “Just one friend? It will be so quick.”

  “I’m afraid not, Sequin,” Mum says. “I signed a contract to keep it secret, and you know I can’t go against that.”

  “But my friend won’t say anything.”

  “I’m sure they won’t, but I have to be so careful. You’ve been so patient up until now, Sequin. Just a little while longer and then we can tell the whole world.”

  “But we can’t,” I say. “Because nobody will know you even made it. You promised you would ask to be named and you didn’t. You broke your promise.” My voice is getting louder.

  “Why are you so angry, Sequin?” Mum asks.

  “Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself? Why don’t you care that nobody knows your name? Why do you just stay inside and not see anybody and why do you work so hard for other people? It’s like you don’t exist.”