‘Look, you can only have them if you get me a marquee—’
‘Hey, Daryl.’ Nicole lifts a hand at another lank teenager who’s coming into the drive. This one’s a boy in skinny jeans with dyed black hair and a rucksack on his back.
Is this the fire-eater?
‘Do you know him?’ I say a bit disbelievingly.
‘We’re at sixth-form college together, doing fashion studies.’ Nicole chews her gum. ‘’Swhere we saw your ads online.’
‘Hi.’ Daryl shuffles up and raises a limp hand in a kind of greeting. ‘I’m Daryl.’
‘You’re really a fire-eater?’ I look at him dubiously. I was picturing someone more macho, with a permatan and gleaming teeth and a sequinned jockstrap. But then, I shouldn’t judge. Maybe this Daryl grew up in the circus or something.
‘Yeah.’ He nods several times, his eyes twitching.
‘And you want my Luella clutch in exchange?’
‘I collect Luella pieces.’ He nods fervently. ‘Love Luella.’
‘Daryl designs bags,’ puts in Nicole. ‘He’s, like, really talented. Where did you buy this?’ She’s still entranced by the Marc Jacobs bag.
‘Barneys in New York.’
‘Barneys?’ she gasps. ‘Have you been there? What’s it like?’
‘Actually, I used to work there.’
‘No way.’ Now Daryl is goggling at me in awe. ‘I’m saving up to go to New York.’
‘We both are.’ Nicole nods vigorously. ‘I got up to a hundred and sixty pounds before Christmas. Only then it was the sales. And I went into Vivienne Westwood.’ She winces.
‘I went into Paul Smith.’ Daryl sighs. ‘Now I’m down to thirty quid.’
‘I’m down to minus eighty,’ says Nicole gloomily. ‘I owe my dad. He was like, “What do you need another jacket for?” and I was like, “Dad! It’s Vivienne Westwood.” And he just looked at me, like, “Huh?” ’
‘I know exactly how you feel,’ I can’t help chiming in sympathetically. ‘They just don’t understand. Which jacket was it? Not that fabulous red one with the lining?’
‘Yeah!’ Her face lights up. ‘It was! And these amazing shoes … I’ve got a photo somewhere …’ She starts scrolling through her phone.
She’s just like me! I have photos of all my favourite clothes.
‘Can I hold the Luella?’ ventures Daryl as I admire Nicole’s Westwood shoes.
‘Of course! Here it is.’ I hand him the Luella clutch and Daryl gazes at it reverently for a moment. ‘So … maybe we should get down to business. Could you demonstrate your fire-eating? It’s for a party. I want a really cool display.’
There’s a tiny pause, then Daryl says, ‘Yeah. Sure. I’ll show you.’
He puts his rucksack on the ground, rifles in it for a moment, then produces a long wooden stick, which he sets alight with a Zippo.
That doesn’t look anything like a normal fire-eater’s stick. It looks like a bamboo cane out of the garden.
‘Come on, Daryl.’ Nicole is watching him with concentration. ‘You can do it.’
Daryl throws back his head, exposing a skinny neck, and lifts up the stick. With a trembling hand, he brings the flame within a few inches of his mouth, then flinches and jerks it away.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbles. ‘Bit hot.’
‘You can do it!’ encourages Nicole again. ‘Come on. Just think, Luella.’
‘OK.’ His eyes are closed and he seems to be psyching himself up. ‘I’m doing it. I’m doing it.’
The stick is half on fire by now. OK, there’s no way this guy is a proper fire-eater.
‘Wait!’ I exclaim as he lifts the flaming stick up again. ‘Have you ever done this before?’
‘Learned it off YouTube,’ says Daryl, his face sweating. ‘I’ll do it.’
YouTube?
‘Exhale, Daryl,’ chimes in Nicole, looking anxious. ‘Remember, exhale.’
He lifts the stick up again, his hand shaking. Orange flames are billowing up like an inferno. In a minute he’s going to set us all alight.
‘C’mon,’ he’s muttering to himself. ‘C’mon, Daryl.’
‘Stop it!’ I shout in horror. ‘You’ll hurt yourself! Look, you can have the Luella clutch, OK? You can have it! Just don’t burn your face!’
‘Really?’ Daryl lowers the stick, looking a bit white and trembly, then suddenly jumps as the flame licks his hand. ‘Ow! Fuck!’ He drops it to the ground, shaking his hand, and we watch it slowly burn itself out.
‘You’re not a fire-eater at all, are you?’ I say at last.
‘Nah.’ He scuffs his foot. ‘Just wanted the clutch. Can I really still have it?’
I can’t blame him. To be honest, if I saw an ad offering a designer bag in return for fire-eating skills, I’d probably pretend I could fire-eat, too. But still, I can’t help feeling deflated. What am I going to do about Luke’s party now?
‘OK.’ I sigh. ‘You can have it.’
I look at Nicole, her face all hopeful, her arm still wrapped round the grey Marc Jacobs bag. The truth is, I never use either of those bags any more. And something tells me I’m never going to get a marquee for them.
‘And Nicole, you can keep the Marc Jacobs bags if you like.’
‘Legend!’ She nearly explodes with joy. ‘For real? Do you want me to … wash your car or anything?’