yeah, once.”
“I think that’s cool.”
“You do?” asked Dennis, incredulous.
“Yeah. Not nearly enough boys are into fashion.”
“I suppose not…” Dennis said. He wasn’t sure if he was into fashion, or just liked looking at pictures of pretty dresses, but he chose not to mention it.
“Do you have a favourite designer?” Lisa asked.
Dennis wasn’t sure if he did, but he remembered really liking one of the dresses in the magazine, a cream floor-length ball-gown, designed by John Gally something.
“John Gally something,” he said.
“John Galliano? Yeah, he’s amazing. A legend. He designs all the pieces for Dior too.”
Dennis loved that she said “pieces”. That was the word they’d used in Vogue for items of clothes.
“Well, this is my house. Thanks, Dennis. Bye,” said Lisa. Dennis’s heart sank a little that their walk was already over. She went to go towards the front door, then stopped for a moment. “You could come over at the weekend if you like,” she said. “I’ve got loads of great fashion magazines I could show you. I really want to be a designer or a stylist or something when I’m older.”
“Well, you are very stylish,” said Dennis. He meant it sincerely, but somehow it sounded cheesy.
“Thank you,” said Lisa.
She knew she was.
Everyone knew she was.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow. Is eleven o’clock any good for you?”
“Er… I think so,” said Dennis. As if any event in his past or future could prevent him from being at her house at eleven.
“See you then,” she said, as she gave him a smile and passed out of view.
And just like that, Dennis’s world went back to normal again, like when the lights go on in the cinema at the end of a film.
At 10:59am Dennis was waiting outside Lisa’s house. She had said eleven o’clock, but he didn’t want to seem too keen. So he waited for his watch to count the seconds until eleven.
54.
55.
56.
57.
58.
59.
00.
He pressed the bell. The faint sound of Lisa’s voice floated down the stairs, and the blurry vision of her through the glass of the door was enough to make his heart beat faster.
“Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Hey,” he said back. Not that he’d ever said “hey” to anyone before, but he wanted to be like Lisa.
“Come in,” she said, and he followed her into the house. It was very similar to the one Dennis lived in, but where his was gloomy, Lisa’s was full of light and colour. There were paintings and family pictures haphazardly arranged on the walls. A sweet smell of freshly baked cake lingered in the hall. “Do you want a drink?”
“A glass of white wine, perhaps?” said Dennis, trying to act three times his age.
Lisa looked bemused for a moment. “I don’t have any wine. What else do you like?”
“Um Bongo.”
Lisa raised her eyebrows. “I think we’ve got some Um Bongo.”
She found a carton and poured a couple of glasses, then they went upstairs to her room.
Dennis instantly adored it. In truth it was how he would like his room to be. She had pictures from fashion magazines all over the walls, stylish shots of beautiful women, in glamorous locations. On the shelves were books about fashion or famous film stars like Audrey Hepburn or Marilyn Monroe. A sewing machine sat in the corner of the room and she had a big pile of Vogues by the bed.
“I’m collecting them,” she said. “I’ve got an Italian one too. It’s hard to get here, but it’s amazing. The best Vogue is Italian. Heavy though! Would you like to see it?”
“I’d love to,” said Dennis. He’d had no idea there were different Vogues around the world.
They sat on her bed together, slowly turning the pages. The first shoot was in colour, but featured dresses that were only black or white, or a combination of the two.
“Wow, that dress is gorgeous,” said Dennis.
“Chanel. It’s probably madly expensive, but it is beautiful.”
“I love the sequins.”
“And that slit up the side,” said Lisa. She traced her fingers longingly along the page.
What seemed like forever and a moment went by, as they studied every page, discussing each detail of every dress. When they reached the end they felt like they’d been friends forever.
Lisa pulled out another magazine to show him one of her favourite shoots, or “stories” as she called them. It was from an old British Vogue, and featured lots of models in wigs and metallic dresses. It looked like a scene from an old science-fiction film. Dennis loved the extravagance of these fantasies, so different form the grey cold reality of his own life.
“You’d look stunning in that gold dress,” said Dennis, pointing to a girl with similar hair colouring to Lisa.
“Anyone would. It’s an amazing dress. I could never afford any of these, but I like to look at these pictures and get ideas for my own designs. Do you want to see?”
“Oh yeah!” replied Dennis excitedly.
Lisa pulled a large scrapbook from her shelf. It was full of brilliant illustrations she had drawn of skirts and blouses and dresses and hats. Next to these Lisa had stuck lots of things onto the page: strips of glittering fabric, cut-out photographs of film costumes, even buttons.
Dennis stopped Lisa turning the page at an especially gorgeous drawing she had done of an orange sequined dress.
“That one is beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks, Dennis! I’m really pleased with it. I’m making it right now.”
“Really? Can I see?”
“Of
