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Crow is in designer heaven; Nonie's caught the eye of a gorgeous boy; Jenny's in a new play. But poor Edie's in trouble ... the rumours are that slave children in India have been making their high-street collection. It's up to the girls to save their fashion dream.

The second fabulous book in the popular 'chic-fic' series Threads, which has garnered huge praise:

‘Threads is the next Princess Diaries – only hotter.’ AMANDA CRAIG, THE TIMES

‘a magical tale about four girls and their amazing adventure with fashion.’ BLISS MAGAZINE

‘…a page-turning romp that grown-up fashionistas will revel in…One fashion-industry insider said the London Fashion Week scenes were frighteningly accurate.’ THE INDEPENDENT

‘Great fun. It goes at a cracking pace and girls will love it.’  JACQUELINE WILSON

‘The perfect stocking-filler for the girl who knows her Marni from her Matalan…’ EVENING STANDARD

I’ve never seen Crow look so scared. And this time, she’s got a point.  

We’re standing in Miss Teen’s flagship store in Oxford Street. The shop floor is huge and shiny and practically empty. For now. The perfect shopping opportunity, you might think, but oh no. We’re not shopping, we’re waiting. And we’re not the only ones. There’s just one very large pane of glass between us and the biggest, loudest mob I’ve ever seen. It’s been building up for hours. It can see us. It’s shouting our names and it’s counting down until it can reach us.

            One pane of glass, that is, and a SUPERMODEL.

            Svetlana Russinova is posing in the window. She’s wearing one of Crow’s little gold embroidered corset dresses with a flirty skirt that shows off her legs. I remember Crow designing that dress last spring.

            Every now and again Svetlana looks back over her shoulder at us three girls, huddled together in the shop, and says something helpful like, ‘There’s thousands of them. Really. Oxford Street is full. Are you sure they’ll fit inside?’

            No, frankly, we are not. We’re not at all sure we’ll fit even half of them inside. Or that we’ll survive the process. Or, more to the point, that we’ll have enough of Crow’s new high-street collection to sell to them when they get here.

            Andy Elat is the only person who seems even vaguely relaxed. He’s the man who owns Miss Teen. He said, ‘We’ll do a big launch for the new collection before Christmas. Everyone’s talking about it. It’ll be huge. You’ll love it.’

            If he’d said, ‘It’ll be like being in the middle of a natural disaster, with sequins,’ we’d have got the picture. But he didn’t. So here we are.

            Crow looks the most terrified, but she’s got her brother Henry for comfort. She’s clinging on to him for dear life. I’ve got my friend Jenny and I’m sort of clinging on to her, but to be honest, she’s more clinging on to me.

            ‘They look angry,’ she whispers. ‘Are you sure we should let them in, Mr Elat?’

            ‘They’re just excited,’ he says calmly. ‘OK, Svetlana. You’d better come down now. Thanks, love. Two minutes, lads.’

            The security guards nod. The security guards are big and scary-looking and they’ll probably be OK. We are small, teenage and unarmed. I’m trying to remember why I ever got involved with Crow. Or why I thought launching a high-street collection would be a cool idea. Or why I didn’t decide to do it from A MILLION MILES AWAY.

            ‘Three. Two. One. Open the doors, lads.’

            Scream scream scream scream. And the next thing we know, they’re coming straight for us.