It’s the night before my first showing in Paris and surprise, surprise I cannot sleep.
Cass and I are sharing a hotel room to economise and not five minutes after we turned out the lights, her distinct sleep noise, a sort of snuffling, filled the room. If I didn’t love her so much, I would hate my sister for how easily she can fall asleep. Isn’t it enough that she got the height, the boobs, and the dimples?
I stare at the ornate ceiling, tracing the curves and shadows of the cornices with my eyes, as snapshots from the past few days fly through my mind. It’s been a blur of cab rides and fittings and consults and run-throughs. The show coordinator we hired has been brilliant, answering every one of my zillion (probably stupid) questions and ensuring that we’ve been exactly where we’ve needed to be at any given moment.
They even cast our models for us, absolutely smashing it, and we have the most gorgeous lineup. The final look – my not-quite-bridal look – will be worn by Juju, a stunning non-binary model with dark-brown skin and a shaved head. They look magnificent in that off-white ensemble.
And Zara is with us, literally my right-hand woman. She’s been working tirelessly to ensure each piece is fitted perfectly to our models. You can fit all you want onto a dress form but until you put your clothes onto a live model, you won’t know exactly how a piece will fall or move. Now I do. And if it’s possible, I love this collection even more.
Cass is convinced we’re going to be swamped with orders from department stores and if we are, she has a manufacturer on stand-by. She’s been silent about Leo this past week. Which, of course, makes me all the more convinced she’s up to something.
And we have an interloper in our entourage, a fashion journalist called Poppy. She seems nice enough and I am sure the coverage in Nouveau will be beneficial – no such thing as bad publicity, right? – but having her around is just another thing to worry about. What if she writes about my obsession with perfect stitching, even on a garment’s lining, and I come off as a pedant or a perfectionist? I mean, I am both those things when it comes to my designs, but I’m not sure I want Nouveau readers thinking ill of me. I want them – and every other fashion devotee – to love me and love my clothes.
Cassie farts in her sleep, which makes me laugh. I can’t help it. Farts are funny – they just are – and when you are exhausted, nervous, and excited, they become hilarious. I snigger into my hand but pretty soon, a hand is not enough to contain the hilarity. Even when I smush my face into my pillow to smother the sound, it’s loud enough to wake Cassie.
‘What?’ she moans grumpily.
‘Nothing,’ I say through my laughter. ‘Go back to sleep.’
‘I can’t. My sister is laughing maniacally only four feet away.’ She rolls towards me and in the light seeping into the room from the gap in the curtains, I make out her frown.
‘Soz – it’s just… You know when you’re so exhausted, you’re too tired to sleep?’
‘No.’ Her eyes drift shut and she snuggles further under the duvet.
‘Goodnight, Cass.’
‘Goodnight, sis,’ she murmurs. ‘Now go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.’
As if I need reminding. Still, laughing released a lot of the tension I’ve been holding onto and it’s not long before I feel the tug of sleep and drift off.
Poppy
‘So, how is it? You’ve left me hanging here,’ says Shaz. I clap a hand over my mouth to save her from seeing a close-up of my dental work. ‘Oh my god, it’s barely gone ten there, you nana.’
‘Hey. It’s been flat tack since we got to Paris. Twelve- and thirteen-hour days, a whirlwind of meetings and people and venues.’
‘Ah, the glamour…’
‘Exactly. I don’t know how fashion designers do it. All this work – hundreds, if not thousands of hours – just for a fifteen-minute show.’
‘But it’s less about the fifteen minutes and more about the exposure, though, right?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, probably.’
‘And how’s Elle? You know, about you being there?’
‘Yeah, good – chatty sometimes, quiet others. But Cassie seems to have fudged how much coverage she’ll get in the magazine. I hope she won’t be too disappointed. She’s such a darling – and her clothes, Shaz! Love, love, love.’
‘And that’s coming from you.’
‘Don’t you know I am a respected fashion journalist?’ I ask with a laugh.
‘Good to see it hasn’t gone to your head.’ We exchange grins. ‘But are you really going to let this poor woman think she’s getting a proper feature in Nouveau?’
‘Pretty sure her sister is banking on her being too loved up to care.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t be happy about it. Would you?’
I frown. ‘Hmm, you might be right.’
‘I often am. Hey, unrelated, your hair… I can’t get over it, Pop – I mean, it’s gorgeous. You’re like Poppy two-point-o.’
I reach up, still shocked to find my neck exposed. ‘Thanks,’ I reply feebly.
Despite me being explicit with the stylist that I wanted as little off the length as possible, he gave me a chin-length bob, angled slightly from the back to the front and parted on the side. I’ve never coloured my hair before, but now it’s got some subtle caramel highlights. If I didn’t get a shock every time I caught a glimpse of my reflection, wondering who the hell that woman is, I would probably agree with Shaz. It’s a cool style. I just don’t think it’s me.
Though, I look the part. Together with Cassie’s guidance on my wardrobe, my hair and (now-signature) red lip mean that no one has looked at me sideways over the past few days – and I have been in and out of a dozen fashion-related venues. Apparently, to all these fashion people, I am just another fashionista. Hilarious!
I yawn again. ‘I need to go. I still have some emails to answer and Tristan’s waiting for his goodnight.’ Shaz makes a face. ‘Not like that, you dork.’
She chuckles. ‘Okay, sleep tight. Don’t let the out-of-fashion bugs bite. And take photos, will you? Good ones. A blurry shot of the Eiffel Tower out a car window doesn’t count.’
‘Goodnight, Sharon.’
‘Night.’
After ending the call, I remind myself that when I return to London, we need to have a proper talk about her moving in with her girlfriend. She still hasn’t given (poor) Lauren an answer.
But more pressing is what Shaz said about the Nouveau article, which validates my concern. I fire off a text message to Nasrin:
Can you figure out a way to get Bliss Designs a proper feature in Nouveau?
She must have her phone in her hand because she writes back immediately:
Really?
Yes.
I can try. Not hopeful.
Talk to Saskia.
Will do.
And Marie.
Okay Poppy!
I read it as, ‘Oh-kay, Poppy, calm the farm,’ with an added eye roll. But Nasrin likes a challenge almost as much as I do. I reply:
Thanks.
Nasrin also likes having the last word and replies with a thumbs-up emoji.
Elle
My heart is thudding so loudly, it’s almost deafening.
The back-of-house rush was a blur – hair, makeup, models dressing, final checks (making sure every piece is sitting exactly right, clipping the odd stray thread, and trying not to lose my mind) – and now it’s only seconds before the show is announced.
Cassie approaches, grabbing my hand and squeezing it tightly.
To our left, the models are lined up, ready to step onto the catwalk, and they each look so confident, so elegant, so gorgeous. All but Juju have sleek ponytails and every model is glammed up with full dark brows, a silver shimmer eye, and fuchsia lip. I can barely believe they’re wearing my designs and this is my show and we’re in the Louvre! At Paris Fashion Week!
It’s beyond surreal. My shoulders do a little shimmy almost of their own accord – if ever there was a moment for a happy dance…
‘Mesdames et messieurs, Bliss Designs présente sa collection, Un tailleur à soi – A Suit of One’s Own,’ says the announcer and the music starts, an arrangement of noir-style instrumentals.
Oh my god, Elle, breathe. Not a good look to collapse back of house at your own show.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ says Cassie, stooping to talk into my ear. I flash her a smile, a mix of excitement and nerves. Then it begins and my eyes are glued to the monitor.
There are no missteps or mishaps. Each of the six day-to-night transformations goes exactly as planned, including a jacket swap between two models at the end of the runway, which elicited an ‘ooh’ and even louder applause from the audience. And as Juju steps onto the runway in the final look, magazine-cover ready, the applause ratchets up.
‘They love it. They bloody love it!’ Cass shouts in my ear. I didn’t know it was possible to grin this widely. My cheeks hurt.
‘Ready?’ she asks me.
I shake my head.
‘Yes, you are,’ she says. ‘You’ve earned it.’
As the models ready themselves for the finale, I wait for Juju to come off the runway, then join them in the lineup. We’ve practised this – twice – but I may have lost the ability to walk. Juju takes my hand and I look up at them. They wink and then it’s our turn and we walk onto the runway, holding hands, Juju adjusting their long stride to match mine. The camera flashes are nearly blinding and the applause almost deafening, but this is the most amazing moment of my entire life.
I’m practically soaring, propelled by the cheers and applause.
We reach the end of the runway, where we pause, turn slightly to the left, then to the centre, then the right, so the photographers can get the shot. We’re just about to make our way back down the runway when a giant bouquet of flowers appears from the darkness beyond the stage lights. I reach to take the flowers, straining to make out who’s handing them to me.
The person steps closer and, in the midst of the most important moment of my career, it’s like I’ve been punched in the gut.
Leo.
Thank god for Juju, who takes the flowers from me as though we’ve rehearsed this, then raises our clasped hands. The applause grows louder, then we turn and make our way to safety, back of house. Behind us, the house lights come up and the sound of people chattering hums in the background.
Juju leans down and kisses both my cheeks.
‘Merci, Elle, and congratulations. It was a very good first show. And I love this look,’ they say, their arms wide. ‘Oh, these are yours.’ They hand me the bouquet which weighs a tonne. ‘Ciao.’
Like the other models, Juju has another three or four shows today, so they join the others and step out of my clothes, which are handed off to Zara and the show coordinator to be re-racked.
‘I am so bloody proud of you.’ I spin around to find Cassie full-on weeping. She envelops me in a hug. ‘This definitely calls for some fizz.’
‘Thanks, Cass.’ She steps back and beams down at me. ‘Phoof. I can’t believe it’s over.’
‘I know! All that work and we’re finally finished.’
‘Until the next collection, right?’ says Poppy, approaching our little huddle. ‘Huge congrats, Elle. That was ah-mazing!’ She’s a fashion journalist so it’s hard to tell if her effusive congratulations are genuine or just out of politeness.
‘Thank you. Hasn’t quite sunk in yet,’ I tell her.
‘I can imagine. And those are beautiful,’ she says, indicating the bouquet of peonies – my favourite flower.
‘Yes! I’d love to claim credit,’ says Cassie, leaning down to inhale their fragrance. ‘Actually, I should have thought of flowers – but with everything else going on, it didn’t occur to me. Soz, little sis.’
I wave her off. ‘I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for you.’
She smiles at me modestly, one shoulder lifted.
‘There’s no card,’ says Poppy. ‘Did you see who gave them to you?’
‘Um, yes, actually,’ I reply, my stomach clenching.
‘Well?’ asks Cassie with a laugh.
‘It was Leo,’ I reply.
Her eyes blink in disbelief. ‘Oh. Well, that’s—’
‘Sorry, who’s Leo?’ asks Poppy.
Oh god, she’s not going to write about me and Leo now, is she?
‘Off the record?’ I ask her. She nods. She seems sincere – I really hope I can trust her. ‘He’s my ex. A complete bastard, who I had no contact with for a decade and who’s suddenly back in my life. Oh, and he goes by Lorenzo now,’ I add with an eye roll. ‘Here.’ I thrust the flowers at her. ‘You can have these.’
‘Oh, I…’ She glances at Cassie and there’s something in the look they exchange that unsettles me.
‘Elle?’ Zara calls above the hubbub. Saved by the assistant designer.
‘Duty calls,’ I say, then I rush over to help Zara pack up the collection.
