Cassie and I watch Elle scarper away, then our heads come together. ‘Did you tell him to bring flowers?’ I ask right as she says, ‘Were the flowers your idea?’ We spring apart, our eyes wide.
Cassie looks over to where Elle and Zara are (literally) knee-deep in garments and custom-made packing boxes. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, ‘she’s otherwise occupied. I don’t think she’ll figure out we’re working together.’
Cassie looks at me. ‘Well, at least our plan to get him here succeeded,’ she says. I had an invitation couriered over to his hotel yesterday. ‘But how did he know about peonies?’
‘Sorry?’ I ask.
‘They’re her favourite flower. How did he know that? Or do you think it was just blind luck?’
‘Oh, well, they were together for a long time. He must have remembered.’
‘You’re probably right. Still,’ she says, a small smile alighting on her face, ‘it’s a good sign, don’t you think?’
‘That he showed up with her favourite flowers? Yes. That it pissed her off? Not so much. Do you still think we can get her to his show tomorrow?’
‘I’ll make sure of it,’ Cassie replies. ‘Even if I have to tie her up and stuff her in the boot of the cab.’ I laugh but she doesn’t, suddenly serious again. ‘This has to work, Poppy. At the very least, she needs to have it out with him so she can move on with her life.’
‘That’s the worst-case scenario, okay?’
She nods, her lips drawn into a tight line.
‘Listen, I’ve worked with dozens of clients over the years and in a former life, I was a psychologist. Her reaction to these’ – I hold up the flowers – ‘that was miles away from indifference, which is a positive sign. And he showed up. That counts for something too. Actually, it counts for a lot. So, let’s proceed as if we’re “Team Reunion”, rather than just “Team Closure”, okay?’
Cassie brightens up a bit and smiles again. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Cass!’ Elle is waving her sister over.
‘Will you join us for a celebratory drink?’ Cassie asks me.
‘If it won’t feel like I’m intruding.’
‘No,’ she replies as if I’m being silly. ‘Just bring your notepad and pretend it’s all part of the article.’
‘Thanks. I’d love to.’
Just over an hour later, we’re at Le Fumoir, a restaurant and bar that’s reasonably close to the Louvre. It’s quintessentially Parisian, with its golden awnings, dark polished wood, and tufted red leather sofas. This afternoon, it’s even mild enough to sit outside, which we do, with me sacrificing the view of passers-by so Cassie and Elle can face the street. Half the fun of Paris is people watching.
The waiter arrives, wearing a stark-white, waist-to-ankle apron and bearing the champagne we’ve ordered, expertly cracking the bottle and pouring into three flutes.
‘Merci,’ we say in unison when he finishes pouring and sets the open bottle into an ice bucket. He scowls at us, which is Parisian waiter for, ‘My pleasure – enjoy.’
‘So, Zara really didn’t want to come?’ I ask Elle.
‘I insisted she join us,’ she says, ‘but then she insisted that she needed to oversee the shipment of the collection back to London, even though we offered to help her with that tomorrow.’
‘Very conscientious of her,’ I say. ‘Still, it’s a shame.’
‘She’s promised we’ll celebrate properly with the others when we get back.’
‘And on that – celebrating, I mean,’ says Cassie, holding her flute aloft. ‘To my brilliant and talented little sister. I am so proud of you, Elle. Congratulations on your first of many, many Fashion Week shows.’
‘Hear, hear. Congratulations,’ I add.
Elle flushes, her cheeks pinking, but she lifts her flute and clinks it against ours. ‘Thank you.’ She sighs loudly. ‘I can’t believe it’s all over.’
‘It’s an incredible amount of work,’ I say.
‘It is, but you must see this all the time?’ she asks. She sips her champagne, watching me over the rim.
‘Don’t forget, I’m new to fashion,’ I say, leaning into the fib that before Nouveau, I wrote about mental health and wellbeing. To really sell a lie (sorry – a fib), stick as close to the truth as possible.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Elle replies. ‘So, did you always want to be a journalist?’
‘Nice try,’ I say, deflecting with a smile. ‘As I’m still on the clock, how about you tell me about you? Where did your passion for fashion – oh shit, I really didn’t mean to rhyme like that. Or swear in front of you. Fuck.’ I clap my hand over my mouth and the three of us share a laugh. ‘Ahem,’ I say, sitting up straighter and doing my best to present myself as a real fashion journalist. ‘So, Ms Bliss, tell me about your journey into fashion.’
Elle begins by telling me about her as a five-year-old, who spent hours either playing dress-up with her dolls or designing new outfits for them.
‘That’s fairly early to choose your profession,’ I say, making a note in my notebook.
She shrugs. ‘I suppose. Better than getting to your GCSEs and wondering what to do with your life. For me, the path has always been clear.’
I write that down.
She then walks me through her uni days, her expression clouding a little when she gets to this part – no doubt troubled by thoughts of Leo – and some time and a bottle of champagne later, her fashion journey arrives at today. And it may be because of the champagne, but there’s an easy camaraderie between us now.
‘Oh bugger,’ I say, something occurring to me. ‘I didn’t get a photo of the two of you celebrating – for the magazine.’ I take out my phone.
‘Nooo,’ says Elle, holding her hands over her face. ‘I must look a fright. I’ve been up since five – impossible to sleep – and no amount of concealer will get rid of these.’ She points to under her eyes.
‘You look fine,’ says Cassie.
‘But I don’t want to look fine, Cass. It’s Nouveau!’
She has a point and I slip the phone into my handbag.
‘How about this?’ I ask. ‘When we get back to London, we book a studio and do a proper photoshoot.’
As soon as I’ve spoken, I realise what I’ve promised. For a millisecond, my eyes meet Cassie’s – she’s clearly as horrified as I am – but, thank god, Elle doesn’t seem to notice.
‘That sounds brilliant,’ she says. She turns to Cassie. ‘I still can’t wrap my mind around it. I’m going to be featured in Nouveau! It’s so surreal.’
Cassie drains her glass and sets it down heavily on the table. ‘It’s unbelievable,’ she says, her eyes flicking in my direction.
The very least I can do after my blunder is pick up the tab – ‘on Nouveau’, of course. Cassie feigns a protest, but I insist.
As we’re walking away from the bar, she leans close. ‘I hope you can make it happen.’
So do I. I’ll text Nasrin in a sec to check if there’s any chance of turning that six inches into a double-page spread, with glossy photos to match.
‘Leave it with me,’ I say with a confident smile.
Her lips flatten into a line – one of her staple expressions, I’m learning – and I wave the sisters off as they slide into the backseat of a cab, the bouquet of peonies on the seat between them. Elle may have gifted them to me, but I asked Cassie to take them back to the hotel so I don’t have to lug them around Paris all afternoon.
After sending a message to Nasrin, I head off to sightsee. It’s a guilty pleasure while working but, well, Paris!
Leaving Le Fumoir, I make my way past the Louvre, skipping a jaunt through the Tuileries Garden, as I’m in my new kitten heels (that gravel would shred them to bits), then head up to Place de la Concorde. The view straight up the Champs-Elysées to the Arc de Triomphe is one of the most iconic views in the world for a reason and, as it does every time I’ve been here, it takes my breath away.
Oh, I could live in Paris, I think, emitting a dreamy sigh. But then, doesn’t everyone think that when they visit?
As I cross Place de la Concorde – the safe way – I remind myself that my husband is now worth an eye-wateringly large sum of money. If I asked about us living here – even just for a few months, or perhaps a year – he could make it happen. We could make it happen. He’s always reminding me that his inherited fortune belongs to both of us. Which I suppose is fair considering he only inherited it because we got married.
I walk the length of the Champs-Elysées, home to some of the most exclusive shops in the world, dodging hordes of gawping tourists – from the accents, mostly Brits, North Americans, and Antipodeans. The uber wealthy are also here – those of the see-and-be-seen crowd. I’m not even surprised when several Kardashians burst out of Longchamp, cooing over their purchases. They must be here for Fashion Week, but I really couldn’t tell you which one is which.
As I continue walking, my phone rings.
‘Hey!’ I say to Shaz. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s cold and raining and miserable. Please tell me it’s sunny in Paris.’
‘Yep. Hang on.’ I snap a selfie of me with the Arc de Triomphe in the background and send it to her.
‘I hate you,’ she says and I laugh. ‘No, I love you really.’
‘Wait.’ I spin around and snap a second selfie and send it.
‘Oh my god, are those Kardashians?’ she shrieks in my ear.
‘Yes, we were just hanging out in Longchamp.’
‘I want your life,’ she quips, and we both laugh.
‘So, how’s your week going?’ I ask. A heavy breath comes down the line. ‘Shaz? What’s going on?’
‘Lauren asked me about moving in again.’
‘Okay, and how do you feel about that?’
‘Terrified!’
‘No need to shout, Sharon.’
‘Sorry.’
‘But do you get the sense that if you don’t move in with her it’s…’
‘Over?’
‘Yes.’
She’s quiet for a moment. ‘No. She hasn’t given me an ultimatum or anything – I don’t think she’d do that.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘So, what should I do?’ she asks as I dodge a family of Americans who’ve just come out of the Nike store. ‘Pop?’
This is a well-established dynamic in our friendship. When it comes to advice, we have an unspoken agreement that we only give it when asked – and when the type of advice has been specified. Is she asking me to comment as her best friend, her pseudo-psych, or does she want a dose of tough love? I wait, knowing she’ll soon twig.
‘Oh, sorry. Wearing your bestie hat, please,’ she requests.
I stop outside Omega and look through the shopfront window at those ridiculous watches with all the dials and doohickies. They’re so huge, you’d need round-the-clock physiotherapy to wear one – either that, or you’d end up walking in a circle from the weight of it.
‘Okay. As your best friend, I’ve never seen you happier – or more yourself – than when you’re with Lauren. She’s a beautiful person, Shaz, and Tris and I already consider her part of the family – Ravi and Jass too,’ I say, referring to Tristan’s closest friends and now part of my extended family. ‘I understand if it feels too soon – believe me.’ She chuckles and we share the joke about me marrying Tristan only a month after we met. ‘But Shaz, if your heart knows it’s right, then tell your head to shut the fuck up and just say yes.’
‘You wandered into tough-love territory there at the end,’ she says.
‘It’s the next neighbourhood along and the boundaries get blurry,’ I retort. ‘Look, you don’t need to make any decisions right now. Come over when I get back from Paris and we’ll talk it through properly, okay?’
‘A reprieve!’ she exclaims. ‘How benevolent of you.’
‘I’m going now.’ I set off again.
‘Wait, what are you up to this arvo?’
‘I am taking myself up the Arc de Triomphe,’ I reply. ‘Haven’t done that since that trip we did in 2018, remember?’
‘Vaguely. I’m overdue for a trip to Paris.’
‘Maybe you and Lauren can come on your honeymoon,’ I tease.
‘Goodbye,’ she groans, ending the call.
I chuckle, about to put my phone away when a message comes in from Cassie:
Help! Elle refuses to go to Leo’s show.
I’m less than a block away from one of my favourite Parisian landmarks, but duty calls. I hail a cab so I can hightail it back to the hotel as fast as possible.
On the way, I send a reply to Cassie:
Reinforcements on the way!
I also send another text to Nasrin about the photoshoot and a bigger spread in Nouveau for Bliss Designs:
Any luck? May be urgent.
This time, she replies immediately:
Paloma is on it. Looks good. Keep you posted.
Phew. Ever since Shaz mentioned my pretence for being here, I’ve felt worse. Yes, I have lied to clients before – sorry, fibbed. I even lied to Tristan when he was my client, and that bit me in the bum big time. But this time… it feels more sinister, less noble than it usually does. Why didn’t I push back when Cassie came up with the idea? It’s one thing to create situations and conditions in which love can spark, but this impacts Elle’s career as well as her love life, and it’s blatantly obvious being a designer means the world to her.
And I truly understand that feeling. After my people – especially my husband, parents, and bestie – my job is everything. I hope Paloma comes through for us.
As the cab turns onto the street the hotel is on, my phone chimes with a message. It’s Nasrin again.
‘That was fast,’ I say to myself.
Seen this?
She’s attached a photograph that may just be a game changer – especially now that Elle is refusing to go to Leo’s show.
Brilliant. Thank you!
Still on the other thing. Keep you posted.
I send her a thumbs-up emoji and pay the cab driver. Time to get this case back on track.
