‘Look!’ I say, holding up my phone. ‘Insta’s going bananas, especially hashtag Bliss Designs, and we’re already up hundreds of followers since this morning. Same on Facebook. And check out this post on the Fashion Week account.’ I scroll, landing on a shot of me and Juju at the end of the runway, our arms raised. ‘We’re blowing up. We don’t need Leo.’
Cass dons an expression so dour even Maggie Smith couldn’t pull it off.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘It just feels… I don’t know, rude.’
‘Rude?’
‘Yes. He invited you to his show, we have front row seats… He’ll notice if we don’t turn up.’
‘Good.’
‘Elle.’
‘I don’t understand what the problem is. I never want to see him again – ever, for the rest of my life.’
‘That’s… extreme.’
‘It isn’t if I mean it, and I do. Which also means I don’t care if he thinks I’m rude.’ Cass expels a frustrated sigh, so I come up with an alternative. ‘Here’s an idea. Why don’t you go by yourself?’
‘I’m not—’ She doesn’t finish her thought because we’re interrupted by a knock at the door. ‘That must be Poppy,’ she says, ‘come to collect her flowers.’ She emphasises ‘her’, an obvious dig at me, but I don’t care about the bloody peonies either!
Cass opens the door.
‘Hi,’ says Poppy, stepping inside our cramped room. ‘I promise not to be in your hair too long. I just wanted to go over some more background for the article.’
‘More background?’ I ask. ‘Didn’t we cover everything this afternoon at the bar?’
‘Actually, it’s a little more delicate than what we’ve already discussed. I have some questions about you and Lorenzo – or rather, Leo.’
‘What?’ My eyes fly towards Cass. ‘What is she talking about?’
‘I have no idea. Poppy?’
‘I know you said “off the record” before.’
‘Yes, and I meant that,’ I say. Until now, Poppy’s presence had been mostly unobtrusive, but this tangent is extremely intrusive.
‘And I understand – I really do – but I just heard from my editor. There’s a photo going around – of the two of you. I’ve got a copy on my phone.’
My stomach roils as I imagine a grainy photo of me and Leo during uni days, probably at some party and slightly drunk.
Poppy taps on her phone. ‘This one,’ she says, holding it out.
I don’t know if I can look. It’s the Schrodinger’s cat of photographs. If I don’t look then it won’t be a photo of me with Leo from a decade ago. I freeze, my eyes fixed on the rose-coloured carpet.
‘Elle?’
I turn to Cassie. ‘Can you look?’
‘All right.’ She takes the phone from Poppy, glances at it, and says, ‘Bloody hell, that was quick.’
‘Quick? How do you mean?’ I ask, confused.
She lifts her gaze to meet mine. ‘It’s from today. From your show.’
‘What?’ I snatch the phone from her and there he is, in profile, at the edge of the runway, holding up those stupid peonies. My hand is outreached and in the split second it took to take the photo, it looks like I’m smiling right at him. ‘Well, fuck.’
‘So, you see?’ Poppy asks, taking her phone back. ‘It really does seem like there’s a story and with us going to his show tomo—’
‘I’m not going,’ I say, interrupting her. ‘I’ve already told Cassie. I don’t want to see him. It ended badly between us and—’ My voice catches, betraying me. I was aiming for ‘casual dismissal’ but ever since I saw him again in that bloody restaurant, long-buried emotions have been popping up like jack-in-the-boxes – a terrifying toy for a child, by the way, and an apt analogy for what I’ve experienced over the past fortnight.
Damn him for showing up again like that! And why now?
‘I’m really sorry, Elle, but…’ Poppy exchanges an unreadable look with Cassie. ‘I’m afraid my editor is insisting that we pursue this angle of the story.’
‘Sorry? I don’t understand.’
‘What she’s saying is that if you don’t go to Leo’s show, there is no article,’ says Cassie.
‘I hate this, I really do,’ says Poppy, ‘but Cassie’s right.’
‘I see.’ A pinprick to a balloon would have less impact than this revelation has on me. I sink onto the bed, my shoulders slumped.
‘It’s your decision, of course,’ says Poppy, ‘and I completely understand if you’d like to call it good.’
All that bluster before about Bliss Designs trending on socials – I mean, it is trending and that’s great – but trending for a day is hardly the level of exposure I could secure for us if I agree to Poppy’s request. She’s working on a deep dive into us as a fashion label – from our (extremely humble) beginnings right up until today. This could lead to opportunities I cannot even imagine.
I stand and go to the window, looking through the gauzy curtains at the street below. Parisians and tourists mingle on the footpaths, scooters zip in and out of traffic, and there are a surprising number of Citroëns on the road – though I suppose they are French.
What’s that expression? You’ll regret the things you didn’t do more than those you did. Or something like that. I turn my back on the view.
‘All right. I’ll tell you about me and Leo – but just the gist, okay?’
‘Okay,’ says Poppy.
‘And his show tomorrow?’ asks Cassie, her expression hopeful. I nod and she grins at me, her dimples prominent. She’s clearly still on the whole collaboration tangent, but I have time to dissuade her from that. At least, I hope I do.
Ten minutes later, after I’ve given Poppy a potted history of my relationship with Leo, she stops recording and puts her phone away.
‘Excellent,’ she says, ‘that should be all I need for now. I’ll leave you two to – well, whatever it is you do after one of the biggest moments of your career – and I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning.’
She grins at us and I do my best to return the smile.
After she leaves, I fix my eyes on Cassie. ‘Happy now?’ I ask her.
‘I just want what’s best for—’
I cut her off. ‘I know. So,’ I say, changing tack, ‘would it be completely ridiculous to take a long bath, then a nap?’
‘You mean because we’re in Paris and you can bathe and sleep when we get home?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Not at all. I’ll take my book downstairs to the restaurant and give you some time by yourself.’ She gathers her belongings and kisses my cheek before she goes. ‘See you later, Bean,’ she says, pulling the door closed behind her.
I thought I was nervous yesterday, moments before my show, but this!
‘You all right, Bean?’ Cassie asks. ‘You look like you’re about to be sick.’
‘Yup.’ I lower the car window and breathe in deeply, focusing on landmarks as we wind our way through the streets of Paris. I’d rather be on my way to get a pap smear than to watch my ex’s fashion show. Add in a bikini wax, a trip to the dentist, and having bamboo spikes shoved under my fingernails, and I would still choose that itinerary over the Lorenzo show.
The cab stops close to the Carrousel du Louvre, and Poppy pays the driver and gets out. This is the part where I’m supposed to follow her, but it’s like I’m glued to the seat.
‘Bean?’
‘Stop calling me that,’ I snap.
‘Sorry,’ says Cassie. ‘Look, I’ll be right there with you the whole time, okay?’
Poppy is waiting on the footpath for us – the show starts soon – but I stay put, turning to Cassie. ‘Can we please just go back to the hotel?’ I ask, clutching her forearm.
She looks at me, her expression inscrutable, but I notice the dark shadows under her eyes. ‘If that’s what you really want,’ she says eventually.
Only I can’t do it. Cass has put her career on hold for me, for Bliss Designs, and the past few weeks have been the most intense we’ve endured. The least I can do is go to this bloody show, even if it’s only for Cass. What’s twenty minutes out of my life? I’ll be back at the hotel and getting ready for the H&M party before I know it.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, feigning enthusiasm.
‘Really?’ she asks, confused.
‘I know I keep flip-flopping. I’m sorry. Let’s just get this over with and draw a line under the Leo Jones chapter, once and for all.’
She pats my hand, then climbs out of the car. Begrudgingly, I follow, joining her and Poppy on the footpath. There are dozens of fashionably dressed people milling about, maybe even a hundred, and the buzz of excitement is palpable.
I signal for Cass and Poppy to follow me, then lead the way to the long escalators that will take us below ground. At the bottom, I retrieve the tickets from my clutch and stride towards the woman with the clipboard who’s closely guarding a velvet rope.
I hand her the tickets and she nods, then signals to one of the smartly dressed attendants.
‘Par ici, je vous prie,’ they say to us, and we follow them deeper into the pavilion where the hum of excitement amplifies, voices bouncing off the floors and walls, creating a cacophony of anticipation. The attendant leads us through the milling crowd and into the space where my show – along with several others – was held yesterday.
Overnight, the space has been transformed, with giant screens suspended from the ceiling either side of the runway. The audience is about two-thirds full and the attendant directs us to our seats. Left side, centre front row. So much for standing in the back and sneaking out immediately afterwards.
I sit, setting my clutch on my lap, and clasp it tightly. Cassie sits next to me and Poppy next to her. Only when we’re all seated does it hit me that Amelia Windsor, editor-in-chief of Nouveau, is sitting opposite us on the other side of the runway. Amelia Windsor! I wonder if she was at my show.
I lean across Cassie to speak to Poppy. ‘Have you ever met her?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
I jerk my head in Ms Windsor’s direction. ‘Amelia Windsor,’ I whisper.
Poppy looks across the way. ‘Oh,’ she says, drawing out the sound. She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘Not yet. I doubt she’d be interested in a lowly writer like me.’
‘Mmm.’ I’m still watching Amelia Windsor when she appears to look straight at me – and I mean ‘appears’ because she’s wearing her ubiquitous sunglasses. I look away, my eyes landing on Cate Blanchett chatting to Sandra Bullock.
‘Oh my god, this place is a who’s who,’ says Cassie low in my ear.
‘I know. I feel like the great pretender.’
‘You’re not. Or at least you won’t be for long. You’re Elle Bliss, don’t forget.’
The rest of the seats fill up quickly and I open my clutch to peek at the time. One minute to go. Then the houselights dim, the hum of conversation immediately dies, and the only sounds are people shifting in their seats and one person coughing.
‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ says the announcer, ‘Lorenzo présente sa collection, Hors des sentiers battus – Off the Beaten Track.’
Well, that’s almost as intriguing as the mystery of what shoe models will be wearing down the runway.
Music starts – sounding very much like a Western theme song – and an array of images appears on the screens. They’re photographs of a family with two children – a boy, who’s easily recognisable as Leo, and a girl – along with their mother. I glance around the vast space as the images dissolve into each other, all displaying this happy trio in various permutations, either smiling into the camera or at each other.
Leo was a sweet-looking little boy, all round cheeks and large grey eyes, and my traitorous heart twangs at the sight of his infectious grin. He used to talk about his mum and his sister with such affection when we were together and I know how much he loved them – loves them, I should say. His father’s absence from the photographs is glaring and I recall that there wasn’t any love lost between the two of them, but I can’t remember why.
After about thirty seconds, the photographs still, each screen inhabited by just one – Leo and his sister and mother laughing together – then the stage lights hit the runway.
All the times I’ve imagined Leo’s show since he told me about it – and I would never admit this to Cass, but that’s been a lot – I couldn’t have predicted what walks down the runway.
And they call me a wunderkind!
