No, no, no, no, no. Of all train carriages on all the trains… How is this happening?
‘Oh, it’s you,’ Leo says, looking straight at Poppy. ‘Sorry, I—’ And then it must occur to him that where there’s a Poppy, there must be an Elle. The penny visibly drops as his eyes dart towards the other side of the table where Cassie and I are sitting.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ I reply. Because what else is there to say? I am in the seventh circle of hell right now. I’m reserving circles eight and nine, respectively, for when Leo invites me to his wedding, then the christening of his first child.
Cassie, ever the grown-up, steps in. ‘What a lovely surprise!’ she exclaims.
I fire eye-daggers at her. Lovely?
‘I’ll say,’ he replies with a smile. A smile? He looks down at Poppy. ‘I can just sit by the window, if you like?’
He gestures to the seat next to Poppy, the one directly across from me.
Poppy looks over, as if asking for my permission.
Paralysed by the absurdity of this situation, I can do little more than shrug my agreement. She stands and moves out of the way, and Leo settles into the seat by the window.
He smiles at me and I gulp. His outfit for today is a throwback to his Hank Moody from Californication phase – well-worn, well-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt. Leo spent most of uni wearing this outfit.
The first time I stayed over at his, I discovered a stack of carefully folded, identical black T-shirts and next to it, three pairs of the same jeans, also carefully folded. Hanging in the wardrobe were several black dress shirts, again identical. During the colder months, he switched from T-shirts to dress shirts and added a leather jacket. Before visiting his flat, I’d thought he just did his washing every other day.
I’d also teased him about doing a ‘Steve Jobs’ and we’d had our first dust-up about the difference between Jobs’ turtlenecks and baggy jeans (‘dorky’, apparently) and Hank Moody’s cool, easy California style. That’s when Leo introduced me to the show. He even had boxsets of the early seasons that he’d brought over from America. I didn’t mind it and it did spark a long-held desire to visit Los Angeles.
Today, the look is working for him even more so than when we were younger. And I hate to admit it, but that’s mostly due to the contrast of the black T-shirt and his platinum hair, which has grown on me. There’s something ‘Henry Cavill as the Witcher’ about it – only Cavill is too beefy for me and Leo is… well, perfect.
The train starts to leave the station, and I’m left wondering what I’m supposed to do for the next two-plus hours. Stare pointedly out the window? Keep reading my romcom? Make polite conversation with the man I’d like to throttle and ravish in equal measure?
‘Um, Cassie, how about we check out the café car? I’m famished,’ says Poppy.
Wait, Cassie wouldn’t abandon me, leaving me alone with Leo, would she?
‘Er, there’s table service,’ I tell them.
‘Right, but that won’t be for ages,’ Poppy replies, standing and collecting her handbag from the parcel shelf.
‘And I could murder a sandwich,’ says Cassie, popping out of her seat.
‘Can we bring you anything?’ Poppy asks and I look between them, gobsmacked.
‘I’ll take a coffee, thanks,’ says Leo. ‘An Americano – just black, no sugar.’
‘Elle?’ Cassie asks.
This is like an episode of Black Mirror – I’m the only person who’s horrified by the situation while everyone around me is acting like the train carriage isn’t on fire.
‘Coke,’ I manage, not even bothering to add ‘no sugar’ – Cassie knows. And then she and Poppy are gone and it’s just me and Leo.
Poppy
‘Wowser, you are good,’ Cassie says over her shoulder as we enter the vestibule between carriages.
‘If you’re talking about Leo showing up, that wasn’t my doing.’ She stops abruptly and I nearly crash into her.
She turns, her eyes questioning. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, yes. I mean, I seeded the idea at the party last night, but I had no idea if he’d follow through.’
‘How do mean you seeded the idea?’
‘Remember, I asked him where he was off to next and he said London and I mentioned we were heading back this morning on the Eurostar…’
‘Oh, that’s right! I thought it was odd, you mentioning that we’d be travelling first class.’
‘Odd, but it appeared to work.’
‘Then you are that good,’ she says, her dimples making an appearance.
I shrug. ‘A lot of this job is seeing opportunities and taking them – like us checking out the café car.’
‘You’re being modest.’
‘I’m being honest.’
‘Well, I didn’t think of it. I’m really glad you came to Paris with us, Poppy.’ I accept her gratitude with a smile and am about to suggest we move on when she asks, ‘So, how do you think Elle will view it – Leo showing up like this? As a coincidence or…’
‘Kismet?’
She nods.
‘From her expression, especially when we left them together just now, I’d say that we’re still quite far from that. Kismet evokes romance and fate… Elle isn’t there yet.’
‘Right.’ Cassie’s enthusiasm is wilting faster than flowers in the Aussie midday sun.
‘But it doesn’t mean I’m not thrilled that Leo has landed in our laps.’
‘Quite literally,’ she replies, perking up slightly.
‘Exactly.’ We exchange smiles. ‘And it’s an excellent sign that he followed through – more evidence that his relationship with Franzia is a sham. But we still need proof. I’ll call Marie – check if she has an update.’
‘Can I be on the call?’ Cassie asks.
‘Sure, but let’s not do it here.’
We’re outside the toilets where a queue is forming and we’ve already been jostled several times. We find an empty berth in the next train carriage and slip into the seats. I dig out my earbuds and offer one to Cassie. Nothing worse than being the person on the train who takes a call on speakerphone. If I had my way, those people would be ejected at the next stop.
Seconds later, a close-up of Marie appears onscreen.
‘Allo, Poppy, Cassie.’ She lifts her chin and blows a plume of actual – not imagined – cigarette smoke, then looks into the camera.
‘Bonjour, Marie,’ I say.
‘You are hoping for an update, non?’
‘Oui.’ Having been bonjour-ing and oui-ing for five days now, it’s hard to stop, especially when speaking to my French colleague. Marie expels a puff of air the way the French do – it sounds like ‘pfff’ and could mean a million different things.
‘Is that “pfff” good or bad?’ I ask, doing my best to mimic the sound.
She shrugs. ‘Bof.’ So far, this conversation is about as illuminating as stars on a cloudy night. Cassie sighs beside me, indicating she’s in agreement.
‘What’s the bad news then?’ I ask. May as well get right to it.
‘I am still working on Leo’s relationship with the supermodel.’
‘Okay, so you’re not sure if that’s legit or not?’
‘Non.’
‘Sorry,’ says Cassie. ‘Does that mean they’re not really a couple or you don’t know if they’re really a couple?’
Marie’s shoulder lifts in another shrug. ‘No word yet.’
‘But someone’s on it?’ I ask.
‘But of course.’
Oops – she seems offended.
‘Who?’ asks Cassie and I poke her. We’ve already caused offence and Marie never reveals her sources. I thought Cassie would have learnt that during our initial briefing with Marie back in London.
‘I know a guy,’ Marie replies – just as expected. ‘He works at Franzia’s modelling agency.’ This is new – insight into one of Marie’s connections! ‘This is where the good news arrives.’ I don’t correct her use of the English idiom. ‘Franzia, she is…’ Marie’s face screws up tightly with distaste. ‘How do you say… une salope.’
My French is as limited as all my other European languages, but I know that word. (Okay, I know a lot of the swearwords.) The feminist in me wants to call Marie out for calling Franzia a bitch, but the agent in me is far more interested in hearing the details.
‘Tell us more,’ I prompt.
‘She is rude – always late, all the time, to everything – late, late, late. But, of course, she is Franzia, non? Everyone will wait. Today, she was due on set in Paris to film a parfum commercial for Adore – late. Two hours. For Adore. And? They wait. But this… pfff… this is nothing. She is very badly behaved – throws the most enormous tantrums. Like a baby, a toddler. And she is cruel – to the other models, to makeup artists, to her agents… tout le monde. Like I say, quelle salope.’
‘So, if Leo’s actually in a relationship with her, then she probably treats him badly as well,’ says Cassie.
‘Wait.’ Marie holds up a finger, then taps away on her phone, her finger appearing huge onscreen. ‘I just send you a video. You watch it now or later?’
‘What’s it of?’ I ask.
‘Franzia at the Lorenzo show.’
‘We’ll watch it now and call you right back,’ I say.
‘D’accord.’
She ends the call. I open the video and Cassie leans in. It’s in portrait and has obviously been filmed on a phone. Franzia, her hair and makeup done but wearing only a thong, is stomping about, screeching about how hideous her outfit is and how it makes her look like some ‘hick from Nowheresville’.
And wouldn’t you know it? Not even a hint of that hodgepodge Eastern European accent from last night. Our supermodel isn’t just a B-I-T-C-H, she’s as British as they come. A text pops onto the screen over the video:
Meet Karen Whitehead from Shropshire.
I type a reply:
Was Leo there? Did he see this?
Her reply comes quickly:
No. My source says she’s never like this in front of the designer or the photographer.
‘So, Leo probably doesn’t know, then – what she’s like.’
‘I hope not,’ Cassie replies. ‘Why would he want to marry her if she’s like that?’ She points at my phone.
‘Hmm. Well, you know him better than I do.’
‘Not really. That was years ago and, yes, he seems like the same Leo but you never know. Elle said he was a right tosser when she met up with him in London.’
‘That’s right. But I still think we can use this to our advantage.’
I type another message to Marie:
Good news. Thank you so much!
The words Marie is typing appear, then:
She is horrible AND a fraud. You are welcome.
At that, Cassie and I laugh out loud like (dare I say it?) bitchy schoolgirls.
Elle
Good god, how long can it take to buy a coffee and a Coke? Cassie and Poppy have been gone an age.
Meanwhile, Leo and I have exhausted all the small talk ever talked in the history of humanity. We’ve covered the weather (in Paris, London, and New York), how exhausted we are (very), what Brandy is up to (sightseeing in Paris for a few days before heading back to Texas), and even the number of times we’ve been on the Eurostar (first time for him, fourth for me).
We’ll have to move on to talking about actual small things if they don’t return soon and I know very little about amoebas, cornichons, or babies.
I suddenly remember that I never got the chance to ask after his mum.
‘I was sorry to hear about your mum being unwell,’ I say. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘Yeah, thanks for asking. Just bad flu. The doctor advised her not to fly.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Sorry, it’s not good that she has the flu, but at least it’s not more serious.’
‘Yeah, for sure.’
Uncomfortable silence descends. Where is my sister?
‘So…’ he says, fidgeting with his ticket – a printed ticket, as if e-tickets aren’t a thing. He starts tearing it into strips and rolling each of those into tight coils. Some things never change.
As Cassie and Poppy are still nowhere to be seen, it’s time to put my big girl pants on.
‘So, can I address the elephant in the room – or rather, the train carriage?’
I don’t know what made me say that, because the real elephant is that two people who used to have sex (pretty much) daily – one of whom is engaged to a supermodel – are now trapped on a train together for the next two hours.
What I am about to raise – what I’m prepared to raise – is that my sister would like us to collaborate on a collection and why that’s a terrible idea and never going to happen. I spent most of the morning mentally shoring up the list of reasons I gave Cassie last night. It may be short, but it’s compelling – compelling enough that the next time Cassie brings up the matter, I won’t be backing down.
‘Uh, yeah. Go for it,’ Leo says, his eyes curious.
‘This collaboration between our—’
‘Oh,’ he says with a laugh. ‘I thought you were wondering why I’m going to London.’
‘Er… no, I—’
‘Well, I— Sorry,’ he says, having interrupted me. ‘You go.’
But now he’s said that, I’m curious. Why is he going to London when his fashion house is based in New York?
‘Okay, why London?’
He grins at me. ‘Home base for the next six months, maybe longer. I’ve rented an apartment in Hackney.’
‘You what?’ Hackney is where Cass and I live and where our fashion house is located.
‘Yeah, the UK’s got some incredible vegan leather producers, so I’ll be connecting with them, doing some exploring… getting inspiration for the next couple of collections… Operations and distribution will still be run out of the US, but who knows what the future holds?’ He shrugs with nonchalant optimism.
‘And, you know, a change of scene’s always good,’ he continues. ‘London’s big but after New York, it’s going to feel… I don’t know, spacious? I’m looking forward to it – a fresh perspective, reconnecting with old friends…’
Well, fuck. In one go, Leo’s invalidated more than half my reasons we can never work together. And ‘reconnecting with old friends’? What’s that supposed to mean?!
‘Here you go,’ says Cassie, appearing at precisely the right – or is it wrong? – moment. She and Poppy distribute food and drinks amongst us and settle back into their seats.
‘So, what have you two been up to?’ asks Poppy.
Trying not to fall back in love with Leo while discovering that he’s moving in around the corner!
‘Actually,’ says Leo, ‘I was just telling Elle that I’m staying in London till at least the fall.’
‘Interesting,’ says Cassie. She smiles at him broadly, looks to Poppy pointedly, then raises her eyebrows at me with a smile I’d describe as ‘evil mastermind’.
‘Interesting’ my arse, Cassandra Evelyn Bliss! If I didn’t know better, I’d think that Cassie orchestrated this entire thing, right down to us sharing a berth on the flipping Eurostar with Leo!
