My life just keeps getting more and more fantastical. Today, Bliss Designs is being photographed for Nouveau!
Back in the land of the living and no longer stinking of body odour and despair, I’m now excited about the photoshoot. Well, excited tempered with a dash of imposter syndrome and more than a handful of trepidation. Leo will be there, after all, and we’ve had no contact since (what I shall forever refer to as) THE CHEEK KISS. Several days later and the thought of it still turns my insides to mush. Silly really. I’m not the heroine of a Jane Austen novel. Or maybe I am, pining over a man who’s engaged to someone else.
But all that needs to take a backseat today, and Cassie and I head into Bliss first thing to collect three looks for the photoshoot.
The team, who got here at the crack of dawn, have just finished packing them into garment bags when Cassie and I arrive, bearing hot drinks and flapjacks from the café next door.
As the team descends on breakfast, I check over each look, overwhelmed with pride at the stellar job we’ve done to prepare for the photoshoot, despite having almost zero time to do it.
In less than thirty-six hours, the team has unboxed the shipment from Paris, checked every piece carefully for any loose threads, fallen hems, or even the slightest tear, then made any fixes. And yesterday afternoon, Prue and I had model fittings, which required us to take in two pieces and let one out.
Having completed my final checks, I zip up each garment bag, then address the team.
‘You are just brilliant – all of you,’ I tell them, ‘and, again, I apologise for being AWOL at the start of the week. Not my finest hour, but you all stepped up and then some.’
‘That’s okay,’ says Prue. Gaz mumbles through a mouthful, and Zara sends me an understanding smile. They really are the best.
‘Well, as a thank you for your incredible work, next Saturday, Cassie and I are taking you out to celebrate our most successful season yet.’
‘Yay,’ Prue says, softly clapping her hands together.
‘Where are we going?’ asks Gaz.
‘It’s a surprise,’ Cass replies quickly.
It’s so much of a surprise, we have no idea what it is yet. It was only last night we realised that with everything else that’s going on, we’d forgotten to organise the post-season celebration. We have just over a week to come up with something truly special to acknowledge the team’s incredible work. We can also afford to spend a little more than last season’s high tea, as orders have doubled since last week.
‘Right,’ says Cass, ‘we’d best be off – our car is due any minute now.’ The team help us load up and soon we’re on our way to a photographic studio just north of Central London.
Poppy’s there when we arrive but, thankfully, Leo isn’t, giving me time to get my bearings and calm my building nerves before he does. But even sans Leo, the studio is thrumming with activity. There are three hair and makeup stations, a photographic assistant walking about a light meter, and several technicians moving lights and reflectors into position. Across the studio, three models, who are only wearing under garments, are trying on Leo’s shoes. Interesting.
We’re met by the sort of person you can tell organises for a living – a twenty-something woman wearing simple, yet stylish, clothing and sporting a slick not-a-hair-out-of-place bun and a makeup-free face. She’s even wielding a clipboard.
She introduces herself, but as nervous as I am, I don’t retain her name. She signals for two people to relieve us of our garment bags, which are taken directly to the racks on the other side of the studio, where another team begins unpacking them. Clipboard woman instructs me to head over to hair and makeup.
‘I’ll stay here, Elle,’ says Cass, indicating the sofa where Poppy has set up shop, a tablet in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.
Ooh, tea.
‘Um, excuse me, would it be possible to have a cup of tea?’ I ask clipboard woman.
She lifts her head and telepathically summons an eager-faced girl who can’t be more than fifteen and is probably on work experience. The girl peers at me eagerly.
‘Um, tea, please. White with one sugar.’
‘I’ll take one too, please,’ says Cassie. ‘The same.’
The girl disappears behind a stark-white curved wall. In fact, the entire space is white, including the floor. I wish I’d brought sunglasses.
Clipboard woman clears her throat and when I meet her eye, she says, ‘Hair and makeup.’ She’s not being rude – not at all – but if she weren’t wielding a clipboard for Nouveau, keeping everything running smoothly and everyone in check, I suspect she’d make an excellent secondary school teacher.
I head towards hair and makeup, where two of the scantily clad models are now being coiffed and painted. I’m greeted by a smiling older woman, who reminds me of Nana on our mum’s side. She introduces herself as Sylvie.
‘Now, love, are you one of the designers or one of the models?’ she asks, and I know right away that Sylvie is a good egg.
‘Just one of the designers,’ I say, climbing onto the empty chair beside her. Tall chairs, even ones that have a footrest like this one, are not made for people of my stature. I appreciate that Sylvie neither attempts to help nor calls attention to my considerable efforts. When I’m seated, she stands behind me and makes eye contact in the mirror. She leans in close, bringing with her the fragrance of lilies.
‘Never say “just” when referring to yourself as a designer, love. If it weren’t for designers, none of the rest of us would be here.’ She adds a wink, setting me further at ease. ‘Right, I assume you’ve been briefed on the concept for the shoot?’
‘Er, no, actually. We were asked to email photos of the looks we’ve brought, but we weren’t told anything about the concept.’ This isn’t my first photoshoot, of course, but even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. Each photographer has a distinct approach.
Sylvie consults a sheaf of papers on the table in front of her, as if reminding herself of what she is supposed to do with me. She lifts page one and scans page two, a slight frown on her face, then lifts page two and scans page three. This is not instilling confidence.
I look over at the models who are being made up – or rather, made under, as the makeup artists seem to be working towards a no-makeup look – essentially, the opposite of the dark brows and bold lip my models wore down the runway last week.
‘Wait here, love,’ says Sylvie, leaving me.
The work experience girl arrives with my tea, but Sylvie’s departure has wound me up even more and I’m terrified I’ll spill the tea down my front. I let it sit there, cooling, as I crane my neck to see who Sylvie’s talking to. She returns a minute later with a tall, slender woman of about fifty, who has cropped grey hair, a lean lived-in face, tan-coloured skin, and dark-blue eyes.
‘Elle Bliss,’ says the woman with a warm smile, ‘I’m Tally.’
Oh my god, that’s why she looks so familiar. I am being photographed by Eleni Talbot – AKA Tally – AKA one of the best fashion photographers on the planet. How did no one tell me this?!
‘Er, hello,’ I reply, silently willing myself not to vomit on her shoes – two-toned Oxfords in tan and white, by the way.
‘Sylvie says you weren’t briefed on the shoot?’ It seems to be a rhetorical question, but I answer anyway.
‘No, no I wasn’t. Is there something specific I should know?’
With the way Tally hedges, my nerves rapidly mutate into full-blown terror.
‘Sophia,’ Tally calls out across the studio. Clipboard woman appears almost instantaneously. In a low tone, but not low enough that I don’t hear, Tally asks, ‘Do you know who was responsible for briefing the designers?’
Sophia inhales through her nose the way some people do when they’re being challenged.
‘I was. I emailed the briefs to the two additional designers yesterday, I’m sure of it.’ She takes a phone out of her pocket and sets it on the clipboard, scowling intensely as she taps away.
‘What’s going on?’ Cassie has now joined our little gathering.
‘Something about the brief for the photoshoot,’ I tell her.
‘Is there an issue?’ she asks. From the edge in her voice, I am almost positive Cassie has no idea who Tally is.
‘Er, Tally,’ I say, stepping in to make the introduction before Cassie turns on big-sister mode, ‘this is my sister and business manager, Cassie. Cassie, meet world-renowned photographer, Tally.’
Thankfully, Cassie understands immediately and beams brightly, her hand extended. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’
Pleasantries over, we all look to Sophia, who’s superior manner dissolves before our eyes. ‘I am so sorry,’ she says. ‘The emails are still in my outbox. I don’t know what happened.’
‘Not to worry,’ says Cassie, ‘these things happen to all of us.’
But poor Sophia, now muttering to herself, seems intent on a serious bout of self-reproach. She wanders off, possibly to polish her résumé.
‘Right, well,’ says Tally, turning to me, ‘in a nutshell, it’s this: we’re photographing pairs of designers for a multipage spread, with each pairing featuring their designs – worn by the models – and the designers posed together. You and Lorenzo are a late addition, of course, but I’ve had a brilliant idea.’
‘Okay.’ That doesn’t sound too bad. I’m a professional. I can make it through a half-day photoshoot without slobbering all over the hottest, loveliest man I’ve ever known!
‘What I’ve conceived for you and Lorenzo,’ Tally continues, ‘is something a little… well, different, as your design aesthetics are almost polar opposites.’
Well, I agree there – that’s what I’ve been saying to Cassie all along.
‘What do you mean by “different”?’ Cassie asks.
‘The main photograph will be three models on the left wearing Lorenzo shoes, belts, and hats and nothing else – posed strategically, of course – and three models on the right wearing your outfits. You and Lorenzo will be together in the centre.’
‘Wearing…?’ I ask with a strong sense of foreboding.
‘It will appear as if you are wearing nothing’ – I inhale sharply – ‘but of course, we will be taking all the necessary precautions to protect your modesty, and you will have approval of the final image.’
My eyes fly to meet Cassie’s. ‘Help!’ I silently telegraph.
‘Can I just ask?’ she says to Tally. ‘Would you consider Elle perhaps wearing one of her pieces – such as a waistcoat – to perhaps… facilitate the transition from nude to clothed across the page?’
And there we have it – my sister the number-cruncher and brilliant business mind making an astute creative suggestion and advising Eleni ‘Tally’ Talbot on her photoshoot.
Tally’s gaze lifts to the ceiling as if she’s pondering the idea. Moments that feel like millennia pass, then a smile breaks across her face. ‘I like that,’ she says, and I exhale with relief.
That’s right – I am relieved I get to wear a waistcoat and nothing else while posing with my ex-boyfriend. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
‘Actually,’ says Tally, tapping her lower lip with her forefinger, ‘Lorenzo could be shirtless but wearing a pair of his label’s jeans.’
I can tell, as a fellow creative, that she’s now envisioning the final shot. I frequently go into this state – looking off, my gaze unfocused, mumbling to myself…
‘Yes!’ she exclaims, coming back to us. ‘Lorenzo’s models on the right – organic poses, nude makeup, natural – then you and Lorenzo as the hub of the transition, entwined, each wearing one of your pieces, showing connectedness – your aesthetics differ, but you’re both fashion – then your models, fully-clothed, made up, structured poses, angular.’
She turns to Cassie. ‘You were dead-on with that suggestion – it’ll really elevate the shoot. Thank you.’
Cassie looks as astonished as I am. ‘Oh, you’re welcome.’
‘I agree,’ says someone behind us.
We turn in unison and there he is.
‘Lorenzo!’ Tally exclaims. They exchange cheek kisses like old friends. ‘Wonderful to see you again.’
Right, so Leo has shot with Tally before – why am I not surprised?
Tally claps her hands. ‘Everyone, listen up.’ The hum of activity stills and everyone looks towards Tally. ‘Slight change of plan. This will impact wardrobe and hair and makeup – heads to me, please. We start shooting in thirty.’
The activity resumes, with Sylvie stepping away to huddle with Tally – she must be the head makeup artist and hair stylist – and Cassie re-joining Poppy on the sofa.
‘Hey,’ Leo says, coming over.
‘Hey,’ I say back.
He drops his canvas satchel on the floor next to my chair. Looking around, he rubs his hand along his jaw. ‘Pretty intense, hey?’
‘Yes.’ Why can’t I utter more than a syllable whenever he’s around? I reach for my now-tepid tea and take a sip, just for something to do.
Leo turns towards me, flashing a cheeky grin. ‘So, ready to get half-naked together?’
I spit my tea out all over the makeup table and the mirror.
Oh my god! I don’t know which is more horrifying – that I’ve just embarrassed myself like that, or the realisation that this is actually happening. In less than an hour, Leo and I are going to be in each other’s arms, semi-clad.
If I tap my heels together three times, will I wake up in my bed? Hah! Chance would be a fine thing. Instead, I’m mopping up spit-out tea with a wad of tissues and Leo is helping me – even more mortifying!
Then the head of wardrobe walks over carrying one of my waistcoats on a hanger and a pair of nude knickers clipped to a skirt hanger.
‘Elle, your wardrobe,’ he says, hanging the garments on a nearby rail.
Gah! Now I know how Carrie Bradshaw felt about her look for that runway show – only she got to wear a bra under the dinner jacket as well as knickers!
‘If it makes you feel any better,’ says Leo, ‘I’m also a little anxious.’
I frown at him in confusion.
‘You know, being bare-chested for the photos.’
‘Why? You were barely wearing much more on the runway. Besides, you have a great body.’
It’s hard to say who’s more shocked by my comment – me or Leo – but then he grins and all I can hope for now is that the world opens up and swallows me whole.
