‘How’s it going?’ Nasrin asks. I get off the sofa to take the call in a quieter part of the studio, which turns out to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. I end up huddled in a corner near the kitchenette.
‘So far, brilliantly,’ I say softly. ‘Elle and Leo are going to be photographed together.’
‘As in posed together?’
‘Yep.’
‘That is good.’
‘Half-dressed,’ I add for impact.
‘What?’
‘Uh-huh. Cassie tried to give me credit, but I set her straight. She seems to think we have magical powers.’
‘Hah!’ Nasrin laughs. ‘I’ve had clients like that – attributing their good luck to me.’
‘Exactly. That would be the Hocus Pocus Agency, not the Ever After Agency,’ I quip, making her laugh again. ‘So, any news?’ I ask, hoping that’s the reason for her call.
‘Yes – sort of,’ Nas replies.
‘Well?’
‘Marie has been in contact with Leo’s publicist’s former assistant—’
‘Ser’s former assistant?’
‘Yes. How many publicists does Leo have?’
‘Sorry – continue.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, clearly irritated, ‘the former assistant said that right before they left, Ser had them working on a list of celebrities to match Leo with.’
‘And by “match” you mean…?’
‘A short-term fake relationship for publicity purposes.’
‘Oh, wow,’ I say, my hand flying to my mouth.
‘Exactly.’
‘And?’
‘And Franzia was on it.’
‘Franzia was on the list?!’
‘Poppy, are you intentionally being dim, or are you just messing with me?’
‘Sorry – I’m absorbing this new information. It’s not exactly a smoking gun, but it is significant.’ Something occurs to me. ‘So, why did the assistant leave Ser’s employ? Do you know?’
‘It didn’t come up.’
‘Okay. Keep me posted. We need that smoking gun.’
‘Yep. See ya.’ She ends the call.
Right, so now I’m 99.5 per cent sure that the Lorenzo–Franzia engagement is a publicity stunt. But it’s that other 0.5 per cent that could derail this case and gravely impact the agency.
‘Come on, Marie,’ I whisper to myself. Then I head back to the sofa, where I’ll have an excellent view of the photoshoot.
Elle
I regard myself in the mirror.
Sylvie has done an amazing job – I barely recognise myself. I’m fortunate to have good skin to start with – Cassie and I both inherited our nana’s peaches-and-cream complexion – but today, it looks like it’s made from porcelain. With faux lashes and gold eyeliner, my hazel eyes really pop, looking more greenish than they usually do; my cheekbones are flushed with a natural-looking blush; my lips look particularly plump, Sylvie taking my natural pink a shade darker; and my hair is artfully tousled.
In its entirety, this look screams ‘recently shagged’ – if only.
‘Thank you, Sylvie. You’ve done a wonderful job,’ I say, still transfixed by my reflection. She beams at me in the mirror.
‘Time to change into your look now, love – such that it is.’ Indeed, Sylvie, indeed. I side-eye the two teeny pieces, then glance towards Leo, who is still in the makeup chair – or rather, standing next to it while the makeup artist touches up his torso. I’d look away but I don’t want to.
He’s wearing eyeliner too, only in a smoky grey that makes his eyes extra smoulder-y, and his hair looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower and run his hands through it. The pièce de resistance is that now he’s shirtless, his tattoos are visible – well, most are. I recall a small insignia on his left hip that’s currently hidden below his waistband. He has a lot more tattoos now than he did ten years ago, and I like that the ink on both his forearms is monochromatic. It suits him.
It suits him? Understatement of the year, Elle Bliss. Leo Jones is pure, rockstar-calibre sex on legs.
Leo looks over, catching me watching him – perving, more like – and winks again.
Gah!
I leap off the makeup chair, snatch up the waistcoat and knickers, and skitter towards a curtained-off fitting room. Please let them have an enormous robe on hand so I can swath myself in it until the very last moment.
I’m not a prude. I’ll happily change into my swimming costume in front of other women or walk around naked in front of a lover – I’ve even sunbathed topless in Nice. But none of that body confidence applies here. If this were a solo photoshoot, I probably would have agreed to Tally’s original concept and gone topless – nipple covers or not. I wouldn’t have loved it, but I would have agreed to it.
But Leo is here and that changes everything, including how I feel about public nudity.
I change, then look in the mirror. Top half? Fab. Thanks to Sylvie, I look sexy and I’m in love with this waistcoat – it’s one of my favourites from the collection – white silk linen, tiny pearlescent buttons… exquisite.
My bottom half, however, is a different story. I tug gently at the hem of the waistcoat, which stubbornly remains the same length. At least the knickers are designed for maximum coverage – unlike what the models are strutting about in. I spin around and look at my bum in the mirror – thankfully, not too ‘cheeky’.
‘Elle, they’re ready for you on set,’ a woman on the other side of the curtain calls out. I quickly scan the space for a robe… Nothing. So, I am expected to walk across the studio like this? I open the curtain a sliver, and Sophia is waiting there. ‘Ready?’ she asks.
‘Oh, I…’
‘I brought you this, if you like?’ she says, producing a white satin robe from behind her back.
‘Thank you,’ I say, resisting the urge to kiss her in gratitude. I take it and slip it on, then push the curtain open.
‘I really am sorry about the email cock up,’ she says to me quietly as she leads me to the set. ‘It must have come as quite a shock.’
As I suspected, Sophia is still beating herself up. I lay a hand on her arm. ‘It’s okay. Even if I had got the email, I’d probably still be a bit nervous about it.’ Her mouth extends into a lipless smile. ‘And thanks again for the robe,’ I say.
She gives me another cheerless smile, then steps away, and I take a moment to survey the set.
On the left, where Leo’s models will be posed, are three white blocks of various heights. The right of the set is mostly open space with one small riser towards the back, and in the centre is a white plinth about the height of a stool.
The models are all waiting just off set, Leo’s looking ‘au natural’ and the three wearing my designs (sans the waistcoat I’m wearing) dolled up in that high-fashion look Nouveau is famous for. I look back to the set, Tally’s vision forming in my mind’s eye. No doubt the shots will be incredible.
She claps her hands, commanding everyone’s attention, and starts directing the models into position.
‘Isn’t this wild,’ says a voice low in my ear. I inhale raggedly – such is the effect of his proximity – and nod while keeping my eyes fixed on the flurry of activity on set. ‘I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to moments like this,’ he says, his tone conveying humility.
I’m about to reply when Tally waves us over.
‘Right, so I’ve been told you two have known each other a long time?’
I look to Leo, signposting, ‘How much does she know and how much are we telling her?’
‘We were at fashion school together,’ he offers. ‘So, about fourteen years?’
Fourteen years if you don’t count the last ten, during which we’ve had no contact whatsoever!
‘That sounds about right,’ I reply, offering Tally a professional smile. It’s incredible the power of a satin robe. Were we having this conversation with me standing here in my knickers: completely different story.
‘Good. I’m just wanting to assess your level of comfort with each other,’ she says.
I laugh tensely. Level of comfort? What number is lower than zero? In stark contrast to my reaction, Leo drapes an arm around my shoulder, sending a ripple of goosebumps down my arms – the bastard. ‘We were close at school,’ he says, referring to uni the way Americans do.
‘Excellent. Well, then let’s get started, shall we? Leo, we’ll have you here, just to the right of this plinth, and Elle, if you could…’ She mimes taking off the robe.
Right, that. My knuckles turn white as I clasp the robe’s tie, willing myself to undo the bow, rather than tie it in a double knot. Sophia appears beside me, which somehow makes this moment more bearable. I take a deep breath and, steeling myself, undo the tie and let the robe slide off my shoulders, Sophia taking it from me before it hits the floor. I lift my chin and look at Tally expectantly, as if I do this sort of thing all the time.
She pats the top of the plinth. ‘Let’s start with you up here,’ she says.
Me: five-foot-two. The plinth: waist height. The only way I am getting up there is if someone lifts me.
‘Here,’ says Leo. He grabs me by the waist and effortlessly lifts me onto the plinth. It happens so fast, I barely register that his hands were on me.
‘Perfect. Now cross your legs,’ Tally says to me. I do. ‘And Leo, if you could drape your left arm around her, resting your hand on her chest, just above the neckline of her waistcoat…’
And breathe, Elle.
The next thirty or forty or a thousand minutes – time loses its meaning – feel like an out-of-body experience with me watching from the sidelines as Tally directs me, Leo, and the models into dozens of poses. She moves panther-like about the set, the camera almost always affixed to her eye as she translates her vision into the perfect shot.
And being this close to Leo, his hands on me, mine on him, feeling his breath on my shoulders, his hair tickling my neck – all these sensations add to the surrealness. The moment eventually comes when Tally stills, hands her camera to her assistant, and grins at us.
‘Want to see?’ she asks. Leo unfurls his arms, which were wrapped around me, and I viscerally experience the loss of him. My self-consciousness having dissolved soon after we started, all I want is for this day to continue indefinitely.
Leo lifts me off the plinth – I’ve been on and off it throughout the shoot – and we go over to where Tally is scrutinising a large screen. We stand either side of her and watch as she slowly scrolls through dozens of photographs, stopping to regard individual shots with a slight head tilt. Looking through the images, I can tell the moment I started to relax into the shoot – my jaw slackens, the fear leaves my eyes, and I adopt a serene, ethereal expression.
‘This one,’ Tally says, enlarging a thumbnail so it fills the screen. ‘Look at the light, how it’s dancing on your skin. You’re other-worldly, both of you.’
I lean in, my eyes roving the screen.
In the photograph, Leo’s arms are wrapped protectively around my torso, his chin dipped as though he’s about to kiss my shoulder. He’s looking down, his thick lashes black against the sharp outline of his pale cheeks. I, however, am looking right into the lens, my lips parted as if I am about to speak.
It’s stunning.
It also sends a slew of tingles down my spine, and I shiver.
‘Are you cold?’ Leo asks. He looks about. ‘Could we please get a robe for Elle?’ he asks the room.
The work experience girl hurries over with the one I was wearing earlier and Leo helps me into it, then pulls me to him and rubs one hand up and down my arm. I lean into his embrace, savouring the warmth of his bare torso through the fabric.
Then I realise: Leo is holding me and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
Cassie and Poppy have joined us now and Tally continues scrolling, stopping to examine certain shots. ‘These are amazing,’ Cassie says.
‘I keep coming back to this one,’ says Tally, returning to the shot she showed us before.
‘Wowser,’ Cassie whispers.
Tally grins at her. ‘Amelia will have final say, of course, but I’d bet a fair amount this will be it.’ She straightens and addresses the entire studio. ‘That’s a wrap, everyone. Great work. Thank you.’
The bustle recommences as the set is broken down, the lighting techs rip gaffer tape from the floor and coil cables, the models wander off to get changed (or clothed), and the hair and makeup team start packing up. The shoot is over, yet Leo still has an arm wrapped around me.
He may owe me an explanation, he may be engaged to Franzia, but in this moment, it feels very much like ‘Leo and Ellie’ again – as if it’s just us and not us plus six models, a dozen crew, a journalist, my sister, and the world’s most famous fashion photographer.
‘So,’ says Cassie. ‘That’s it.’
‘Yep,’ Leo replies. He drops his hand from my arm – no! – then stretches his neck from side to side. ‘I tell ya, I will never be one of those people who thinks modelling is easy,’ he says. ‘I’m going to need to visit my chiropractor after that. How’d you go?’ he asks me. ‘Besides freezing to death?’ he adds with a laugh.
‘Good, yeah,’ I reply, realising that I’ve barely said two words to him all morning.
‘Lorenzo,’ says Cassie, all business-like, ‘we still need to connect on the collab—’
‘Totally,’ he says, interrupting her. ‘How about you have your people call my people, set something up?’
Cassie frowns, confused. ‘Oh, I…’
‘I’m kidding.’
Cassie laughs, immediately disarmed.
‘So, how does tomorrow work?’ he asks.
‘Perfect. Elle?’
They both look at me. ‘Oh, um, yes, tomorrow,’ I respond, going against everything I’ve told Cassie about us working with Leo. Or rather, not working with Leo. Apparently, she’s not the only one who has been disarmed by his charms. I remain in my semi-fugue state as they chat excitedly, arranging for Leo to come to Bliss Designs, as his workroom is still being fitted out and won’t be ready for weeks.
Reality arrives with a thud when the head of wardrobe comes over and says, ‘You can keep the knickers, but we’ll need you out of the waistcoat so we can pack up your looks.’
‘Oh, right.’ I go back to the fitting room and pull the curtain closed while Cassie and Leo, who’s still bare-chested I might add, continue to chat.
My mind conjures the photo of us – Tally’s favourite – and with a jolt, I realise we look like lovers. If only, I think again.
How the hell am I supposed to forge a professional relationship with this man when all I want is to fall back into ‘us’?
