I’ve never been one to dread Monday mornings – especially not since we opened Bliss Designs – but this morning comes with oodles of apprehension.
Leo texted last night:
Up for a field trip tomorrow?
Intrigued, I replied:
Where to?
Those three blinking dots tormented me for at least twenty seconds, then:
It’s a surprise. Meet me here.
He added a link, which led to a café in SE1. Investigating further, I learnt it was equidistant from several London landmarks, including the Tate Modern. I said yes, we agreed on a time – 11 a.m. – and now I’m pacing in front of my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. Any other workday, I’d select a pair of trousers and a shirt – often my own designs – and leather sneakers. Simple, stylish, and comfortable.
But today?
With Cassie at Bliss, it’s left to me and my mounting nerves to select an appropriate look for an excursion (and definitely not a date) with my sexy, talented ex-boyfriend to an undisclosed location on an unseasonably warm day of 21°C!
It’s the ultimate wardrobe dilemma. What if he’s taking me on a tour of the London sewers?
‘Eloise Bliss!’ I chide myself, rifling through my wardrobe yet again. ‘Choose a look!’
Eventually, I opt for high-waisted, straight-leg linen trousers, a flowing silk blouse, a waistcoat (one of mine), and platform sandals. Regarding myself in the full-length mirror, I decide that the blouse is too formal and swap it for a white T-shirt. Finally dressed, I look in the mirror again, turning this way and that and trying to imagine myself through Leo’s eyes.
Leo, who is engaged. To a flipping supermodel! One who just happened to fly into London last night, something I know because I have been torturing myself by following her movements on socials.
It’s been over a week since Leo and I started working together and, after that first afternoon when I shouted at him and he apologised, but we were interrupted by Franzia’s call before we fully resolved anything, it’s been going well.
Well, mostly. The work side of things is. We’re making progress and although it’s early days, this collection has the potential to be the best work I’ve ever done.
The part that isn’t going so well is my too-frequent erotic thoughts about Leo.
We’ll be sketching or discussing fabric options and my mind will start drifting off and before I know it, I’m imagining Leo’s hands on my body or his mouth on mine or him taking me on the workbench. On Friday, he had to ask me three times to pass him the tailor’s chalk.
There’s also that Leo and I both seem to be suffering from ostrich syndrome, burying our heads in the sand. It’s obvious that another big talk is coming but neither of us are brave enough to go there.
All this means it’s been an intense week and a half – and that’s without my new hobby: stalking the supermodel who’s engaged to my ex.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ I say, giving myself a mental slap. What am I doing, obsessing like this? Leo is my colleague. This is not a date. This is simply a research excursion for our collection.
I grab my favourite handbag and leave the flat before I make myself late.
Leo is standing outside the café when I arrive, looking annoyingly cool and sexy. The baseball cap has made a return appearance and he’s in his ‘uniform’: a black T-shirt and jeans. He’s also wearing sunglasses, something I wish I’d thought to bring, as it’s not only warm, but the sky is a brilliant blue and the sunshine is bright.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘you look…’ He pauses for far too long, making me self-conscious about what I’m wearing. ‘…good,’ he says eventually, which makes me laugh.
‘Really? For a fashion designer, you need to work on your vocabulary.’
He chuckles self-deprecatingly. ‘You got me. Hi, by the way,’ he says. He leans down and we end up in one of those awkward are-we-hugging-I’m-not-quite-sure-pat-on-the-back hugs. We step back and smile at each other – also awkwardly.
‘So, are we going inside?’ I ask, indicating the café.
‘Oh, if you want to.’
‘It’s just—’
‘I thought we’d—’
‘Oh, that’s fine—’
We’re talking over each other, which is silly because we don’t do that in the workroom. Maybe that’s it – take us out of the working environment and we don’t know how to be together.
Be together… Oh god. Not a date, not a date, not a date.
‘Start again?’ he asks with a shy smile.
‘Please.’
‘I chose to meet you here because I wanted us to be in the vicinity of our destination without revealing what it is.’
‘Right. But you don’t want a coffee or a pastry?’
‘Only if you do—’
‘No, I—’ I expel a heavy breath. ‘We’re doing it again.’
‘Talking over each other?’ I nod. ‘You go,’ he says, smiling.
‘Okay, I’m not hungry and I had three cups of tea this morning.’
‘Cool, so we can go?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘This way,’ he says, pointing away from the Thames. Right, so we’re not going to the Tate Modern. We walk side by side as much as possible on the busy London street, dodging oncoming pedestrians and the odd pushchair. When we turn onto Bermondsey, I immediately know where we’re going, and I’m amazed it didn’t occur to me before.
‘Fashion and Textile Museum?’
He grins at me, and I catch myself reflected in his sunglasses – almost seeing myself through his eyes. Strange that I was pondering that only an hour ago.
We arrive at the striking pink entrance of the museum and Leo asks me to wait outside while he buys us tickets – refusing my offer to pay for mine – so he can keep the exhibit a surprise until the last moment. I even avoid looking at the marketing banners, so I don’t spoil it.
‘Ready?’ he asks a few minutes later.
I nod and follow him inside. I love this museum – the industrial feel of the space, with its polished concrete floors and high ceilings – even the lighting rig above our heads. And the colours and patterns that adorn the array of surfaces! Dame Zandra Rhodes is imprinted in the DNA of this museum.
‘This way,’ says Leo.
I follow closely, keeping my eyes on his back so I don’t accidentally ruin his surprise.
‘So? What do you think?’ he asks as we enter a cavernous gallery, and I finally lift my gaze. Set on plinths around the gallery, with a multi-tiered display at the far end, are several dozen mannequins dressed in clothing from the mid-20th century.
With my mouth open, I do a slow spin, taking in the dresses and gowns, the suits, the hats – men’s and women’s.
‘And check this out,’ says Leo, lightly touching my elbow to guide me to the back of the gallery. We stop in front of a display, and I understand immediately that this is why he’s brought me to the museum.
‘Pretty awesome, huh?’
My eyes rove the tableaux of mannequins dressed as travellers – the outfits, the travel accessories, the scarves and shoes and hats. A plaque at the front of the display reads:
A Mid-20th Century Retrospective on Travel
‘This is incredible. I mean, it’s in here, of course…’ I say, touching the side of my head – our education on the history of fashion was extensive and rigorous, and this era is the inspiration for our collection. ‘But seeing it in person…’ I lean closer, taking in the tiny stitches on a satin cape. ‘Can you imagine wearing clothes like this for a long-haul flight?’ I ask, turning back to him with a grin.
He chuckles. ‘It was a different time, for sure.’
‘I’ll say. This is a far cry from leggings and Uggs.’
‘Hah! There’s no way you travel in Uggs,’ he teases.
‘Well, no, but you know what I mean.’
I return to the display, scrutinising each piece while simultaneously thinking of our sketches. Excitement courses through me; our collection is going to be brilliant.
‘We should get some photos, yeah?’ I ask, whipping out my phone.
I start snapping away, Leo joining in, and we take the kind of photos only designers would take – closeups of buckles and stitching and lapels and bows. I even kneel on all fours in front of the dresses and skirts at the front of the display to look at the hems and lining.
‘Silk lining,’ I say about an A-line skirt as I stand and dust off my trousers.
‘Would you expect anything less?’ Leo asks.
‘Patterned silk lining.’
‘Impressive.’
‘Or overkill.’
‘Or sexy,’ he says. I look up at him and his eyes lock with mine, the air between us instantly charged.
‘Maybe the designer was thinking about what that skirt would look like on the bedroom floor,’ he says, his voice raspy.
‘Or bunched up around someone’s waist in the aeroplane toilet,’ I add, throwing fuel on the fire. My mind instantly teems with thoughts of Leo and me joining the Mile High Club.
He clears his throat and looks away and I inhale deeply through my nose. Right, so we’re going to pretend that didn’t happen.
‘Got all the photos you want?’ he asks. Translation: that was intense, and I’m engaged to someone else.
‘Um, yes, I think so.’ Translation: what’s the fastest way back to your flat so we can consummate this?
Because now I know this isn’t just one-sided. Leo’s feeling the current of attraction too.
We hastily make our way to the exit – maybe the glaring light of day will douse these feelings – but when we step outside, we’re met with more than sunlight.
‘Lorenzo, who’s the girl?’
‘Where’s Franzia?’
‘Are you cheating on your fiancée?’
The questions come thick and fast as the clump of photographers shove each other for the best vantage point. To photograph me with Leo! As if we were doing something wrong!
‘Lorenzo! Who’s the dolly bird?’
Dolly bird?
It’s only been seconds but it feels like longer when Leo grabs my hand and drags me away from the museum.
‘This way,’ he says, and I trot to keep up with him. The paps follow, shouting questions and commands at us.
I spot a black cab half a block away and tug free from Leo’s grasp to hail it. The cabbie flashes his lights and stops next to us.
The paps continue their onslaught as we climb inside.
‘Who’s the slapper?’ one of them asks.
The slam of the car door plunges us into silence and the cab zips into traffic, leaving the paparazzi behind.
I resist the urge to look back, instead resting heavily against the seat. Leo takes my hand again, gently this time, rubbing his thumb along the back of it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly.
But it’s too much. The moment in the museum, the paps, being called horrible names… Leo holding my hand.
I snatch it away and rest it in my lap, staring straight ahead.
‘Where to?’ asks the cabbie.
I rattle off my home address without thinking but Leo talks over me, giving a W1 address I don’t recognise. I look across at him. His lips have disappeared between his teeth and he’s frowning behind his sunglasses.
‘Is that the address to your shop?’ I ask.
He turns to me and takes off the glasses, answering my question with a nod.
I watch him closely. Do I want to go to his shop, or fashion house, or whatever it is? Lorenzo – is it a label? A persona? And whose brainchild was it, anyway? Seems wildly out of character for Leo to have created something so flashy.
I add these to the hundreds of questions I have for him, questions I’ve been accumulating since he left London. We could talk for the rest of the day, all through the night, and into tomorrow and I still wouldn’t have all the answers I want – answers I need.
But if I don’t go with him now, while I’m emboldened by adrenaline and – let’s face it – the leverage of having just been papped in the name of Lorenzo, I may never have this opportunity again.
‘Will you come?’ he asks, vulnerability evident in his eyes. ‘I still owe you that explanation, and now seems as good a time as any.’
That’s a casual way of putting it, an autopsy of our breakup, I think.
I look out the side window. ‘Yeah, okay.’
I sense him relax beside me as I watch out the window and wonder how much a cab ride through Central London will end up costing. No matter, as it will definitely be on Leo.
