The cab stops next to the kerb and Leo taps his phone to pay the enormous fare. I get out and wait for him, looking up at the beautiful Soho shopfront. He’s soon standing beside me and I resist the urge to gush about how proud I am that he’s reached this level of success. Because I am. Beneath everything else, I always had faith in his talent and only ever wanted him to succeed – for both of us to.
‘Come on inside,’ he says. He enters first, and every staff member glances at the door, even those tending to customers, smiles alighting on their faces at the sight of Leo.
I look around, my eyes devouring every detail of the shop floor. And I thought the shopfront was incredible! In my wildest dreams, I’ve never imagined something this… swanky.
A woman of around fifty – uber stylish with the most glorious long blonde hair – crosses to us and she and Leo exchange air kisses.
‘Linda,’ he says, ‘meet my new design partner, Elle Bliss. Elle, this is Linda, my second-in-command here in London.’
She reaches past him, her hand extended, and I shake it.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she says with a clipped inner-London accent. ‘And he’s exaggerating. I essentially manage a shop.’
Leo shakes his head, a grin spreading across his face. ‘Not even close.’
‘It’s true,’ Linda says to me. I suspect they’ve had similar exchanges before. ‘So, you’re here to see the workroom?’ she asks. ‘It’s extraordinary.’
‘Oh, I thought…’ I look to Leo, who’s now wearing a tight, uncomfortable smile.
‘Should we…?’ he asks, gesturing towards a staircase at the rear of the store. I go first, climbing the narrow staircase, and two storeys up – the middle floor is taken up by offices – I emerge into a workroom so modern and well-kitted out, it takes my breath away. I stop abruptly, taking it all in, and Leo bumps into the back of me.
‘Sorry,’ we mumble together.
I make my way between the workbenches towards the bank of sewing machines and overlockers, admiring the latest models. Slowly, I spin in wonder. Two of the walls are lined with pegboards, shelves, and cubbies filled with everything a fashion designer could want or need. The third is for pinning up inspiration boards and storyboarding – the visual depictions of the design process – and the fourth wall is floor-to-ceiling bolts of fabric.
I stray over to the twin dormer windows, lean against the exposed brick between them, and peer out at the street below us.
‘Not even close to the light you have in your workroom,’ he says.
‘You don’t need ambient light when you have those.’ My eyes dart towards the industrial lights overhead.
‘No, I guess not. Still—’
‘Why did you lie to me?’ I ask, interrupting him.
‘About this?’ he asks, looking about.
‘Yes. Unless there are other lies you’ve told me.’
‘No, I…’ He sighs with frustration and takes off his cap, running a hand through his hair. His dark roots have started to grow out, giving him an even edgier, almost rock-star look.
Literally hat in hand, he faces me. ‘There’s so much to tell you… Now that we’re here, I don’t know where to start.’
‘Hah!’ I laugh dryly. ‘I feel the same way about all the questions I have.’
‘Why don’t you go first then?’
‘I already have and you haven’t answered me. You told me – and Cassie – that your workroom was under construction. Why?’
He lifts his chin and looks me square in the eye. ‘Because ever since Paris, the paparazzi have set up shop’ – he points towards the windows – ‘right out there. And because I knew how it would look to them if I brought you here.’
‘Because you’re engaged to Franzia and us being seen together could end up being a PR nightmare.’
He bites his bottom lip for a moment before releasing it. ‘Yes.’
‘I suppose that makes sense,’ I concede. ‘Wait – no it doesn’t, because it was your publicist who got us together in the first place, for the collaboration. Well, her and Cassie.’
‘Yes, but that’s not the whole stor—’
‘So, what are you saying? That Ser doesn’t know we’re working together? Of course she bloody does!’
I push off the wall and start pacing. He remains silent, so I stop, fixing my eyes on him. ‘Are you going to help me understand or not?’ I don’t ask the burning question that’s front of mind: are you really in love with Franzia?
‘Yes! I’m trying.’
‘Try harder.’
We scowl at each other as he breathes audibly through his nose, an affectation he’s had ever since I’ve known him. It’s ‘Leo’ for, ‘You are doing my head in.’ Well, good because he’s doing the same to me!
‘Ser is…’ he says, his gaze dropping away.
He struggles to finish the sentence, so I supply, ‘Hard work?’
That makes him smile, his mouth quirking, and he meets my eye again. ‘She’s done a lot for me. Before I started working with her, I…’ I suspect he’s about to reveal something important and resist the urge to interrupt with some smart-arse comment. ‘I was lost, you know? I’d spent six years – no, seven – seven years in the cattle industry before I could finally hand over to Brandy.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The family business. Brandy always wanted it. She has a brilliant mind for business – always has, even from a young age – and I never did. I wanted to be a fashion designer, which to my father was the equivalent of running off to join the circus.’
Pieces of the puzzle start slotting into place – what Brandy said about Leo sacrificing for her, that Lorenzo is a reasonably new label – a new persona. I still have dozens of questions, but they can wait.
‘My old man… He was the epitome of the word “bastard” – old school, misogynistic… You know why he wanted me to run the company and not Brandy?’
It’s obviously a rhetorical question but I shake my head anyway.
‘Because she was “the daughter” and I was “the son” – line of succession, you see. In his mind, a business that had been in the family five generations – something that had started as a humble ranch with a hundred head of cattle – gets passed down from father to son, not father to daughter.’
‘Oh my god. That’s archaic.’
‘Mmm-hmm. And boy, he made her work for it – both of us. If I hadn’t agreed to run the business while Brandy got her degree, his will stipulated that it would go to his brother and we wouldn’t see a penny.’
‘Wait, not even your mum?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh.’ So it wasn’t just for Brandy; he sacrificed for his mum as well.
‘And he was so cruel… He’d go on these tirades… And how he treated my mom…’ Leo leans against one of the workbenches and crosses his arms, then stares at the floor for some time, his expression pained.
Eventually, he meets my eye and says, ‘This is going to sound awful, but I was glad when he died.’
He doesn’t look away and I know it’s so he can judge my reaction. If I’m appalled by what he’s said, then the connection between us – barely more than a filament, at this stage – will be severed. But I’m not appalled, I’m saddened. What a horrible way to live, hating your father like that and having to sacrifice what you so desperately want.
‘It freed us, his death,’ Leo continues. ‘Even me. It may have forced me to take on something I didn’t want to do, but in a way, I was still free of him… you know?’
He blinks back tears, and sniffs and shakes his head, rubbing his hand over his mouth and jaw. ‘Sorry.’
‘No – don’t be. I’m sorry. I had no idea how hard it must have been for you.’
We don’t speak for a while, and I look away to give him privacy. Peeking out one of the windows again, I discover a man ‘hiding’ behind a post box. And by ‘hiding’, I mean, ‘boldly leaning against it and smoking while his camera dangles from his neck’. I withdraw from the window so he can’t photograph me, then scan the block for more paps. I don’t see any, but that doesn’t mean anything. They may actually be hiding.
I’ve always wanted to be a successful designer – to be invited to show at the most prestigious fashion events and be featured in magazines like Nouveau – but I have never wanted the kind of fame that comes with paparazzi and tabloids.
Leo comes up behind me and peers over my shoulder.
‘Fucker,’ he says, hitting the ‘R’ sound hard.
‘Total fucker,’ I agree. ‘Utter tosspot fucking arsehole bastard.’
Leo chuckles and I turn and catch his eye.
‘You have quite the potty mouth, Miss Bliss.’
‘I can swear like a longshoreman on command,’ I reply.
He smiles at that, his eyes creasing at the corners, and I look away. Having him this close to me, looking at me like that… I can’t bear it.
I wander over to the fabric bolts and crane my neck, gazing up at the top shelf. I look for a ladder, and tucked away in the corner is the kind found in bookshops or libraries, one on rails.
‘I have workroom envy,’ I say, turning back to him.
He gives me a tight-lipped smile. ‘An advantage of being backed by my sister.’
‘Oh, Brandy invested in Lorenzo?’
‘Yep. She says it’s payment for keeping her seat warm all those years.’
‘Seems fair. Plus, she believes in you – she was so proud when I talked to her in Paris.’ He tilts his head from side to side, clearly unconvinced.
So, I’m not the only one who suffers from imposter syndrome. Perhaps we can unpack that together – but another time.
‘So, where does Ser fit in? How did you get connected with… with… I’m sorry, I’m trying to find a way to describe her that isn’t mean or rude.’
‘She’s my mom’s best friend – they were roommates in college. I grew up calling her Aunt Serena. Actually, I still call her that.’
I laugh, nodding as I absorb this new information. ‘Okay, all right… So she took you on as a client as what, nepotism once removed?’
‘Hey!’ he says with a grin. ‘She didn’t have to. But I reckon she and Mom got to talking around the time Brandy was finishing college and, essentially, they decided for me. I’d move to New York and get to work on my designs and when I was ready, Aunt Serena would launch my label. She’s kind of a big deal in the New York PR scene, so…’
‘Wait. You said they decided for you – why’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, fidgeting with a tape measure, the only object in the workroom that’s not in its place. ‘I’d lost my mojo. My head was still in the cattle game, I hadn’t designed anything for, well, years, and I just…’ He looks at me. ‘I guess I still had my old man’s voice in my head, telling me that fashion was a worthless pursuit, that I had no talent, that I was worthless.’
‘You’re not worthless and you are a wonderful designer. You deserve your successes – no matter how much help you had starting out,’ I say emphatically. ‘I mean, look at me. I wouldn’t be where I am without Cassie. She’s like Brandy – a brilliant business mind – and she keeps me in check when I get all…’ I flap my hands about to demonstrate ‘wobbly’.
‘It’s awesome that you have her support.’
‘Yes, it is. Just you like you have Brandy.’
‘The major difference is that my family backed me financially.’
‘Well, you’re wrong there. If it weren’t for our nana, there wouldn’t be a Bliss Designs and I’d still be a pattern cutter for a third-tier athleisure-wear label, earning a pittance and being miserable.’
‘Really?’
‘She gave me my inheritance early. That’s how she explained it. She wanted me to follow my dream and what was the point of her sitting on Grandad’s retirement fund until she passed away if she could see her granddaughter succeed as a fashion designer instead?’
‘Wow, that’s… that’s awesome.’
‘It is. And a lot of pressure to make that happen. So, you see, we are not so different, Leo Jones. We’re both where we are because our families have supported our dreams.’
Something else we could have experienced together had you not disappeared from my life. I dismiss the thought; contemplating a life that could have been is moot now that he’s engaged to someone else.
‘That’s true,’ he says, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regards me. ‘You’re very wise, you know that?’
‘Hah! I don’t think that word has ever been used to describe me.’ Something else comes to mind. ‘Can I ask? That first night, at the restaurant, when you showed up late and all… tosserfied.’
‘Tosserfied?’ he asks, amused.
‘Well, come on. What was that outfit? And you were all’ – I cross the floor in an exaggerated swagger, then turn back to him – ‘I mean, what was that? You looked like a right prat. You behaved like a right prat.’
He laughs. ‘Wow, don’t hold back on my account.’
I cross my arms and blink at him, waiting for an answer.
‘Okay, well, the outfit was for a photoshoot – something Aunt Serena set up – and it ran long, and I didn’t want to be late, so I just got in a cab and came to the restaurant.’
‘Okay, fair. But what about the rest of it? Your behaviour?’
He presses his lips together, then sighs, and I sense yet another revelation coming. ‘Armour, I guess,’ he says.
‘Armour? How do you mean? Against what?’
‘Against you. I knew I was meeting you. I figured it out as soon as Aunt Serena put the meeting on my calendar.’
‘Wait, what? But you were surprised – when you saw me, I mean.’
‘I acted surprised.’
My mouth falls open as I struggle to find my words. The only one that comes is, ‘Why?’
‘Why the ruse?’ he asks. ‘Because I didn’t know how you’d feel about seeing me and I wanted to protect myself in case you—’
‘In case I shouted at you, then stormed out.’
Which, of course, is exactly what I did.
He nods, and frustrated tears prick my eyes, blurring Leo and the workroom, as dozens of questions fly through my mind, questions I still don’t have answers to, including why he felt the need to ghost me. Family duty, I can understand. Cutting off all ties – not so much.
And then there’s the pervading question, one that has elbowed its way to the forefront: what the fuck is going on between us? That moment at the museum earlier – there’s no way I imagined that.
I blink back the tears – I will not cry in front of Leo Fucking Jones. And as I glare at him, another question comes to mind: is Leo’s engagement to Franzia just another ruse, a publicity stunt? And that brings me full circle to the original question. What the fuck is going on between us?
Nope. I can’t do it. I can’t be here. There’s too much confusion, too much history. I push past Leo and run down the stairs, him calling, ‘Ellie, wait!’ at my back.
