The strange thing about a moment like this is you can imagine it a thousand times, playing it out a thousand different ways, but you will never even consider that your ex-boyfriend (and possibly the love of your life) is the person you’re supposed to be meeting with.
Or that he’d look like such a tosspot.
This isn’t Leo – my Leo – this is a facsimile, a tacky Instagram filter come to life.
We gape at each other for what feels like an hour and, as my eyes scour his still-handsome angular face, thoughts and emotions zip about inside me, as if my body is hosting a dodgem car rally. Zoom – crash – zoom – crash. Lots of collisions.
And the questions! SO. MANY. QUESTIONS.
‘What are you doing here?’ pops out first.
‘Oh, um…’ He looks helplessly towards the door but Ser, the human butterfly, is nowhere to be seen – probably off flapping her wings and causing a tsunami somewhere across the world. She’s certainly caused one in here.
‘No, really, what the fuck are you doing here?’
Again, the words leave my mouth before the thought properly forms in my head. But it’s now patently clear that a decade’s worth of pining and longing and building up the memory of Leo in my mind has been constructed on a bedrock of anger. In the past ten years, it’s the one emotion I’ve never consciously experienced, yet here it is, centre stage and basking in its spotlight like a veil has been lifted.
‘More to the point, where the fuck have you been?’ I add, my voice laced with venom.
He seems to ignore my questions, or perhaps they’ve yet to land, as he’s still shaking his head in disbelief.
‘I’m not sure why I didn’t put two and two together and get four,’ he says with a slight smile.
‘Well, maths was never really your strong suit.’ This isn’t me – snarky questions and bitchy retorts – but I can’t seem to help it.
‘Bliss Designs,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Well done, Ellie. It’s what you always wanted and from all accounts, you’ve made it.’
‘I’m called Elle now, Lorenzo.’
He fiddles with his fork, darkness clouding his features as he locks eyes with mine, his countenance visibly shifting. It seems my blows have finally landed. Good.
‘Elle then,’ he says feebly.
His beer arrives and he barely acknowledges the waiter, instead lifting the bottle and tipping it sardonically in my direction. He takes a long pull as his eyes scan the restaurant. The waiter hovers nearby, probably to take our order. I send him a weak smile and thankfully, he gets the message and leaves.
‘So now what?’ I ask, knowing I’ve obliterated any chance of the hopeful, romantic reunion I’ve fantasised about for ten years.
Or, more succinctly, he has obliterated it, showing up unexpectedly like this – and looking ridiculous. I’m back to angry again, dizzy from the carousel of emotions whizzing through me.
Leo – or Lorenzo – I have no idea what to even call him – licks his lips and places the bottle on the table. It’s already half-empty. ‘I think we’re supposed to discuss a possible collaboration.’
‘Hah!’ I bark out.
‘Look, Ellie—’
‘Elle.’
‘Sorry. Elle.’ He watches me, his eyes like a storm over the sea – dark grey with flecks of gold. Tempestuous. ‘You really had no idea?’ he asks, his voice low and gravelly (damn him) and that Texan drawl tempered by… By what? Age? Or has it been carefully curated along with the rest of this persona?
‘About you? That you’re Lorenzo?’
He nods sharply, his eyes returning to the beer bottle, where he tears off a strip from the label and rolls it between his thumbs and forefingers. He always did that – twirling paper. There were dozens of pieces of rolled up paper all over his share flat when we—
‘No,’ I answer curtly, curtailing my stroll down memory lane. This man left. No word. No contact. He just loved me and left.
‘Really?’ he asks arrogantly, his eyes meeting mine again. ‘Because I’ve kinda been everywhere.’
‘Everywh—’
‘You didn’t see the Nouveau article?’ he asks.
Oh god, he was in Nouveau? How did I not know this? Oh, right: I’ve been working my arse off trying to turn my label into a household name. There was a time when I would pore over an edition of Nouveau like I’d unearthed the secrets of the universe – actually, that’s exactly what I’d been doing. My universe: fashion.
And if I didn’t despise him for being an arse – then and now – I’d be jealous about being featured in my favourite – sorry, the world’s favourite – fashion magazine.
All right, I am jealous.
‘I’ve been busy,’ I say curtly. ‘You know, building an up-and-coming fashion label. I’m showing in Paris the week after next.’ I lift my chin, hating myself a little more for each degree of that incline. I’m not typically boastful either, but seeing Leo seems to have unleashed parts of me that want to… Well, maybe not destroy him, but at least inflict a little damage.
He sneers, snorting a mocking laugh out through his nose. How was I ever in love with this man? I search for any sign of the Leo I loved – the affable, funny bloke who turned my insides to mush with just a look – but there are none. Just a good-looking prat with an awful hairstyle wearing ugly clothes.
‘Congratulations,’ he says, though there isn’t an ounce of sincerity in his words. ‘I’m also showing at Fashion Week.’
This revelation is a snag in my newly hatched plan to laud my success over him, especially as it’s unlikely he’s a last-minute addition to the programme like Bliss Designs is.
‘So, who’s the collaboration with?’ I can’t help the question, even though it may be interpreted as collegial – I really want to know.
‘No collaboration. Just me.’ I’m confused and my face must betray me because he laughs. ‘You’re wondering what I’ll send down the runway, what the models will be wearing. Besides shoes, I mean.’
‘Well, yes.’
My show has been through dozens of permutations as we finalise the collection: mixing and matching my pieces to form different looks, the order of those looks, which model will wear which, hair and makeup styling, the shoes. We’re tossing up between a chunky boot, a brogue, and a heel – each from a different label, and we’ll be buying them. No collaborations for me just yet…
There are many factors that come into play, but in no version of my show are the models naked and strutting down the runway only wearing shoes. Perhaps he’ll dress them in plain-white cotton shifts – not particularly inspiring, but shoe designers have done this in the past.
‘Well, why don’t you come and see?’ he offers.
‘Oh, I—’
‘What? Afraid I’ll show you up?’
‘No. Just… I’ll be busy, you know, with my own show.’
‘Right.’ He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and takes out his phone. He taps on it, concentration etching his features. Eventually, he turns the phone around to show me the screen. ‘The programme. Mine’s the day after yours.’ My eyes meet his and he shrugs, smiling at me smugly. ‘See? No excuse not to come. And if we’re going to collaborate—’
‘We are never going to collaborate.’
I am so sure of this that Tay Tay could write a song about it.
‘Just…’ He sighs as if he’s already tired of sparring. ‘Come and see the show. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?’ He grins at me, both hands raised, palms up.
But his attempt at humour falls flat – horizon flat – and I scowl at him.
‘I have to go.’
It’s not the most graceful exit line, but I’ve had enough and I need to get out of here. I stand, unhook my handbag from my chair, and swing it over my shoulder. As I walk past him, he clasps my wrist.
‘Ellie, please.’ There’s something visceral in his plea and for a second – only a second – I consider that I may have got it wrong, got him wrong. Maybe he is still Leo.
But then if he is, he’s the one who left without a word, who ignored every email, text, and phone call – the one who ripped out my heart and took it with him to Texas.
‘It’s Elle.’ I snatch my wrist away and march out of the restaurant without another word and without looking back. I’m halfway down the block when I realise I have no idea where the nearest Tube stop is, and I stop in a shopfront portico to get my bearings.
Leo Jones.
He was my whole world, my universe, the person who shared my orbit. Then he was gone, and there was a void so unfathomable, I could hardly breathe. For weeks – months – I lived in a sort-of fog, as if I were experiencing the world through a milky lens. Food lost its taste, colours were muted, and all the sharp edges of life – anything I’d once felt acutely – good or bad – even burning my tongue on too-hot tea – felt soft. If I laughed at something spontaneously, it felt like a betrayal of the great gaping space inside me.
I even stopped designing. I missed job interviews, I missed my graduation.
I was lost.
Slowly, I came back to myself – with Cassie’s support and some tough love from my parents who, after months of putting up with me, ‘gently nudged’ me to move back out of my childhood bedroom and re-engage with life.
I did, but when it comes to relationships, I’ve never really let myself get close to anyone. Which is probably why I have so many first dates but very few fourth dates – and why I choose such boring or boorish men to go out with.
Leo Fucking Jones.
The tears, when they come, are hot, angry, fat tears.
I wish Cassie had been there. She would have known what to do, how to handle the situation, how to handle Leo. I still can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before now. I feel so foolish. I’ve been searching for the man for ten years and for the past few months, he’s been right under my nose.
And he’s far from the person who once lived and breathed inside my orbit.
Who knew Cassie’s little ‘side project’ would be so catastrophic.
‘Cass! Cassie!’ I call as I enter our flat.
She pops her head out of the bathroom, her electric toothbrush whirring in her mouth, and holds up a finger. She finishes and joins me in the lounge.
‘You’re home early,’ she says, scrutinising me. ‘Is that good or bad?’
I flop onto the sofa. Now that I’m home, I’m not sure how to broach this with her. She was so excited about a potential collaboration with Lorenzo.
‘Elle?’
She sits opposite me on her favourite chair and when my eyes meet hers, I feel a little queasy. ‘Um…’
‘Tell me.’
I heave out an immense sigh, then look her in the eye. ‘I know you were really hopeful about this meeting but—’
‘Well, yes. This could be the huge break we’ve been hoping for.’
‘It’s not going to happen,’ I say.
She looks crestfallen, which stings, but I’m hoping that as soon as I explain the situation, she’ll understand.
‘Why?’ she asks quietly.
‘Well, you’re never going to believe this but Lorenzo… He’s Leo. Leo Jones.’
‘What?’ she asks, leaping out of her seat, her mouth agape. It’s almost comical, her reaction. ‘Your Leo?’
‘Yes. Well, no, not my Leo, as it turns out. But, yes, the Leo – Leo of “A Thousand Nights of Pining” by Elle Bliss fame.’
‘I see,’ she says, sitting back down. ‘And how was it seeing him again?’
There’s still a glimmer of hope in her eyes and I’m about to extinguish it.
‘Fucking awful.’
‘Oh.’
‘First off, he was late. And then his publicist showed up – now she’s an odd bod, to say the least – and when he finally arrives, he looks like a reject from an eighties sitcom. And he’s a complete tosser, Cass – so arrogant. He didn’t even have the decency to explain himself for being late or apologise or anything. And the longer I sat there, the more I realised how fucking angry I am. It never even occurred to me before tonight. But who does that to a person? Leave suddenly, then cut off all ties? And then to not even acknowledge it… No! He just brags about his success and – get this – invites me to his show in Paris! As if I’m going to your show, you total fucking wanker.’
‘Right.’ Cassie stares hard at the floor. That glimmer of hope? Completely snuffed out. She even looks deflated, as if I’ve stuck a pin in her and she’s slowly losing air.
I get up and go around to the back of her chair, lean down, and hug her from behind. ‘Cass, I’m sorry. We’ll find someone else to partner with, okay?’
‘It’s just…’ She wriggles out of my hug, then stands and starts pacing.
‘Cass? It’s a firm no from me. There’s no way in hell I can work with that man – not after our history and—’
‘Just…’ She stops and faces me. ‘What if—’
‘No! You weren’t there. You have no idea how it felt to see him after all this time, and everything I’d built up in my mind about what our reunion would be… It was the total opposite. I couldn’t recognise one iota of Leo in there – he’s a totally different person. And I mean… why the fuck didn’t he ever contact me, Cass? We were together for four years and then nothing?’ A sob takes hold. ‘I felt so stupid. I’ve been so, so stupid.’
‘No.’ Cassie crosses to me and wraps me up in a hug. ‘You’re not stupid. You just had your heart broken is all. I’m sorry the meeting turned out so badly. But I’ll talk to his management team and we’ll tee something up—’
I break away from her. ‘What the fuck?’
‘What?’
‘Cassie, did you not hear me? I am not working with that man.’
Her head tilts and she sighs.
‘No, Cass.’
I drag the back of my hand under my nose and wipe under my eyes with my fingertips.
‘Can we at least go to his show? I mean, we’ll be in Paris anyway. What’s the harm?’
What’s the harm? I could be given a week and still not have enough time to answer that question. But hope has sparked again in Cassie’s eyes and I can’t bear to let her down further. It’s just a show. It’s not like I have to talk to him or anything.
And part of me is curious.
‘Fine,’ I say with a sigh.
‘Really?’ she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.
‘Yes.’
She beams at me.
‘But you owe me!’ I say.
‘Fair.’
‘As in, a first-born-child level of debt, Cass.’
‘Got it.’
‘And just the show, no meeting.’
‘Right.’
‘I mean it,’ I say, heading towards my room.
‘You might change your min—’
I cut her off by forcefully closing my bedroom door. I rest against it, moments from the evening flickering through my mind and making my stomach lurch. I didn’t eat anything at dinner except that bread roll – only I’m not remotely hungry. Just shellshocked.
What the fuck have I said yes to?
