Three days until we leave for Paris and my sister is AWOL – something about a consultation. Though, I know my sister well enough to suspect it’s to do with this so-called side project – or rather, the never-gonna-happen collaboration with Leo.
She’d better not be digging us in deeper. I may have agreed to go to Leo’s show but that will consist of entering, standing at the back, then exiting immediately afterwards. I haven’t even agreed to say hello, let alone meet with him. Again.
It’s been over a week since I saw him, a week of replaying our conversation in my head on repeat. I keep asking myself if I could have said or done anything differently, if I could have elicited some sort of apology – even an explanation. But then I end up questioning the point of an apology.
‘Oh, Ellie, I’m terribly sorry I was a complete arse and ghosted you like that. But it was only because I was too busy saving kittens from burning buildings all over Texas, while simultaneously solving the climate crisis.’
Anything less than that and Leo can sod off.
God, have I really spent a decade mourning the loss of something that was entirely one-sided? It certainly feels like it. Why else would Leo have done what he did?
Thankfully, I’ve had work to keep me busy. Any time I feel myself on the brink of wallowing, another decision has landed in my lap. This close to launching a collection, my role is essentially ‘extreme decision maker’. If it were an Olympic event, I’d medal for sure.
‘Elle, we’re ready for you,’ says Zara, poking her head into the office.
Speaking of decision making…
For the seventy-fifth time – and I’m only slightly exaggerating – we are reordering the looks for the show.
If I do say so myself, this year’s autumn/winter collection is my best yet. I was inspired by Hollywood’s Golden Age and the women who embraced the trouser, the pant suit, and even the tuxedo. Back then, they were considered daring – gender benders with a propensity for comfort, leading to some of most iconic looks of the past hundred years.
And drawing from Virginia Woolf’s assertion that all women should have a room of their own, I’ve called my collection, ‘A Suit of One’s Own’. I hope people make the connection, but even if they don’t, I do.
So, Dietrick, Garbo, Hepburn, and Woolf… Thank you for the inspiration, ladies.
I’ve created eighteen looks: six day looks, six looks that will transform from day to night, each of which requires the model to perform a precise set of manoeuvres on the runway, and six night-time looks. What I’ve yet to decide is which looks will go first and last, and the order for the entire middle section. So, essentially, most of the show’s running order. I’m not complaining – I derive a lot of joy from this aspect of putting a show together.
I join the team in the workroom where they’ve put each look on a dress form and lined them up in the current order – one day (hopefully soon), we’ll be able to afford actual models for this part. I scan the cluster of dress forms, which range in sizes but are all calibrated to read ‘tall’. Perhaps in the future, I’ll design a petite range for people like me, but it occurred to me recently that most of the time I’m designing, I’m picturing the look on my much taller sister.
‘So,’ says Zara, signalling for the ‘show’ to begin. ‘We’re thinking this for look number one.’
Gaz rolls the first dress form down the centre aisle and I imagine it on a model with hair, makeup, and shoes. It’s a great first look: a single-breasted jacket worn open over a high-waisted short – both in a fuchsia linen I sourced from Belgium and finished with raw edges – with an off-white, high-necked silk blouse.
‘And the shoe?’ I ask – another pending decision.
Prue steps forward with a block-heeled, round-toed Mary Jane in silver, a chunky ankle boot in champagne patent leather, and a nude suede brogue. I look to the team and point at each of them in turn, asking for their pick. When they’ve answered, we have two for the brogue and one for the Mary Jane, but I’m still undecided.
‘Can you show me the frontrunner for the final look?’ I ask.
Gaz runs to the back of the lineup and walks forward with a flat-fronted, extra-wide-leg palazzo in off-white silk linen and a matching button-up waistcoat worn over a different high-collared silk blouse, this one with billowing sleeves, and a wool cape flung over one shoulder. This is as close as I get to the bridal-look finale that the couture shows often have.
‘I agree – great choice. We’ll go with this as the last look,’ I say. ‘And don’t let me change my mind.’
There’s a polite titter of laughter. I am famous for changing my mind even after I’ve said, ‘This is definitely it.’
‘Let’s see all the shoe options with this look.’ Without models and without trialling the entire show exactly as it will run on the day, this stage of the process is all about imagination. Fortunately, I have a vivid one. In fact, this show has already run in my mind so many times, I could commentate each permutation from memory.
And now, seeing the first and final looks side by side, tears prick my eyes. Noting the continuity of the raw edges on the lapel of the jacket and the cuff of the trousers, and the tiny rows of buttons up the fly-front of the short and down the front of the waistcoat, observing the masterful sewing of each piece by my incredible team, how the fabric falls exactly as I imagined, how each piece and each ensemble screams ‘bolshie femininity’, my signature, I am so incredibly proud.
I look down to the floor where the shoes are lined up. One option now stands out to me.
‘Sorry, team, but we’re going with the boot.’
‘Love it,’ says Gaz.
‘Brilliant.’ Prue makes a note on her tablet. She’ll be coordinating with our supplier to ensure we have enough pairs for the show, including a range of sizes.
‘Well, poo,’ says Zara candidly. ‘But I’m taking home a pair of the MJs.’
‘Honestly, after the past few weeks, you can all take home a pair of the MJs – and the brogues and the boots,’ I say magnanimously. ‘Give your sizes to Prue and she can order them in.’ Prue grins at me and the others swamp her.
My eyes dart to the large clock on the wall: 8.08 p.m. A surge of exhaustion hits, but we still need to firm up the rest of the running order, as the looks will be packed for shipping tomorrow.
‘All right, everyone, let’s get this running order sorted so we can go home. Gaz, look number two.’
As Gaz runs back to the other dress forms and pushes forward a belted jacket dress, I stifle a yawn. In two days, we’ll be on our way to Paris and in four days, my show takes to the runway. If that weren’t enough to induce a hefty dose of panic, there’s also the fact that the day after that, I’m expected to be at Leo’s show.
I suppose I could still back out. Cassie will be cheesed off, but why would I put myself through something like that? Sure, I’m curious about his designs but that’s minor compared to how badly I want to give him a swift kick up the arse.
Leo, Leo, Leo, why the fuck did you have to turn up now?
Poppy
‘You have a real sense of style,’ says Cassie as she trawls through my wardrobe. ‘Classic,’ she declares.
‘Oh, thanks. I just like to be comfortable. My work clothes are—’
‘Boring,’ Shaz chimes in, right as I say, ‘My uniform.’
‘Hey,’ I say to Shaz. ‘That’s not nice. If you don’t behave, I’m sending you home.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She isn’t.
Cassie chuckles good-naturedly. ‘You’re probably being a little harsh,’ she says to Shaz. ‘There’s a lot to be said for buying timeless pieces you can mix and match.’
I send Shaz a smug smile as though we’re squabbling siblings and not in our mid-thirties. She makes a face back.
Cassie, undeterred by our childish antics, starts pulling dresses, blazers, blouses, and trousers from my wardrobe and laying them out on the bed in various combos. ‘I wish Elle were here – she’s the real fashionista – but, of course, that’s not possible… Still, we have a lot to work with here,’ she says as she switches some pieces around. In my layperson’s opinion, she’s got a good eye and I snap photos of each outfit so I can assemble them by myself.
She turns to me. ‘And what’s your shoe of choice?’
‘Ballet flats,’ Shaz answers for me. ‘She has them in every colour.’ She opens up another door in the wardrobe, revealing my shoe collection.
‘Not every colour,’ I say defensively.
‘You’re right; you’re missing puce,’ she quips.
‘You wouldn’t know puce from chartreuse.’
She shrugs, but I know I’m right.
‘That is quite the collection,’ says Cassie. She reaches to one of the upper shelves. ‘These will work for some of the outfits,’ she says, holding up a pair of white leather sneakers. ‘Do you have any kitten-heeled mules?’
I go to the wardrobe and scan my selection. ‘I have these,’ I say, taking out a pair of basic black heels. ‘They’re my going-out shoes. And I have a nice pair of black boots…’ I show them to her.
‘Hmm.’ I can tell she’s trying to be polite. ‘This is what I suggest: for the shows, you wear one of your linen shifts and we get you a pair of nude kitten-heeled slingbacks. They’re always in fashion and they go with everything. They can be your signature.’ She turns back to the bed. ‘For travel and any time we’re not at a show, wear trousers and a white T-shirt with a blazer, and the sneakers.’
‘What about the parties?’ asks Shaz. ‘There are parties, right?’
‘Yes, good point. Does your husband have a tuxedo, by any chance? We’d just need the jacket.’
‘Hang tight,’ I say. Tristan is in the lounge, stretched out along one of the sofas, reading. ‘Darling, quick question: you have a tuxedo, right?’
He places the book on his chest and peers at me, amusement tugging at his lips. ‘Last-minute black-tie event you haven’t told me about?’
‘Cassie wants me to wear the jacket.’
His mouth quirks.
‘God, you’re not going to laugh at me now, are you?’
He swings his legs over the edge of the sofa and stands. ‘Absolutely not, but I did just imagine you wearing my tuxedo jacket – and only my tuxedo jacket.’
I grin at him. ‘We can play dress up when the others leave.’
‘Oh, we are definitely doing that.’ He lands a less-than-chaste kiss on my lips and I am this close to shooing Cassie and Shaz out of the flat. Instead, I grab his hand and pull him towards the bedroom so we can raid his wardrobe.
Half an hour later, I have an I’m-pretending-to-be-fashion-journalist wardrobe and a shopping list. Against each item is the name of a shop and Cassie’s going to call ahead so they’ll be expecting me. I’ll even meet with a lipstick designer (I had no idea that was a thing) to find my perfect shade.
But at the very bottom of the list is one item that terrifies me: a haircut. I’ve worn my straight dark-brown hair in the same style since… well, since I can remember. When I step out of the salon – I visit four times a year for a treatment and a trim – it sits in a straight line across my back, between my shoulder blades and my bra strap, with some layers around my face.
Every hairdresser I’ve ever had has tried to convince me to do something more daring with it, but I like my hairstyle. It’s me. And I’ve seen Shaz through as many hairstyling disasters as romantic ones over the years – it took her two years to grow out that undercut – so I always stand firm.
But Cassie thinks I need something a little edgier to convincingly portray a fashion journalist.
‘What’s that?’ Tristan asks, reading over my shoulder. ‘Oh, if you ask my mother along, she’ll be delighted.’
I ignore the comment – I am not taking Helen on my shopping spree – taking refuge in Tristan’s arms as he wraps them around me. ‘Look,’ I say, pointing to haircut.
‘I take it you’re not particularly keen?’
‘What if they shear it all off? Give me a pixie cut or something?’ I reach up and grab a lock of my hair, pulling it through my fingers and twirling the ends.
‘You would still be beautiful.’ He turns me around, his hands resting on the small of my back, and I snake my arms around his neck, letting the list dangle from my fingertips.
He dips his head and presses his mouth to mine and I give in to the feeling of his (oh-so-gorgeous) lips, parting mine, our breaths mingling. Our tongues touch lightly and fireworks start exploding between my legs. I never knew until being with Tristan that a kiss could set my entire body alight.
The list flutters to the floor but I won’t even notice until I find it on the lounge room floor in the morning.
