Page 31 of Unbind

‘That’s all Omar,’ he says. ‘He’s such a star-fucker.’

I swallow down another smile, because there’s no way I can let Adam Wright have two of them, even if Evan and I hold exactly the same opinion of Vega. ‘Harsh but fair.’ Clearly, his star-fucking works for him.

Awkwardness descends between us. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave you be. Nigel’s going to drop me into town, but he’ll be back in time to take you to work after you’ve seen Louise.’

‘Oh my God, no. That’s really not necessary,’ I protest. ‘I’ll just get the tube.’

‘It is. I insist. It’s still pissing it down out there. He’s under strict instructions to take you wherever you need to go.’

My shoulders sag. I suspect there’s no point in arguing with him, or in putting Nigel in a difficult position later if I refuse to let him carry out his orders. I have to admit, a ride in that lovely big Range Rover would be a far nicer way to reacquaint myself with reality than the tube.

‘Okay.’ I shift from one foot to another. ‘That would be great. Thank you so much for looking after me yesterday.’

He hesitates, then comes towards me, holding his espresso cup out of the way, and leans in to give me a double kiss. It’s surprising, but also not a big deal at all, because it’s more of an air kiss than anything else, his beard lightly brushing my jaw, and it’s also how absolutely everyone in the fashion industry greets each other. So it shouldn’t feel so… intimate.

He pulls back. ‘Thank you for letting me look after you,’ he says softly, and then he’s gone.

The studio feels particularly drab today, and no wonder. We don’t see clients here. Ever. The kind of space I’d want to reflect our brand would cost so many thousands of pounds a month it’s not even funny. A shitty, albeit well-lit, attic studio on one of the less cool side streets in Soho is as good as we can get.

Even Soho’s taking the piss, if I’m honest. We should be somewhere cheaper, less central. But my Alchemy paycheque subsidises the rent enough to make it barely justifiable. When we see private clients, it’s at their homes or in a hotel room or meeting space we book for the occasion. Expensive, but way cheaper than trying to run a client-facing studio.

We take the same approach with trunk shows. It’s best, and most fun, when clients host us and their friends at home, just like Gen, God bless her, has offered to do after Christmas.

The studio is passable. Yesterday, it felt fine, but that was before I was treated to De Gournay wall panels and bathtubs sculpted from slabs of pink marble and florists’ worth of bouquets everywhere. It was before I had a chance to remind myself so starkly of what real wealth looks like up close.

It was before I got a reminder of the kind of scale you need to achieve to create value, and generate wealth, in this industry.

It was before I reminded myself that Adam Wright, a guy who’s been in prison, for fuck’s sake, has achieved success and recognition and the lifestyle to go with it in a way I never, ever will.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling brave enough to be truly honest with myself, I wonder what the hell we’re doing here with Gossamer. Creating beauty, sure. Making our clientsfeel radiant and strong and gorgeous and capable of taking on the world. But with my combined business and fashion degree, I could have taken a dull salaried job that brings home far more and comes with a truck-load less stress.

I’ve always believed that positivity is a choice. We wake up every morning and we choose to view the world as a good or a bad place. If Einstein said it’s the most important decision we can make, he must have been right. I’m the master of reframing. NotI have to do this, butI get to.I am the absolute queen of faking it till I make it. Taylor Swift has nothing on me.

I work and work and I grind and grind and I smile and smile, and hardly ever do I permit myself the weakness of navel-gazing sufficiently to wonder if I have the energy to keep putting one foot in front of the other on this never-ending treadmill that is running a lovely but sub-scale brand in this gruelling industry.

Today, the single rail of dresses that Gail collected from the factory this week looks paltry. The paint on the walls is more grey than white in this grim November light. My colleagues look tired, and I think for the millionth time that they need a pay rise and then some.

Maybe today is the day where I allow the cracks to show, just a little. After all, it’s been a pretty exhausting, ooh, fifteen hours. My illness manifested in its most mortifying form. I was bundled off and pampered by an intimidating, bossy as fuck man who I have excellent reason to despise. He then had the nerve to lavish me with medical experts and disturb my blissful slumber with his sweet little snores and his monstrously big dick.

And then he proceeded to be utterly delightful this morning—by his standards, anyway—and discombobulate me even further.

No wonder I’m feeling flayed open.

‘Ooh,’ Evan says when I turn up for work, a couple of hours late thanks to the traffic and to an irritatingly invaluable session with Louise, the nutritionist. ‘You’ve never done dress-down Friday before. But your arse looks amazing in those leggings. New threads?’

I dump my tote bag on my desk with a sigh. It’s rammed full of my dress and heels from last night, but I left everything at Adam’s aside from the outfit I’m wearing. It’s not mine to take. And my flat is not somewhere you waltz around in Olivia von Halle pyjamas. I’ve come away with just the clothes on my body and the best-fitting of thethreeidentical pairs of Veja trainers that awaited me in different sizes on the floor of my lovely bedroom.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you where I got them,’ I tell him with a grimace. He’s perfectly turned out, as always, in slim-fitting checked trousers that he made himself (obviously) and a black cashmere sweater that’s probably Uniqlo but looks a million dollars with the trousers.

‘Try me. It can’t be a more ridiculous story than the one where you ran into the bully the other day, can it?’

I wince inwardly at the term, the very same one I threw so callously at Adam yesterday and which, high-handedness aside, nothing about his behaviour last night warranted.

‘Funny you should say that…’ I begin as I make my way over to our crappy kitchenette to put the kettle on.

When I wrap my ridiculous tale up, fifteen minutes later, his face is so totally gobsmacked that I can’t resist reaching for my phone and snapping a photo.

He scowls. ‘Mean.’

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