Page 22 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘About you? Thatyou’reLorenzo?’

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 manleft. 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 theNouveauarticle?’ he asks.

Oh god, he was inNouveau?Howdid 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 ofNouveaulike I’d unearthed the secrets of the universe – actually, that’s exactly what I’d been doing.Myuniverse: fashion.

And if I didn’t despise him for being an arse –thenand now – I’d be jealous about being featured in my favourite – sorry, theworld’sfavourite – 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 notdestroyhim, 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. Besidesshoes, 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, theshoes. We’re tossing up between a chunky boot, a brogue, and a heel – each from adifferent label, and we’ll bebuyingthem. 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, gothimwrong. Maybe heisstill Leo.

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