Page 2 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘The last time you went on a date, Harry Styles was still in One Direction,’ I retort.

She shrugs, which for Cass is an acknowledgement that I’m right.

I sip more fizz. It’s notterriblebut it’s not good. Cass has us economising – just until we find the perfect partner for Bliss Designs and expand. Cass is all about ‘expanding’, as long as it’s our fashion house, not our household budget.

She’s the brains (i.e. the smart one) and I’m the creative (i.e. the talented one). According to those in the world of fashion, I am everything from a ‘wunderkind’ (at the ripe age of thirty-two – hah!) to a ‘fashion savant’ to the ‘next big thing’. One fashion journalist even described me as ‘Karan meets Chanel’, which I’ve taken as a compliment, even if they intended it to mean ‘derivative’.

Overall, flattering characterisations, but monikers touting my (supposed) brilliance have yet to translate into proper monetary success. To date, our achievements include making enough in sales to hire a team of three and rent a space for our fashion house, maintaining a steady (albeit small) clientele, and the odd celebrity endorsement. But our long-term goals are much loftier. This is where Cass’s wizardry with money, marketing, and distribution channels comes in. We are ‘building the label’ and ‘solidifying our place in the market’ and other business-y jargon.

Cass is also great at handling the imposter syndrome that pops up intermittently – mine, not hers. I doubt Cass has everdoubted herself in her entire life. She was bossing about our Sindy dolls before she could even read.

I still can’t believe she abandoned a thriving career as a marketing exec to ‘take Bliss Designs to the next level’. Whatever that looks like. It’s all rather nebulous in my mind, other than the twin goals of showing at Fashion Week (any of the big four would do – Milan, Paris, New York, London) and having my collection sold exclusively in a top-tier department store. Although, I’d swap the latter for my own high street shop in Central London.

Cassie says my goals are achievable but to me they remain waiflike, just out of reach. Meanwhile, we never quite break even, continuing to drain our combined savings and a generous gift from our maternal grandmother. ‘I can’t take it with me, girls,’ she says anytime we bring it up.

And while Cassie loves spreadsheets and sales projections (truly – she’d tell you the same), I love front-row seats at fashion shows and goodie bags. And clothes. I love, love,loveclothes. I love designing them. I love styling them. I love wearing them. Clothes can make or break a day, a week, or a lifetime. Since I started playing dress-up from Mum’s wardrobe (around the same time I was wrestling my big sister for the bigger ‘half’ of a chocolate bar), I’ve known I would be a fashion designer. My career is the fulfilling aspect of my life, making my love life pale even more in comparison.

I’m staring into space and when I ‘come to’, Cass is back on her laptop. ‘Hey, you said you’d put that away.’

‘I did and then you disappeared on me.’

‘I’m back now.’

She closes her laptop again, gently this time, and sets it on the pouffe. ‘I’m all ears. So, on a scale of one to ten – one being a politician and ten a potato – how boring was Marcus?’

I shake with laughter, barely managing to say, ‘At least a six. And the cheek of ordering the banquet, holding me hostage like that.’

‘So, what did he talk about?’

‘I’ll give you three guesses and the first two don’t count,’ I quip.

‘Ahh, so himself.’

‘Yup.’ I start listing off his traits on the fingers of my free hand. ‘Public school… King’s College?—’

‘Oh god! Say no more,’ Cass interjects.

‘Oh, but thereismore. So. Much. More.’

‘Skip ahead. I don’t need the life story of someone you’ll never see again. Oh, unless…?’

‘Oh, no! I amdefinitelynot seeing him again.’

‘So, unattractive as well, huh?’ she asks with a knowing smile.

Sometimes, I’ll endure a little boredom for some ‘physical activity’ – but only sometimes and only if he’s super-hot. A woman has needs, after all, and not all of them are intellectual.

I shrug. ‘Not unattractive, just not my type. He’s one of those blokes who spends half his time in the gym and the other half talking about it to his date. Rather,athis date. I don’t care how much you can deadlift, Marcus!’

‘I suspect you underrated him before,’ she says with a smirk.

‘Underrated or over?’

‘Whichever means he’s closer to a potato than a six.’

I gulp the rest of my fizz and hold out my empty glass. ‘More please.’ Cass tuts at me before obliging – her not-so-subtle way of telling me to ‘sip and savour’, another cost-cutting measure. Ignoring her, I take a large pull then cradle the glass in my lap. ‘I just wish…’

‘I know. You want someone like Leo,’ she says, completing my sentence by rote. Thismaynot be the first time I’ve mentioned it.

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