Page 30 of Shout Out To My Ex

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,andthe 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 canalltake home a pair of the MJs –andthe 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: 8.08p.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.

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