Page 41 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘Yup.’ I lower the car window and breathe in deeply, focusing on landmarks as we wind our way through the streets of Paris. I’d rather be on my way to get a pap smear than to watch my ex’s fashion show. Add in a bikini wax, a trip to the dentist, and having bamboo spikes shoved under my fingernails, and I wouldstillchoose that itinerary over the Lorenzo show.

The cab stops close to the Carrousel du Louvre, and Poppy pays the driver and gets out. This is the part where I’m supposed to follow her, but it’s like I’m glued to the seat.

‘Bean?’

‘Stop calling me that,’ I snap.

‘Sorry,’ says Cassie. ‘Look, I’ll be right there with you the whole time, okay?’

Poppy is waiting on the footpath for us – the show starts soon – but I stay put, turning to Cassie. ‘Can wepleasejust go back to the hotel?’ I ask, clutching her forearm.

She looks at me, her expression inscrutable, but I notice the dark shadows under her eyes. ‘If that’s what you really want,’ she says eventually.

Only I can’t do it. Cass has put her career on hold for me, for Bliss Designs, and the past few weeks have been the most intense we’ve endured. The least I can do is go to this bloody show, even if it’s only for Cass. What’s twenty minutes out of my life? I’ll be back at the hotel and getting ready for the H&M party before I know it.

‘It’s okay,’ I say, feigning enthusiasm.

‘Really?’ she asks, confused.

‘I know I keep flip-flopping. I’m sorry. Let’s just get this over with and draw a line under the Leo Jones chapter, once and for all.’

She pats my hand, then climbs out of the car. Begrudgingly, I follow, joining her and Poppy on the footpath. There are dozens of fashionably dressed people milling about, maybe even a hundred, and the buzz of excitement is palpable.

I signal for Cass and Poppy to follow me, then lead the way to the long escalators that will take us below ground. At the bottom, I retrieve the tickets from my clutch and stride towards the woman with the clipboard who’s closely guarding a velvet rope.

I hand her the tickets and she nods, then signals to one of the smartly dressed attendants.

‘Par ici, je vous prie,’ they say to us, and we follow them deeper into the pavilion where the hum of excitement amplifies, voices bouncing off the floors and walls, creating a cacophony of anticipation. The attendant leads us through the milling crowd and into the space where my show – along with several others – was held yesterday.

Overnight, the space has been transformed, with giant screens suspended from the ceiling either side of the runway. The audience is about two-thirds full and the attendant directs us to our seats. Left side, centre front row. So much for standing in the back and sneaking out immediately afterwards.

I sit, setting my clutch on my lap, and clasp it tightly. Cassie sits next to me and Poppy next to her. Only when we’re all seated does it hit me that Amelia Windsor, editor-in-chief ofNouveau, is sitting opposite us on the other side of the runway. Amelia Windsor! I wonder if she was at my show.

I lean across Cassie to speak to Poppy. ‘Have you ever met her?’ I ask.

‘Who?’

I jerk my head in Ms Windsor’s direction. ‘Amelia Windsor,’ I whisper.

Poppy looks across the way. ‘Oh,’ she says, drawing out the sound. She looks at me and shakes her head. ‘Not yet. I doubt she’d be interested in a lowly writer like me.’

‘Mmm.’ I’m still watching Amelia Windsor when she appears to look straight at me – and I mean ‘appears’ because she’s wearing her ubiquitous sunglasses. I look away, my eyes landing on Cate Blanchett chatting to Sandra Bullock.

‘Oh my god, this place is a who’s who,’ says Cassie low in my ear.

‘I know. I feel like the great pretender.’

‘You’re not. Or at least you won’t be for long. You’re Elle Bliss, don’t forget.’

The rest of the seats fill up quickly and I open my clutch to peek at the time. One minute to go. Then the houselights dim, the hum of conversation immediately dies, and the only sounds are people shifting in their seats and one person coughing.

‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ says the announcer, ‘Lorenzoprésente sa collection, Hors des sentiers battus– Off the Beaten Track.’

Well, that’s almost as intriguing as the mystery of what shoe models will be wearing down the runway.

Music starts – sounding very much like a Western theme song – and an array of images appears on the screens. They’re photographs of a family with two children – a boy, who’s easily recognisable as Leo, and a girl – along with their mother. I glance around the vast space as the images dissolve into each other, all displaying this happy trio in various permutations, either smiling into the camera or at each other.

Leo was a sweet-looking little boy, all round cheeks and large grey eyes, and my traitorous heart twangs at the sight of his infectious grin. He used to talk about his mum and his sister with such affection when we were together and I know how much he loved them –lovesthem, I should say. His father’s absence from the photographs is glaring and I recall that there wasn’t any love lost between the two of them, but I can’t remember why.

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