Page 45 of Shout Out To My Ex

‘Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m cursed with verbal diarrhoea. Have I sufficiently backpedalled?’ I ask.

Cassie is full-on laughing at me now. ‘Yes,’ she says through the laughter.

‘Come on,’ says Elle, linking her arm through mine and steering me towards the door. Maybe this display of amity means she’s finally warming to me. Then she drops a clinker. ‘Just make sure you don’t put your foot in your mouth at the party,’ she says. ‘You won’t be a fashion journalist for long if you keep telling designers that their clothes remind you of your mum.’

Ouch.

Though, she’s probably right.

14

ELLE

‘Wow, this party is going off!’ Poppy exclaims as we walk into the enormous venue.

I agree – the theme appears to be a riff on Carnivale and the organisers have gone all out – but you’d think that Poppy has never been to an event like this before. Though, to be fair, there probablyaren’tevents like this in the world of health and wellbeing. She’s probably more accustomed to yogis handing out shots of wheatgrass than waiters dressed as plague doctors bearing trays of brimming champagne flutes.

Speaking of…

I signal to a passing drinks waiter, and we relieve them of three flutes. I take a sip of fizz just as Cass holds her glass up to make a toast – oops.

‘To my little sister, who has taken Paris Fashion Week by storm.’

It’s generous, though I’m not sure ‘taken by storm’ accurately depicts the coverage we’ve received since my show. It’s been positive but hardly effusive.

Cassie’s eyes mist over, and she adds, ‘I am so proud of you, Bean.’

‘I’ve been meaning to ask about that since this morning,’ says Poppy, clinking her glass against Cassie’s, then mine. ‘Why “Bean”?’

‘Nickname from before Elle was born,’ Cassie explains. ‘When my parents?—’

‘Ourparents.’

‘Sorry, yes,ourparents. When they told me Mum was having a baby and that it was in her tummy, I got confused because I couldn’t see anything – her stomach was still flat. Then she told me that the baby was only as big as a bean. So, that’s what I called the baby. And it stuck.’

‘That’s sweet,’ Poppy says.

It may be, but childhood memories are doing nothing to assuage my mounting nerves. I take another swig of fizz – French courage? – and try to appreciate that it’s a huge step up from what we usually buy from Aldi.

‘Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but you’re Elle Bliss, aren’t you?’

I pivot towards the oddly familiar voice and find myself face-to-chest with Tom Finn. Tom Finn(!) – style guru, co-host of the most popular fashion show on television, and the personification of ‘debonair’. He’s taller than I thought – definitely over six foot – but as expected, he smells divine and looks a million pounds.

He smiles at me kindly, head tilted as he awaits my reply, but I’m utterly tongue-tied. In the end, Cass has to nudge me to get me to speak.

‘Uh, yes, hello.’

He holds out his hand for me to shake, which I do, and he takes my hand in both of his. Tom Finn is holding my hand!

‘I just wanted to tell you, I absolutelylovedyour show yesterday.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I squeak. He is still holding my hand!

‘Your aesthetic is classic, it’sclassy, but you’ve also got that Elle Blissje ne sais quoi. I imagine big things are coming your way. In fact?—’

‘You found her.’Andthat’s Hilde Klein, supermodel royalty. I try not to stare but she’s even more beautiful in person than I could ever have imagined.

‘Hello, I’m Hilde,’ she says, reaching past Tom, her hand outstretched. He releases me and I shake hands with Hilde.

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