Shout Out To My Ex: (The Ever After Agency Book 2)

So, what do shoe models wear down the runway?

In this instance, fully realised Western-inspired outfits – mostly low-slung boot-cut jeans, fringed suede vests and jackets, and sheer-cotton bustier tops. There are several graphic T-shirts in the mix and every model is wearing a super sexy cowboy hat. Leo must have been lying when he said he didn’t collaborate. But whoever the other designer is, these models look hot – the good kind, not the pass-out-from-heat-exhaustion kind.

They are also wearing the coolest shoes I have ever seen.

Leo has a clear point of view, leaning into the classic cowboy boot for inspiration, especially that distinctive heel, but elevating it and adapting it to produce ankle boots, knee-high boots, mules, and even pumps. I definitely want a pair of those Kelly-green heels – not that I’d tell him that, of course.

And from the changing projections on the screens – shots of barren deserts covered in cacti, vineyards, paper-pulping machinery, and even a coffee plantation – it seems that Leo has been experimenting with various vegan leathers, not just cacti. I read something about the various leathers now being made, but it’s incredible how good it all looks.

And I am so swept up in the show – the easy sexiness of each look, the impressive designs of the shoes – that before I know it, it’s the finale and here comes Leo, wearing worn-in jeans, a fringed vest that reveals his taut stomach, and cowboy boots – clearly his own design. He looks like sex on toast – the bastard – and he’s escorting supermodel, Franzia, who’s wearing those heels I want so much.

As they approach the middle of the runway, it’s hard to miss how tightly she’s gripping his arm – her knuckles are white – and a sharp pang of jealousy rips through me, taking me completely by surprise. So, a twanging heart and now pangs of jealousy? What is going on?

The two of them reach the end of the runway and pose for the posse of photographers, the large screens now showing a live feed of the runway. Then someone hands Leo a microphone.

‘Hi, everyone, I’m Lorenzo,’ he says in that drawl of his and I notice that, even as he addresses the crowd, Franzia keeps a firm grip on him. ‘I just wanted to say that I would not be standing here today if it weren’t for one woman in particular.’

Is he talking about me? I think, instantly realising how ridiculous (and narcissistic) that is. Especially since, until a couple of weeks ago, Leo had completely forgotten I even existed.

‘My mom,’ he continues, and there’s an audible ‘aww’ from the audience. ‘She couldn’t be here today – she’s having some health problems right now…’

The ‘aww’ turns into a hundred-person gasp – one I contribute to along with Amelia Windsor who, when I glance over, is literally clutching her pearls.

‘That’s awfully kind of you folks,’ says Leo, his drawl intensifying. ‘But even though my mom couldn’t be here today, the second most important woman in my life is’ – Franzia smiles smugly, her strong jawline tensing – ‘my sister, Brandy.’

Several things happen at once: a young woman across the way shyly raises her hand, the audience breaks into loud applause, and Franzia’s face sours so intensely, it looks like she just downed a shot of cat wee.

‘Isn’t that sweet?’ Cassie asks over the loud ovation.

‘What?’

‘Mentioning his sister like that.’

I shrug, unwilling to admit to Cassie that not only is it sweet, but it also paints Leo in a markedly different light to the bastard who left suddenly, then ghosted me.

‘Anyhoo,’ says Leo, and the audience quietens. ‘I just wanted to shout out to Brandy and my mom – get well soon, Mom – I love you!’ he says into the lens of the video camera. ‘And to thank you all for coming, especially my old friend, the extremely talented designer, Elle Bliss.’

‘What?’ I clap my hand over my mouth, mortified that came out so loud.

Leo chuckles into the mic, but I’m paralysed, barely registering Cassie’s elbow in my ribs.

‘Have a great rest of your day, folks,’ says Leo and with that, he turns and leads his models back down the runway, a sour-faced Franzia by his side. When he passes me, we lock eyes and he winks.

Yesterday, he brings me flowers and now he mentions me at the end of his show?

Utter, utter bastard. How dare he be so… so… lovely – especially after our encounter in London.

And what am I supposed to do with that?

Poppy

Well, fuck me. I have no idea what to unpack first – that Leo shouted out to Elle, that his sister is in Paris, or that Franzia (literally) has her claws in him. The first is brilliant and plays right into our plan to reunite the lovers. The second is an interesting plot twist and could be used to our advantage. The third, not so much. We have got to get Franzia out of the picture, even if it’s a one-sided affair, so to speak.

I glance across the runway to where Brandy is chatting to the Fanning sisters and decide on my tactic.

‘So,’ I say, turning to Elle and Cassie, ‘should we hang around and wait for him to come out? Say hello?’

Elle is beet red and it’s hard to tell if that’s signposting fury, passion, embarrassment, or all three.

She’s visibly frustrated, so Cassie answers for her. ‘Yes, absolutely! Wonderful idea.’

But Elle quickly recovers enough to protest. ‘I want to go back to the hotel – to get ready for the H&M party.’

‘That’s hours away,’ says Cassie, glancing my way.

‘It really would be good for the article if you congratulated him,’ I add.

‘Congrat—’ Elle cuts herself off, her eyes darting about – first towards Brandy, then to the business end of the runway, where Leo is most likely to emerge from, and back to us. ‘Look, they’re already shooing people out to set up for the next show,’ she says, indicating the attendants who are straightening chairs. ‘We should go.’

She stands and sidles past us, beelining for the exit.

When she’s out of earshot, I sigh. ‘Your sister is becoming a master at escaping,’ I say to Cassie.

‘But that was good for us, wasn’t it?’

‘Him mentioning Elle like that? Oh, yes, that was very good for us. I couldn’t have scripted it better.’

‘So, you didn’t? Script it, I mean?’

‘Oh, no. That was all him.’

Cassie seems puzzled. ‘Oh.’

‘I know I’m a matchmaker, but beyond ensuring he had a ticket to Elle’s show yesterday, there’s only so much I can do to influence Leo’s behaviour.’

‘Is that why you’re doubling down on the article angle?’ she asks. ‘Adding an impatient editor and a faux photoshoot…?’

I wince at her pointed question – she’s not wrong. ‘I know. Sometimes the subterfuge seems to take on a life of its own. I don’t love this part, being the puppet master.’

Cassie nods, seeming to understand.

‘Are you two coming or what?’

Cassie and I appear to have exhausted Elle’s patience, as she’s doubled back and glares at us, hands on hips.

‘Sorry, just talking about the show,’ I say, holding up my notebook to sell the fib.

Her gaze swings towards the end of the runway again and, in an instant, her eyes turn to saucers. I look over and there he is – Leo.

‘Come on,’ says Elle, rushing towards the exit. This time, Cassie and I follow.

‘Hello, darling,’ I say, flopping onto my hotel bed. I snuggle into the generous array of pillows, feeling the full weight of exhaustion.

‘I miss you so much, I am this close to catching the next Eurostar to Paris,’ Tristan says, pinching his thumb and forefinger together.

‘Can you? I can probably wangle an extra ticket to the H&M party.’

‘I assume that is literally a big-ticket item.’

‘The biggest.’

‘Do you want me to come?’ he asks, serious now.

‘I do…’

‘But?’

‘I’ll be working, and this case has already taken an unexpected turn. It will be full-on tonight.’

‘Anything like that party in Poros?’ We chuckle softly, sharing the joke. Poros was where Vittoria, an Italian contessa, who was supposed to be a potential fake wife for Tristan, propositioned him. This was while I was fending off advances from her creepy friend. Tristan and I ended up swapping cabins on her yacht for the night, so when she showed up to seduce him, she actually crawled into bed with me. The situation became even more absurd from there.

‘Likely as intense, but this time, I’m attempting to unite the couple, not keep them apart.’

‘Yours is an odd job,’ he says, his eyes radiating mirth.

‘Tell me about you,’ I say, changing tack.

He laughs. ‘I will not bore you with the details.’

‘What have you been doing without me?’ I ask, fishing. I’ve only been gone five nights – tonight’s the sixth – but I’ve missed him too. This is the longest we’ve been apart since we got married.

‘Pining,’ he responds.

‘Good,’ I retort. His mouth quirks, his eyes narrowing in a way that sends a lightning bolt between my legs.

‘If you keep looking at me like that…’ He trails off, his stare intensifying.

‘Should we?’ I ask.

‘I’ve sort of already started.’

I gasp at the thought of what my husband is doing off-camera.

‘Thank goodness it’s the weekend,’ I tease. ‘Definitely not suitable workplace behaviour.’

‘Are you joining me?’

‘I’ve sort of already started,’ I parrot.

He grins at me lasciviously, and we stop talking, our eyes locked.

‘Sorry! I fell asleep and…’ I shrug, hoping the Bliss sisters will forgive my tardiness.

After Tristan and I enjoyed some ‘long-distance relations’, I did fall asleep, waking with a start only twenty minutes ago. And knowing I was going to one of the biggest fashion parties on the calendar, I hope I’ve done a decent enough job of getting ready in record time.

‘You’re only a few minutes late,’ says Cassie, ‘and you look fantastic.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ I look down at my outfit – black cigarette trousers, a sleeveless silk blouse with a pussy bow, and Tristan’s tuxedo jacket. I’m carrying a diamante-encrusted clutch and wearing my one pair of stilettos – model’s own, a magazine would put in the caption. Everything else was procured or borrowed post-makeover. Before then, I couldn’t have told you the difference between a pussy bow and a pussy cat. I’ve also leant into my bedhead hair, parting it low on the right and zhuzhing it to look deliberately messy. I added a cat eye and a red lip and voilà!

Elle smiles at me, but she seems miffed. Or maybe she’s just worried about the party. It’s a big night for her professionally – a chance to schmooze with the who’s who of fashion – and we all know that Leo will be there. Based on what he said at the end of his show, he’s going to seek her out.

‘Oh, sorry!’ I say, realising that I have (rudely) not repaid the compliment. ‘You both look incredible. That,’ I say, pointing to Elle’s outfit, a mix of pieces from her current collection, which have been altered to fit her petite frame perfectly, ‘looks amazing on you. And Cassie, my mum would die for that outfit!’

‘What?’ say the sisters in unison.

‘Oh my god. No, not like that. Sorry!’ I shake my head at myself. ‘I just mean that my mum loves movies from the thirties and forties – all those sassy women. I practically grew up on those films – that’s why I love your collection so much, Elle. And Cassie, you look like a film star from the 1940s – that’s all I meant…’

They’re smirking at me now, clearly enjoying watching me dig myself out of this hole.

‘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.