Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Three weeks later and over a month since I’d set off on my adventure with my best friend, we were back in the UK. Hugo had an appearance booked over here, and I couldn’t stay out there forever, no matter how fervently the voice in my head tried to convince me it was a good idea. I had plans, plans that had only blossomed over the last month as each new place I visited unearthed fresh inspiration. I’d been up close and personal with my goals now. I’d held Gucci, Versace, Alberta Ferretti, Brandon Maxwell in my hands. I’d studied the stitching, admired the creativity, felt the quality. I ached to see my clothes lined up on one of the rails backstage of a sell-out tour, or moulded to a beautiful woman waltzing down Rodeo Drive.
Also, I missed my house and my friends. And…I was getting fat. Well, fatter.
Not that Hugo seemed to mind. What I saw as lumpy and ugly rolls of lard when I looked in the mirror, Hugo looked at like he couldn’t wait to devour. He made me feel gorgeous. Sexy. Hot.
“That’s because you are,” Chrissie had said, during the conversation where I’d shared just a few dirty little details about our time away. “Shagging Hugo freaking Hayes. My God, Hel. I can’t even right now.”
“It’s more than that,” I protested, laughter betraying me. The sex was, of course, phenomenal, but being with Hugo was everything. “I’m sure you know what I mean.” I arched a brow, teased her with a grin. “How is David by the way?”
The happy expression dropped from her face. “Who?” she deadpanned.
“Oh. Like that, huh?”
“You know what he said to me?” She didn’t give me a chance to answer. “He said he’s thinking of hitting that Janine woman. Why would he tell me that? Me?” Her nose scrunched, disgusted. “State of him, with his over-gelled hair and stupid Clark Kent glasses. He’s got no chance. He couldn’t hit the water if he fell out of a fucking boat.”
I wondered if she realised she was insulting herself as much as David, seeing as she wanted to be with him so badly.
“Absolute arsehole,” she continued. “Then…then…when I told him to go fuck himself, he accused me of hurting his feelings. Like David has feelings. Only time that guy’s ever come across the word pain is in a patisserie.”
“Right.” I nodded slowly, unsure what to say in case I angered her further. “Sounds like you’re better off without him.”
Chrissie shrugged, pulled a face I couldn’t decipher. “We’re going out tomorrow night.”
I give up.
“What?” she said, no doubt in response to my clearly evident surprise. “I can’t let Janine from aftersales have him.”
“No, course not,” I agreed because it seemed like the easiest thing to do.
When Chrissie left later that afternoon, I caught up with the post that’d arrived in my absence, threw most of it out, and put some washing in the machine. I had less than an hour to transform myself from a jetlagged mess to an up-and-coming fashion designer of the future. Hugo had a ‘thing’, he’d called it. A thing he didn’t want to attend but felt he had to because he would be receiving the award for Best Dressed Male of the Year and didn’t want to look ungrateful. Really, I think he’d agreed to go for my benefit and didn’t want me to feel like I’d compelled him…because the ‘thing’ was the Simply London Fashion Awards.
I was beyond excited. The SLFAs were something an unknown designer like myself could only dream of being invited to, and I had. I’d had that dream many, many times. Usually ending up naked on the runway, bursting for a wee, suddenly finding myself in a bathroom full of toilets with no doors. I wondered, idly, what those dream interpreters you saw on breakfast TV would make of that. They’d probably give it a really meaningful spin, like feeling vulnerable to change or shame of past actions, when in reality I probably needed to stop downing half a pint of orange juice before bed. Come to think of it, that probably wasn’t a bad idea. All those carbs, late at night, with nowhere to go except my belly and hips.
I showered quickly to give myself extra time with my hair and makeup. God knows my eyebags needed the work after the flight from LAX. Hugo had offered to bring a team of stylists and makeup artists over for me, but I’d declined. He’d given me so much already lately. Also, I suspected I would’ve felt awkward letting a bunch of strangers fawn and fuss over me like I was something special. Hugo may have been a celebrity. I, most definitely, was not.
I styled my hair first, blow-dried it and shaped it into a relaxed bun before using some tongs on the tendrils I’d left loose. I kept the makeup simple. Neutral shades around my face, a little heavier on my eyes. It was the dress that mattered. Black. Long sheer sleeves with ruched cuffs. Pleated bust that nipped in at the waist and gave the illusion that I had a pretty decent one. It was beautiful. One of my best creations.