Love By Design

Chapter 17

The week leading up to Men’s Fashion Week is probably one of the most stress-inducing experiences of my life. The pressure is palpable as everyone at Holmes worked tirelessly to make sure that the brand’s debut collection, post-Vante’s acquisition, is nothing short of perfect.

With the reputation and resources of the Parisian atelier, Holmes managed to secure a location for the event, disclosed only to the privileged who had invitations. For the runway, the show is being held at The Old Truman Brewery in Brick Lane, a rundown and edgy-looking building located in East London. It differs from Holmes’ usual style but perfectly aligned with the collection’s gritty and daring aesthetic for this season.

“Twenty minutes until showtime!” Ymir’s voice echoes through the walkie-talkies.

Everyone is on edge, fully aware of the significance of the show. Darting towards the front-of-house where the rest of the Comms teams are currently situated, I hand the digital tablet containing all the guest names as well as a physical copy on a clipboard to Saoirse.

“I’ve verified all the photographers,” I gesture towards the area of the runway where official photos are taken. “Front-row guests— press, buyers, and influencers— are all confirmed. Seating for frow should be full and standing should also be maximum capacity once we’ve sat everyone else.”

Outside, attendees of the catwalk are forming a queue, eager to enter the venue and street-style photographers flock to take pictures of the social stars in attendance. It’s a sea of bright spectacles and I revel in the well-put-together outfits of the people attending the show.

Eden and Lara are taking photos for Holmes’ social media account when a new wave of excitement garners my attention. A group of photographers rushing towards a black cab with the London Fashion Week label on the side pulls up just outside the venue and my eyes widen at who emerges from the vehicle.

Henrietta Goddard.

Dressed in a sumptuous and overly dramatic fur coat with a vibrant suit to match, I stare in awe at the Editor-in-Chief of MODUE Magazine making her way to the front of the queue. The cameras follow her movement, the flashes going wild as the photographers capture every action and every move.

In stark contrast, a modest yet stunningly dressed woman is tailing behind her. Head to toe in black, I instantly recognise her company as Tallulah Thao, a notable fashion critic known for her analytical op-eds. Tallulah’s previous articles about Holmes and Sebastian’s controversies were damaging to the brand’s reputation but were, to some degree, a much-needed critique. I’m equally amazed to see her in attendance.

“Darlings.” Henrietta greets us.

Saoirse engages in casual conversation with both Henrietta and Tallulah before they’re escorted by Lara to their seats inside the venue. I’m in the middle of being briefed by Eden on the social media campaign that will follow after the show when we hear a commotion erupt amongst the photographers outside.

“Sebastian!”

“Over here, Seb!”

“Mr. Holmes!”

“Seb, this way!”

All at once, our heads turn sharply at the name being called out by the photographers outside of the venue.

“No way,” Eden gapes as Saoirse’s eyes widen.

A tall figure, dressed in a tailored-fit black brocade suit with golden detailing is none other than Sebastian Holmes— LIFT alumni, son of the late Sterling Holmes, and former Creative Director gone MIA.

“Ymir.” Saoirse instantly wires up the walkie-talkie. “Code Herringbone.”

A pause, then a crackle. “What?”

“Code. Herringbone.”

“Sebastian’s here?” Ymir sounds equally shocked. “He RSVPed?”

The disbelief in her voice had me scanning through the physical copy of the list of attendees on the clipboard and shaking my head frantically.

“He never came up,” I comment.

I would know, of course. Considering I spent an entire day curating the guest list and seating arrangements for the show, I would recognise his name in an instant. I double-check for good measure, consulting the electronic tablet this time as my fingers scroll through the endless names.

“He’s not on the list,” Saoirse confirms for me with a sigh. “And it’s very typical of him to turn up unannounced to these things.”

“Talk about a clash on the catwalk,” Eden mutters.

Ahead, we observe the flurry of activity around the resurrected senior designer. Cameras flash continuously as photographers swarm him, hollering his name left, right and centre before he begins to approach us.

“Eden, Saoirse.” He nods.

With intense blue eyes and dark brown hair, he looks even more striking in person than in the pictures I’ve seen of him online.

“Sebastian,” They greet him in unison.

“Long time no see,” He acknowledges them with a surprisingly easygoing smile.

He turns his attention to me, regarding me with a puzzled look.

“Hallie.” I nod, awkwardly extending my hand. “Design Intern.”

His eyes flit over me for a brief moment before turning his attention back to Saoirse.

“Fantastic turnout, if I do say so myself.” He comments, an edge to his voice.

An awkward pause follows as Sebastian stands in front of us and the cameras flash around him.

“Eden, could you show Sebastian to his seat?” Saoirse turns to her with a knowing look.

She forces a polite smile at him. “Of course.”

I watch as Eden and Sebastian disappear inside, Saoirse groaning quietly as she rubs the side of her temple.

“August is not going to be happy.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Pollux approaching us, slightly frenzied.

“We’re missing models,” He informs us.

The news prompts Saoirse and I to stare at each other, eyes widening.

“What?” I gaped.

Saoirse sighs. “How could we have possibly missed that?”

“They were at rehearsals yesterday,” Pollux recalls with a loud exhale. “But they didn’t turn up this morning.”

“Which agency?” Saoirse asks.

“LDN Models.”

Immediately, Saoirse bleeps Ymir on the walkie-talkies before we start making our way indoors. A long narrow runway stretches across the venue with rows of white rectangular boxes arranged on both sides. A modest backdrop with Holmes’ logo is present at the back wall where the catwalk started and on the opposite end, the hub with the photographers and film crew.

“Code Runaway,” Saoirse comments as we join Ymir by the photography hub.

Ymir turns towards me questioningly. “Were they double booked?”

“They shouldn’t be,” I answered. “I triple-checked with all the agencies.”

I couldn’t help but feel that the oversight was on my part, even though I knew I would flag something like this as soon as possible.

“Is it possible we make some models walk twice?” Saoirse turns to Estelle who’s joined us.

“It is,” She answers. “But we need to showcase the entire collection at the end.”

We walked the distance from the entrance to backstage, perusing over the familiar faces already sitting in their seats and all mingling with each other inside the venue.

“Henrietta and Tallulah are sitting in the front row.” Ymir tries not to grimace, plastering a smile as she waves at people she knows. “They’re bound to pick up on it and probably mention it in the article.”

Pollux joins us then, another stressed face added to the mix.

“Sebastian is sitting next to Tallulah.” He winces. “Why is he sitting next to her?”

Our eyes find the designer perched next to the critic who looks less than pleased to be near each other.

Collectively, we’re impossibly stressed.

I feel the familiar presence of August as he sidles up beside me, hand hovering behind my lower back.

“Are we good to go?” He asks, acknowledging everyone with a nod.

“We have runaway models,” I comment, breaking the news to him.

“Literally,” Pollux adds.

August’s mask of stoicism remains on his face as Ymir and Saoirse update him on the news but I can tell by the slight tick of his jaw that he’s not impressed.

“Have you contacted the agency?” He asks tersely.

Ymir nods. “Just tried. No answer.”

All eyes turn to August as his intense gaze weighs in on the situation.

“Terminate their contract with Holmes,” He says, conclusively. “Send them the email after the show.”

I blink at his decisiveness, caught off guard by the abrupt nature of it all.

“August, you’re going to have to walk,” Estelle announces, her eyes scanning the people already sitting in the crowd. “Is that Henry?”

“Atkinson?”

I look to the front row and spot London’s rising star in the model industry, Henry Atkinson, in conversation with a familiar head of strawberry blonde hair belonging to Valentina de Hauretto. Two other men accompany them, dark hair and dark eyes dressed smartly in suits.

“With the Contis too. Perfect.” Estelle observes. “All four of you plus Valentina will walk.”

“Alright,” August agrees without hesitation.

The show is scheduled to start in ten minutes, but with the mishap of missing models, there undoubtedly will be a delay. My eyes follow August as he strolls over to Valentina in true Parisian greeting, kissing both sides of her cheeks. He confers with the heirs of the Italian brand next, gesturing backstage.

Their gazes land on us and they all nod in understanding.

“Start seating the remaining guests,” Estelle instructs. “Pollux, get them fitted.”

“Got it,” He replies.

“Hallie.” Estelle takes the clipboard from me and passes it on to Saoirse. “Assist Pollux with the fittings. Someone from hair and makeup should still be backstage.”

Nodding immediately, I follow Pollux as he begins to make his way towards the back.

“This is chaos,” I murmur, loud enough for him to hear.

He replies with a chuckle, “Welcome to fashion week, baby.”