Chapter 10
Tessa
“Coming through!”
I only get a second of warning before I’m knocked over by a goddess in heels backstage.
Picking myself up from the sticky floor, I glance down at my outfit, now damp from The Holy Trinity of Sprays (hair, setting, perfume) and wince.
I’ll be adding a physical bruise to my collection of emotional aches.
The last few days in Milan passed by in a whirlwind of preparation for Lamont’s show.
Today is a dress rehearsal, and we need the set-up to be perfect for tomorrow.
With the madness of Giovanni’s constant alterations and me working on all the behind-the-scenes logistics, I haven’t had time to breathe, let alone discuss the intricacies of the team production meeting later today with him.
When I proposed we plan who was going to say what about our look on the flight, he said “you don’t need to practice” and put his headphones on. So that was the end of that.
But whenever I feel particularly stressed, I remember that I’m in Italy.
I’m at my first international fashion week.
After years of hard work, one of my dreams is finally being realized.
A picture of younger me, decorating the top of my brother’s high school graduation cap in mini footballs and glitter glue, flashes in my mind, and the gratitude I feel for this opportunity loosens some of the pressure in my chest.
As people power walk past me, I realize I’m still in risky territory. No one is looking up as they run around, and a repeat meeting with the floor feels imminent.
When I round the corner to find the model Lamont needs, I walk straight into a cloud of glitter. Swallowing at least a good teaspoon, I cough incessantly until my throat feels normal again. First, the hairspray floor, now the glitter bomb… What’s next? I fall into a vat of lash glue?
“Oh! Sorry!” the makeup artist chirps.
“No worries.” I laugh it off. “Casualty of fashion week, right?”
The artist profusely apologizes and reaches for a large powder brush, absentmindedly sweeping flecks of glitter off my all-black Lamont ensemble: A sleeveless, cropped suit vest, paired with wide-legged black trousers and brushed leather loafers.
“She’s all yours,” the artist says, nodding toward the done-up model in her chair.
“Thanks!” I escort the model over to Lamont. He’s holding court in the corner, doling out directives and rearranging the Run of Show for our rehearsal.
When he notices me, his eyes look upward in exasperation, as if I’ve been off gallivanting all day. “Tessa. Finally.”
My nostrils flare as I attempt to ignore the indirect dig.
“Get an ETA from Giovanni on the replacement model. Make sure to mention the curved hem on the dress,” he commands.
It’s technically a cardinal sin to call in sick during fashion week, but our regular model has the flu.
We couldn’t risk her taking down the entire operation.
My fingers are crossed that Giovanni knows what he’s supposed to be doing, because piecing together Lamont’s breadcrumbs of information is a skill I haven’t quite perfected after five years of working with him.
I pass a small refreshment area on my way to Giovanni’s makeshift atelier. The smell of coffee perfumes the air, a welcome reprieve from the overwhelming hairspray scent I’ve been tasting since I arrived this morning.
My fatigue is getting to me, and I could use a pick-me-up. Though I’m tired, I can’t help but think about Giovanni, who must be absolutely exhausted. He arrived at the venue to work on last-minute alterations while most of us were still showering back at the hotel.
When a cappuccino or espresso isn’t available, Giovanni drinks his coffee black with a drop of milk.
Back when we were… better, I used to stop on the way to his shop now and again.
Each time I brought him a coffee, his face lit up, as if the kindness caught him off balance.
Eventually he came to expect the ritual… until he didn’t.
An ache of sadness hits me at how simple our relationship used to be.
Should I?
I don’t overthink it. With the clipboard glued to my left hand, I only have one available. I forgo my coffee for his, filling a cup and adding a hint of milk before heading toward his space.
When my eyes land on Giovanni, I can tell he’s uncomfortable.
He’s in a squatting position, half-bent over, hastily sewing our replacement model into a dress.
As he hand-stitches the area right below her armpit, a grimace appears on his face.
I empathize with him, knowing that if he stands up, he’ll be too tall, and if he sits, he won’t be at the best angle.
His usual shop setup—the pedestal, mirrors, furniture—is all customized to his comfort as a bigger guy.
A bead of sweat falls from his hairline directly into his eye, and he mutters in frustrated Italian.
“Hey, Giovanni. Lamont wants—”
“Not now,” he snaps.
I rear back at his biting tone, one I haven’t heard since New York. It surprises even the model, who shoots me a sympathetic look before training her focus back on the mirror.
His clipped response and narrowed eyes douse me in embarrassment. We’re all under stress, but the tone feels unnecessarily dismissive, especially after the way we’ve been working together over the past few weeks.
Shaking my head and looking at the floor, I think about how maybe things between us haven’t changed as much as I thought. Regardless, I still need an answer for Lamont. This week is just as important for my career as it is for his.
When I refocus my gaze on Giovanni, he’s walking toward me, wearing a determined expression. The model is standing off to the side with two pins holding the garment into place under her arm. I brace myself for a rant of some sort.
His bergamot and leather scent reaches me first, followed by a feather-light, discreet brush of his hand against mine. I shiver at the unexpected contact.
“Sorry, Tessa,” he murmurs, so only I can hear. “My reaction was from my own stress, not you.” He ducks his chin, trying to meet my eyes. “It should only be another four minutes or so.”
I blink at Giovanni. I’m not used to people apologizing so readily to me at work. Or in life, honestly.
“I’ll tell Lamont. He also told me to mention a ‘curved hem,’ so… hopefully you know what that means.”
I glance at the coffee cup warming my hand. Maybe I shouldn’t give it to him. Although, I don’t drink my coffee like this, so it’d be a waste if I didn’t give it to him. Bad for the planet, probably.
Stop being a coward. It’s not a big deal.
I hold out the coffee. “I brought this for you. I figured that you were probably tired from the long day, and the model replacement chaos before today’s rehearsal, so… Anyways, here it is.”
Giovanni’s face lights up with the same unguarded expression from years ago, though maybe a bit more astonished. He lifts the cup out of my hands. “It’s for me?”
“The refreshment station was on my way.”
Surprise blooms on his face as he takes a sip. “You remembered how I take my coffee.” A statement, not a question. “I can’t remember the last time you… when we had coffee together.”
I can. I can still feel the cup warm in my hand as I handed it to him, right before he told me what he truly thought about working with me. Clearly a forgettable day for him, yet one that’s burned itself into my memory.
His softened gaze fixes me in place. “Thank you, Tessa.”
I nod, unsure of how to feel. “Yep. Well, good luck. With this.” I gesture to his surroundings. “See you at the team meeting post-rehearsal.”
He takes another sip of coffee, a smile playing at his lips. “See you then.”
After informing a stressed Lamont that Giovanni is working at pace, I head to the audio/visual area.
A stylish woman walks by me, picking up a tablet at the table and chatting with a sound guy.
Familiar notes of warm amber and vanilla float under my nose, reminding me of my mom’s favorite scent—Br?lée by…
Oh My God. It’s Simone Santerre.
If I could model my career after one woman, down to her fragrance line, it’d be her.
I could write a three-part series on the subtle but powerful moods in her designs.
By Santerre is one of the most highly regarded houses for innovation, fusing classic French design techniques with a modern Italian edge.
Her couture line is high-fashion, yet still seems attainable.
The amount of time I spend thinking about her designs may supersede the time I spend stressing about Giovanni. An impressive feat as of late.
Having a famous brother makes me hypersensitive to approaching celebrities, but I can’t waste this opportunity. I’ll just say a quick “thank you” for inspiring me with her art. I wait until she finishes her conversation with a crew member, which gives me time to rustle up some courage.
When Simone looks up from the sound guy’s tablet, I make eye contact with her. She pauses for a moment, facing me with an inquisitive look.
“Ms. Santerre? I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to say that you’re my biggest inspiration. I can’t begin to describe how much I’d like to mirror your career one day.”
After working with Lamont, “warm” and “friendly” are not words I’d associate with Creative Directors. The industry has hardened me to the reality that most people aren’t going to stick around and make small talk, so I practically startle when she responds.
“Which house do you work for?” she asks with a French lilt to her voice.
“Haus of Lamont.”
“And what do you do there?”
My face heats, wishing I was more impressive. “I’m a junior designer.”
“How long have you been with him?”
“Five years.”
“And still a junior… hm, his reputation does precede him.” One of her perfectly manicured eyebrows raises. “Will I have seen any of your work?”
Her eye contact alone makes me giddy. I can’t believe she’s still talking to me.
Thinking through my back catalog of original designs I’ve shared with Lamont, one viral look comes to mind. “Um, I pitched the Youthquake-inspired sheath dress that showed in New York three years ago.”
“The one with the trumpet sleeves? For the sixties line?”
I shift nervously on my feet. “Um. Yes. Yes, that’s the one.”
“Pattern wasn’t my favorite.”
My shoulders droop. I hated the pattern, too—it was a Lamont decision.
“But I liked the design,” Simone fucking Santerre adds, like that’s something I can be normal about.
Forget designing my own line, life will never get better than this moment.
“Do you enjoy working for Lamont?”
I plaster a professional smile to my face. “Yeah, it’s been great.”
Simone raises an eyebrow, and I wonder if she can see through my lie.
No one enjoys working for Lamont.
A hint of a smile flickers at the corner of her mouth.
When she hands the tablet back to the sound guy, a bold idea plants itself in my chest. The future I want is standing right in front of me, and I won’t get closer than this. My pulse flutters at my wrist as I begin stitching together tiny scraps of bravery in my mind until they start ringing true.
Asking isn’t arrogance. If you don’t grasp this opportunity, someone less skilled will. You are more than “tolerable.”
“Ms. Santerre? I’m looking to expand my network within the industry, and I’d love to connect after fashion week. Would you be open to me reaching out to your assistant to schedule a meeting with you?”
She hesitates, then nods. “The general email for my house is listed on our website, and my assistant manages the inbox. You can mention we spoke.”
I try my best to school the pure joy rushing through me, giving a polite smile instead. “Thank you for your time.”
Without so much as a goodbye, Simone strides away to Hair and Makeup, leaving me and my racing thoughts behind.
Simone liked my design. Maybe even more-than-tolerated the dress, by the sound of it. Diversified experience in this industry is invaluable. I wonder if they’ll be scouting for designers at their New York location anytime soon.
I already know my brain’s going to perform a heart surgery-level dissection on this conversation later, but there’s no time to ruminate. The team meeting’s in a few hours, and I’m about to get doused with another rogue mist of hairspray.
Fashion week waits for no one.