The sound of him wrecking his own set echoed behind me as I marched off, my head high.
“Well, that went about as well as I expected,” the wardrobe assistant said, catching up to me.
I laughed bitterly. “To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t take longer to melt down.”
“Your clothes are where you left them.” She pointed towards the changing room. “I suggest you make a quick escape.”
I did as she said, pushing off the coat and‘bikini’before pulling on the simple jeans and cashmere jumper combo I’d worn here.
In the end, I’d had enough. Not only with today, but with this entire industry. With the way everyone looked at me when I stood up to Pierre. How they on set stood back and let him scream at me like I was nothing. The grimace that would appear when I said I was turning thirty in a few weeks, acting as if I was staring down the barrel. I knew the truth. They wanted girls they could use, with high cheekbones and zero backbone, and I was no longer that.
“Are you going anywhere for Christmas? I bet someone like you has somewhere exciting to go?” she asked from behind the curtain, clearly trying to make some more pleasant conversation.
The question stung more than I expected. I’d turned down every invitation: dinners, vacations, even an offer of a week in the Bahamas. And while all my local London friends went on their little skiing holidays or made their way back home, now I had nothing but an empty house waiting for me.
A part of me ached at the idea of extended time alone, with no work eating up my days, no friends to fill my nights. I used to thrive in this industry, young and willing to do anything to make it big. The endless parties, the dresses and shoots, the late nights at Isabelle’s. Now it all felt like a game of dress-up I’d grown too used to.
Maybe if my friends could do the pilgrimage home, so could I. But after so many years away, I questioned where it was. During my childhood, my parents shipped me off every holiday to stay with my gran. Memories of warm summer days and the long, biting winter nights spent in the Cairngorms, the rugged mountain range of the Scottish Highlands. It hadn’t felt like home, but it was probably closer to it than anywhere else. Shewas long gone now, but the idea held promise. Somewhere small, a cozy cottage with a roaring fire. Maybe a deep bath. No cameras. Just silence. Maybe I’d remember what my own voice sounded like.
Another Christmas there could be exactly what I needed.
“I’m going to Scotland,” I said, stepping out with a newfound resolve. “It’s quiet. Wintery. Just what I need.” I imagined the small town I knew so well, snow-covered Cairngorms surrounding it, and a tinge of excitement settled in.
No headlines. No paparazzi. No one looking at me like I’m past my sell-by date.
She looked uncertain for a moment before stepping forward with the fur coat in hand. “Keep this then. You’ll need to wrap up warm.”
I stared at her, surprised by the suggestion. “Are you sure?”
It might technically be stealing, but I learned long ago to never say no to couture.
She nodded, and for the first time tonight, her expression broke into nervousness. “I’ve…I’ve always been a big fan of yours. When I found outthe Kit Sinclairwason this job, I was so excited to be able to work alongside you.”
“Oh wow,” I said, taken back. “I’m sorry it went completely to shit.”
“That’s not your fault,” she said. “I don’t know how you were able to get through that shoot; he was pulling the most unprofessional shit I’ve ever seen.” She pushed the coat into my arms. “And besides, this way, if he complains to the agency, you still walk away with some payment.”
A soft laugh escaped me. “Thank you.”
Slipping out of the building unnoticed, I headed into the cold London streets, the central crowds unbearable. The December air bit at my face, but for the first time all day, I felt warm, dreaming of a Scottish holiday.
It wasn’t perfect – it wasn’t exactly home – but it was something. And if I didn’t get away now, I knew I was going to lose what little of myself I had left.
Of course, I had no idea what –or who– was waiting for me up there.
two
KIT
Running/Planning - CMAT
As it turns out, Scotland is pretty fucking cold.
I’d booked a last-minute flight from Heathrow and landed, apparently, in the middle of nowhere. From there, it was a gruelling journey involving a train and a bus that took me west.
The village of Ciallach, situated on the banks of the loch that gave the town its name, had seemed magical in the pictures, the snow bountiful, but in reality it was a frozen wasteland. I’d been deposited at a bus stop in the centre of the small town, and with no idea of where to go first, I waited for a taxi to appear, shivering in the cold. After five minutes and no signs of life, I decided public transport might as well be a mystical creature.
Snowflakes softly swirled around me as I dragged my suitcase past residential houses – some grand with turrets and huge gardens, others cute little cottages – in search of any help. My feet were screaming, the 1995 Gucci Tom Ford boots doing their best impression of medieval torture devices.
