Pip rubs his hands together. “Nepotism, we has it.”
Pip’s glee inspires another reluctant smile. He’s been doing such things since he waltzed into my garden a year ago.
When he leans close, I bend forward obediently. “Why aren’t you wearing a Durand suit?” he whispers. “Didn’t you see the outfit and the freebies in your suite?”
“Yes, I saw them. And promptly rang reception because I thought the previous room occupant had forgotten to check out.” Pip snorts, and I shake my head. “I haven’t had anyone dressing me since I was five.”
“From the looks of you, you haven’t progressed much. Who comes to a fashion show in Levi’s and a black jumper?” He flicks my jumper to make his point.
The lights suddenly dim, and the music stops. The crowd’s talking fades away, and then the beat of “Desire” by Levan Creed starts to pound through the speakers. It’s strong and sexy, and my heart speeds up.
He’s here somewhere behind that curtain, and I’m going to see him soon.
Dean appears, and I watch with amusement as Jonas instantly sits up straight, his whole face alight as the famous blond supermodel saunters down the runway, his stride loose and fluid. He’s a rare sight nowadays, as he’s largely retired, but Olivier must have persuaded him into this.
He’s wearing high-waisted baggy trousers and a loose jacket in a steel-coloured silk that gleams under the runway lights.
“Where’s his shirt?” I enquire.
Pip tuts. “I always think deconstructed tailoring looks like someone used their needle and thread while under the influence of a lot of gin.”
“Say it louder, darling,” Olivier says, his eyes twinkling. “It’s only our show.”
“I supposeyoucould do better as a tailor,” I say to Pip.
He grins. “I can actually knit. I made a post box topper last month.”
“Sadly, I am aware of what they are. I’m saying it in a low voice because my reputation is disappearing like mist on a summer’s morning.”
“Unfortunately, the post office didn’t like my interpretation of what a topper was.”
The models are moving through the crowd now. Instead of a traditional runway, the organisers have laid paths that wind around the audience. It looks a bit like the yellow brick road, if the people of Oz had been forced to sit on incredibly uncomfortable chairs and watch pretty men.
Pip offers me a Malteser. “I hope Bowie is alright now.”
I think of the young American model who’s one of Pip’s charges. “Why? What’s the matter with him?”
“He was drunk at rehearsal and took a wrong turn. Ended up on the fire escape.”
I laugh. “It must be like herding sheep.”
“Very badly behaved sheep.”
“Did you see him backstage? Is he going to behave?”
He nods. “I told him Ezra was out here.”
Jonas frowns. “I hope you aren’t dangling my PA over your model like a fish on a hook.”
Pip considers him thoughtfully. “Would you be cross if I were?”
“Very.”
He pats his hand like he’s an old-aged pensioner on a tour bus. “Then I’m not.”
I snort at Jonas’s face and turn at a tap on my shoulder. A young man is looking at me. “Reuben Langley?”
I nod warily. This could go a number of ways.
