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One

Ysolde

I didn’t think you could tell in the moment—I didn’t know you could feel the gravity of your life changing around you when it is, in fact—I always had sort of felt as though you became aware of it in retrospect.

Like, after the fact, you think back and you’re able to identify “oh yes, that moment did actually change my life”—but I have it here now, straightaway.

Straightaway from the other side of an impossibly crowded room full of people I was sort of pleased to see not five seconds ago, who now only stand as an obstacle between me and the pair of impossibly blue eyes that I can’t look away from over across the bar.

I’ve been in New York a lot lately; it was NYFW.

And I once accidentally had sex with Mitchell Montrose-Bowes back in December because it was Christmas and Christmas is always weird at home, so I lied and said I had to work in Paris, but then I was just in Paris alone, and I couldn’t spend it with Lala and her family because her mum would tell my dad and then my charade would be up, so I had to stay in Paris and pretend to be busy which is a recipe for a disaster, especially when your ex-boyfriend is filming a Jean-Luc Godard film (which, let’s be honest, I’m not going to see) and like, fuck it—it’s Mitchell Montrose-Bowes and it’s nothing you haven’t done before, all the while definitely being something you shouldn’t do again because he did cheat on you, after all.

With Meghan Miller, of all people, for the love of god.

And when I came to from my terrible Parisian delirium and had the wherewithal to run away from MB, I ran right into the arms of the other one, and I know you don’t blame me, because how could you, because it’s Fletch.

And he’s him. And 1994 was such a mindfuck of a year with what happened back in September and he was there for all of it, and he’s good and safe, but it’s always a bit messy with us—I don’t know why. Me probably.

Anyway, London’s shit that time of year.

February’s not really cold enough for snow anymore, but it is in New York, and February’s one of the best months for snow there.

I don’t love cold—I actually don’t love the hot either.

Lala says I’m Goldilocks when it comes to temperatures, but I just want to be okay, really.

I like to be comfortable. And if I have to be uncomfortable, I want it to be for a reason.

I don’t much love to be sweaty, but I’ll get hot to go brown.

Similarly, I certainly don’t love being cold, but if it’s snowing, it’s pretty enough to be worth it—do you know what I mean?

Uncomfortable things have to be worth it, worth whatever discomfort they bring you, otherwise they’re just… uncomfortable for no reason.

“Oh my god,” Lala whispers to me. She’s spotted those blue eyes on the other side of the room herself now. “Is that—”

“Yes,” I cut her off.

Lala is my best friend. We’ve been best friends since we were fifteen and we were both sent to one of those terrible model houses in Paris for a month for a million casting calls.

I don’t know what happened—maybe because we were the only non-white girls in the house.

Both of us biracial, and it could have been a disaster and all competitive because modelling often is like that, but yay feminism, or something—because we just sort of fell in love.

We also don’t look the same. I don’t need to tell you who she is, because I know you know, but Lala Caravella—fiercely beautiful, chocolate-brown eyes that match her skin, strikingly angular.

Lala grips my arm with some urgency now. “He’s staring at you like no one’s ever stared at you before in your whole entire life.”

“That feels untrue, considering our profession, and all—” I tell her without looking away from him.

I can’t look away, not first at least. If I do, it’ll imply I’m afraid and maybe, if there were a gun to my head—which there isn’t, but if there were—I’d possibly admit that maybe, I am.

Just a tiny bit. But that’s only because I’ve never before felt my life changing in a moment, and I’ve had some really obvious-in-retrospect life-changing moments.

When my mother died, that was one. When Jilly E.

Edwards approached me in Selfridges when I was fifteen which led to Rain Model Management signing me a week later, that was another.

Lala, a big one. None of them I realised were changing me in the moment, but then here, now, it’s strange—there’s like a bubbling in me.

As though living inside my blood there’s a trillion tiny little north magnets and he’s a big, old south one.

Our eyes are still locked from across the room—his friends noticed now too I think, because he whispers something to him, taps him in his chest. And whatever the friend says—he’s a producer, I think?

I recognise him—Blue Eyes chuckles at, and glances away, and all at once I feel victorious because he looked away first and also a bit like I’m free-falling through space and time because I swear to god for the past minute and a half, that man’s gaze was the thing that was anchoring me to the planet. Gravity.

My bodyguard gives me an exasperated look—we’ve been down this path before, or so he thinks. I get crushes on men rather easily. Sue me.

“Come on, Juliette,” he says, a tired look on his sweet, young face.

That’s not my name, by the way, he’s just—professionally tuned into everyone who stares sideways at me or, like, blinks in my direction. He has to be. I don’t want to talk about why, but he does have to be. You can know that much.

Aleki moves Lala and I deeper into the Groucho Club, and a couple of people whisper and point, but I don’t much worry about it because if they’re whispering and pointing in the Groucho Club, they’re probably about to be thrown out of the Groucho Club.

We’re led to a table of people we know. I guess I’d call them our friends?

Lala probably wouldn’t; she says really I’m her only friend, but if she was going to have other friends, the ones sitting around the magnum bottle of Moet would be them.

Riley West, the former child star, current cinematic darling (who just got out of rehab and is celebrating in—arguably—an unideal way), American, obviously.

I don’t think we have child stars in the UK, not how they have them over there anyway.

And next to her is Chloe Bosworth, also American, also doesn’t need an introduction but in case you’ve been living under a rock, she’s Max Martin’s latest musical sensation.

Can’t really step outside right now without seeing a photo of Chloe Bosworth and her wonderful, bare midriff.

Probably could say the same thing about me though, so I shan’t point fingers.

Riley stands, opens her arms. “Angels!” she squeals. “You’re back!”

When Lala doesn’t move in towards her embrace, I do on both our behalf.

Lala gives Chloe a nod hello, because Lala is suspicious of everyone, but she’s particularly suspicious of Chloe. I’m not sure Chloe knows that though.

“How was it?” I think Chloe asks me, but I don’t hear her properly because he’s watching me again.

We’re on the same side of the room now. He’s had to reposition his body to do so, but he is watching me, and it is him, because his brother’s here too. Actually, I’m not a lip reader, but were I one, I believe I might have just lip-read his brother say, “Just go talk to her.”

“—Hello? Ysolde.” Chloe pokes me in the arm. “I’m talking to you.”

I blink twice. “Sorry.”

“You opened that show. Like, what the fuck!” She beams at me. “Did you lose your mind?”

“I love Gianni, always—but, I mean, what he’s doing right now?” I breathe out all the awe I hold in my chest at any given moment for that beautiful genius of a man. “Heaven.”

“Are you talking about Versace’s Spring 1995 collection?

” Riley injects and I nod, smile because I’m proud—proud to have walked it and worn it, and I love Gianni so much, so this has nothing to do with him, but I’m not really listening again because I think the thing that’s about to change my life is walking right towards me, but I can’t completely confirm because I can’t look up in case it’s true.

And I need you to know something, okay—?

I’m not shy. I never don’t have anything to say, I don’t tend to back away from a fight.

Once when Lala and I were fresh, a very mean Brazilian model who was technically, at the time, much higher on the food chain than Lala or me (but also technically definitely not as pretty as either of us) tried to steal Lala’s dress backstage for a Galliano show, and I physically fought her.

It’s the only time I’ve ever gotten into a physical altercation in my entire life, and of course it was over a dress, but my point is, I’m not some shy, precious wallflower, but the very thought of that man crossing a room to speak to me, for whatever reason, has my heart in a state of gallop.

I had sex with Johnny Depp. A week ago. Just, like—god, keep that in mind, please? I don’t get struck by stars, I am, technically, a star myself and rest assured, stars are incredibly unstriking most of the time.

I’m not starstruck; this isn’t me being weird because he’s him and he’s from that band. I’m being weird because I can feel the earth shifting under my feet.

“Oh my god—fuck! Shit!—Oh my god—” Lala whispers very quietly a thousand times before I drive my index finger into her rib to shut her the fuck up, because now he’s in front of me.