Work Text:
A DINGY-ASS BASEMENT IN SOLARIA
“Oh my God, you’re obsessed with Pancake Boobs.”
At the sound of his not-protégé’s voice, Saul looks up from the two-week-old magazine (one he’d grabbed as an impulse buy at the checkout, thank you very much) to glare at the much too chipper redhead who had come to a halt in front of his table with her hands on her hips and an eyebrow raised in amusement.
“You really need to stop calling her that,” he admonishes, pushing the glasses up further the bridge of his nose before turning back to the beige sack of a dress—which was tight in all the wrong places—ignoring his not-apprentice’s look of disbelief. “And today’s your day off, why are you here?”
“I-you came up with it!” Bloom protests, and just like her disbelieving look, her protest was pointedly ignored.
“And it’s not like this woman chose to wear this monstrosity,” Saul continues with a shrug, lifting the page up slightly to give Bloom a better view, “with an event this posh, she’s bound to have a stylist.”
(A shit stylist at that, but he doesn’t feel the need to say it out loud.)
“Some guy named Sebastian,” the redhead shrugs whipping her phone out the back of her jeans, “found him on Instagram and his clients are far from exclusive, look,” and a much too dim phone screen is shoved in his face, and he squints against the darkness to find a grid of young, overeager faces smiling brightly in spite of the tacky, unflattering garments they were posing so proudly in. Bloom scrolls and scrolls and the awful choices seem to be unending until Saul shakes his head and disappointment, and the girl pulls her phone away.
“What does this have to do with Pancake Boobs?” He asks, flipping the magazine shut before crossing his arms over his chest—once again ignoring the redhead’s glare at the use of the magazine woman’s unofficial moniker—looking up at Bloom. “And turn your brightness up, you’re straining your eyes,” he can’t help but chide.
“Okay,” Bloom begins, Saul allows himself to sigh in preparation for another one of her spiels (it’s a wonder he still keeps her around), “first of all, I’m not straining my eyes, you’re straining your eyes. It’s actually better to have your brightness at a lower level, so maybe look into that?”
Saul nods slowly, knowing full well his eyes are perfectly fine and will continue to keep his own brightness as high as he likes.
“Second of all,” the girl continues, “that Sebastian guy works with girls at the bottom of the fashion barrel. You know, those girls on TikTok who do those fashion hauls that no one really watches?”
He does not know those girls, but nods along anyway to prevent another unneeded information dump.
“Yeah, that’s kind of the type that he works with and clearly doesn’t know anything else.”
“Is there a point to this?” He snips, arching an unamused brow as he leans further back into his seat.
“Yes, Mr Silva,” Bloom drawls, “there is a point to this.”
“Well?”
“Since you asked so nicely,” she says, her tone suddenly too sweet as she bats her eyelashes for good measure. “I’m saying, Sebastian what’s-his-name is only good for dressing D-list actors and influencers…” she trails off, waving her hand in front of him, as if trying to tell him to complete her thought.
“So, Pancake Boobs is an influencer,” he fills in, tilting his head in comprehension as he looks to Bloom for confirmation.
The twitch in her left eye tells him that he has comprehended nothing.
“I—no…” his not-apprentice sighs, defeat coloring her tone. “You’re not even close. And by the way, you are aware her name isn’t actually Pancake Boobs, right?”
“No, Bloom,” he mocks, shaking his head for good measure. “You mean to tell me that this woman’s government name isn’t Pancake Boobs? I’m shocked.”
“Ha-ha,” the redhead deadpans with a roll of her eyes, “please tell me you know who she is—because it would be really embarrassing on your part if you didn’t.”
He answers her with silence and a blank stare, and is rewarded with another agitated eye twitch.
“You’re joking,” she gasps, blue eyes wide with disappointment. “There’s no way.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Bloom concedes, “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you laugh.”
“Why are we having this conversation again?”
“Oh!” Bloom jumps, like she’s just remembered why she came in on her day off in the first place. “Because of your obsession with Pancake Boobs—I mean, Farah Dowling, that’s why.”
“With who?”
“Farah… Dowling…” she repeats, drawing the name out slowly, as if she were speaking to a toddler. “Please tell me you’ve at least heard of the name.”
At the mention of Pancake Boobs’ actual name, Saul casts his mind back, the name a fuzzy vision in his mind but never a clear picture of the woman Bloom clearly wants him to recognize. His eyes drift down to the magazine on his desk, studying the woman’s lean face, straight nose, and blonde hair in hopes of any sort of recognition. And the lack of recognition must show on his face, judging by the exaggerated groan his not-apprentice releases and the way her shoulders sag in defeat as she buries her face in her hands.
“You’re so lame,” he hears her say, words muffled by her palms before looking back up at him with pursed lips. “How have you worked in fashion for what, decades—“
“Watch it,” he warns, Bloom’s words suddenly hitting a little too close to home. And as much as he loathes to admit it, she was right, he had been working in fashion for decades (if he was being honest with himself, his career is older than Bloom herself) and what has he to show for it? A dingy basement? A long term relationship with his liquor cabinet? Designs that may never see the light of day because no one wants the sketches of a washed-up has-been? A bright, young, and eager student who deserves a far better mentor than him (not that he’d ever say that to her face)? It was a wonder he’d managed to stay alive all these years.
“—and you don’t know who Farah Dowling is?” Bloom continues despite his interjection, totally unaware of the inner turmoil her words inadvertently caused within him. “I knew you lived under a rock, Silva, but damn.”
“It’s not that I don’t know her,” he rushes to defend before Bloom can go on another tangent, “the name rings a bell, I just don’t know where she’s from.”
“That doesn’t make you any less lame.”
“Yes,” Saul snaps, “you’ve established that.”
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t recognize her from anywhere?” She asks again, clasping her hands together.
“I am absolutely sure,” he confirms, a little impatiently.
“She’s in that period drama on HBO, the one about succession in medieval Solaria?”
He meets her description with silence.
“You know,” she urges, “the one with that Andreas Eraklyon guy?”
“I know who he is,” he points out, but the exasperated look on Bloom’s face tells him he’s missed the point completely.
“Great,” she tells him, sarcasm dripping from her tone, “Farah plays his wife in that, but she didn’t join the show unti—wait, do you even have a TV?”
“Yes,” Saul answers tiredly, “I’m not that out of touch.”
“Thank God,” he hears her mutter to herself, “but you don’t watch the show.” He shakes his head mutely. “You should, it’s actually pretty good.”
“Noted,” he says dryly, with absolutely no intention of watching the show with a woman he’s apparently supposed to recognize by name.
“Then you’re not gonna know who she is from that…” Bloom muses, nose scrunching up in thought.
“Is that what she is then?” Saul asks, gaze flicking back down to the woman on the magazine, “an actress with a stylist that makes her wear dress made out of Party City tablecloth?”
“You’re not wrong…” Bloom says, waving her hand around in a so-so motion. “But the acting thing didn’t happen until a couple of years ago. She’s also two years older than you, so inability to recognize her is beyond me.”
“Then,” he begins, looking at the woman rather than the garment: she was tall, quite lean, striking features, and rather lovely hair. “Was she a model or something?”
“YES!” Bloom exclaims, jumping up in excitement. “You finally got it! I’m so proud,” she adds, clasping her hands in front of her heart for added effect.
He just barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes at her antics.
“Now I can get to my actual point,” she continues.
“That wasn’t your actual point?” Saul asks, only slightly wondering if the question came out as whiny.
(He was also wondering how long they’ve been having this conversation.)
“No. Anyway,” Bloom segues, “you should totally be the one who dresses her. This could be the big break you’ve been waiting for!”
“No,” he answers before he’s managed to think it through properly, flipping the magazine shut and shoving it into one of his desk drawers.
“And why not?” Bloom questions, brows furrowed in confusion as she places her hands on her hips. “I know for a fact you could do a million times better than that Sebastian guy, and you’re clearly smitten with her to begin with—“
“Smitten?” Saul interrupts with a glare, “who said anything about being smitten?”
“You,” Bloom answers with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “Well,” she goes to correct, “not in so many words.”
“Really?” It’s Saul’s turn with the sarcasm, “and how many words did I say it in?”
“You have had that magazine,” she says, gesturing vaguely towards the drawer said magazine was shoved in, “for like, two weeks now.”
“It’s not unheard of for a designer to hold onto a magazine, Bloom.”
“It’s not,” she agrees readily, “but you never hold onto magazines unless something really catches your eye. And I know for a fact that there’s nothing else in that publication that’s captured your attention more than Pancake Boobs.”
“Bloom—“
“I also know that there’s nothing you hate more than a poorly made garment, which is a totally valid thing to hate.”
“Alright—“
“Hold on,” Bloom jumps before he could finish his train of thought, “we both know that you’re not the type of person to hoard the things you hate. So that leaves us with two options.”
“A,” she lists, closing her fist and sticking her thumb out, “you’re the world’s greatest liar and actually really like that dress for some reason. Or B,” she sticks out her index finger this time, “you have the hots for Pancake Boobs, which is the option that I personally believe.”
Saul bites the inside of his cheek, cursing the girl’s adept observations, but stays quiet when her smile slips into a smug little smirk as she places both palms on his desk to lean closer to him.
“If that sad beige nightmare was worn by someone like Kathy Bates, you wouldn’t give two shits about it and you know it,” Bloom declares, looking at him pointedly. “You’d probably bitch about the cut of the gown, how the color doesn’t match her at all, detest some of the draping choices, and haughtily announce to this empty studio that you could make a better garment in your sleep. Then you’re gonna move on with your life to bitch about the next unfortunate dress you see, which, let’s face it, is gonna be in the next magazine you pick up.”
This time, Saul opens his mouth to protest, but Bloom cuts him off with a raised palm before he could even find his voice.
“But it’s not Kathy Bates. It’s this gorgeous woman who has been the beauty standard since she was fifteen—yes, I looked her up—and she’s also totally your type, Party City tablecloth dress or no.”
Fifteen? It’s an awfully young age for that kind of pressure to be put on a person. He’d ask what sort of person would put a child through something as exploitative as the modeling industry, but unfortunately, he doesn’t have to. He might be a nobody of a designer, but he is in no way unaware of the shitstorm that is the beauty industry: the invasions of privacy, the overworking of young models, the drugs, the alcohol, the girls who were so malnourished they had trouble staying conscious. He remembers the terror on young faces when they were asked to strip down. It’s an image he wishes he could burn from his memory, but it’s one that haunts him on the rare occasion he is looking for someone to model a garment.
“That dumbass Sebastian clearly has no respect for the woman she’s become,” Bloom continues, and Saul shakes the thoughts out of his head before he goes too far. “This is a man who is obviously used to dressing young, easy-to-impress Instagram models who go starry eyed at the mention of any luxury brand when anyone with a brain knows that the only luxurious thing them is their name and reputation.”
“But you just said she’s not an influencer—”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Bloom agreed with an all too bright smile. “Farah Dowling is no stranger to high fashion. Victoria’s Secret, Mugler, Dior—you name it, she’s probably worn it. And yet, she has that… poser dressing her like a nineteen-year-old wannabe when you could be the one in Sebastian’s place and actually do her justice.”
“Are we almost done here?” Saul asks, his voice an odd mixture of intrigue and irritation.
“Yes. I promise I’m almost done,” Bloom swears, crossing her fingers over her chest. “When you draw all those designs late into the night, you draw them on her—don’t look at me like that, I found them in a pile on your desk, not my fault—the models have her figure and her hair color. Whether you realize it or not, you’ve made her your muse.”
“How do you know this isn’t for Adriana Lima?” He throws out, a desperate attempt to keep Bloom off his back.
“Because Adriana Lima is dark haired,” Bloom answers readily, a triumphant grin on her lips as she turns on her heel. “I’m going out for coffee,” she calls over her shoulder, “you want something?”
“It’s supposed to be your day off,” he tries to remind her, and his answer is the door clicking shut.
He can never win with that girl.
NOT A DINGY-ASS BASEMENT IN SOLARIA
“Do you ever think about going back?” A soft voice to her left asks, and Farah turns to find the kind eyes of Rose Harvey on her, even as the young makeup artist by the name of Kat brushes Rose’s face with setting powder. “To the runway, I mean,” the brunette clarifies when Farah doesn’t answer.
“It’s not something I think about,” Farah admits quietly, her gaze dropping down to the floor. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Rose shrugs, “what with Solarian Fashion Week coming up and everything.”
“Since when did you care about Fashion Week?” She asks, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“I don’t,” Rose is quick to correct, “but I overheard Stella and Beatrix talking about it this morning and thought of you.”
“I’m flattered,” she drawls, winking playfully in the other woman’s direction. “But the answer is still no.”
“Do you not miss it?”
Farah pauses, instead focusing on Marco and his steady hands as he brushes back the dark hair of her wig; she steadfastly ignores the bile rising in her throat at the thought of “going back.”
“There isn’t much to miss,” she finally says, even as fingers grip the arm of her chair just a bit too tight. “I suppose I’ve grown out of that part of my life. It was my past, and I think it should stay there.”
“Fair enough,” Rose concedes with a nod, “if I started out the way you did, I’d probably burnout as well.”
Burnout was an understatement. There ought to be a new word to adequately describe the burning in her stomach every time the thought of walking down a runway crosses her mind.
“Then again,” the brunette continues, “I imagine that acting is a bit different from modeling.”
“Yes,” Farah agrees, turning away from Rose and towards her own reflection in the mirror, “it’s quite different.”
She knows that Rose means absolutely no harm, but Farah can’t help the way her heart beats just a little faster when she thinks of all the differences Rose can only assume.
Suddenly, she’s fourteen years old and she’s just met Rosalind Hale for the first time. The older woman smiles sharply at her, tells her she’d be the right fit for an agency called Alfea, and makes promises of fortune and power beyond her wildest dreams. She’s fourteen and starry-eyed and alone in the world, of course she agrees without a second thought.
Then, she’s fifteen, wearing too little clothes for someone so young as one intern pokes and prods at shivering form with another one lamenting about her boyish figure from behind. She swallows the lump in her throat and blinks away the burn in her eyes when Rosalind enters, then whispers right in her ear, “ don’t fuck it up. ”
The first time she falls is at sixteen, at a Dolce & Gabbana show; the shoes were unstable and a size too big, and she wasn’t the only model to trip up. However, she was the only model who was managed by Rosalind Hale. It was the first time she’s ever seen Rosalind angry. It was also the first time anyone has ever pulled her hair.
She gets her angel wings when she’s twenty-one, and of course, Rosalind is right behind her when they’re first strapped to her back. They swoon and sigh and call her angel, and to her, it all feels like a sin.
Rosalind is gone at twenty-five, and she’s never felt more alone.
She’s thirty and she’s tired. She’s lethargic and recovering from an illness when a photographer bounds up to her and gushes about her figure, tells her to keep doing whatever it is she’s doing. Except, she’s been sick for two weeks and hasn’t been able to keep anything down since.
She’s thirty when she walks out of the studio and doesn’t look back.
At forty-six, she walks back into a studio and the first person to greet her is a strapping young man named Sky.
“You’re my new mum!” He proclaims with a bright smile, and she can’t help but smile back at his eagerness.
“Yes,” she nods, “I suppose I am.”
She’s forty-eight when she gets a call from an unknown number, and Rose looks at her expectantly.
“Well?” Her friend asks, “aren’t you going to answer? It could be important.”
“It’s an unknown number.”
“It could be important.”
She doesn’t know why, but she slides to answer.
“Hello?” A young woman greets tentatively from the other line.
“Hello,” Farah replies politely, “how can I help you?”
“May I speak to Farah Dowling?”
“This is her.”
“Perfect!” The woman bursts, “thank God I found you!”
“Oh?” Farah prompts, the other woman’s sudden enthusiasm piquing her interest.
“I’m Bloom Peters,” Bloom begins, “and I work for a designer named Saul Silva…”
Farah Dowling is fifty-one when she falls in love with Saul Silva.
end