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SCARLETT
I sat across the coffee counter, clearly invested in my phone until it was snatched from me. “Hey! Give me that!” I yelled at Tessa, my best friend who had just deprived me of my phone. “Quit whining, you've been watching his interviews for an unhealthy length of time,” she said, throwing her arms in the air. I adjusted in my chair, trying to reach out to my phone. “It's just one interview.” “It's not just one. I don't really see the appeal behind the addiction to this man,” Tessa blurted out. “Of course you wouldn't understand, he is Simon Laurent, the billionaire businessman,” I mentioned excitedly. “Yes, and?” Tessa asked, visibly rolling her eyes at me. “C'mon you're no fun, can't you see?” I started, “He's sexy, hot and makes me we..” “Okay, enough. Spare me the horrid details, I have work to do anyways,” Tessa finalized and returned my phone. I smiled faintly and was about to return to the interview when I received a call from my mom. “Hey mum, what now?” I asked curiously. “Come home , now!” “Wait, wh…” she already cut me off before I could complete my question. I say goodbye to Tessa and head back home. For as long as I could remember, it has just been I and mom since my dad died. I met Tessa in 6th grade and we've been inseparable since then. Outside the house, there were three strange SUVs packed in the driveway. What in god's name was going on here? Taking in a deep breath, I found my way into the house and heard my mom's voice accompanied with a masculine voice. Hold up, I know that voice. I rushed into the living room and came face to face with my mum sitting with THE Simon Laurent. It was my first time seeing him outside TVs and billboards, and god the pictures didn't do him enough justice. As much as I would love to get wet over his appearance, I was more interested in getting to know why he was in my freaking living room. “Scarlett, you're home,” mum said, breaking me out of my chain of thoughts. “Wait, what's going on here?” I asked calmly, my mum smiled at Simon then looked back at me. “I am engaged, Scarlett,” she said smiling. My knees went weak instantly, I held onto the couch for support, I stared back between my smiling mum and Simon who just sat there sipping his coffee like all was right in the world. “To who? Him?” I finally mustered the courage to ask. “Honey, that's basically how this works, I've known him for a year and …” “A year?!” I yelled, cutting her off. “That's how long you've kept me in the dark?” My voice, already breaking up. Mum got up slowly and moved towards me, pulling me into a hug I didn't want right now. “I know baby, I'm sorry, but we love each other and we're going to move in with him and become a family,” she added and I quickly disengaged myself from the hug. I stared at Simon who finally dropped the cup as if finally getting into the discussion. At this point, I didn't know which hurt more, the fact that my mum kept a secret from me or the fact that Simon was about to become my stepfather. “Do I even get any say in this?” I asked, throwing my hands in the air in frustration. “There's not much you can do or say,” Simon finally spoke. I should've been angry at his statement, yet I stood here thinking about his voice telling me to strip and bend over. God! Scarlett, focus! “I was talking to my mom and not you,” I shot at him. I expected him to yell at me but instead he kept his calm expression, not saying anything to me. “I won't tolerate you talking to him that way, I'm sure you two will get along soon,” she said sternly. Simon stood up abruptly and walked up to my mother, drawing her in for a cheek kiss. “Cynthia, I have to leave for a meeting. The moving trucks are on their way.” The silence that took over the house after he left was overwhelming, I stared back at my mom in total disbelief and shock. “What is going to happen to the house?” I questioned not breaking eye contact with her. “It's already on the market, honey.” “Great, so you got engaged to Simon Laurent and sold the house without letting me know, real nice,” I blurted out and she looked at me. Some sort of disappointment flashed across her face. “Tell me Scarlett. What were you expecting me to do?” The question hit me harder than expected. Mum had always prioritized me since dad died and now it was her chance at happiness and I wanted her to what? Remain lonely? I felt very selfish, mostly because part of the reason I didn't want her to marry Simon was because of my fantasies with him. “I'm sorry mum, I just want you to be sure of your decision.” I added and hugged her. “I know baby, I'm sure and I'm happy.” *** The truck came with a lot of workers, they moved swiftly, packing up items and boxes into the truck and separating those we didn't need. I sat in the living room basically giving instructions while things were moved into the truck. “Hey! Be careful with that!” I yelled. “It's labeled socks ma'am,” the worker replied. “Those are expensive socks, dummy,” I snapped back at him before he left. Mum came down the stairs looking like she'd just finished a hectic exercise. “Mum, you look awfully tired,” I chucked softly. “Well, I wouldn't look this way if you decided to help me and stop sitting here doing nothing.” she breathed out. “I'm not the one that woke up and decided to move,” I murmured. “ Besides, I'm managing the workers and giving instructions.” She just stared back at me in defeat and went back inside. I stared at the almost empty house, I had been here all my life and it had become a vital part of me. Somehow, I felt sad that I would be leaving but some part of me couldn't wait to be close to Simon. Hell, I shouldn't even be thinking like this, he's basically my stepfather. Who am I kidding? Something about that even intrigued me more after all it was just a crazy fantasy I wasn't actually going to fulfill. Once everything was done, I picked up my phone and texted Tessa to let her know what just happened. Of course, she made fun of everything. I smiled faintly and sank into the couch for the last time. I really hope I don't regret this.SCARLETT The graduate showcase was on March 21st. The program's annual event, the culmination of the year's work, held in a venue large enough to matter and intimate enough to be real. Industry guests, faculty, family, a small amount of press. I had been preparing for it since January in the specific way you prepared for something that was going to happen regardless of how prepared you were, doing the work and trusting it and trying not to make the preparation into performance. The week before, I finished the final alterations on the sixth piece. The ordinary piece. The Thursday piece. The one that looked like a life rather than a conclusion. I put it on the sixth form and stood back and looked at the full collection for the first time as a complete thing. All six pieces in sequence. The light in the studio catching them differently from different angles. The first piece, structured and formal, the before. The transitional piece in the center, the threshold itself, neither one
SIMONThe house was in a quiet street twenty minutes from the city center, the kind of street that had been residential for long enough that it had stopped being self-conscious about it, the Victorian terraces lining both sides with the comfortable solidity of buildings that had been doing their job for a hundred and fifty years and expected to continue.I had looked at it alone on the Wednesday, between a two o'clock call and a four o'clock meeting, forty-five minutes that I had used to walk through the rooms with the estate agent and form a preliminary view without the pressure of someone else's response shaping mine before I had finished forming it. That was the way I approached most significant decisions, get the unmediated impression first, let it settle, then introduce the other variables.The unmediated impression had been immediate and complete.This was the house.I had known it in the entrance hall, standing on the original tiled floor with the January light coming through t
SCARLETTJanuary was for finishing.Not the January of new year energy and resolutions and the performed fresh start that the calendar insisted on. The quiet functional January of someone who had a clear task and the time to do it and wanted nothing from the month except the hours it contained. The flat fabric choices had been made in December, ordered and confirmed and tracked with the methodical attention of someone who understood that the wrong fabric arriving late was the kind of problem that couldn't be solved by working harder, only by having anticipated it correctly in the first place. By the first week of January the materials were in the studio and the toiles were ready to be replaced and the work of turning the concept into its final physical form had begun.I worked in the studio every day.Sometimes from eight in the morning until eight or nine in the evening, the building quieting around me as the afternoon became evening and most of the cohort went home, leaving only the
SCARLETTWe went to dinner after, the four of us, Simon and David and Petra and me, somewhere nearby that Simon had found and booked without announcing it beforehand in the way he arranged things that mattered without making the arrangement into a presentation. A small Italian place two streets from the warehouse, the kind of restaurant that had been there long enough to stop trying to be anything other than what it was, good food and reasonable wine and the kind of warm unhurried lighting that made everyone look like the version of themselves they actually were rather than the version they were performing.We arrived still carrying the particular energy of the warehouse, the specific heightened quality of an evening that had gone well and that everyone present knew had gone well and that nobody was quite ready to put down yet. The maître d' showed us to a corner table, which Simon had clearly requested, the kind of table that allowed a conversation to be its own thing rather than som
SCARLETTDr. Anand told us about the industry event on a Monday in December in the way she told us most significant things, without preamble or ceremony, slotted into the seminar agenda between a discussion of portfolio documentation and a reminder about the end of term submission requirements, as though what she was saying was simply information rather than something that would rearrange the next three weeks of two people's lives."The program has been invited to send two students to the Winter Industry Preview," she said, looking at her notes with the composure of someone who had attended enough of these events to understand their significance without needing to perform excitement about them. "It's an informal presentation evening. Industry contacts, buyers, a small number of press. An opportunity to show work in progress to people who matter to the direction of a career."She looked up from her notes.The room had the specific quality of stillness that it produced when something im
SCARLETT November moved through the campus like weather. The studios got busier, the energy shifting from the exploratory quality of September and October into something more focused and pressured. Deadlines becoming real. Concepts that had lived comfortably in sketchbooks now having to justify themselves in three dimensions. Petra's textile piece had evolved into something genuinely extraordinary, a series of layered panels that changed character completely depending on how light moved through them, which she had achieved through a construction method she had developed herself over six weeks of trial and iteration and the specific stubbornness of someone who refused to accept that what she could see in her head wasn't achievable with her hands. "It's done," she said on a Tuesday, standing back from the finished panels with the expression of someone who had been in a long argument and had finally won it. I stood beside her and looked at it. "Petra," I said. "I know," she said.







