a/n this story is fiction, meaning the timeline isn't perfect. It's just kinda a vibe, I put events and stuff where they make sense in the story. There's even some stuff I straight up made up. Thanks for checking this out.
1.
There are so many people here. It makes me giddy.
I've never been asked to film a fashion show, let alone a fashion week. Fresh out of school too. This is the dream. This feels good.
Not that I have the biggest job in the world today, I'm not on the runway, or even in that building. But still, I have a task. The set built before me is punk, it's cool. Silver spikes protrude from the walls and hang from the ceiling. The floor is a deep red, glossy tile. Staged around the set, models pose, staring out, over the heads of us onlookers.
I adjust the camera resting on my shoulder. To be honest, I'm not used to such heavy equipment. Whenever I use a camera like this, it's typically resting on a tripod or in the hands of someone else. I find I'm most comfortable with my small, silver video camera. Right now, it hangs from a strap on my shoulder, replaced by the monstrosity I was given when I arrived.
I train the camera's lens up at one model on the edge of the set. Her neck is wrapped in a choker covered in spikes, the rest of her body draped in a soft lace dress and flowy gray pants.
(gucci ready to wear fall collection 2019)
A small smile traces my lips as I click record, slowly zooming out from her stark expression and the spikes to the softness of her clothing. And then, as it always does, the camera moves on its own. I listen to its voice, as the shot moves from the set and into the crowd. And then I'm zooming in on a figure, standing before the models.
It's a tall, darkened silhouette against the brightness of the stage before it. Their hands are lightly clasped behind their back, and their head is ever so tilted. A figure in thought, pondering the art before it. I grin, and quickly change angles, dodging through the crowd until I'm standing directly behind them.
This is the money shot.
As much as I know I need to be filming for work, I kind of want this, just this one shot, all to myself. So I set down the heavy equipment, and open up my small, silver camera, steadying my hands.
My eye to the viewfinder, I lean into the tool, playing with the focus of the camera for a moment, before finding my sweet spot. There it is, a darkened, anonymous figure staring at the light. Staring at the softness, the sharpness, the art of fashion. This is it, this is gold. I let a smile take over my face as excitement bubbles inside me. The figure sways gently, and then begins turning on their heel to leave. I let them walk out of frame, and then wait a few moments longer, before ending the recording, grabbing my big camera, and running after them.
"Excuse me," I bring my hand up to tap them on the shoulder. They swiftly turn around, and suddenly I'm standing there dumbstruck.
"Yes?"
I can't say anything for a moment, I don't think most people could. This is what happens when you accidentally come face to face with an international rock star. And not just any rock star, but Harry Styles. I blink, shaking myself out of my trance.
"Sorry, I, well I just--"
"Are you a fan, would you like a picture?" He gently offers, an understanding smile spreads across his face. He thinks I approached him on purpose. I mean I did, but not for that purpose. I don't blame him. I shake my head.
"No, sorry, um, just rethinking the words in my brain hold on." I shift uncomfortably under the weight of the camera. He sees the equipment, and a realization flickers in his eyes.
"Oh, you're press." Almost a disappointed tone. I shake my head again.
"Not really, I mean kind of. Not what you think." I mumble together. "I, well. I'm hired to film the event."
"The event?" He raises an eyebrow at my casual choice of words.
"New York Fashion Week. I'm hired to film New York Fashion Week. Or part of it. Anyway, I didn't realize it was, well that it was you. And I got a really cool shot of you looking at a model just now. Incredible actually, one of the best of the day I think. I would really like to use it, but I was just coming over here to give you a consent form and ask," I pull a rolled up piece of paper out of my back pocket to show him. "But I didn't, I had no idea it was, well, Harry Styles. So I totally get if you don't want your face in something, anyway, sorry about that I don't get starstruck super often," I find myself rambling. He holds his hand up to cut me off.
"Could I see this incredible shot?" He asks. I nod, shoving the consent form back into my pocket. As I adjust the camera to pull back up the footage, he looks around the room and mutters to himself. "I guess I thought that by being here we were consenting to be filmed."
"It depends, there's a lot of little ethical rules when it comes to filming people." I answer his rhetorical question. "You've got to be careful about it, you've gotta respect people." I tap on the thumbnail, and the footage comes back up. "Here," I turn the viewfinder a little towards him. He moves behind me, leaning over my shoulder to see the tiny screen. I can feel his breath a little against my ear.
It plays through again, and the shot gives me butterflies. The contrasting light and dark, the thoughtful aura that just seems to radiate off his figure and out of the camera. And then a soft turn, and he slowly moves out of frame. The footage freezes, and he pulls away.
"Interesting."
"What?" I turn back to look at him, my frustration plainly visible. "That's all? Interesting?"
"Well, I mean nothing really happens."
"This shot, this shot right here, it's the exact feeling art is supposed to give you. This is the thesis of the entire week. This shot is everything, how can you not see that?" I take a deep breath, why am I getting so heated at Harry Styles right now?
His eyes light up at my anger. And weirdly, he seems amused, intrigued. "What's your name?"
"Quinn."
"Quinn, I think I need to see this footage one more time." He draws near again. I nod and play the video over. But when it finishes, he doesn't pull back this time. He just stands there, leaning over my shoulder, staring at the frozen screen. "Hmm," he mumbles to himself, and then slowly steps away, looking up at the model again, morphing back into the pose he had made while I was recording. I watch him silently ponder, and then he looks back at me. "Your mind is interesting."
"You're using that word a lot." I walk over to him, looking up at the model. She stands still in the chaos of the room. Her body moving slowly, breathing, leaning. She tilts her chin up, eyes gleaming at the attention we're giving her.
"I don't have another one at the moment." He admits, looking back over to me. "You're just interesting."
"Well I suppose that's not the worst compliment I've ever received," I chuckle a little. His eyes move back up to the model.
"I really like that dress, don't you?"
"It's interesting." I joke. He nods.
"It is. It's making me feel something." Then he falls silent, and I feel out of place. Why am I standing here with him? I have a job to do. I look down at my watch, and he seems to take the hint. "Quinn, you have my consent to use that footage."
My face brightens. "Thank you."
"And I like your earrings," he adds. My hand involuntarily reaches up to my ear and brushes over one of them. Big hoops surrounding a tiger's head.
(vanessa mooney jewelry)
"Thank you, my roommate made them," I think back to Emma's excitement when I told her about this job. If she knew that right now Harry Styles was complimenting her jewelry, she'd freak out. "Well I'll leave you to it," I adjust my camera.
"Wait," he holds out his hand to stop me. "Is there, I mean, you're a videographer, yes?" I nod. "Well, is there anything I would know you by?"
"Why?" I find myself laughing. "Are you going to go look me up now?"
"Maybe," he mumbles, and I stop laughing. Oh this is serious. This is a celebrity taking interest in my work. "Like I said, you're interesting."
"Yeah, quinnbellini.com." Now I find the gaze of the models uncomfortable. He pulls out his phone. People would kill for that phone.
"How do you spell that?" he doesn't look up at me.
"Q, U, I--"
"No, no the last part, your last name," his hand lazily brushes my words away.
"B, E, L, L, I, N, I," I recite. He nods.
"Found it."
"Right." I feel weird. I feel super weird all of a sudden. Maybe it's because I'm networking when I should be just regular working? Maybe it's because he's taken an interest in me, and he's on my website right now, looking at all of my stuff in front of me. He looks up, sticking his phone back into his pocket.
"Sorry to keep you here, you've got a job to do," he smiles.
"Have a good day, Mr. Styles," the words tumble awkwardly out of my mouth. "Harry. Harry Styles, I don't know, whatever you prefer to be called."
"Any of those is fine. I don't hear Mr. Styles very often." He chuckles.
"Right." I say again, give a stiff nod, and walk away.
Ugh. Ugh?
That was weird. I step out of the Gucci display and into the Ralph Lauren set. It's softer in here, velvet, vibrant suits stand out against a matte white scene. I let out a sigh, holding the camera back up to capture more of the event. But my mind keeps wandering back to the interaction from before. He found me interesting. What a strange word. A neutral word, yet so potent. You're either interesting or you're boring. But you can be boring and good, and you can be interesting and bad.
I train the shot onto a model in a short, black dress. A huge "v" cut into the neck, covered in sheer black fabric.
(ralph lauren ready to wear fall collection 2019)
She notices my camera and stares straight down the barrel, her eyes dripping potency. And even though her expression scares the hell out of me, you can tell that she's absolutely loving her job right now. I hold a hand up, motioning for her to glance away. She looks up, over my head, her eyes maintaining their ferocity. I slowly pan up from her feet to her hair, and then do one more take just in case, before ending the recording and wandering away.
He liked Emma's earrings. He liked them, didn't find them interesting. I wonder what she'll say about that?
"I'm sorry, you said what?" her mouth hangs open, before her is a table covered in knick knacks, metal wires, and tools. I slump down into our big leather chair, kicking my shoes off.
"He said he liked your earrings, I told him that you make them."
"No but what exactly did you say. My name?"
"Well, uh, no I guess."
"That's it? You just said your roommate makes them and that's it?"
"Yeah."
"Do you see why I'm mad right now?" her eyes are bugging out at me. I blink nervously, silent. "How is he going to find my other stuff if you didn't give him any details?"
"Well I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was my job to give every celebrity I saw an elevator pitch about your business," I roll my eyes.
"He asked! Specifically about my stuff! And all you said was 'my roommate makes them.' And of course that was your job, why do you think I made you wear the tiger ones to New York Fashion Week just so you could receive some compliments?" She stands up and runs her hands through her hair. I sigh.
"Look, maybe I'll get a chance to bring it up to him, he was interested in my film stuff too, wanted to check out my website. If he reaches out and wants to collaborate--" what am I saying? We spent five minutes together. He was being polite. Why would he reach out? Dumb.
"Oh!" She shouts at me. "Oh, so you have no problem networking when it's your stuff? But when it's mine you get all humble and shy about it?"
"Babe I'm sorry," I whine. She rolls her eyes and storms into our kitchen. "Are you making food?"
"Not for you!" She snaps.
Sounds of cabinets slamming and pots and pans clunking echo through our apartment. I sit up in the chair and lean over the table, picking up one of her projects: a dissected barbie doll. Scattered across the table, her body parts are attached to various earring pieces. I set down the doll and begin removing my own earrings, resting them on the table with all the others. From the kitchen I hear her groan in frustration.
"Come help me." she calls out. I stand up and wander over to the counter. She leans against it defeated, before her a dented can of garden vegetable soup and a butter knife.
"Okay we really need to get a can opener." I expertly wield the knife, leveraging it between the tightly closed lid and the can. Slowly, the metal bends until it snaps, and a subtle smell of vegetable broth floats up to our faces.
"Thank you," she grabs the can and pours it into a pot on the stove.
"Does this mean you forgive me?" I lean my head against her shoulder.
"I tolerate you."
"Mmm, okay well good enough." I pull away and move to the fridge, reaching on top of it to grab a loaf of bread.
"Anyway, how was the rest of everything?" she mumbles, her eyes never leaving the pot.
I pause, a smile playing with my features. "It was...interesting."
Emma and I have lived in this apartment together for two years now, and it's beginning to feel like a permanent situation. Which is crazy for me, I never have permanent situations. But Emma is different. We blend in such a perfect way, it would be crazy to deny myself our relationship over some small commitment issues.
We're good for each other, really good. Despite our argument just now, she's actually a very quiet person. Quiet to everyone except me I guess. I draw her out of her shell, and she reels me back in, helps me focus. I watch her now, gently stirring the simmering soup.
"Wait," I command. She still doesn't look up.
"What."
"Freeze, right there, don't move." I hold out my hand. She rolls her eyes and sighs, but complies with my request. I dash out of the kitchen and grab my camera out of the living room before returning.
With a flick of my palm I open the viewfinder and the camera blinks on. I slide my hand into the strap on the side. The cherry keychain that hangs from the strap dangles over my hand and sways with each motion. "Okay," I murmur, my eyes fixed on the screen. "Continue."
She resumes stirring the pot, and I slowly find my shot again. There it is. Her slender figure is tall and bending slightly over our stovetop. "Is this good?" She fights a smile.
"Shhh, don't talk," I order.
She silently pours the soup into two ceramic bowls, our bowls. We took a pottery workshop a long time ago and made bowls. It doesn't matter. And then her head whips over to me.
"You were going to make grilled cheese for our soup," she points out.
"Ahh but I got distracted," I smirk, my eyes peeking up over the camera. She shakes her head, amused and disapproving. I reach my free hand out and toss the loaf of bread onto the counter next to her.
"You would die if I didn't live here with you, you know that right?" She hands me a bowl of soup, grabs the loaf, and wanders over to our table. I follow her, setting my bowl down, but turning around to capture her body in front of the kitchen. She kicks her feet up onto the table, staring down the barrel of my camera.
"You are the definition of conventional beauty," I call out to her. She scoffs at me and rolls her eyes.
"Stop flirting, you're going to confuse yourself," she retorts. I grin, but end the recording and set the camera down, joining her at the table. "So," she wiggles her eyebrows playfully at me and grabs her bowl of soup.
"What?"
"This Harry Styles character," her hands reach around the bowl and she brings it up to her lips to drink. "What did he smell like?"
I close my eyes and try to think back. "You know, I really don't recall."
"Shut up yes you do."
One eye peaks back open to see her staring at me intently. "Okay fine. But don't make fun of me."
She shakes her head. I close my eyes again, remembering how he leaned over my shoulder to watch his video.
"He smells like, warm."
"That doesn't make any sense," I hear her take another sip of her soup.
"It does to me." I smile a little, and then catch myself.
"Most things that make sense to you are confusing to everybody else." She jokes. I open my eyes and shrug.
"Most things that make sense to everybody else are confusing to me."
"Are you going to drink your soup?" She sighs impatiently. I pick up the bowl and bring it to my lips.
"It tastes delicious, thank you."