Chapter Three #4
She bought the dress too because Les Fauchées were always right. Her closet was exploding with their choices, and nothing had failed yet.
Almost everything in Paris had been perfect.
Except the haircut.
“Flora, are you sure you want to do this?” Manon asked, biting her lip. She was eyeing the stylist like she might pull out a pair of gardening shears.
“I have to! It’s too long! I look so… old!”
Her hair reached her hips, and it was dead at the ends, frizzy, shapeless. It did nothing for her but bring her down.
“I look like The Grudge.”
Amandine closed her eyes as the stylist lifted her scissors. Camille was quiet, trying not to say anything.
“It will be great,” the stylist said cheerfully.
Though suddenly, Flora wasn’t so sure. She squeezed one eye shut, biting her lip, her shoulders tight.
Just as she was about to scream, STOP!
Six inches of hair hit the floor.
“Mon Dieu…” Amandine whispered, her mouth covered.
For the rest of the cut, Flora sat rigid, unable to move. She was in shock, horrified at what she’d done.
An hour later, she ran out of the salon, turned the corner, and screamed into her scarf.
She didn’t even recognize herself in the mirror.
“I look awful!” she wailed as Camille caught up.
“Non! Non! It looks good. Really!”
“I can’t believe I did this!” she cried, sitting on the pavement in a slump. “I can’t believe this. I’ve been growing my hair out since high school! I worked for it to be that long! Now it’s only at my shoulders and I look like a poodle even more than before!”
Amandine sighed, eyeing Camille and Manon. “Flora, it’s just new, not bad. You need some new. You’re twenty-three. Why would you want to look thirteen?”
Flora hiccupped. “I’m so dumb. I was bad enough before. Now it’s even worse. I didn’t think it was possible!”
Manon squatted next to her. “Flora, it’s alright. It looks really good. Seriously. Alexandre will die.”
Flora managed a laugh even though she knew the haircut would make Alexandre happy he’d never said anything.
She avoided mirrors all weekend and kept her hair up at work.
On Thursday night, she finally worked up the courage to take it down in the backroom at Vogue. She sat cross-legged in front of the floor-length mirror and sighed.
“Man, oh man,” she muttered. “I really know how to kill the vibe.”
She stared for a little while longer, pulling her face back to see if that helped, pushing her hair to one side, then the other. Nope. Still bad.
She heaved another sigh, made it about halfway up from the carpet—and then someone collided with her.
She was back on the ground in seconds.
“Oh! Excusez-moi! Désolé! I did not see you there!”
Flora scrambled to get up, fixing her glasses.
“No! It was my fault! I was sitting on the floor. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was around. I was…”
She felt her brain stalling
Alexandre looked uncomfortable.
Was she making him uncomfortable?
“Sorry. I’ll leave so you can do whatever you need to do.”
“No! Sorry. No. I was just dropping this box off.”
“Oh… okay. Well, don’t mind me.”
Alexandre nodded. He set the box down and left.
Flora made a face to herself as disappointment, relief, and embarrassment hit all at once.
“Oh God, he saw my hair!” she whisper-yelled to herself, turning back to the mirror. “Kill me now.”
So much for being interested in me. Oh well…
She eyed the box he’d just set down. A gorgeous velvet trench coat in aubergine with gold embroidery stared back at her. Now that was a piece of clothing she’d commit crimes for.
She nudged the lid open and peered inside.
Just as she was reaching to touch it—
“Excuse me, Flora?”
She jumped. “Jeez. I wasn’t—I was just… looking. Sorry.”
Why was he back?
“Sorry, did you need it? I was noticing how beautiful it is. I wasn’t going to wear it or anything. Aubergine is not my color.”
“No, you could wear that. You can’t wear beige, though. Or orange.”
“Noted.”
“Your hair is too dark and your skin too pale for those colors.”
Clemence had cruelly informed her of this her first week at Vogue. Now Alexandre too. Perfect.
He stopped talking, which Flora was grateful for. Next, he’d be telling her that she’d cut her hair too short and looked like a Maltese.
“So I’ve been told. Well, have a good evening.”
Alexandre watched as she made her way past him. He was lingering in the doorframe.
“Flora?”
She stopped short, nearly tweaking her knee as she did so.
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t trying to be rude. I think your hair is so beautiful. The shade is like a raven, no? And beige is a terrible color anyway. No one should wear it.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, I don’t like beige either.” Flora nodded slowly and sort of shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She took a step forward.
“Flora?”
“Yes?”
“Sorry if this comes out of nowhere.”
Flora wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, so she ad-libbed.
“Oh, it’s fine. I get it. Some people can’t wear certain colors. Plus, I do agree beige is not fantastic on anyone. Always reminds me of baby vomit. You know?”
She laughed nervously and then stopped short.
The baby vomit comment hung there.
“Would you like to get a drink with me sometime?”
Silence.
She’d never been asked out in her life.
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind.
She was trying to think of something cool to say, but all she did was blurt out, “But my hair!”
“Sorry? Your hair?” he asked.
“I got a bad haircut! I thought it was likely a bit… off putting.”
“Bad?” he asked, even more perplexed.
“Oui, very bad.”
Alexandre shook his head. “I like it. Very much.”
Flora could see he wasn’t lying, but she didn’t know what to do so she just stood there with her mouth slightly open in shock.
“You didn’t answer the question, Flora,” he added.
“Oh! Sorry. Yes.”
“I have a café I like in my neighborhood. I can pick you up?”
“Sure,” she said, trying to maintain whatever composure she had left. “Sure. I can give you my address.”
“Are you afraid of motorbikes?”
“No.”
“May I get your phone number?”
“Oui.”
After he left, Flora stood there alone for a moment and then sunk down to the floor, hand over her mouth.
What sort of madness was this?
The excitement and shock lasted all of thirty minutes. It was at minute thirty-one when the panic set in—she had no idea what to wear or how to behave.
“You can’t wear that!” Manon shouted from across the apartment.
Amandine, Manon, and Camille were on the couch watching some weird French TV show eating fries, waiting for Flora to leave for her date.
“You haven’t even seen it yet!” Flora called.
“I’m just guessing. I love you but sometimes…”
Flora emerged from her bedroom.
Camille paused the show.
Everyone was silent.
“Is it bad?” Flora asked, looking down at the outfit.
Amandine was smiling—one of those proud mother hen smiles. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, it’s perfect.”
Manon was smiling too. “You look like a model.”
Flora tried to keep the smile off her face. She put together something all on her own, she liked it better than what she used to wear by a landslide, and she got the stamp of approval.
A vintage leather jacket with a red interior, white t-shirt, classic ribcage jeans, black military boots, and her favorite red lipstick called Dubonnet. She had her hair in a ballet bun, a few pieces framing her face. Even her makeup was done.
Camille snapped a photo before Flora could hide.
“He’s going to die!” Amandine giggled.
Flora wasn’t so sure.
However, when Alexandre did show up, Flora thought maybe Amandine was right. He went red. Though, maybe this was because Amandine, Manon, and Camille were watching the entire thing play out from her couch…
“Bonjour, filles,” he called. “You didn’t talk her out of it?”
“We wouldn’t dare!” Amandine replied, smiling. Her expression then switched on a dime, and she stared at him darkly. “Don’t mess this up.”
Alexandre rolled his eyes, keeping a grin off his face.
“Let’s go before they start shooting,” he whispered.
Flora waved to the girls—who were winking at her—and shut the door.
Silence fell in the hallway.
Now what?
She was trying to think of something to say—anything!—but all that was coming to mind was an article she’d read about carbon monoxide poisoning and mice infestations.
Just as she was about to ask him if he had a detector in his apartment or mice—
“You remind me of roses, Flora.”
Thank God she hadn’t said anything about mice.
***
December
Back in sunny California, Finn and his mother were walking briskly out of the house at nine for a meeting in the city. They had been up since five though, fighting about a business decision, and even after that was solved, Clara was still slightly furious with Finn. But for another reason entirely.
“I can’t believe you fired Mike Pearson! Annie Pearson was a bridesmaid at my wedding!” she trilled, as they walked out of the house together, both a force to be reckoned with.
“He’s an idiot,” was all Finn said in response.
“But Finn—”
“Mum, this is business. I cannot do favors for your friends. Especially if their sons cannot tell the difference between selling and trading stock options. Or the fact that we here in California use Pacific Standard Time, which he seemed to have trouble grasping.”
As Mrs. Woodhouse was opening her mouth to respond with something indignant about how Mike Pearson could not be that stupid, Roman bounded up wearing an all-white tennis outfit and a trench coat, holding a racket in one hand, and half of a mimosa in the other.
Before she could say something, she received a call and stepped away, leaving Finn to deal with Roman.
“Hey, Finn!”
“Hello, Roman. Somewhere in that brain that you apparently have, did it occur to you that you are part owner of the Woodhouse Corporation?” Finn asked, looking at his phone.
“Finn, I—”
“Our address is 12 Geary Street, San Francisco, and sometimes even 7 Evelyn Lane, Mill Valley. Where we are right now. There’s actually an office right there with your name on the door, but it’s completely empty—”
“I met someone.”
“And I saw a bird this morning.”
“No, no. I mean someone, like someone someone.”