4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
My entire life changed the moment my old high tops stepped onto the highly polished black-and-cream marble entryway to the Barrons Fashion Academie.
It wasn’t any outward sign like a comet or a trumpet blaring.
Maybe it was just me being punch drunk exhausted but a small tingle ran through me as I stared at the massive open area where people instinctively lowered their voices as soon as they entered.
It was like walking into a cathedral devoted to exquisite taste.
Arched windows allowed the glow of the streetlights as well as the sweep of headlights to enter.
The ceiling was ribbed with faded gilded moldings and hairline cracks which hinted at centuries of reinvention.
Inhaling deeply I drew in the aroma of old paper, expensive perfume, and steam from freshly pressed fabric.
Along the walls stood svelte mannequins draped in some of Claude’s most iconic fashions that had been loaned to musicians, movie stars, and a princess or two.
A sweeping stairway curved upward at the center of the foyer, the wrought-iron rail twisted into intricate floral patterns in an art nouveau style.
Above us, on the second floor were more mannequins wearing works in progress.
Ivory silks with a thousand pins, tailored jackets with chalk markings, a wild experimental ballgown crafted of translucent layers of peach organza.
Some only wore muslin prototypes, as if the ideas had been frozen mid-thought or the student had simply run out of time before having to dart to class.
Young men and women I assumed were students occupied the steps.
They could easily have been appearing in editorial spreads with their cigarette trousers, oversized coats, and sketchbooks either under their arms or on their laps.
Conversations blending in whispered words of French, Italian, English, German, Asian in industry jargon floated down on a low, confident whisper.
I drank it all in like a man too long in the desert. These people were my people. This was where I belonged. The tingle I’d felt earlier grew slightly. All my life I’d known I wasn’t living in the right place. I’d never fit in. But here… this was my soul place.
I fit here. Like a feminine hand sliding into a lace glove. This was my spiritual home.
“Something to see isn’t it?” I tore my sight from the future designers to gape at Camilo.
I nodded, my mouth unable to form words it seemed.
That made him smile. “I felt the same way when I arrived. We should get you checked in.” He motioned to a long walnut reception desk manned by a woman in immaculate charcoal silk, her keen gaze through narrow glasses watching the arrivals with the cool precision of a harrier.
Above her hung a huge, framed photograph of Claude Barrons - a much younger but still as handsome Claude - standing on a runway festooned with floral beauty both natural and textile.
To her left was a glass display case showing archival work from former graduates who had gone on to become famous names in the business.
A deconstructed rose tuxedo, a hand-beaded corset, and a pair of shoes so impossible no human could dare to wear them.
Soft spotlights made each object seem like a museum relic.
I’d never been in a building which carried itself with such contradictions.
Historical yet modern, severe yet romantic.
Brass directory plaques in French gleamed beside concrete columns added, I had to guess, after renovations done after the second World War.
The rhythmic clatter of sewing machines from the upper studios mingled with the low murmur of students and staff.
It was unlike any school I’d ever attended.
It felt like a place where futures were cut, stitched, and assembled.
We took four steps toward the desk when we were intercepted by a short woman with yellow hair who latched onto me with a death grip.
“You’re a half hour late,” she spat in a thick French accent, twisting me away from the desk then pulling me out the front door, a dude with a portable camera on his shoulder hustling along in our wake. Camilo jogged to catch up. “All the others are here but you.”
“Sorry, we uhm…the plane had to sit on the runway for a long time before they could get the jet tunnel thing rolled up to—”
“Yes, yes, always the airplane. Now look at me.” She released my arm to spin me to face her.
She had a small ruby nose stud in her nostril and big, big dark eyes.
“Blah. You look like death. Still, it will have to do. Camilo, why is his face so pale? Never mind.” Camilo snapped his mouth shut.
“What we need from you is for you to go down the street then walk up the sidewalk with your frumpy little bags, stop at the entrance, and then look awestruck.”
“I was awestruck when I first saw it,” I said while Camilo did his best to fluff my lank hair to no avail.
“Good. Then make that face again. Go! We are not having all day for these shoots. We still need to do your introduction bit. Go! Why are you still here? Go!” She waved her hands to shoosh me along before turning to speak to the cameraman.
I stumbled down the sidewalk, Camilo at my side. “That’s Adrien Beaumont, the model wrangler. She’s filling in for Paloma who got called off to oversee a spat between Claude and one of the network executives. She’s always in a mood. You look fine.”
He gave my cheek a pat before darting away.
I waited for a sign from Adrien. I got one but I think it might have been a rude gesture.
I’d have to ask a French native for clarification.
I did as asked. I walked down the sidewalk with people skirting around me, stopped at the doors, and looked awestruck.
“No, no, that is not awestruck. That is constipated,” Adrien grumbled then sent me back to do it again.
And again. After eight tries my awestruck was acceptable.
“Meh, that was blasé but we do not have time. Come inside, register, and then head to the second floor where there is a lounge for contestants. We will film your introduction now. Go. Go! Why do they all stand there like guppies?!”
Camilo steered me to the desk. I signed in, got a room key, and then was hustled up the stairs past curious students, to the second floor. Halls peeled off in two directions, door after door after door along each long corridor.
“This way. The classrooms are on the second floor. The résidences on the third. Once you get your VT done then we’ll get you to your room so you can meet your roommate and crash. Sorry for her.”
“Nah it’s fine. She looked busy.” I fell in beside him, my suitcase thumping along.
The wheel was going to fly off at any moment.
That was a worry for later. Right now I had to do a VT whatever the hell that was and try not to look too pale or meh while doing it.
At least I could say the Parisian sidewalks were pretty nice whenever I was allowed to speak to my family again.
***
Forty minutes passed.
Camilo had departed for who knew where on who knew what task leaving me to rest on a folding chair outside a door with a small brass plaque reading salon étudient.
Which, if I had not given my phone to Camilo before he’d run off, I could have Googled.
A wild guess was maybe student lounge but no one went in or out and it was locked.
Maybe that was why the students were lounging on the grand staircase.
Whatever. Here I sat, on the floor, back resting on the wall, legs out in front of me trying to stay awake.
The rhythmic tempo of surgers and sewing machines was like a lullaby.
Head resting on the door, the sharp yap of a dog brought my sight from a crack in the ceiling to a door down the hall as it flew open.
Claude Barrons stepped out wearing a burnt sienna turtleneck under a black blazer and chic black trousers.
On his hip was his dog, the famous and fashionable icon of dogdom in a sleek vest of silken sienna to match his master.
The dog spied me on the floor then proceeded to lose his mind.
Claude’s brown-green gaze flew to me as I hurried to get to my feet. His exhalation was legendary.
“Du calme Monsieur Pamplemousse.” I ran my hands down my wrinkled tee as he stormed down the corridor, fire in his hazel eyes. He hit me with a spat of French to which I could do nothing but shake my head.
“Sorry, I don’t speak French. I’m an American designer here for the show.”
Pamplemousse growled from within the confines of his little tote as Claude came to a stop in front of me.
He was taller than me, far leaner, and smelled of a sinful mix of vetiver caressing a lesser base scent of clary sage.
His own cologne then. I’d sniffed it once on a sampler in a fashion magazine.
The cost of over two hundred dollars an ounce meant I could only rub the cardboard advertisement on my wrist for a week before it faded out.
Claude’s eyes narrowed as he assessed me. “You’re not a model?”
“No, sir, no I’m not a model.”
“Hmm.” He tipped his silver-gray head this way and that, the furrows on his brow easing slightly as he studied me closely.
His beard was perfectly trimmed. “Pity. You could do well. Your cheekbones are exquisite. Your skin clear, eyes bright, shoulders wide. Yes, you would wear some of my men’s creations quite well. ”
“Thank you. That’s flattering but I’m a designer.
Kinder Graham, from North Dakota.” I held out my hand.
His sight fell to my hand. He slid his into mine, a smaller warm palm with callouses, and shook just once before letting go.
“Being here is a lifelong dream.” His sight touched on my mouth as I spoke.
That tingle began to grow again, the tickle now a soft buzz of destiny when he lifted his gaze to touch mine.