6. Chapter Six #2
“After those thirty minutes we will be returning to the academie where you will have free access to our fabric library. There is no limit on the amount of fabric you use or on the accessories you pick. We will choose your models for you and they will arrive at in classroom eight tomorrow morning at ten for a fitting. You are also responsible for their hair and makeup. You will meet with the consultants at Vogue et Velour, one of the chicest salons in Paris. As your models are being beatified you shall return to your classroom to finish your designs. One last fitting will be permitted then at six sharp you and your models will be taken to the auditorium one where we have a permanent runway. The judges will then make a final determination of your designs. One of you will be sent home tomorrow night. Please bear in mind the judges are not only looking for a statement of individuality that tells us who you are as a designer but they also will be scrutinizing your clothing in search of harmony, visual interest, and artistic expression. Is that not correct, Soline?”
“Oui, it is very correct. So, now we have talked for so long the bread is cold please enjoy your breakfast!” She waved a hand at the fare.
Claude pulled out a chair for her then sat down at her left, his gaze roaming over the offerings before touching on mine.
I worked at a smile but I was too nervous so I looked at the tray of dark rye breads and buns topped with seeds as panic began to build inside me.
Right. Make a dress that looked like bread.
Easy. Whoever dreamed up this assignment needed kicked in the ass.
A bread dress. I guess if Gaga can wear a meat dress my poor model can wear a gown that looked like a brioche. Might start a new fashion trend.
Or I might be heading home on the next flight out of De Gaulle.
***
I’d never meditated but Ivy did and she discussed a sort of Zen state one enters when one stares at the back of their eyelids long enough.
I wasn’t sure what was cooking in my brain was Zen or if I’d just been stuffed with carbs then left to ruminate over breads while still trying to adjust to Paris time.
Whatever was percolating in my head I had an idea.
Sketching it out on my pad I watched a concept come to life.
I drank another cup of coffee. The third?
Fourth? Didn’t matter. Hell, maybe it was the caffeine from the several cups of French press I’d requested.
The panic of not knowing what to make was easing.
My concept sketch was a multi-layered sculpture of a dress that would capture – hopefully – the flaky, delicate lamination of a croissant.
Lifting my gaze from my idea I found most of the others still working the silence in the room only interrupted by the persistent whine of a Chihuahua begging for tidbits.
I watched in amusement as Claude fed the tiny beggar bites of fish or roll while talking with Soline.
As if it was second nature. It probably was.
Green-brown eyes met mine. A twisty smile pulled at my lips.
Claude stared openly, his expression growing less severe the longer we gazed at each other over empty plates riddled with crumbs.
He visibly started when Soline made a comment I couldn’t hear.
His sight snapped from me to his dog; the soft look he’d been wearing disappearing in a flash to one of emotionless drone.
It was sad to see. There was such life in his eyes when he didn’t shield himself from…
I wasn’t sure what exactly.
Soline tapped her empty espresso cup with a filigreed spoon.
“Time is up little ducks. Now you are to return to the workroom and get to work. Remember what Ralph Lauren once said. He does not design clothes. He designs dreams. That is what we will want to see on the Barrons Academie runway tomorrow night. Dreams as rich and vibrant as your imaginations are bold. Now go. Papa Duck will lead you back to the pond.”
Claude rolled his eyes but pecked her cheeks just the same before leveling his intense gaze on all of us.
“You heard the lady. Up. We have a schedule to keep and dreams to create.” He clapped his hands.
Pamplemousse barked. Great, now the dog was bossing us around.
In a flash things went from genteel French brunch to chaos.
Camilo appeared out of the ether to round us up then rush us down the stairs out into the bright Parisian sun.
Crew members walked alongside us, cameras rolling, while Claude waved us along toward the van like old Mr. Pederson the crossing guard at my elementary school used to hurry us across Main Street.
We climbed in, buckled up, and held our sketchbooks tightly to our chests to keep our ideas secret.
Claude was whisked away to a dark blue Mercedes as a whippet of a man in a green textured suit hurried up to his side.
A personal assistant I assumed for he rode in the car with Claude.
“That’s his personal secretary Jon Mercier,” Mickey filled in as we moved into heavy traffic.
“They say they’re lovers but I never seen any indication.
Course the press likes to say that any gay man is shagging every male that comes near him.
Not that we don’t get our fair share but we do have principles, right? ”
A bony elbow connected with my ribs. I grunted.
“Right. Totally getting our fair share.” What was a fair share of zero?
Was I now into negatives? If I only did one thing on this trip – other than winning of course - it was going to be finding a stud of an older man to plow me into a feather mattress overlooking some famed and terribly romantic French landmark.
Or I could plow him. I was game for anything that would pop my damn cherry.
Being a virgin at twenty-five was just fucking embarrassing. “Tons of fair shares.”
Liar, liar, repurposed cargo pants on fire.
***
Having twin sisters who I babysat for probably thousands of hours over the past ten years meant I knew my princesses.
Stepping into the textiles vault aka the fabric library at Barrons Academie was akin to Belle first seeing the Beast’s massive bibliotheca.
I stood slack-jawed as my gaze ran over tens of thousands of bolts of material stored neatly in nooks on the walls.
Late morning sun shone through mullioned windows; the beams filled with millions of motes of microscopic fibers and lint as my fellow designer descended on the fabrics like vultures.
I shook off the admiration of such a glorious room then dashed to find the materials I would need for my creation.
Not wanting to be rude but knowing those who nudged others aside got the good stuff, I slipped around Dante to claim a bolt of gold lamé then darted to the satins for a few yards of duchess satin also in gold.
I picked up some metallic gold silk gazar as well for the base.
I planned to layer the lame panels into folds with padding between the layers to create the puffy appearance of croissant dough.
That was the plan. If I had enough time was the question.
Two overseers of the textile vault awaited us at huge cutting tables to cut our required textiles for us.
Once we had our yardage and accessories we ran full speed back to our workroom.
The windows were open to allow a cool breeze to waft through.
The rustle of a large sycamore tree just outside the window drew me to peek outside.
Down below sat a small quad with a large sycamore tree casting shade on students seated on benches or lounging on the small patches of dark green grass.
The rustle of the tree’s leaves blended with the sound of traffic and international dialects floated upward.
Breathing in a lungful of fresh – as fresh as it got in a major city – I turned from the window feeling calm but miserably sleepy.
Still the show must go on as Queen famously sang.
My station was two tables from the door.
It was utter madness as contestants raced around to grab dress forms then wheel them around to their stations.
There was a small crash beside Freja’s table that served to break the tension in the room.
Two forms lay on the floor, Suki and Esme both giggling madly.
Then the door opened. Claude stepped into the room, his sleeping dog on his hip, and threw the entire room a critical look. All giggling stopped.
“Perhaps you should all be cutting muslin instead of tittering like nitwits,” he said with all the warmth of a block of ice.
“Pick those up. They are not playthings.” He waved a hand at the forms lying on the tile floor.
Yuki and Esme hurried to right their tailor’s dummies, faces red, then stood at their stations like soldiers.
“I will be back at six to check on your progress and offer my suggestions on how to better your work. If any of you think you do not need the commentary that I will provide you are wrong.” I shot Mickey a look across the room.
He mouthed ‘Told you’ then returned to fingering the dark green lace spread over his table.
“A meal will be provided at eight. I suggest you work until the caterers arrive then eat with haste. You will need all the time allotted to you plus more. Buckle down, designers.”
“Merci, Claude,” we all called as he gave us one final appraisal then left the room.