7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Madcap and utterly manic.
Those were the two words I found that best described the first assignment.
I prayed to the gods of fashion – Coco Chanel, Christian Dior, and Giorgio Armani to name a few – that my frazzled brain had come up with a killer look.
Standing with my model, who’d been hustled across the street to be coiffed and made up by a fabulous gay man named Lima Coo at Vogue et Velour, I was giving the gown one final tuck around her waist.
“Hold still now so I don’t prick you,” I said and got a tiny laugh from the tall, leggy ebony skinned woman.
Our models were all diverse and I was living for it.
Some were thin, some plus-sized, male and female, trans, non-binary.
Skin tones from dark to light. Monique was what the industry considered plus-sized at a size sixteen but called herself Rubenesque.
Her measurements were on a card along with a photo of her face, her pronouns, and her experience modeling.
She had little but that was fine. She had attitude and that always translated on the cat walk.
“I could use a good prick,” Monique countered with a posh French lilt.
“You and me both,” I replied as I slid the needle through a fold where it had worked loose from the bodice.
The workroom had descended into panic. Designers and models in various states of uncontrolled madness.
Cameramen, sound techs, and assistants crowded into one insane space.
Fabric, muslin scraps, shoes, beads, bits and bobs coated every table as well as the floor.
I’d not slept well last night. Mickey tended to snore when on his back so I had to get up, poke him, and then crawl back into my bed.
The jetlag/snoring roomie combo left me looking like death warmed over.
Pale, dark bags under my eyes, and a brain that was sluggish.
Coffee was helping but the crash was going to be ug-lee.
After the tack was in place I straightened, stepped back, and ran a critical eye over my gown.
Yes, it was luxe as well as avant garde.
Voluminous layers spiraled around her svelte body echoing the folds of the pastry’s delicate folds.
The metallic finish gleamed under the workroom lights, highlighting every curve and ridge with molten gold brilliance. It was gorgeous.
“I think you look amazing,” I told Monique. She nodded her head, gold glitter in her voluminous afro catching the lights. I hoped the spotlight of the runway would work as well for us. “How does it feel? Too heavy?”
“A little but I will make it dance,” she assured me. I turned to the left to poke Ayumi who was fretting over a button placement. Every minute detail mattered. “What do you think?”
I waved my needle at my gown.
“I think I hate you,” Ayumi replied then smiled. “It’s so luxe. Gorgeous.”
“Thanks. Do you need help?” I asked as the workroom door opened and Claude strolled in wearing a suit of smoked olive silk which not only made the green in his eyes pop but fit him like a second skin.
His lean body was hugged perfectly. A rush of heat pooled in my lower belly.
Pamplemousse was on his hip in a vest fashioned of the same rich silk, the dog’s bright brown eyes settled on his master. The cameras shifted to his entrance.
“I see you all have been hard at work,” Claude said moving through the tables to run a fast eye over our creations. He paused at mine to pluck a stray string from the back of the bodice that I’d missed. “Lovely.”
That was all he said to me but it was enough. If not for Monique grabbing my hand to give it a squeeze I would have floated out the window to rest on the boughs of the sycamore.
“You all have done well. We are going to the runway now. Bonne chance.”
“Merci, Claude,” we said in unison.
I glanced over at Monique. “Here we go,” I whispered, half sick with nerves and adrenaline.
We fell into a line like goslings. The students were lined up along the hallway, whispering and then clapping as we passed.
That appreciation helped with the self-doubt.
A little. Turning down the stairs we assisted our models along, holding up massive skirts in the back like maids-of-honor so no one would take a tumble.
More students, more clapping, lots of gasps and wide eyes.
The procession passed the main desk then turned left into auditorium one, which was packed full of young designers on one side and four chairs for the judges on the other side of the catwalk.
The contestants were to sit at the end of the runway after we waited in the wings for our models to complete their turn.
Claude led us backstage, cameras running, and turned to us with a smile.
“You will meet the judges next. After they are seated we will be pulling your sketches from this…” A crew member darted up with a vintage hat box with colonial women in frothy gowns on its round sides.
We all oohed over it. “The sketch that is chosen first will show first, the sketch that is chosen second will show second, and so on until all sixteen models have shown your creations. After your design has been seen the models are to retire to the models lounge for makeup and hair touchups, and you designers will take a seat at the head of the runway. Any questions?” Not a one it seemed.
“Very well.” A trio of people arrived backstage, surrounded by an entourage including Paloma as well as several other producers.
And Xavier. “Ah, our judges.” Claude passed the hat box to the assistant then greeted each star with a kiss on both cheeks.
I knew all of them. The first was a strikingly good-looking actor, Gabriel Dupré, the second the famous pop singer Madeleine Delon, and the third Marcel Fournier the head of Fournier Fashions.
Swallowing suddenly grew difficult. This was no nickel and dime fashion show this was big league.
My palms grew sweaty. Poor Monique. She was probably so grossed out.
The introductions were short and very polite.
Perhaps they didn’t want any kind of bias to begin between judges and designers.
Soline then showed up looking fabulous in a red leather dress with matching scarlet over-the-knee boots.
More kissing took place. Then Soline settled her attention on the cluster of nervous contestants and their models.
“What glorious designs!” Soline said while sweeping her knowing eye over our creations. “What a show this first one will be. Now, off we go to our seats. Best of luck, little ducks!”
She swept off like the royalty she was. The judges followed. Once more it was just us, Claude, and a dozen or so crew member with at least that many cameras.
A staffer informed us we had ten minutes. We could hear the bouncy theme music playing in the auditorium followed by Soline addressing a cameraman to welcome the viewers to the show. All in English. Something I’d wondered about since the first shoot at the boulangerie.
“Claude,” I chanced, pulling his attention from the passing back of the hat box. “Why is this show which is so very clearly French all in English?”
He gave me a studious look. “I see a mind that is not all fashion all the time. We are shooting in English to maximize global distribution and secure international financing. English is a much larger audience so the show can be marketed to the American, British, and other worldwide markets with no dubbing or subtitles,” he explained with a sour expression.
“Some on the school board wished to keep the show strictly French while others, the majority, voted for global access. Also, as was pointed out to me, English is spoken by the majority of our designers, even those from countries where English is the second language, so it makes it more accessible for all of you.”
“Oh, okay, that makes sense. Thank you,” I murmured. He nodded just once then tugged the lid off the hat box. “Now that Kinder is sated let us discover the order of our show.”
Someone behind me tittered. My eyes flared. Claude blinked. “Naughty minds. Pay attention now.” A sketch came out with a flourish. “Enzo Piras your first.”
The designer from Italy looked thrilled.
As he should be. His model being ‘first face’ was a coup for the model and the designer in most cases.
The most prestigious design was generally given that highly coveted spot, but as this was a random draw, the significance was less.
Still, it was nothing to sneeze at. My design was third.
Not bad. The looks following the opener were considered the strongest of any collection, but again, this was not a fully realized collection so the honor was muted slightly.
“My stomach is filled with bot flies,” I whispered to Monique as we waited our turn.
“Mine as well,” she confessed. The models were all students here so this was possibly their virgin trip down the catwalk. A good learning experience for them to experience life on the other side. “Perhaps we can burp them all up and out in unison?”
So we tried. We both belched. A ripple of laughter escaped us. Claude turned from the runway as designer two’s pantsuit made its debut.
“Nerves,” I told him to which one perfect silver-gray eyebrow arched. Pamplemousse sniffed at me in disgust. Guess the dog had better manners than us. Oh well. What did he have to be nervous about?
“Monique, go,” Claude said. I let go of her hand and off she went like a gazelle with long legs that chewed up the runway.
I bit down on my cheek, leaning around Claude to peek at the judges from the wings.
They gave nothing away. Damn it. Throat dry as hell I welcomed my model back with a firm hug. “Lovely,” he whispered.
My sight lingered on Monique working her walk to death. I loved her. I wanted her to model all of my clothes forever. “The gown or the model?”