8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
As it turned out it was a Chihuahua in a navy vest that bit me the next morning.
Monsieur Pamplemousse was nervously pacing the student lounge that the producers had requisitioned for us when we sat down to feast on delicious pastries delivered by a local patisserie.
Unknowing that the little turd had a thing for les pains au chocolat - a chocolate croissant for us Americans – I carried my tiny cup of French press made for me by Esme at the coffee bar in the far left corner to sit down on a round hassock.
The dog sat on the floor beside me as various crew members shuffled in and out for coffee or an éclair.
Pamplemousse pawed at my calf as I sipped and ate, my sight moving over the comings and goings of the production crew.
I’d not expected to see Soline here but I had thought maybe Claude would be around.
He was the owner of the school as well as being one of the two major stars.
Paloma stood by the window with a cup of something hot, a wheel-shaped pastry, and a look of tension as she discussed something with the crew in French.
“No chocolate for dogs,” I told Pamplemousse with a friendly smile.
He dug at my leg again then added a sad whine.
“Sorry, they say its toxic for dogs. Where’s Claude?
Why isn’t he toting his dog—Hey!” The dog began tugging on the cuff of my patchwork jeans.
Coffee dribbled over my fingers as I tugged free only to have him grab my pantleg once more. “Bad dog. Bad!”
“Give him a bite,” Mickey chuckled so I dropped a chunk of my breakfast on the floor.
The dog gave my cuff one final shake before pouncing on the bite of croissant like a starved hyena.
I shot to my feet. My fellow designers found the loss of my last bite of baked good humorous.
I flipped them off. That made them laugh louder.
Leaving the dog to pester the others I slipped up to one of the sound techs, a skinny dude with a nose ring whose was Ramone.
His gaze left his phone when I stepped up.
“Sorry to be a pain but Claude’s dog just bit me.”
He peeked around me then settled bored brown eyes back on his cell. “He does that.”
“Oh, well, maybe Claude should teach him not to do that,” I fired back, upset over the loss of the bite with the most chocolate in it. I’d been saving that for last.
“Why don’t you go tell him yourself. He is outside under the sycamore puffing away his frustration over his viewing of yesterday’s dailies.”
With that he walked off leaving me to stare at his back.
Shit. Dailies. I’d just learned last night what that term meant.
Mickey was a veritable encyclopedia of TV terms. The dailies were a quality check on the unedited footage shot the day before.
This way they could see what, if any, scenes needed reshot for any reason.
If Claude had seen my clip about Dante then he might be pissed off. Shit. Shit.
“Shit,” I mumbled as I jogged off to find my way to the shady quad.
It took a few moments, and some horrid French on my part to convey what I needed from students rushing to classes, to locate the outdoor area.
When I pushed outside the air was cool as well as thick with cigarette smoke.
I waved off a cloud from a small group that were taking final puffs before they entered the academie for their first class.
Claude stood off to the side, alone, in a striking dark suit with a soft blue shirt.
His gaze zeroed in on me as I carefully picked my way down a winding path of buttery stepping stones.
I passed a few benches with small brass plaques on the back, the song birds and the whisper of the wind through the sycamore leaves was pleasing to the soul.
His hazel eyes bored into me as he took a deep drag then exhaled.
“Are you smoking?” It was a stupid thing to ask. I mean, Duh Kinder, he was standing next to a tasteful tall ashtray with a cigarette in his hand. God, I was such a hick at times.
“All of Paris smokes. Did you wish something, Kinder?” He tapped his ash into the silver urn.
“Aren’t there rules about smoking on campus?”
“As I said all of Paris smokes. This is private property, there are no children present, and we are outdoors. Smoking indoors is not allowed.”
“Oh well, okay. I guess that’s okay.” Ugh I was stupid. Here I stood, a bumpkin from Nowhere, North Dakota, getting preachy with this international fashion icon.
“Thank you for giving me permission. Perhaps I should ask you for your approval after I give my opinions on up-and-coming designer’s work? It seems you have strong feelings about my critiques. Would you wish to take my place?”
Fuck. So he had seen the dailies.
“I…no, I no. No, never. I just…” I blew a strand of hair from my eye. “I just said what I felt about things. The producers told us to be honest. They said to make sure to show emotion and passion.”
“Hmmm.” He took another inhalation then let the smoke escape his nostrils.
I shoved my hands into the deep pockets of my jeans. “I meant no disrespect. I would never talk shit about you. I just said what I honestly felt. That your comments nudged Dante into a tailspin of self-doubt.”
“Did what I said to you send you into a spiral?”
The sound of a police siren filled the quad, that wailing ee-oo-ee-oo tones that doubled down on the fact that I was far from home. As if I needed reminded.
“No, but—”
“Good, because an artist with skin like tulle will not make it far in this profession. We must develop hides, and tempers, like the rhinoceros. Tiny comments or hateful barbs cannot make us bleed and we do not tolerate interlopers into our world well. You must always be ready to lower your head to gore anyone who thinks they can poach what is yours.”
“Uhm sure, yeah, I can gore people.” I had no clue what Dante had to do with rhino horn poachers. “I’m sorry if I upset you but my mother and father raised me to be frank yet kind.”
His gaze settled on my face for the longest time, the softness I’d seen before when he looked at me reappearing.
“You’re a unique young man. Forthright, honorable, filled with empathy. Will you be able to survive the cutthroat world of high fashion I wonder.”
“If I survived coming out in my small town as a queer fashion designer I can survive anything the world of high fashion can fling my way.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Confident too. You shall need all of that confidence, trust me. Now, what did you wish of me? I enjoy my time out here under the tree. The peacefulness of a tiny forest amid the vibrant noise of Paris.”
“Your dog bit my cuff.”
He looked down at my ankle area. Then his clever brown-green eyes found mine.
“Given the fact that patch denim is an abomination that should be hoed out of the garden of good taste and tossed into a compost bin alongside anything with visible bra straps or logos on every bit of material one wears, I would say Pamplemousse was doing you favor by trying to remove your pants.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. “I read you dislike denim.”
“I do not dislike it; I just find it to be an unaccommodating base garment that does not adapt well to various body types. Seeing someone in stretch blends or tailored trousers is much more esthetically pleasing.”
“But no leggings.”
“God above no leggings.” This time it was him smiling. It was like watching the sun rise after a long, lonely, scary night.
“Noted.”
“I will discuss the infraction with my dog at my earliest convenience. You should return to your fellow designers. We will be leaving the school soon for a little trip.”
“Are you coming?” He nodded. “Cool. I’ll see you on the bus.”
“As if I would ever ride on a bus. You will see me there.”
I couldn’t wait. That was at once thrilling and terrifying.
***
Another six am wake up.
At this rate my jetlag would become a permanent part of me. I’d never get caught up on sleep if that was even really a thing. I rolled to my side to fine Mickey staring at the ceiling.
“Yo,” I groaned while rubbing at my bleary eyes with the heels of my hands. “How you today?”
“Feel like I got run over by a lorry,” he replied then farted. “Sorry. Ate too many of those avocado and bean dip tortillas for dinner last night.”
“Dude,” I chuckled before pushing to sit up, the duvet falling to my lap. “You’re from Europe,” I said then tossed a peek at my roomie.
“Mostly,” he replied then scratched his long nose.
“Why is there no top sheet?” I plucked at the duvet.
“A what now?”
“A top sheet. You know. Like a flat sheet that goes over top of the bottom sheet. The duvet is too warm and heavy but it’s too cold without it. A top sheet would be perfect.”
“Look mate, I ain’t never seen a top sheet in my life and I’ve had plenty of dealings with all sorts of tops. Maybe if you ring housekeeping they can bring up a different weight tog for you.”
“Are we even speaking the same language now?” I asked and got a snort.
“Nope, you Yanks butchered proper English.” I lobbed my pillow at him. It landed on his face. “This works. Now come over and put some pressure on it. Put me out of my misery.”
“Nope, if I’m zombified you have to be zombified too. It’s in the roommate rule book.”
A sharp rap at the door cut off whatever he was muttering under my pillow. Camilo barked at us to meet him in the lobby in thirty minutes.
“Fucking hell.” Mickey whipped my pillow at the door. It fell far short. “Bloke can’t even take a peaceful shower and shit around here.”