Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
RACHEL
By the end of my first week with René, exhaustion had stopped feeling dramatic and started feeling earned.
The kind that settled into your bones and didn’t ask permission. The kind that came with sore feet, ink-stained fingers, and a brain that wouldn’t shut up even when my body begged it to. I’d slept hard every night and still woke up tired. Not depleted. Just… used well.
That was new.
We’d been back to Le Marais twice—different streets, different boutiques, same ruthless attention to detail. René never wandered. Even when it looked like he was drifting, he was editing in real time.
Once we crossed the river and climbed into Montmartre, where everything tilted just enough to remind you the city wasn’t built for convenience. René said very little about why we went where we went. He rarely explained his choices. He expected you to notice.
Art director. Photography editor. Gatekeeper of what the Paris Daily deemed worthy of ink.
But that was the public version.
Privately, he was something else entirely.
He knew this city the way some people know scripture.
Not just landmarks—rhythms. The woman who opened her bakery at 5:12 instead of five.
The tailor who worked out of a fourth-floor walk-up and only took appointments on Tuesdays.
The protest routes before they were announced.
The quiet cafés where journalists traded information like currency.
He didn’t just assign stories.
He found them.
Or more precisely—he waited until the city revealed them, and then he was ready.
Today, Montmartre felt like a held breath.
Tourists clustered near Sacré-C?ur, cameras up, wandering loud and careless. Locals slipped around them like water. The air smelled like espresso, cigarettes, and something sweet frying nearby. Cobblestones caught the light unevenly, daring you to misstep.
René stopped near a cluster of stalls and pop-up racks—local designers, handmade pieces, things you couldn’t buy anywhere else because no one had bothered to mass-produce them yet.
He didn’t look at me when he said, “Watch.”
Which, with René, always meant: Learn.
I did.
And then I didn’t.
Because she was there.
Across the square, just downhill from the basilica, the model from the Rue Vieille-du-Temple boutique strolled past with a plastic cup in one hand and a careless confidence that didn’t try to be seen but absolutely was.
Her hair was pulled up, messy in that intentional way, sunglasses hiding most of her face, dressed down in loose trousers and a soft tank that did nothing to diminish her presence.
She didn’t blend.
She never would.
Against Montmartre’s bohemian sprawl, she looked like punctuation. A pause. A moment your eye tripped over and couldn’t let go of.
I caught myself staring.
Once.
Twice.
Then René’s hand landed on my wrist.
Firm. Grounding. A correction.
“Not that,” he said. “This.”
He guided my attention—not gently—toward a woman standing behind a rack of dresses. Local. Early forties maybe. Sun-warmed skin. Strong hands. Everything about her screamed maker. The dresses hung unevenly, imperfect in a way that was deliberate.
I felt the shift immediately.
This was a test.
“Tell me,” René said, releasing my wrist. “What do you see?”
I swallowed and forced my eyes back where they belonged.
The dresses were linen and cotton blends, hand-dyed in muted earth tones—rust, clay, faded indigo. The seams weren’t hidden. They were celebrated. Raw in places. The cuts were forgiving but intentional, meant to move with the body instead of controlling it.
“They’re honest,” I said, then winced internally. He hated that word.
But I kept going.
“She designs for women who walk,” I added. “Not pose. The fabric breathes. The hems are uneven on purpose—so they move. So you notice them when someone turns, not when they stand still.”
René didn’t interrupt.
Encouraging. Terrifying.
“They’re not trying to be flattering,” I said. “They’re trying to be lived in. Which makes them flattering anyway.”
I risked a glance at him.
He was watching me now. Fully. Closely. That heavy focus I was learning to recognize.
“And how would you photograph them?” he asked.
“Outside,” I said immediately. “In motion. Uneven ground. Wind. No studio. No control.”
A pause.
Then René nodded once.
“Acceptable,” he said.
Relief came sharp and sudden, then settled into something warmer. Quieter. I hadn’t nailed it—but I hadn’t failed either.
When I looked up again, the model near Sacré-C?ur was gone.
I didn’t know why that disappointed me.
René moved on without ceremony, already scanning the next stall, the next possibility, the next lesson waiting to be uncovered. I followed, tired and alert and alive in a way that didn’t ask to be explained but I glanced around more than once. She might still be here…
René nudged my elbow again.
Subtle. Irritating. Effective.
“Clothes,” he said quietly, eyes forward. “Not faces.”
I flushed and refocused. He was right, damn him. This wasn’t about who caught my attention. It was about what caught the eye—and why.
We moved on.
Past another stall. Then another. Until we stopped in front of a table that looked less curated and more worked. No soft draping. No delicate hangers. Just leather. Everywhere.
Belts coiled like sleeping animals. Bracelets layered and stacked. Bangles in different widths and finishes. Straps, cuffs, things that looked like they could hold you together or tear you apart, depending on who wore them.
The man behind the table looked like he’d been carved from his own materials.
Late fifties, maybe older. Thick gray hair pulled back into a short tie.
Beard trimmed but not tamed. His hands were the first thing I noticed—scarred, nicked, callused to hell.
The hands of someone who didn’t outsource the hard parts of his work.
He spotted René and groaned.
“Oh non,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Pas toi.”
Oh no. Not you. It was hard not to laugh at the man’s tone if not his gesture. But I’d learned to moderate even my most basic responses around René. If I didn’t, he’d go out of his way to shock me and that wasn’t as fun as it sounded.
René smiled like he’d been waiting for that. “Bonjour à toi aussi, Luc.”
Hello to you too, Luc.
Luc snorted. “Tu viens encore me dire que c’est pas assez moderne? Pas assez brut? Pas assez quoi—intellectuel?”
“Are you going to tell me again that it’s not modern enough? Not raw enough? Not… intellectual enough?”
René stepped closer to the table, picking up a cuff without asking. “Je viens toujours pour quelque chose.” I always come for something.
That wasn’t a no.
“C’est bien ca le problème,” Luc shot back. “Avec toi, c’est toujours quelque chose.”
Always something with you.
Their rhythm was sharp and practiced, the insults too familiar to carry any real heat.
“Tu devrais arrêter de parler et recommencer à travailler,” René said mildly. “Tes finitions sont paresseuses.”
Calling his finishing a little sloppy seemed a bit personal, but no one asked me.
Luc slapped the table. “Paresseuses? Va te faire foutre. Ces finitions ont nourri ma famille pendant trente ans.”
Apparently, Luc thought the same thing, because he told Rene to go to hell.
René shrugged. “Alors nourris-la mieux.”
I stood there, absorbing it all, equal parts amused and fascinated. This wasn’t hostility at all, it was history. Luc had fed his family well this way for thirty years and all René responded with was to feed them better?
Ouch.
Then Luc’s gaze landed on me.
And everything changed.
His face softened immediately, like someone had dimmed a switch. He smiled, warm and genuine, eyes crinkling.
“Ah,” he said, switching to slower French. “Et toi, t’es qui?”
I had no idea what gave me away, but I respected the kindness in both his manner and tone. I told him my name.
“Rachel,” he repeated, tasting it. “Photographe?”
“Oui,” I said. “Intern.”
“With him?” He gestured at René with his chin. “Je suis désolé.”
I didn’t laugh. Oh, I did not laugh, but it was hard when he delivered that I’m sorry so solemnly.
René scoffed. “Ignore-le.”
Luc leaned across the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “ T’inquiète pas,” he told me. “Il mord, mais seulement parce qu’il pense que ca aide.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
René shot me a look. Not a glare. Not a warning.
A calculation.
Luc reached for one of the belts and handed it to me. The leather was soft but sturdy, the stitching imperfect in a way that felt intentional.
“Regarde,” he said. “Pas avec les yeux. Avec les mains.”
I did. There were other ways to look at things and he was right. Some things just needed to be felt. The weight of it settled into my palms. The texture. The faint smell of oil and time. This wasn’t an accessory. It was an object with a past.
“He does not do clothes,” René said, almost grudgingly. “But he understands bodies.”
Luc beamed at that like it was the highest compliment he’d get all day.
“Elle comprend,” Luc said, nodding at me. “Je le vois.”
She knows. I can see it.
I felt something loosen in my chest.
Maybe it was the kindness. Maybe it was being seen without being tested.
Or maybe it was the realization that this city—this industry—was full of sharp edges and unexpected softness, sometimes in the same damn person.
René tapped the table once. A signal.
“On continue,” he said.
Luc waved us off, already turning back to his work. “Reviens quand tu seras moins insupportable,” he called after René. Come back when you’re less unbearable.
“Compte pas là-dessus,” René replied without turning. Not likely.
I followed him, leather still warm in my hands for a moment longer before I set it down.
Faces mattered.
But so did the items that people made with them.
We walked on.