Chapter 7
Seven
Audrey didn’t enjoy being treated like a celebrity.
Her instinct was to do her work discreetly, behind the scenes, the attention not on her but on her subjects.
But her reputation had spread in the fashion world so much in recent years that she’d had to accept that sometimes it was inevitable that in some circles, at least, people wanted to make a fuss of her.
She had dressed strategically, going for a classic yet contemporary look in a dark blue Claudie Pierlot top and cream pants, and she’d hoped that her visit to the school would be as understated as her outfit.
But clearly that was not to be the case, she realised, as she walked into the office to find a delegation waiting for her: the director, two of the head teachers, and a tall, broad-shouldered young man who was introduced as Mickael Ricaud, a student who would be her guide for the morning.
She shook hands all round, thanked them for their welcome and meekly followed in their footsteps, prickling with the impostor syndrome that sometimes still afflicted her.
In her notebook memoir, Audrey’s great-grandmother Alice had written a short passage about a visit she’d made with a friend to a training school for petites mains.
She’d been fascinated by the dexterity and skill on show, especially as, she wrote, she couldn’t even hem a handkerchief properly.
She who loved fashion so much and could so delicately render an illustration, became all thumbs when it came to actually holding a needle.
Audrey loved these glimpses of Alice’s personality, the words conjuring up a strong image of a lively, self-aware young person who she thought she’d have rather liked to hang out with.
She intended to write about that in her book and contrast it with her own visit to a contemporary school.
Paris was full of fashion schools, and the one Alice had visited was long gone, but Audrey had chosen this particular one because she’d read a fascinating piece about it once in a magazine.
The morning had been arranged so she’d first get a quick tour of the school with the director and head teachers and then be taken to various rooms for the interviews she was to conduct.
The rather ordinary appearance of the building had given very little away of the hive of activity it contained.
But inside it were well-lit rooms filled with students of all backgrounds and ages, with the majority being young women, though there was also a sprinkling of young men.
They were busy working on patterns and measurements at long tables, cutting toiles or final fabrics, pinning or draping them onto mannequins, sewing or embellishing, while teachers walked around the room and gave advice and comments.
The atmosphere hummed with controlled animation and the staccato buzz of sewing machines, the students apparently completely absorbed in their individual work rather than gawking at the famous visitor.
Sure, there were one or two startled glances at her, and self-conscious smiles as she came by some tables, but by and large the students took it in their stride.
She was introduced to two or three selected students and spoke to them briefly, but otherwise took care not to interrupt their work.
The students were working on their final assignment, Audrey was told, and they were feeling the pressure of the approaching deadline keenly. She understood that.
After the tour, her first interview was in the office of the director, a smart woman in her sixties named Marguerite Baum, who had once worked for Yves Saint Laurent.
She gave Audrey, who was armed with her trusty phone recorder, a brisk potted outline of how the school functioned, with courses ranging from beginner to advanced, all interspersed with internships in fashion businesses.
Over the decades it had been in existence, it had achieved a reputation for turning out excellent professionals who often found work within the great houses, she said, and that gave Audrey the segue she needed into the associations the school had had with the female designers of the 1920s and 1930s, such as Elsa Schiaparelli and Elisabeth Fontaine.
That produced a flood of anecdotes and Audrey barely found space in the torrent of words to insert a couple of extra questions.
She emerged from the room, having run over time, full of apologies to Mickael, who had been waiting patiently to take her to the next interview with Professor Cazenave.
He grinned. ‘It’s okay. Besides the prof’s always late, anyway. He’s probably not even in his office right now. Would you like a coffee, maybe? Or some other drink?’
‘Cold water would be great, thanks,’ she said, realising she was quite parched. He took her to a nearby kitchenette, extracted a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and a glass, and handed both to her. ‘It’s not Evian, but it’s not bad,’ he said lightly.
She smiled and took a gulp of water. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions and record it?’ He wasn’t on the list of selected students, but that didn’t matter, she preferred impromptu interviews anyway.
A look of surprised pleasure flashed across his face. ‘Sure. But I don’t know if what I have to say will be of much interest.’
For answer, Audrey turned on the recorder app. ‘Mickael, tell me how you came to be a student here. You’re not straight out of school, are you?’
She saw him smile at the subtle reference to his age.
‘No. I am thirty-two—what our English friends might call a mature student. I left school at seventeen, did a three-year apprenticeship as a carpenter, and then worked for various companies for the next ten years. I always wanted to work in fashion as a cutter and pattern-maker, but I didn’t have the confidence for it.
I suppose it wasn’t really the done thing for a man in my rather traditional rural community. So instead I trained as a carpenter.’
‘And how was that?’ Audrey asked, intrigued.
‘It was okay,’ he said. ‘And, in a way, it has similarities with what I do now—I mean, you’re working with wood, not paper and fabric, but the hand and eye coordination you need, and the skill to work from a drawing, is not all that different from pattern-making.
In fact, you have to be even more meticulous in carpentry, and I did get quite good at it.
But it wasn’t what I really wanted and one day I decided I had to try and go after my dream or I’d always regret it. And so I—’
He was interrupted by the appearance of a beautiful dark-haired woman of around his own age.
‘Mickael, I’m glad I found you. I won’t be able to come to that drink this afternoon because—’ She stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Audrey and reddened.
‘I’m so sorry, Madame. I didn’t realise you were there.
’ She made as if to go, but Mickael stopped her.
‘Madame Oliver, may I introduce my friend, Romy?’
Audrey pressed stop on the recorder. ‘You may, Mickael, but please call me Audrey,’ she said.
‘Madame makes me feel like my own grandmother.’ She looked at Romy, slightly puzzled by a faint feeling of familiarity.
She must have glimpsed her in one of the workrooms earlier.
‘I am pleased to meet you, Romy,’ she said, extending a hand, and they shook.
‘And I am so glad to meet you, Mada—I mean, Audrey,’ Romy said, clearly still a little overawed.
Audrey smiled. ‘So, you are a student here too?’
‘I am,’ said Romy. ‘In my first year. I’ve only just started learning, unlike Mickael.’
‘I’m also only still learning,’ he protested, but Romy waved a hand at him. ‘Don’t be so modest, Mickael. You’re really good.’
Audrey liked the chemistry between these two. It seemed so easy, so unstilted, so naturally warm. Lovers? Or just good friends? ‘Romy, I’ve been asking Mickael a few questions about why he came to this school. Would you mind if I asked you?’ She pointed to the phone.
Romy’s eyes widened momentarily in alarm, or perhaps excitement, but then she nodded. ‘Sure. That’s fine.’
Audrey pressed the record button. ‘So, Romy, can you describe how you came to be a student here?’
‘By a rather roundabout route,’ Romy said.
‘I’m from Brussels, and after school, I went to university to study business and economics, and then I went straight into a job with a finance company.
That’s been the family profession for generations and, well, those expectations are not easy to go against.’ She paused.
‘I don’t mean to imply there’s anything wrong at all with working in that field,’ she went on, ‘but it’s just that ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of designing and making clothes.
But in my family, there was a motto: Be serious.
My father said a woman especially had to make the right decision about the career she chooses if she wants to be taken seriously and earn serious money.
’ Audrey thought then of James’s sister and winced inwardly.
She knew the type. But it was easy enough to ignore your fiancé’s sister.
Not so easy to ignore your dad. Her own dad had always been supportive—in fact, her whole family had been.
‘Fashion in his mind was not serious,’ Romy continued, ‘and much too precarious into the bargain. So in the end I chose the career he thought I should have and let those old dreams fade, even though they never quite died.’
Audrey nodded. ‘So how did you manage to break free?’