Lovesick Mannequins

Chapter 1

Glamour Girl

And it certainly hadn’t stopped Celine LeBeau from jumping the garden fence, looking no better than a feral creature, and taking her bicycle to Folies-Bergère when the clock struck nine.

It was rather unfashionable of her to show up on two wheels, considering everyone else in her social circle was being chauffeured around, but Madame LeBeau had strict rules about the places where her daughter was to be seen and Celine wasn’t in the mood to receive a chiding. Not tonight, at least.

The music hall was packed, yet it continued to welcome more patrons with every inward swing of the doors. Celine had situated herself in one of the booths on the second floor, tucked away into the left wing, as she waited for her friend to deliver the news.

Ana?s Ménard had a penchant for being a scandalmonger, among other things.

Such as being late.

As a waitress approached the table to replenish her glass, Celine let her gaze wander over the railing, scrutinising the first floor.

Perfect rows of round tables littered the space around the hall, most of them already occupied by patrons.

Far in the crevices of the club, drunk men slumped against their chairs and jeered at the waitresses to get a refill.

Celine averted her eyes towards the stage.

No spotlight shone on it yet. Only the beetle-coloured curtain rustled with the shuffling of feet on the other side.

Perhaps she could take out her sketchbook and—

The doors swung open again to let in the late-night crowd.

A sea of lovely faces swirled with the patrons below in a blur of soft-toned cosmetics and glittering jewels.

Their fur coats were abandoned by the entrance to display their evening dresses.

It was a mix of fashion pieces—the old blending in with the new—though it made no impression on Celine.

The new decade had just begun, people were bound to cling to the old trends as they ventured into the new ones.

Celine however had taken the fashion world by storm with her style. She noted now that three of the girls were wearing the same dress style she had on a week prior, and smiled to herself.

Wait.

One of them was actually wearing her blue flapper dress.

The girl’s blonde cascade of curls shone like a glass of champagne under the dimming lights encircling the hall, as she was dragged inside by another girl, their hands linked at their fingertips.

Her head shot up at that moment, meeting Celine’s eye with a mischievous glance that made the little hairs on Celine’s arm rise to attention.

Ana?s Ménard smiled at her before twirling in a profusion of diamonds, and breezed up the stairs to the booth.

“I risked breaking my neck jumping the driveway fence in secret to meet you here,” Celine said in lieu of greeting. “You could try looking more apologetic.”

Ana?s continued to smile sheepishly as she took her seat with a flounce. “I could, but what I have to tell you is too good to feign guilt.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“And a savant.” Pulling out a frayed magazine that was twice the size of her purse, Ana?s planted it down on the table.

She was practically shaking with excitement.

“I managed to find a juicier rumour about a certain someone fooling around with another certain someone, and the journalists agreed to pull your article down.”

“What?” Celine took up the magazine, skimming through the print to read the titles.

There was no trace of her name anywhere on it.

“You, my friend, are officially scandal free,” Ana?s announced aloud. “At least for now. Who knows what Glamour Girl will do next.”

Glamour Girl—the moniker journalists had for Celine.

La femme la plus glamour de Paris. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only one.

There had been one regrettable evening a while back when Celine had been baptised The Vampire.

With her bobbed waves and the dark kohl that framed her blue eyes, she couldn’t blame La Vie Parisienne for drenching her modelling career in scandals and rumours.

Celine didn’t wear the clothes she modelled just for the shoots; she wore them outside too.

Low cut, backless dresses, skirts that somehow kept getting shorter and shorter, bared arms decorated with silver bangles.

When she’d cut her hair short, she had assumed the appeal to have her on the cover for a new cosmetics line would wane.

Women who looked like a Femme Fatale were only seen in American movies…

or coming out of a run down art studio. And she was neither.

But the calls for fittings had continued, the invites to events had poured through the mail, and boxes upon boxes of dresses and jewels and perfumes had still been delivered to her door.

Celine didn’t complain—she enjoyed being pampered by her favourite stores. And thankfully, her mother didn’t mind the gifts either, though with every parcel she opened she would mumble something about the proper length of a skirt.

Since then, the rumours had started pouring in that Celine not only looked like one, but that she actually was a Femme Fatale; that she sneaked out of her house every night to frequent the most popular cabarets in the city, seeking unrestrained pleasure.

And…she did. Sneak out, that is. But not for the reasons they thought.

“No, no,” Ana?s went on, sulking. “Do not rush to thank me, even though I was nearly caught outside Percy Deveaux’s office window, spying on his affair from behind the bushes. I’ve been shaking twigs and leaves out of my hair for days.”

Celine bit down on a chuckle. It seemed Ana?s’s resolution to stop snooping in on people’s business had fallen through cracks.

Instead, she had decided to use her evil genius and socialite status to tip off journalists on the latest gossip.

And save her friend the headache of being called The Vampire again.

“How did you even know he was having an affair?”

“Jacques walked in on them when he went to visit Percy last week. Then he made the mistake of telling me about it.”

A mistake indeed. Anything that entered Ana?s’s ears escaped from her lips just as quickly.

“Where is Jacques tonight anyway?” Celine asked, bringing her drink up to her lips to hide a wince of embarrassment.

Ana?s shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. Besides, you see my brother more than I do.”

Celine’s cheeks heated like a furnace. Jacques Ménard was Ana?s’s older brother—one of them—and Celine’s boyfriend.

And while that meant she was inclined to spend the entire day with him if she wanted to, Celine, in fact, did not.

She did not spend her days with him, nor her nights; even when she made an effort to spend time with him, her heart and mind weren’t in it.

Ana?s, all-knowing though she was, was oblivious to this—the truth about their relationship—and Celine had never found the right time to tell her.

She made a poor attempt at changing the topic. “I owe you for that article, Ana?s. Really, ask for anything and it’s yours.” Celine motioned at the dress. “Although it seems like spying on Percy behind the bushes has turned you into a proficient thief.”

Ana?s chuckled nervously. “Consider us even?”

Now that the excitement over the news had faded, Ana?s’s attention seemed to veer to the ground floor, eyeing the girl she had entered with. Her heel tapped impatiently to the faint piano notes coming from the band on the stage.

“You want to go back to her, don't you?”

Ana?s tried to look apologetic this time. She bit down on her lip as if it would prevent the blush from reaching her cheeks. “She is…really fun.”

Celine rolled her eyes, though not reproachfully.

This was what their nightly routine of sneaking out really served for—for Ana?s to frolic in secret with her paramours and say to whoever saw her that they had been mistaken, the girl was simply her best friend Celine, and for Celine to find her inspiration at the only time the entire city came to life.

“You won't be lonely?” Ana?s asked in earnest. “I can bring her here—”

“There's no need. I have my sketchbook.” Celine gestured at the stage that was stirring with light and nimble footsteps. “And plenty of entertainment.”

Ana?s looked like she wanted to apologise but Celine waved a reassuring hand. "We see each other every day. Go have your fun."

Pushing off her chair, she drew Celine into a dizzying hug. “You're the best, Cel. à demain!”

Ana?s’s voice faded as she rushed down the stairs, taking them two at a time in her excitement. Celine smiled after her friend and brought out her sketchbook and pencils, propping them on her table. She could get a few ideas down before the hour was up and she had to get home.

Flipping over to the last gown she had sketched, she ran a gloved finger over the design. This was the true reason she was seen at cabarets at ungodly hours of the night.

Celine LeBeau was in love with fashion.

Paris might hold its charms during the daylight hours, when the gardens were in full bloom and became more vibrant under the warm sun, but it was nighttime when the allure of the city was irresistible and glamour poured out into the streets like a river of sparkling champagne.

Everyone assembled their best attires to go out, offering Celine an easy way to study the tendencies in fashion.

And while the streets of Paris provided plenty of models, it was its cabarets that interested Celine along with its showgirls with their flashy, extraordinary costumes that delivered the inspiration for most of her haute couture designs.

Celine rested her chin on the crook of her palm and tossed another glance down at the floor. The show was taking ages to start, but there was a tiny group of girls by the left wing of the stage, gathered around a particular table, whose clapping and giggling robbed her attention.

Curiosity at the ruckus got the better of her; Celine leaned over the balustrade to see more clearly.