Chapter 5 #3
Celine peered at Bastien again; really looking at him this time, to spot where the resemblance to his mother lay.
She knew what Adalene looked like from magazines only, but anyone would have found him a carbon copy of her: the grey eyes, the brown skin, the fashion style.
This explained where he had gotten it from.
“I’m sorry,” Celine said, walking back to him. “I didn’t know she was your mother.”
Bastien shrugged. “Why should you?”
“Because…we might be in-laws soon. And we’re partnering in the competition.
And Adalene Reneau has been my idol since I learned how to point at a picture in a magazine and ask ‘Hey, who made this?’.
I have catalogues of every collection she has ever designed.
I have her sketches framed up on my walls. ”
“I know,” Bastien said. “I saw.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you gave Monsieur Baudelaire her last name.”
“A little nepotism never hurts, baby vamp. She studied alongside him at the academy when she was just a few years older than us,” Bastien explained.
“And clearly you aren’t the only one who admires her work.
” He cleared his throat, hinting at the sketch Claude Baudelaire had framed.
“But don’t worry that little head of yours.
We didn’t break any rules, so you still made it on your own. ”
Footsteps sounded behind them, interrupted here and there by the clicking of a wooden cane.
“You will have time to explore the House later, I promise. Come along now,” Monsieur Baudelaire said, ushering them into a wide hall, all marble floors and a crystal clear glass dome that allowed for proper daylight to enter the chamber and bounce off the walls.
“It looks like you two were the last to arrive.”
Celine peered at the direction he was pointing at. Nine other couples lined the main hall, each and every single one of them the same age as Celine and Bastien, give or take a few years.
Celine swallowed back her nerves and situated herself at the end of the row. She still couldn’t believe she was there; showered in all the allure and elegance the fashion world had to offer, all contained in one six storey building. Monsieur Baudelaire faced them shortly after.
“Welcome everyone, to Maison Baudelaire,” he said. “As you know, as all scandal columns have been talking about for the past three months, I am retiring. Hence, Maison Baudelaire is in need of a successor. And since I have none by blood, I would rather choose one by merit.”
A faint murmur of voices issued through the room. Monsieur Baudelaire smiled.
“All ten of you have been selected as the best young designers to have submitted your works. I was captivated by your fresh ideas, as I hope the impression will remain the same during the ten weeks that will follow.”
He moved his wrist then, issuing Gabriel to approach his side. “This is my assistant, Gabriel Delon. He will be at your disposal at all times and walk you through the competition. For any immediate questions, you will refer to him. Anything more serious, you will come to me.”
Celine wondered if Gabriel had joined Maison Baudelaire only as an assistant or if he’d wanted to become more. Perhaps he did both, though he appeared no older than a few years their senior.
“Now that that’s all settled, let us jump onto the competition,” Monsieur Baudelaire announced.
“Each round you will be given a challenge to be completed within a week. I want all of you to make use of the fabrics here, as well as to study the patterns. That is to say, the promise of knowledge and the possibility of that knowledge being taken away faster than it was granted, should prompt you to work harder.”
The silence was thick enough to be tangible; anxiety was skipping through the empty spaces in the crowd, lodging itself between each contestant. Celine was confident in her skills, and yet, the thought that her journey could end on the first round caused her to shuffle fretfully in place.
Bastien must have noticed, because he drifted closer so that their arms were touching, and lowered his mouth to her ear, whispering while Monsieur Baudelaire spoke in the background.
“Don’t bite your nails like that. And stop fidgeting. The others will think you’re an amateur.”
Celine dropped her hand to her side.
“Do you think that?” she asked, unsure why she sought his validation. It wasn’t as though Bastien had any other options but to trust her abilities.
“Why do you suppose I agreed to be your model?”
“Do you really want me to remind you?”
“The prize money is not all of it,” Bastien said. “I peeked inside your older sketchbooks to see if you truly had talent. I wasn’t about to make a deal if you were going to lose on the first round.”
“And the verdict?” Celine gritted through her teeth.
“You really seem to have an inkling for this.”
Now that she knew he was Adalene Reneau’s son, she could fully trust his judgement. Returning her attention to Monsieur Baudelaire, she perked a little straighter at the sound of an echoing voice, coming from the group opposite them.
“And the rules?”
The question produced a strange effect throughout the room, like none of the decor and sewing machines existed and the voice bounced from one wall to another.
Celine followed its direction until her gaze met a set of twins at the end of the line.
Their dazzling green eyes and matching upturned lips reminded her of Milady when she was silently brewing mischief.
“What restrictions do we have?”
It was eerie hearing them speak at the same time, missing each other’s thought only by the fraction of a second. At her side, Bastien was cringing.
“My dears,” Monsieur Baudelaire said as he faced them. “You are gravely mistaken if you think there are rules in the fashion world. Only keep in mind to work fast, finish first, and keep your sketchbooks closer to your chest than your heart.”
In short, mistake no one for a friend. This was a competition, Celine reminded herself. There could only be rivals.
“So you are saying that plagiarism is what,” another contestant derided, “simply allowed?”
Celine recognised him at first sight. Franz Olivier was already a known couturier.
He had been a prodigy in fashion when he was younger, but had slowly fallen behind his contemporaries in the last few years.
His atelier was made up of only one floor and three workers, whereas the rest of the big fashion houses in Paris were, simply, more.
For him to join a competition such as this…
Celine wasn’t intimidated. But she understood that Franz had come to win, and that her experience with haute couture or even ready-to-wear fashion was a grain of rice compared to his.
“Unfortunately, or fortunately, it is up to you to decide that,” Monsieur Baudelaire replied.
“There are no rules for plagiarising your fellow contestants’ work either.
Be cunning if you must, but you better pray that you won’t get caught.
Especially in the long run. However”—he thudded his cane down on the floor for emphasis—“trailblazing designs are the ones that go down in history, Monsieur Olivier. Everything else that comes after and resembles it in any way is, simply put, unoriginal. A depressing replica. The creation of someone who has run out of ideas and softens the term imitation by renaming it inspiration. I reckon all of you are here to introduce something that will rattle the foundations of the fashion industry, rather than steal from it. At least, that’s what I expect. ”
Silence settled in the room again.
“If that is all…” Monsieur Baudelaire trailed off, expectantly. Everyone remained quiet. “I will assume we are understood. Onto the first task then.”
With a brisk tilt of his head, he hinted towards an empty wall space where a white magnetic board was hanging underneath a yellow light.
It reminded Celine of a chess board; their names were written across it horizontally, while each task that awaited them—yet to be determined—was positioned vertically throughout the duration of ten weeks.
“This will serve as your tracker.” Monsieur Baudelaire explained.
“When a contestant passes his or her assignment, their magnet will be moved on to the next. If they fail, the magnet will remain where it is while they pack their supplies from their station. Only three contestants will make it to the final round and out of them only one will win.”
Celine nodded slowly along with the rest.
Ten weeks.
She could do it. She would find the time and the lies and the excuses to tell her mother for being out of the house all day.
“For your first task, I want you to start with something simple. Something you already know.” Monsieur Baudelaire gestured to the stack of application forms in Gabriel’s hands. “I want you to stitch the designs you submitted. Mademoiselle LeBeau, you will have to modify yours to fit your model.”
Everyone’s eyes fell on her and Bastien. A few murmurs rose in the air. Celine tried not to grind her teeth to dust as she forced her jaw open to utter a quick, “O-of course.”
“The House will be open to anyone, so will the fabrics room,” Gabriel said, taking over. “I will be handing you a pass key that you can use for the rest of the competition, assuming you will still be on the run. Form a single file please.”
Celine cast one final glance at Monsieur Baudelaire who was ascending the stairs to his office on the second floor.
“One question,” said Bastien abruptly. He was twirling her necklace around his finger.
At this point, Celine had given up batting his hands away from her person and let him fidget with the beads.
“Do you have a studio? I hate to speculate, but if your mother frowns upon you entering this competition, she won’t be too happy if I turned up at your house as your new, life-size doll. ”
“Not too happy is a mild way to put it,” Celine said earnestly. “But yes. I have already found a solution. Is your car close by?”