Chapter 7 #2
They had reached Passerelle Debilly and quietly climbed up the stairs to continue the rest of their walk up on the bridge.
Up here the sound of the waves that echoed underneath got lost amidst the agitated engines of motorcars that drove on the other side of the street.
Celine could feel the bright glow of the lights on the Eiffel tower as they winked in and out like shooting stars.
She whirled in a heap of lavender skirts and began walking backwards. “Tell me about you.”
“You will trip like that” Jacques cautioned. “And you already know everything about me.”
“Almost everything,” Celine teased.
Jacques laughed. “What else is there?” When she only raised a suggestive eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. “Oh, I see. The lady demands secrets.”
“Yes, she does.”
He mused over it briefly. “I’ve been talking all night. I think it’s time I started asking some questions, no?”
“How about a game then?” Celine supplied, leaning against the railing and tilting her head back to look at him. “Nothing that requires any physical exertion. Just a thumb war. The loser gets to answer anything the winner asks, that way we will both get a chance.”
“Deal,” Jacques said. “I hope you have chosen a befitting battlefield, Mademoiselle LeBeau. Because I will be very disappointed if my girlfriend doesn’t beat me in a match of thumb war.”
“In that case, prepare for defeat, Monsieur Ménard.” She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to intimidate him, but Jacques only kept smiling. So they clasped their right hands together and were about to start when Celine shouted, “Wait! This isn’t fair, I’m left-handed!”
Jacques's smile turned into a procession of chuckles. “J'adore tes petites crises de colère. Very well, we shall switch.”
“But it won’t be fair to you that way.”
“I don’t mind,” he said softly. “I’d rather see you happy than win.”
Celine stood unmoving for a moment, certain she had felt a flutter of something in her chest.
Maybe she was just losing her mind over things described in books and all those great romances. She had begun to think they might have hyperbolised those conflagrations that flared up in one’s heart. All she could feel was one tiny spark, barely a lit match to start a small fire. But it was there.
“Ready, set,” Celine said, not meeting his eye. “Game on, Jacques.”
Taking hold of his wrist, she clasp their hands once more. “May the best player win.”
The match began. Their thumbs wrestled. Celine’s rested on top.
“Aha!” she exclaimed in victory. “Question number one, do you have any tattoos?”
Jacques hesitated; then cast her a weird look. “That’s what you are dying to know about me, if I have any tattoos?”
“I’m sorry, my brain blanked,” she moped. Jacques only looked away and didn’t answer. “Well?” Celine nudged him. “Do you?”
Still, he did not reply. Celine’s eyes widened.
“Mon Dieu, you do! Where?” she exclaimed excitedly. “Show me, show me!”
Jacques tried to squirm away from her, colour rising to his cheeks. “I will not show you here.” He chuckled. “So don’t even try to strip me in the middle of the street.”
Celine gasped, acting scandalised. “Why, is it someplace unmentionable?”
“No!” She glanced at him through narrowed eyes, and to her surprise, Celine found Jacques still laughing. “I’m not Bastien.”
That sounded of interest. “Does he have one?”
“Actually,” Jacques said after his spirits had calmed down, “he doesn’t. This was supposed to have been our white flag. He dragged me to the parlour, urged me to go first, then after I was done he wimped out.”
She had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from bursting out in laughter. “And you didn’t resent him for it?”
“I did, a little.” Jacques winced. “That’s why the next day I hid dried beef in his suit and watched as his two Dalmatians chased him down the street and ripped the clothes off of him.”
Now the laughs poured out of her unrestrictedly. Celine would have given all the money in the world to witness that scene first hand. “I never knew you were a Machiavelli.”
He shrugged. “Now you do. Okay, round two.”
Jacques was struggling with his non-dominant hand, but since Celine was curious about his questions, she let him win.
“I want to know how you usually drink your coffee,” he said when the match was over. “The exact recipe.”
Celine tilted her head. “And you made fun of my tattoo question. Why do you want to know?”
“Because I want to make it for you every morning,” Jacques replied seriously. “I am very particular about mine, so if I’m going to be in the kitchen, I might as well make yours too.”
The thought of Jacques being adorably domestic sent a shiver through her heart. “So,” Celine pondered, “I get two plates of dessert at dinner and my coffee in bed. What do you get?”
“You,” Jacques said without hesitation. “And that’s all I want.”
Ever so slowly, Celine hid her face into her hands and let out a muffled squeal. She was weak, she could admit that at least.
Jacques’s shoulders started shaking with amusement. “What was all that?”
“Nothing,” Celine replied meekly. “Let’s play another round.”
Jacques won again.
“I want to know your biggest dream,” he said. “One that hasn’t come true yet, and if there is something I can do to make it happen, I want to try my best.”
Celine’s next breath came up short. Everything was going so well, even her heart was slowly thawing at the life Jacques was painting for her, but to tell him about the competition this early…she should, she knew that. It was only fair.
She breathed in deeply. Stop being a coward, Celine LeBeau.
“Well,” she started, “it has to do with why I was at the abandoned house today. But you have to promise not to laugh or tell anyone.”
“I could never, ma jolie… Unless you were hiding a dead body up there. Your dream is not to be a serial killer, is it? Because I would totally help you bury a body, but I’m not sure if I can handle cleaning up the blood.”
Gasping, she gave his chest a gentle shove. “Fortunately for you, my dream is nothing as ghastly as that. I was using my grandmother’s sewing supplies to make a dress.”
Jacques had stopped walking and was staring at her as if what she said was worse than a dead body in the attic. “Whatever for? Don’t you get at least ten dresses delivered monthly by actual ateliers?”
“I do, but…” Celine bit down on her lip. “I long to be a fashion designer.”
“Huh.”
Jacques was the one hesitating now. He seemed to be considering it, turning the thought over until it produced some other meaning while Celine’s chest rose and fell rapidly with expectation. Subtly, she squeezed his hand, prompting for the answer.
“Aren’t you one already?”
“I am?”
“La Vie Parisienne considers you a fashion idol. Isn’t that the same?” Celine parted her lips to correct him, but Jacques went on, “Surely you didn’t mean making the clothes.”
Laughing at her face would have been better than this passive aggressive way of calling her delusional.
Quietly, Celine leaned her elbows on the bridge, and tilted her face towards the river, absently following the yellow lights that flooded the ripples in molten gold. The evening had been wrapping up to a perfect end, why had she gone and asked for a game?
Perhaps it wasn’t time for Jacques to know about the competition yet.
“No,” Celine forced a smile. “No, I meant”—she worked her brain to find the closest link between a fashion designer and a fashion idol—“I meant that I would like to be more than a cover girl. Perhaps someone who gets to work with a designer in a sort of partnership, or other.”
She wasn’t sure if she was making sense anymore. Disappointment had set deep roots in her thoughts and whatever she was saying now felt randomly generated by a machine.