Chapter 9
The First Task
“They are not particularly happy with us, don’t you think?”
Celine had started off on the wrong foot, that much was clear.
The extent of it, however, wasn’t. All morning the other contestant had been walking right past them while she helped Bastien into the gown she had sewn.
No one had bothered to greet them, though they kept chatting with one another just fine.
Bastien cast a passing glance across the room, assessing. “Speak for yourself, baby vamp. My presence is more than desired.”
Celine peered at where his attention was glued to, only to find another model winking at him. It was one of the twins—Elana Sartre. Her sister Elise was narrowing her eyes at them, not at all appeased. She gave her twin a little nudge and Elana moved her gaze away.
Celine sighed. “At least one of us is liked.”
She was used to stares. The guests at her mother’s parties, the men in the street, the girls in the cabarets—none of them shied away from seizing her from head to toe.
But not here. No one was staring at her clothes, not when half of the contestants were dressed as flappers or something adjacent themselves.
No, these glances were different. Hostile.
Being granted admission despite not having a female model like everyone else hadn’t been welcomed by the other contestants.
Or so Celine had heard when Franz Olivier had complained to his model.
It wasn’t that she had expected friendly smiles during the competition but this was a bit outrageous.
“All right.” She tied off the bow on Bastien’s hip. “Take a look.”
He did as bidden, giving himself a once over in the mirror, twisting at the waist to inspect the back.
“What do you think?”
“I look foxy.”
Celine hadn’t expected to hear that.
“Foxy?” she echoed. The dress ought to have given the impression of legends with a modern twist. The bodice was a beautiful mango orange shade—silk, but patterned with a golden star that stretched from the middle of his chest and spread outwards.
The fabric looked almost like brocade, only it was lighter and airier and perfect for the mellow days of spring.
Celine had attached a cape-like piece to the back, made out of gossamer-thin fabric and studded with gold bugle beads.
The skirts too matched the cape. She had arranged them in two loosely pleated layers reaching Bastien’s knees—longer on the back, shorter on the front—and shorter still on the part where she had pinched the fabric up to his left hip, decorating the spot with a ginormous satin bow.
It looked elegant, yet glamorous at the same time. Maybe a little too soft for Bastien’s bold personality, and definitely not something she would have called—
“Foxy…” Celine repeated pensively, scrunching her nose at his reflection.
“Me, darling. I look foxy. The dress on the other hand…it is lovely and”—he moved his hips around—“airy. Not really my style.”
“How would you know? You’ve never worn a dress before.”
Bastien tossed her a flat look. “Did you forget who raised me?”
Celine pressed her lips, miffed. He was right about that.
“Let’s hope Monsieur Baudelaire likes it,” she said, a little disappointed, and helped him down from the platform. “And stop bending like that, you look like your spine has snapped in half.”
Though she had to give him some credit for doing his best to create the illusion of a feminine figure. It wasn’t only Celine’s job to create a stunning piece, but Bastien’s too, to know how to model it properly.
They both stilled as Monsieur Baudelaire approached. “Mademoiselle LeBeau, Monsieur Reneau. I have to say, I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”
“You won’t be disappointed,” Celine said with much more confidence than she felt.
Quickly, Monsieur Baudelaire swept his eyes over the gown.
A small, amused smile entered his lips. “I assume you considered the challenge when you picked Monsieur Reneau as your model, no? Your idea is impressive, I quite like the fabric you have chosen for the skirts and the vest. He looks like he’s been draped in veils and reenacting a scene from the Arabian Nights—a flapper girl version of it. ”
“Thank you—”
“But”—the single utterance was sharp like the snapping of scissors—“you must base it on your given reality for it to make sense. Haute Couture was made to be worn exclusively by one person alone. Evidently, everything you decide to make during this competition should be only for your model. The gown is incredible, but it does not match your model’s energy. Try something audacious next time.”
Celine felt the rest of his words cut through her vocal cords for she could only dip her chin in understanding.
She had never had anyone compliment her designs before, just as she had never had anyone judge them either.
To have Claude Baudelaire—the man she had idolised all her life—do both simultaneously had robbed her of all reactions.
Checking the grip on his cane, Monsieur Baudelaire lifted his chin high so everyone could hear his next words.
“And this goes for the rest of you, as well,” he said.
“You must become masters of your models’ bodies.
They are not standard size mannequins. They have preferences, opinions, unique auras. Study them first, then create.”
With that, he moved on to the next contestant.
“Did you hear that?”
Vacantly, Celine inclined her head towards Bastien.
“Shall we plan a day when I show you how to become the master of my body? Or rather, mistress,” he stressed the s-es out, elongating the word.
Swiftly, Celine freed one of the needles from her pincushion and pricked his thigh. Bastien let out a whimper, jumping away from her.
“I think we just solved that problem,” she smiled, satisfied. “Thank you for remaining serious during that inspection.”
He shrugged. “I told you, we’re competing in this together. If you lose, I lose, darling.”
· · ·
Their second assignment was to commence at Maison Baudelaire.
“You have presented your designs, granted along with their flaws, but now I need to see your process. Presentation is the last step; you cannot get there without having a sketch in the first place. We will start with that today. Make it elaborate, make it awe-inspiring even in its two dimensional form. That will be all for this challenge.”
“Just the sketch?” One of the contestants wrung her hands together. “Aren’t we supposed to show our knowledge and skill in creating the actual attire?”
Monsieur Baudelaire chuckled softly. “If that was the case, then all those designers you all admire so much would be glued to their sewing machines day in and day out. No, Mademoiselle Jones.
“Technique is important, indeed, how else are you going to teach your apprentices? You won’t be doing all the work yourself if time doesn’t allow it.
However, it will be your fashion house, which means it will be your sketches you will send off to the tailors.
Those drawings that seem so insignificant should be intricate, yet simple enough for the people who will recreate them to understand what the final product ought to look like.
“But if that doesn’t sound convincing, the nine upcoming weeks will be more than sufficient for me to test your abilities in sewing as well.”
“And the eliminated contestant?” Franz cut in. “You didn’t pick one the first round.”
“That wasn’t the first round, Monsieur Olivier,” he replied airily.
“This is. And I suggest you apply my corrections, hmm.” He clapped his hands.
“Now, Gabriel will explain to you how the challenge will commence. On to your stations. I shall make my rounds and check on your sketches every ten minutes. Give me only your best efforts.”
Letting out a breath of relief, Bastien gathered the skirts of his dress and trailed after Celine.
Their new work room was a vast hall where Monsieur Baudelaire had managed to situate ten separated cubicles.
Each of them was fashioned with a sewing machine, a desk where each designer would work on their sketches, a folding screen for the models to dress themselves, a mirror, and finally, a mannequin that would wear the design until the challenge was over.
Their station was the easiest to locate since it was equipped with a mannequin whose silhouette was clearly male.
“It’s ironic,” Celine said, running a finger along the surface of her new sewing machine.
A body of ivory, with silver swirls that decorated the sides.
“All I have ever wanted was to do this in peace, but instead I had to sew in secret and hide my supplies under my bed lest my mother found them. And now that I am actually being asked to sew freely, all I want to do is hide.”
Bastien cast her a concerned look. “I thought you were braver than this. Don’t tell me that Celine LeBeau will let nine mediocre couturiers scare her away from her dreams.”
The phrase mediocre couturiers drew a few piercing gazes their way, especially from Franz. Celine wasn’t amused either.
Before she could say something, Gabriel sprung up on them, drawing supplies and a wide bulletin board propped under his arm.
“The challenge is simple,” he informed. “You need to render five different looks, then, making use of the fabrics room, you will gather all the samples you need, starting from cloth, to buttons, to ribbons, and even threads. You should pin everything to the board once you’re done.
The evaluation will take place in four hours.
I suggest you work fast and attentively. ”
“Thank you, I will,” Celine said and spread out the supplies on the table.