Chapter 9 #2
“You can do this,” Bastien offered awkwardly.
He had never had to cheer anyone up before, he wasn’t sure Celine would appreciate it, or if she’d consider it patronising.
To his immediate relief, her face brightened visibly.
It was only after someone cleared their throat that he realised she was only being nice because Mademoiselle Jones had approached their station.
“Salut,” she said, bouncing in cheerfully. She looked about their age, very British, and aside from Celine, the only other girl with a bob and dressed like a flapper.
Bastien tossed a look at Celine, wanting to see what she thought of the other girl, but she was only admiring Mademoiselle Jones’s style with glittering eyes.
“I was wondering if you had an extra pencil I could borrow. Mine broke,” she said. Celine handed her one. “I’m Cosette Jones by the way. But you can call me Coco.”
“Celine LeBeau.”
“Ah, the cover girl.”
Celine looked away, the hint of embarrassment lining her cheeks like a fine layer of cosmetics. Bastien resumed in her stead, stretching his hand out. “Bastien Reneau. Enchanté.”
Coco reached out to shake it, but he quickly brought her fingers to his lips, and was about to press a soft kiss on the back of her hand when Celine shoved him out of the way.
“Do not pay him any heed, Mademoiselle Jones.” Taking out a thick pocketbook from her bag, she handed it to him. “Here. Change, then make yourself useful and find me the fabrics from pages twelve and twenty.”
“These fabrics are green. I told you it doesn’t suit me.”
“This shade will. Now go.”
“Bossy,” Bastien muttered under his breath. He winked at Coco, then walked behind the folding screen.
“You don’t think Monsieur Baudelaire really meant what he said about there being no rules, do you?” he heard Coco ask.
Bastien strained to note anything suspicious in her voice, but to his disappointment, it didn’t differ much from Celine’s anxious one.
“Fair and square, no?” A third contestant joined them. “At least that’s how my sister and I play. We do not need pathetic schemes to keep ourselves in the game.”
Elise Sartre had sauntered up to them, regarding both Celine and Coco with distaste. Her sister, Elana, however, appeared a little less bloodthirsty. Bastien noticed her gaze jump around the room, from one sparkling roll of fabric to the next, uninterested.
“Say,” Elise went on, “aren’t you that Vampire everyone was talking about a while ago?”
An amused smirk entered Bastien’s lips at the nickname, but he resisted the impulse to jump out and shout I told you so. So he quietly peered at Celine’s reflection in the mirror.
“Vampire?” Coco quirked a brow.
“I think she is,” Elana agreed in a voice nearly identical to her sister’s. Though hers was far more enthusiastic. “Oh, that was the best edition La Vie Parisienne published that month.”
They were both matching in their plaid dress suits; Elise in green, while Elana had opted for pink, though both colours stood equally vivid against their dark brown skin.
Bastien let his eyes linger over Elana for a good second before he looked over at Celine again.
She was fidgeting with a spool of thread, rotating it on her finger.
“They were merely embellishing with that vampire thing,” she said awkwardly. “That picture is far from my customary lifestyle.”
“Don’t be shy about falling into the trend,” Elise said with a little bite to her words. “New York was filled with vamps, it is only natural they made an appearance in Paris too.”
“We were there just last month,” Elana filled in. “That’s when Elise decided to enter the comp—”
“That’s beside the point,” her sister snapped, looking at Elana askance. “I only wanted to confirm where I had seen you before, Mademoiselle LeBeau.” She considered Celine from head to toe, a vague sneer on her lips. “I look forward to seeing what you have in store, Vamp.”
“Again, that’s not…” Celine trailed off, for Elise had already retreated to her station.
Elana smiled at them brightly and whispered, “Good luck,” before she joined her sister.
Celine and Coco were left alone once more.
“That was…odd,” Coco supplied.
“It’s good to know I wasn’t imagining things earlier.” Celine sighed. “Everyone was acting so hostile today. Except for you, which I greatly appreciate.”
Coco shrugged. “You could have handed Monsieur Baudelaire a wad of cash to enter, for all I care. I’m only competing for fun.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, fashion is my passion. But my mother already owns a fashion house back in London. If I win, it will just be my excuse to stay in Paris and run my own house.”
Bastien could only guess what Celine was thinking. Her earlier smile had drooped a smidge. “Well,” she exhaled, “at least you are not intent on cheating, either.”
“That’s rich coming from you.” Franz Olivier joined in arrogantly, flicking a strand of blonde hair from his eyes as he advanced towards their station. “Weren’t you the first to break the rules, Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
The only sign of Celine’s exasperation was a long sigh. “The rules mentioned nothing about the gender of my model, Monsieur Olivier. I did not cheat.”
After the first day, Bastien had taken the liberty of doing a little research about their opponents. Celine might have been set on winning honestly, but Bastien had no qualms about playing dirty. Nor did he shy away from doing everything he could to get them to first place.
Living with Juliana was like an eternal party, but one week of sleeping on that crooked chaise and he could already feel his spine starting to deform. He needed to win, desperately.
So Bastien had done some digging. Or rather he’d asked Ana?s to dig around for him.
According to his sister, Franz Olivier already owned his own maison de mode. Only it was failing. At a time when ten major fashion houses ruled the industry in Paris, it was difficult for a small atelier to join the ranks. Gaining ownership over Maison Baudelaire would offer him that opportunity.
Bastien knew that someone with Franz’s ambition would stop at nothing to salvage his battered pride. Simply entering this competition must have cost him a lot more than he allowed to show.
“A word of advice, Mademoiselle LeBeau,” Franz said, hunching his shoulders slightly to reach Celine’s height. “Heretics are usually ousted. You won’t make a great challenge if you’re too unconventional.”
Celine peered at him from under her lashes, utterly calm. “Your fear only flatters me, Monsieur Olivier.”
Franz huffed.
“I’m glad you think I will be your greatest challenge.”
“Try not to get used to your new station,” Franz warned.
“I have a feeling you will be parted from it earlier than you expect.” He dragged his eyes away, running them over Coco next.
“The same applies to you, Miss Jones. That is, if Celine manages to win a round and you’re the one who leaves today. ”
“Oh, I would love to claw out that smug smile from his face,” Coco said when Franz sauntered away.
Celine patted her arm. “Let’s give him a day or two, just to watch him sulk when he sees we’re still in the game.”
“I like you,” Coco announced. “I hope I get to face you in the finale. Bonne chance!”
Departing with a small wave, Coco returned to her station and began sketching long, enthusiastic lines on a piece of paper as large as her desk.
Realising he had a task to tend to, Bastien tried to sneak away quickly, when Celine caught him half-way across the cubicle. Hands on her waist, she squinted at him as though she was squashing his head in her mind.
“Didn’t I ask you to get me something?”
So bossy.
Bastien poked her cheek. “You know, you’d make a great dictator.”
“Believe me”—she batted his hand away—“you’re lucky I’m not one. Go make haste.”
Drumming his fingers along the spine of the pocketbook, Bastien ambled towards the fabric room.
It was relatively easy to navigate the fashion house, despite the grandeur of the building.
The fabric room was located on the first floor, along with the designing hall.
On the second floor, Monsieur Baudelaire presided over the competition from his office.
And the rest of the building consisted of Maison Baudelaire’s current designers, working on wrapping up the twenty year long history of the House under Claude Baudelaire’s supervision.
Soon it would be the winner who would take over.
Celine was more than talented enough to win, but she had been right earlier.
The other contestants weren’t too happy with them being here.
Bastien recalled Monsieur Baudelaire’s words about there being no rules when it came to the integrity of the competition.
He worried that maybe some of the other designers wouldn’t mind stooping as low as sabotage to further their own progress along.
He wasn’t sure if Celine had fully grasped this.
Descending a set of three stairs, Bastien reached the fabric room. The frosted glass door glided open easily and the concentrated scent of cloths was a violent greeting to his senses. Bastien began his search.
He wondered if Celine trusted him to choose for her because his mother had been a designer once too, or because she just wanted him out of her hair.
Whichever was her reason, Bastien was glad to have been given a task, especially one he actually knew how to do.
He had spent most of his childhood swathed in his mother’s expensive rolls of fabric, watching her pin the first patterns of a gown on the white, half body mannequin she kept in her studio.
She would murmur to him every step, even the stitching patterns she was using and the names of the pleats, until the sketch had taken a corporeal form.