Chapter 13 #3
“I am telling you now. I owe you nothing else,” she returned tersely. “I just don’t want to compete against that pretentious rat in the end. If you’re going to beat me, Mademoiselle LeBeau, I’d rather you do it yourself.”
Celine considered her for a split second. But it was Bastien who spoke again. “You take this competition thing too seriously.”
“If I’m not serious about it then I will never make it,” Elise replied. “People like you and my sister will never understand what it’s like to walk through life having to do more than simply flash a smile and get people to bend to your whims.”
Up on the stage, Elana was rounding up her backup dancers. Circling behind her stood two young boys; one holding refreshments while the other was heeding her instructions, a look of utter adoration pasted on his face.
When she returned her attention to their conversation again, Elise appeared a little miffed. It wasn’t clear if it was Celine, or Bastien, or something else that annoyed her. Until a high squeal pierced the air, and she saw Elana rushing towards them, throwing her arms around Bastien’s neck.
“You came!”
“I couldn’t possibly miss your pretty twirls up on the stage, now could I?
” He pressed a kiss on the crook of her neck, right where the low neckline of her stage costume began.
Elana didn’t seem to mind the wry looks the other patrons were giving them.
In fact, she made a show of settling on Bastien’s lap.
Bastien, however, had grown conscious of the attention.
“Perhaps next time invite me for a private show, chérie, hmm?”
Celine ignored their chat and turned to Elise. She pointed at the costume. “Did you design that?”
It was, by all means, a rhetorical question. The style consisted of all the elements Elise usually used on her looks for the competition: dramatically ornamental details in pastel colours mixed with bold, dark base fabrics. A gothic twist on Belle Epoque.
“My sister and I moved to Paris with very little money and very different passions,” Elise replied, to Celine’s shock, rather willingly.
“We wanted to make it on our own, so…” she shrugged.
“But the seamstress who hired me wasn’t one inclined towards haute couture.
I had to find another way to experiment with my talent, unlike you and Monsieur Reneau here. ”
“My mother’s fame has nothing to do with Celine’s talent,” Bastien replied curtly. The arm he had wrapped around Elana hung limply at her side as if his earlier affection had only been feigned. “Maybe except for inspiring her.”
Elise squinted. “You mean it didn’t open the doors for you two regardless of the rules? I’m shocked.”
“Elise!” her sister exclaimed.
“Whatever,” Elise scoffed, taking a sip from her drink. “I don’t want to compete against Franz and your stolen designs in the end. It would be pointless.” She returned to Celine. “What do you plan to do about him?”
“Franz will get what he deserves, but not from my hand,” Celine said, picking the new thread of conversation easily.
She didn’t want to dwell on the fact that everyone had linked Bastien to Adalene Reneau, even if he had entered the competition as a model and not a designer.
She was beyond thankful, but her victory wouldn’t amount to much in the end if word got out that nepotism had won it for her.
She drew in a deep breath. “As I said before, I don’t cheat.”
“Then you’ll never win. It’s your choice, Mademoiselle LeBeau, but if it were me, I would want to teach him a lesson.”
Perhaps it was genuine advice, but Celine didn’t want to give anyone else more grounds to say she was cheating her way through.
She pushed her seat back. “We’ll be on our way now, thank you for the help.”
Elise appeared unsettled by the frank gratitude in Celine’s voice. She parted her lips in protest. “I told you—”
“Yes, I know, to thank your sister. But I have that taken care of already,” she said, pointing at Bastien, who was wholly absorbed in twirling Elana’s hair around his fingers and whispering a jumble of nonsense to her every once in a while, making her giggle. Elise and Celine cringed at them.
“I wanted to thank you, too.”
“Don’t take this for a white flag, Mademoiselle LeBeau.
It doesn’t change the fact that we are still opponents,” she asserted.
“As for Franz”—finally, Elise relented a small smile—“there are ways that don’t require cheating.
I’ve found that public humiliation usually does the trick with people like him. ”
Celine returned the grin. “I will keep that in mind.”
For now, she worried that if they spent a second longer inside the cabaret Bastien would turn it into a burlesque show. Pulling at the back of his collar, she hoisted him to his feet. “Drool on her another time, Don Juan. Time to go.”
· · ·
Bastien arrived at Le Rat Mort to meet with Juliana right after he was done being Celine’s play-doll for the day.
Though he’d tried to sneak away early more than once, Celine had dragged him back by the collar of his shirt and made him stay until she was done sewing.
She didn’t have a male mannequin at their dusty, lightless studio up in the attic. She needed Bastien.
He also suspected she revelled a little too much in poking him with needles and pretending her hand had slipped, when he knew damn well that it hadn’t.
Rubbing his arm at the phantom feeling, Bastien walked up to the notorious café. Juliana was sitting outside, bundled in a fur coat, a cigarette between her lips, the tip glaring red. An empty coffee cup stood in front of her with a few lipstick marks around the rim.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said in English, grinning sheepishly.
“I got roped into being a pin cushion for five hours.” He glanced at her outfit.
The sheer tights she was wearing shimmered against her long legs, and a few sequins from her stage costume issued from underneath her coat.
Amusement pulled at his lips. “Nice look.”