Chapter 22
Coming Up Roses
Maison Baudelaire had turned into a beehive of murmurs the next day, when its owner had announced that two contestants would leave the competition after their challenge.
“Monsieur André and Mademoiselle Bain,” he began. “Your efforts were admirable. However, another week to improve your designs meant that my expectations had risen exceedingly. Expectations which you two, unfortunately, did not satisfy. I wish you good luck in your future ventures.”
Bastien had sunk his teeth down on his bottom lip since the speech had started, ripping a thin piece of flesh every time Monsieur Baudelaire looked their way.
Not that he doubted Celine’s efforts. The gown he was wearing was incredible—the feminine version of Harlequin’s costume.
It was an elegant recreation of the pink, blue, white, and black checkered two-piece, that looked almost like loungewear, if not for the myriad of tiny details in faux diamonds Celine had hand stitched on it.
The pants were loose fitted, fringed around the hemline with black tulle, and so was the shirt, with its white billowing sleeves.
And at every point where the rhombuses of the pattern connected, there was a studded gem that caught the light whenever Bastien moved.
Celine said it would fit his playful personality perfectly. Monsieur Baudelaire had loved the idea, including the audacious switch to pants that gave the impression of a skirt.
In the distance, a door opened and closed. Anxiously, Bastien cast a glance down the line, noticing the two empty spaces between Coco and Franz and their models.
“I had a feeling I would see you four make it to the very end,” Monsieur Baudelaire addressed Celine, Franz, Coco, and Elise with satisfaction. “I hope you make it even more difficult for me to decide who gets to leave next.”
Nervous chuckles filled the hall. Bastien felt Celine’s hand seize his abruptly, holding it like a lifeline. Hiding a smile, he closed his fingers over hers.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “You will win.”
Coco and Elise were going to be a challenge.
Even Franz who liked to play it safe was bound to pull off something equally striking.
But Celine was better. When Bastien had seen her designs that night at Folies-Bergère it had come as a surprise.
Celine LeBeau: the girl whose face was on the front page of every fashion magazine wanted to be a designer herself.
Now Bastien wished he had taken her dream and this competition more seriously.
He’d been too stirred up by Jacques and his grandfather to focus on what he and Celine were doing.
All the gowns and the patterns and the days spent at the studio up in the attic had passed through him without Bastien even registering any of it.
Until the conversation he’d had with Claude Baudelaire.
“How do you know?” Celine asked, removing him from his thoughts.
“I have an inkling,” he said. “If there is one person who can impress Monsieur Baudelaire into handing over the keys to his fashion house, it’s you. And if that fails, you can charm him. You managed to charm me into being your pin cushion.”
She frowned. “I thought it was my talent that convinced you.”
Bastien pinched her chin. “Your pretty face might have done most of the work.”
Celine nudged an elbow into his ribs.
“You should really learn how to take a compliment,” he gritted through his teeth, massaging his side. “But I mean it. You are the best I’ve seen so far.”
He had returned to the mansion last night to look for the keys to his mother’s atelier; a space three stories high, with the boutique on the first floor and his mother’s personal studio on the second and the third.
Monsieur Baudelaire’s suggestion had set deep roots in his mind, unwilling to relent when Bastien had tried not to think of it, to the point of turning into a hyper-fixation.
He had never been this excited over something that wasn’t a new car model or a burlesque club Juliana had newly discovered.
He had even planned out the new look for the House—the name, the style it would offer, the colours he wanted on the outside of the building—including the designer he wanted to work with.
Because barring Claude’s regard for her, Celine was the only person whose style Bastien trusted.
He adored that little rebellious side of her that liked to cut the hem of the skirt a few centimetres shorter.
Although…it had occurred to him that she could turn down his proposal.
He had to be realistic; they weren’t the best of friends, and working together long term would either end in carnage or another kiss—out of which, the latter was preferable—but Bastien didn’t want to reopen the studio alone, without a designer.
Without Celine. He had grown accustomed to driving to the Latin Quarter, a bag of food in his arms, watching he work until she was finished with a design.
He wanted to keep up the routine, if she were to say yes.
He glanced at her, wanting to pry into her thoughts, but Celine was focused on Monsieur Baudelaire.
“There will be no specific themes for your penultimate challenge,” he was saying. “Rely on your inspirations and the things you love, and present me your interests rendered in fabric. I wish you all good luck.”
The rustle of movement possessed the hall. Monsieur Baudelaire headed up to his office while everyone else returned to their stations to pack up for the day. Only Celine stayed behind.
There was something about her disposition that made Bastien nervous. She had fixed her eyes upon a thread on the floor, staring at it blankly.
“Are you still thinking about the competition?”
Celine nodded. “Assuming we don’t win,” she said soberly, “what happens then? You will still need money.”
“And you will still need a fashion house,” he countered.
“Well, yes.” Celine scrunched her brows at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Wait for me at the end of the street, while I get out of this dress. My car is parked there,” he said, biting down on the grin. “You will see what I mean.”
· · ·
Celine’s foot tapped a rhythmic, if not annoyed, beat on the steaming sidewalk.
It was still April, but the doily-patterned shade of trees offered no respite from the stifling, noon sun. Bastien’s red convertible was parked a few steps away, a bright cherry in a row of black cars, only Celine had no idea how to pull the roof up. So, sweating, she waited.
Thirty minutes later, a pair of brazen footsteps halted in front of her.
“What was the purpose of this?” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
Bastien ran his fingers through his hair, mussing up the strands, more than they already were.
Which wasn’t anything new, though it defeated the whole purpose of asking her to go ahead so he could get ready.
Knowing him, Celine would boldly bet hundreds that he’d run into a little distraction named Elana prior to coming here—hence the delay.
Her irritation flared up.
“Oh, you’re so dramatic,” he said, carelessly throwing an arm around her shoulder and ushering her to the car.
Celine stumbled forward. “You would be too, if you were stewing for half an hour,” she said, pulling down her cloche hat.
If she were honest, the sun had little to do with her fretfulness.
With her birthday drawing closer, Madame LeBeau had been haranguing Celine for days now, and sadly, Rue Cambon had become one of her favourite haunts for shopping.
Every silhouette that had passed by in the last thirty minutes had looked familiar, giving Celine a near heart failure.
“A little sun never hurt anyone, baby vamp. But I suppose you vampires prefer sticking to the shade?”
“Yes, we actually do,” Celine deadpanned, lowering her head. “Now, what were you going to show me?”
Bastien opened the door for her. “It’s a surprise.”
Rolling her eyes, she slid into the passenger seat with little persuasion, desperate to feel the wind on her skin once they started driving. The leather was hot against her bare arms. Bastien took off his jacket, tossing it on the backseat, and flicked open a few buttons on his shirt.
It wasn’t until he entered from the other side, working the ignition key in silence, that it hit her: it was going to be just the two of them inside the car.
Celine dragged her gaze away, sitting rigidly in her seat.
She couldn’t avoid looking at him in here like she had done all morning for fear that her gaze would immediately find his lips.
Twelve hours hadn’t passed yet since their kiss, and she hadn’t been able to forget it as quickly as Bastien seemed to.
Simply the idea of him standing there, in the same space as her, sent heatwaves all throughout her body.
Celine tugged at her dress that had already started sticking to her skin. Why weren’t they moving?
At her side Bastien was taking his sweet time, lighting a cigarette.
“Absolutely not!” Reaching over, she plucked it from his lips.
“What gives? Jacques already knows about the contest.”
“My mother doesn’t.”
Bastien produced a warped grumble as she flung his cigarette onto the street. Celine rummaged in her purse, pulling out a wrapped marron glacé. “Here.”
“That does nothing to satisfy me, Celine.”
“Fine,” Celine huffed, already placing the glazed chestnut back in her purse, when—
“Wait,” he sighed, parting his lips.
“I am not feeding it to you.”
“I need to keep my hands on the wheel.”
“Your hands aren’t even on—” Before she could finish, he turned the ignition key and started easing out of the parking space.
“You were saying?” He parted his lips once more.
There wasn’t enough patience in the world for someone to channel in order to deal with Bastien. Unwrapping the glazed chestnut, Celine shoved it between his lips. The tip of her finger caught on his teeth. When she tried to pull her hand away, Bastien grabbed her wrist and licked at the glaze.