Chapter 23 #3
To her surprise, Bastien nodded contentedly. “I’ll let my brother know he has been rejected then.”
“Bas,” she said sharply.
“Come on, baby vamp.” There was teasing amusement in his voice. He angled his head to look up at her. “I was only joking.”
Lying there, sprawled carelessly on the fabric, he extended his hand and nudged her chin with one slender finger.
Celine chocked down a small cough, struggling to ignore the thoughts that poured in at the touch.
His eyelids fluttered shut, long lashes brushing down his cheeks, and Celine couldn’t help but wonder if this was the Bastien that Elana and all those other girls saw, too.
This soft-voiced, dreamy-eyed Bastien. He was playful all the time, but this felt different.
Celine pushed the thought away.
“It's not funny.” She jerked her head back, more rattled by his touch than the issue at hand. “Unless you wanting to reopen the studio is a joke too.”
He flinched. “It's not. I'm serious about this.”
“So am I.”
“Come on,” he said again. “I didn’t ask you to marry me, I just want us to work together.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly what?” Bastien huffed out, annoyed. “I’m not following.”
“Well, if your grandfather frowns upon the notion of a woman working, I think he might prefer you proposing over this.” Celine pushed off the floor to sit on her knees.
Why couldn’t Bastien see this? She might be able to dodge her mother’s demands once she married Jacques, but would that mean she’d have to heed Monsieur Ménard’s limitations instead?
She looked down at the sequins, mindlessly driving the tip of her nail through the stitching, pulling it up and scrunching the fabric in the process.
“It seems like your grandfather holds a strong leash on every member of his family. What will he say?”
“He can say whatever he wants. I’m going to chew through my leash,” Bastien declared, still looking up at her, only now his eyebrows had drawn together in a serious straight line.
He sounded far from playful. “I couldn’t stop him from belittling my mother, but it’s different this time.
We will get our fashion house, I promise. ”
She had no doubt Bastien could be mutinous and wild; he was suffering the consequences of his mulishness right now. What she doubted was her ability not to bend under pressure. Who was to say Celine wouldn’t willingly wear the leash? She might already have it on by agreeing to date Jacques.
“What about Jacques?” she asked, realising belatedly that Monsieur Ménard and her mother might not be the only people she had to worry about. Her skin prickled. “My heart almost gave out when I was telling him about the competition. What will he say about us working together?”
Bastien rolled onto his stomach and started prodding at the sequins, thinking. “Trust me when I say this, because I really, really hate saying this, but I think there might still be hope for my brother.”
“He’s not suffering from an irreparable disease for you to put it like that.”
“I don’t know,” he muttered in a sing-song lilt. “I’ve heard pompousness has become a fatal ailment nowadays.”
“Careful,” Celine mocked, “you might be its first victim.”
Bastien sneered at her but he did not argue. His expression had turned sober.
“Look,” he started, shifting to sit with a knee propped up, his elbow leaning upon it. “I won’t try to convince you, even though I have an artillery of ways to do so.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Celine murmured.
“But you have to choose what makes you happy, Celine. You shouldn’t feel obliged to fix your parents’ issues. Try as you might to convince me otherwise, I know that is the reason you and Jacques ended up together. Not love.”
“But my father needs the money. And the reputation that comes with your family’s name—”
“There are other ways. There are always other ways. Your parents are simply choosing a shortcut.”
Anxiously, Celine brought her fingers to her lips, chewing on her nails. If there were other ways…wouldn’t her parents at least considered them?
“You shouldn’t have to force yourself into thinking you love someone you clearly don’t,” Bastien added, and tugged her fingers away from her teeth.
“And you don’t have to say yes to me either, if you think you are going to be happier doing something else.
I won’t force the decision on you. The choice is entirely yours, Celine. ”
She wished he would convince her. She wished he would go back to his manipulative ways—then it might have been easier.
Then she could blame the decision on him.
But Celine couldn’t deny what was in her heart.
All she had ever wanted was to be a fashion designer.
That’s what she had been labouring in secret for eight exhausting weeks.
They were in the top four. They were so close to getting their prize.
And for the first time, Celine wasn’t dreaming alone.
“Regardless,” Bastien said. “If Jacques loves you, then he will support you on this.”
I’d rather see you happy than win. That’s what Jacques had told her.
“I hope you are right,” Celine said with a sigh.
“Because I really want people to wear my creations, not just a pair of stockings they saw me wear once and had to have them in their collection. Not to mention,” she twisted her lips, “they were really itchy stockings. I saw four girls scratching inconspicuously after the article in La Vie Parisienne came out.”
Bastien chuckled at that. “They will love your creations, Celine,” he said.
“Another inkling you have?”
He nodded. “Look, as I said, you don’t have to decide right away. Let’s see if we win first.”
“What about your plans to fix stuff?”
“That can wait too. It’s not like I have the money to start right away.” At least his excitement hadn’t taken over logic entirely. “But since we’re on the topic, you deserve to work on something worthy of your talent. What is the model of your dream sewing machine?”
“What makes you think I have one?”
He lifted a brow. “Don’t you?”
Celine levelled him an exact replica of his teasing glance. “Maybe. But you know, Bastien, I don’t share that tidbit with just anyone.”
“And here I was, thinking we were friends.” He pressed a hand to his heart as if it was hurting. “Tell me what it will take. A secret for a secret? Getting you another cake? Do I need to joust someone?”
Celine laughed in earnest as she tried her luck. “I wouldn’t mind knowing one of your secrets.”
“Not the cake?” he asked surprised.
“Not this time. Now spill.”
“Alright,” Bastien said, as he cleared his throat, preparing for a confession.
“Not all the things those rumours say about me are true. Sometimes I lie…and simply pretend to be the person they think I am.” He was quiet before he added, “Most times, I don’t even go to cabarets and burlesque shows.
I just spend the night sitting by the Seine, drinking in the city. ”
Peaceful, Celine thought. But lonely, too.
But she did not want to wound him by saying so, and instead, she teased, “So you being a great kisser might be a total lie?”
“Hey, now,” he warned. “I said some things. That one happens to be very true, Celine, a fact you already know. Though I wouldn’t mind refreshing your memory.”
“It is fresh enough, Bastien.” She studied his face, catching the slightest glimpse of thoughtfulness lurking beneath his smirk. “Why?” she prompted. “Why do you lie? I doubt you do it to appear more interesting.”
“I couldn’t care less about being interesting,” he said. “I do it to show Grandfather what it’s like to be a useless socialite. And…to rid myself of responsibilities—of that feeling that I might disappoint someone. It leaves no one any room to create fanciful expectations about me.”
“So you want people to assume the worst about you?”
“It’s easier that way. I get to be selfish that way. I get to live my life.”
Celine should have guessed rebellion stood behind it. She could see the logic in his words, despite the flaws in execution, but she had never expected Bastien to worry this much about what others thought of him.
“Is this enough to tell me that machine model now?”
Grinning, she told him. They discussed the means of getting it—the machine being a recent, expensive model that could almost rival Bastien’s car—and the only compromise they could reach was this: Celine flicking his nose and protesting, “No, Bastien, we are not stealing a sewing machine and making a run for it,” and Bastien rolling his eyes and reassuring, “We will not end up in prison, baby vamp. And if we do, I promise, you will make great friends with the other women of low morals.”
He went on prattling after that, making more illicit plans, while Celine watched him silently, thinking she could really get used to him longterm.
Dusk was looming outside, becoming more and more prominent the longer they spent sitting on the floor, talking.
The lights overhead had become brighter, or at least as bright as the old bulbs could go.
She could see them like this up here, after-hours, when the rush of the day had calmed down and it was just the two of them: Celine designing and Bastien keeping her company with his random conversations.
“Bas,” she called, mainly to shut him up, but his name must have come out harsher than she had intended.
He splayed his palms innocently. “I was only kidding about the women of low morals. They will probably put you in a cell full of pillows and cake—”
“Thank you,” she cut him off.
“What for?”
“For not judging any of my choices, especially those concerning the competition. And,” she fidgeted with the hem of her dress, “thank you for being a friend.”
The room remained quite dim; the mannequins and the sewing machines blurred shapes in the vicinity, hardly existing. Celine was wholly absorbed in the slight twinkle in Bastien’s eye. She hadn’t realised how close they were sitting until he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.