Chapter Fifteen
When Poppy stepped into the ballroom of H?tel d’Or, the luxury boutique hotel overlooking the River Seine where Pierre’s Spring/Summer catwalk show was being held, her jaw dropped. She couldn’t believe she was standing there, alone, in such magnificent surroundings, and a tumble of nerves rolled through her chest.
To her dismay, Michel had called in sick at the bistro that evening, which meant Fabien had been forced to turn down her invitation to watch the show with her. As she scanned the room, filled with the most stylish of people, she experienced a brief moment of panic and she had to fight the impulse to spin on her heels and rush for the door. But she couldn’t do that to Camille, who she knew would be feeling a great deal more anxious than she was, and she wished she could sneak behind the scenes to offer her friend her support.
‘Champagne, mademoiselle?’
‘Merci.’
Poppy smiled at the waiter, who, with his good looks and impressive physique, could have easily been one of the models engaged to stalk down the runway in the very best of next season’s haute couture. She took a crystal flute from the proffered silver tray, and after a few sips of the sparkling elixir her nerves abated, and she decided to find a quiet vantage point from which to soak up the atmosphere.
The venue Pierre had chosen for his catwalk show was perfect; high ceilings with ornate plasterwork picked out in gold leaf, over-sized gilt mirrors on the silk-lined walls, and highly polished wooden floors with hand-woven Persian rugs. Poppy had no idea what the ballroom usually looked like, but that evening the room played host to a raised runway laid out in the shape of a ‘T’, bordered on both sides by four rows of Loius XV-inspired chairs upholstered in the same blue-and-gold silk as the walls.
Most of the seats were already occupied by Pierre’s specially invited guests, all of whom were deep in conversation with their friends and colleagues. Poppy’s gaze was drawn to a group of immaculately groomed women wearing the chicest of outfits, which made her feel like a frumpy maiden aunt, even though she had borrowed one of Hélène’s flattering wraparound dresses in a rich raspberry colour and taken the utmost care with her hair and makeup.
However, it was too late to scuttle back to her apartment to change, so she checked the seat number on her ticket and was relieved to see that she was seated at the far end of the back row next to an exquisite Louis XV sideboard. Moments after she’d settled into her allocated chair, the ambient music switched from soft classical swirl to jolly jazz and the overhead lights dimmed, signalling to the audience that the show was about to begin.
Seconds later, one of the most glamorous women Poppy had ever seen stepped onto a specially constructed pedestal at the side of the raised runway and beamed at the audience. She wore a glitzy bronze-coloured evening gown, cut to enhance her already perfect figure, and an eye-catching diamond necklace that Poppy suspected was the real thing. Her mahogany hair was thick and glossy, and fell in soft waves around her naked shoulders, and her makeup had clearly been professionally applied.
In a rich, sultry voice, she introduced herself as élise Augustin, “former French super-model and now award-nominated actress”, and proceeded to welcome everyone to the H?tel d’Or. She spent a few minutes providing a glittering overview of Pierre Bardoit’s stupendously successful career in the field of haute couture over the last twenty years before formally opening his Spring/Summer catwalk show.
Silence fell as the first model strutted down the runway and from that moment, Poppy was completely mesmerised. Every part of the ensemble had been collated to perfection, not just the style, colour and cut of the fabric of the highly structured day dress, but also the shoes, the jewellery, the model’s hairstyle and her rather avant-garde makeup. It created a dazzling effect.
Poppy’s favourite outfit by far was a short aquamarine dress created from a bouclé fabric worn with a tiny white bolero jacket, its cuffs edged with the same aquamarine as the dress. It was simple but beautifully executed, and she wished she had the money to treat herself to such a stunning piece of French couture, but she knew from the state of her bank account that was merely a dream and she would have to be satisfied with being a part of this amazing experience.
After the appreciative audience had viewed over twenty dazzling outfits, élise drew the first part of the evening to a close and called a beaming Pierre – dressed in his signature burgundy suit and orange winklepicker shoes – onto the stage to take a bow. With his arms draped around his models’ shoulders, he accompanied them to the end of the runway, lapping up the enthusiastic applause, clearly delighted by the reaction to what had obviously been another highly successful show.
Pierre then took the microphone from élise, and after a short speech of thanks, he told those gathered in the ballroom – magazine journalists, social media influencers, marketing executives and publicists, fellow fashion maestros, his friends and family – about his decade-long mission to support the next generation of fashion designers, before announcing that, once again, he had the honour of introducing five of the best up-and-coming designers to that evening’s esteemed audience.
To Poppy’s disappointment, several people from the front row collected their expensive handbags and made a swift exit from the ballroom, their phones already pressed against their ears as they reported on the highlights of the Pierre Bardoit Spring/Summer collection to their editors or followers. She felt upset, and indignant, on behalf of those who were waiting in the wings, filled with trepidation as they wondered whether the next ten minutes would change their lives forever.
Pierre vacated his position at the podium to take a seat in a throne-like chair that had materialised in the middle of the front row. élise Augustin resumed her role as compère, and to Poppy’s surprise, the lights brightened and the music became more modern and upbeat as she announced the first of the five fortunate fashion designers whose names have been drawn from the hat – Marguerite Castillon.
Poppy had no idea where on the list Camille was, so she had no alternative but to sit back and enjoy the show. The design Marguerite had chosen to showcase her talents was a gown created from dozens and dozens of gossamer-thin silk scarves in a lilac colour that trailed in the model’s slipstream as she glided along the runway. The model was tall, well over six foot, with waist-length blonde hair and a pale complexion that gave her the appearance of a woodland nymph who had been given a day-pass to visit the city. A soft ripple of polite applause accompanied her back to the dressing room.
Next down the runway was a handsome male model, dressed in a smart charcoal grey overcoat, which he whipped from his muscular body when he arrived at the end of the runway to reveal a matching Tweed kilt and checked waistcoat, fastened with large bronze buttons. He struck a haughty pose, flexing his naked biceps as he spun round on his chunky desert boots and strode purposefully back to the dressing room, never once cracking a smile. His presence had been electrifying, and the applause increased in volume.
The third outfit was a beautifully presented day dress in a rich emerald-green edged in gold brocade and was of the same high standard as the couture Poppy had seen earlier in the evening. If it had been included as part of Pierre Bardoit’s Spring/Summer Collection, she would never have known it was by a fledgling designer who was showing her designs to the public for the first time. The outfit was accessorised by a matching drawstring handbag tied around the model’s wrist, and it was clear a great deal of thought had gone into the highly sculptured look.
Two more to go.
Poppy’s stomach performed a somersault of trepidation as she watched the model in the green dress disappear into the dressing room and waited for the fourth – and possibly Camille’s design – to make an appearance.
However, the next outfit élise welcomed onto the runway had been created by a designer called Noémie Rousseau, and Poppy grinned when she saw that the dress was an ivory taffeta wedding gown, its voluminous skirt sprinkled with a confetti of pastel-coloured hearts that must have taken Noémie hours, if not days, to attach. Along with the diamanté tiara, it was too fancy for Poppy’s taste, but she knew Jamie’s wife, Alicia, would adore it because it was very similar to the dress she had chosen to wear on her wedding day two years ago.
This time Poppy knew that the next model to emerge from the dressing room would be wearing the outfit that Camille had designed and had worked on non-stop for the last forty-eight hours in preparation for her moment in the spotlight. She clenched her fists in her lap to stop her hands from shaking, and fixed her eyes on the dressing room door as she listened to élise Augustin announce to the audience that the final design of the evening was by Camille Courbet.
When the model stepped onto the runway, Poppy could only stare in awe at the outfit she was wearing. It was a few moments before she realised it wasn’t a full-length gown, but a wide-legged jumpsuit, nipped in at the waist with a gold chain-link belt that glinted in the overhead lights as the model paused to strike a pose at the end of the runway. The fabric was a riot of pinks, oranges, yellows and creams, with a deep-cut neckline and huge puffed-out sleeves edged with a small frill around the model’s upper arm. It was fun, quirky, and slightly off-the-wall compared to the structured perfection of the other designs that had been showcased on the catwalk that night.
To Poppy’s dismay, the applause was a little muted before Pierre jumped from his seat to invite all five models back onto the stage, along with their outfit’s creators, to take a final bow. Applause reverberated around the room, and Poppy’s heart softened when she saw a very pale Camille emerge from the dressing room, her smile nervous and unsure, which was so unusual for her consistently cheerful friend.
Conversation erupted as the fledgling designers rushed from the stage to join their respective family and friends, and Poppy felt even worse when Pierre and his fashion designer colleagues quickly encircled four of the designers, leaving Camille to look on in resignation. Even her model made a dash for the dressing room to change into her usual attire.
‘Thanks for coming, Poppy. What did you think of my design?’
‘I absolutely loved it!’ said Poppy, meaning it. ‘It was fun, trendy, and totally unique. I would definitely wear it to the right party.’
‘Thanks.’ Camille gave Poppy a watery smile before glancing over her shoulder to where her four contemporaries were the centre of everyone’s attention, smiling, laughing and talking animatedly to the fashion journalists and publicists who were taking their photographs and typing their contact details into their phones. ‘It’s a shame no one else thought so.’
‘I’m sure they did.’
‘Maybe,’ said Camille, twisting her lips.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ said Poppy, linking her arm through Camille’s. ‘Hélène and Odette have reserved a table for us at an upmarket restaurant around the corner, and Fabien and Pascal have promised to meet us there, too, to join in the celebrations.’
‘Great. I really need a glass of Champagne!’
They had just stepped out of the ballroom into the hotel lobby when Poppy heard someone call Camille’s name. She turned round to see a diminutive man, dressed in a black suit and a pair of fabulous snakeskin boots with elevated heels, rushing towards them, his hand raised high in the air in an indication for them to pause.
After taking a few moments to catch his breath, the man introduced himself as Jean-Claude Barbier, one of Pierre’s friends who had his own fashion house specialising in beachwear. Poppy tried her hardest to follow the subsequent conversation between Camille and Jean-Claude, but could only understand the occasional snippet, so she resorted to watching Camille’s expression to gauge the direction of their conversation – first curiosity, then disbelief and finally exuberant joy as Jean-Claude handed over his business card, shook Camille’s hand and ran off to join the raucous conversation taking place on the other side of the ballroom.
‘What just happened?’
Camille had tears in her eyes as she told Poppy that Jean-Claude had loved the vivacious playfulness of her designs and had enquired about the outfit she herself was currently wearing – a short, halter-necked dress in a flimsy peppermint fabric with matching bandana – which she had enthusiastically told him she had also designed. To Camille’s astonishment, and evident delight, Jean-Claude had requested a meeting with her at his design studio the following week to discuss a potential year-long mentorship at his eponymous fashion house.
‘Oh, Camille, I’m so happy for you.’
‘I can hardly believe it. Come on, I can’t wait to tell the others.’
They galloped along the boulevard to the swanky restaurant Hélène had booked, staffed by uniformed waiters and a ma?tre d’ who looked like a Hollywood film star. After handing over their coats, they were shown to a table in the corner where Hélène, Odette and Fabian were enjoying a glass of Bordeaux as they waited to hear their news.
‘Where’s Pascal?’ asked Camille as she took her seat.
‘He asked me to pass on his profuse apologies. His friend émile had a spare ticket for one of his favourite bands. So, come on, put us out of our misery. How did it go?’
‘Okay, so—’ Camille stopped midsentence, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise.
Poppy glanced over her shoulder to where the ma?tre d’ was pointing a newly arrived patron to their table. She smiled as she watched étienne make his way towards them, a huge bouquet of pink and cream peonies in his hand, which he presented to Camille with a flourish, his face colouring as she jumped from her seat to deposit kisses on his cheeks, before he repeated the gesture with Hélène, Odette and Poppy, and shook Fabien’s hand.
Poppy was thrilled when she saw the effect étienne’s presence had on Camille’s demeanour, which was even more joyous than when she’d been talking to John-Claude Barbier. After ordering their meal, her friend spent the next hour regaling them with every second of her experience at H?tel d’Or, from the moment she’d arrived to the precise details of the conversation with Jean-Claude, while Poppy enjoyed salmon tartare, sole meunière and the most magnificent lemon soufflé she had ever tasted, accompanied by the very best Champagne.
It was one of the most enjoyable evenings Poppy had been part of in a long time, made even better when she caught the undeniable glint of affection in Fabien’s eyes whenever he looked in her direction. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the kisses they had shared the previous evening.
Her time in Paris was turning out better than she could have ever imagined.
She had made a real connection with a man who was handsome, generous, considerate, a great chef, a supportive friend, and who seemed to really “get” her. She had expanded her knowledge of all-things patisserie and had experimented with a variety of twists on the original to create something delicious and unique. She had made a start on her romcom novel and, inspired by her surroundings, she was enjoying scribbling in her journal, having fun as the story developed.
Paris had been a revelation.
She had met some wonderful people, been to some amazing places, and done some extraordinary things, things that she would never have considered attempting before, like fencing. She smiled, a surge of emotion rolling through her chest as she watched her new friends raise their glasses once more to toast Camille’s success.
And she had changed.
She couldn’t believe how, after only a couple of weeks in the City of Light, she had felt comfortable enough to attend a catwalk show – by herself. She had certainly stepped outside her comfort zone that night and it felt good. No, it felt fantastic! She was proud of what she had achieved in such a short space of time, and she fully intended to continue to explore her new life, a life in which she was no longer a follower, but a leader.
Just like Camille.