4. Chapter Four #2
“American. Self-taught. Yes, I remember seeing your face now. The photos did not do you justice.”
The throaty tone of his voice, his languid tumbling accent, was like an intimate whisper in the dark. I could feel myself getting aroused. I needed to shut that shit down now.
“Thank you again. Can I just say what an honor and privilege it is to be here?” I couldn’t feel my toes now.
Was I stroking out? No I didn’t think so.
I was just elated to be this close to the man who I’d worshipped – along with Cristobal Balenciaga – for years. “I’ll do my best on every challenge.”
“It is not me you have to impress but the judges. I am your advisor, your guide, but know this Kinder Graham from North Dakota.” I’d never heard my home state said with such beautiful, effortless grace.
“I will not be easy on you. Fashion is not a business for those who have paper skins. You will learn I am just, fair, and brutally honest in my walkthroughs.”
“Yes, sir, thank you. I look forward to your critiques and feedback.”
His gaze held mine for a long, long moment before he shook free. Taking a step back his shoulders stiffened.
“We’ll see if you are thanking me by the end of the show. Most curse me.”
He walked off, his dog peeking over the top of the tote to glare at me with tiny glittering eyes. A huge rush of air exited me as he turned the corner without looking back.
Holy shit. That had been everything. Even if I was eliminated on the first round I’d always have this meeting to hold close.
Not that I had any plans of being booted first thing.
Now that I was here, had breathed in the smells and sounds of the academie and its founder, I wasn’t leaving until I had won it all.
My family was depending on me. I could not, would not, let them or myself down.
***
Shooting TV shows was harder than I’d imagined.
And we’d not even started the real filming.
We’d just done an intro, supposedly spontaneous, but after ten takes the spontaneity had worn off.
Then they’d wanted snippets of me posing with my shears – flown all the way from America in my sewing kit because old they may be but they’d belonged to my grandmother so they always cut with love and some random bolts of fabric.
They had me walk, pose, pout, and pretend to be using a lovely roll of lavender chiffon as a battle axe.
To chop down the other designers maybe? Who the fuck knows.
I was too brain-drained to appreciate the artistic take on textile warfare.
Camilo showed me to my room as he told me we’d be up at six to take part in a welcome breakfast at a local eatery with Claude and the host. The host who was still a mystery to us and the world.
“Get some sleep. Set an alarm. Tardiness will set Claude off ask me how I know,” he gave me a tired smile then ambled off to find his bed I assumed.
With a swipe of my key card the lock clicked and I slipped into a room I’d presumed would be dark.
Nope, not in the least. A small wall lamp was on, showing my roommate to be wide awake.
A tall, lanky sort of guy sat up, pulled off his earbuds, and gave me a winning grin.
“Hey, you’re finally here. Thought about tucking in for the night but wanted to be awake to greet you.
” He pushed to his big bare feet to allow his Union Jack nightie to fall to his knees.
His red mohawk was limp, tumbling down to hide half his lean face.
“Mickey Blake. Evening wear, classic silhouettes with a slim cut, leather fetishist at times.” He held out his hand. I tossed my bags to the floor to shake.
“Kinder Graham. Repurposed Boho Chic, men’s wear, women’s streetwear, some cocktail and evening wear as well.”
“You proper done in. Why not grab a shower then get your head down? We can have a natter in the morning,” he said as our hands fell apart.
“That sounds amazing. You cool with me just throwing my shit in the corner for now?”
“Totally. My stuff is still unpacked and I’ve been here for two days.
Locked up in this bloody hotel with no phone.
Seen the rubbish they got on telly. Look at this.
” He waved at an old black-and-white western on the wall-mounted set.
“Good thing is we can hang with the other designers who seem alright. Not unlike our beloved advisor.”
I paused toeing off my shoes. God my feet were tired. Smelly too I was sure. They’d been in my sneaks with no air for what felt like days. “Claude?”
“Right. Claude ‘I am God’ Barrons. Tore me a new arsehole yesterday for holding up a production meeting of some sort. How was I to help it? I have slow bowels. No rushing my colon. So I was sat on the loo reading a book I’d brought, some lengthy boring vomit from a serial philanderer back in the early sixties, trying to force a shit when someone’s pounding on my door.
Cutting off a log isn’t a pleasant thing but I do it, wash, run out with my trousers undone to answer the door.
There stands Barrons, bold as a button with that damn dog on his bloody hip tapping his gold watch.
Goes off at me in French then jumps to English to dress me down as if I’d personally ruined his day.
Tells me being late is a sign of disrespect that shows him my regard for his time is nil.
Then him and his dog sniff at me like I’m something they found on their shoe before storming off. ”
"That bad?" I caught maybe ninety percent of what he said. The other ten percent disappeared into an accent so aggressively British my brain had to file a formal request for translation.
"Mate, if looks could kill, I'd have been buried this morning."
“Wow.” I couldn’t think of any other response. Claude had seemed distant but polite to me, but I had been warned about being late. “That sucks.”
“Right it does. Well, he’ll be eying me for a bit I think but he’s not a judge so if he’s got a stick up his arse about me then so what?”
“Okay.” I didn’t know what to say but Claude could make things rough for Mickey even if he wasn’t judging our garments. “Sorry he jumped down your throat. I’m going to get a shower and crash. Camilo said it’s a six am wake up.”
“Ugh, fuck me up the bunger. Yeah, they like that kind of shite. Well, you go wash your face and arse, in that order, and I’ll get the room ready for bed. Nice meeting you. I think we’re going to get on quite well over all. Long as you don’t nick my ideas or designs.”
“Yeah, me too. I won’t, no worries.” I smiled wearily, dug into my suitcase to find some clean fleece and socks while nudging an old Bowler hat aside, then showered.
Mickey was snoring softly when I exited the small, steamy shower.
Taking a fast peek around I noted a cramped kitchenette, two closets, two twin beds, and one desk with a chair.
Lap of luxury. Whatever. I didn’t need a luxe suite.
I slept on a foldout couch at home so a real bed under me was divinity itself.
Falling into the bed I fumbled to find the right switch over the phone provided by the hotel.
One sluggish idea about maybe calling out on that flared to life then flittered out.
Sleep didn’t sneak up on me wearing satin slippers.
It stood over me then dropped a dress form on my head.