5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Someone with tea breath was shaking me awake in the middle of the night.
“Hey, buddy, time to rise. We’ve got about twenty minutes to make it to the lobby.”
My eyes were too heavy to even crack open so I moaned like a lovesick cow then tried to fall back asleep.
Tea breath wasn’t having it. He shook me harder then pinched the underside of my bicep.
That got my eyes open. I rose up to all fours like a grizzly who’d been poked with a sharp stick. Kind of sounded like one as well.
The man next to my bed snorted in amusement as I glared at him, one side of my dry lip raised.
“You look like Gran’s Pug when someone wakes him from his nap,” Mickey tossed out then sat down on his unmade bed.
“Hated to wake you up. I know that jetlag is brutal but late isn’t acceptable for the lord and master of this elegant keep.
” He waved a hand heavy with rings at the small room. “Kettles hot if you want a fast cuppa.”
“Coffee,” I moaned as I sat back on my heels, my hamstrings tight as fuck from sitting for so long yesterday. The stretch felt good even if it did sting.
“Well, there’s an espresso machine. I can whip you up a cup while you tame your hair and shave,” he offered.
“Sure, yeah, okay.” I’d never had espresso but it was a form of coffee so it had to be good.
“Extra-large,” I mumbled while leaving my bed to hit the bathroom.
It was still steamy from my roommate’s shower.
The counter was covered with hair gel to hold that hawk in place so I made room for a towel then jumped under the showerhead then cranked it on.
The burst was chilly at first but warmed quickly.
With no time to waste I washed the sleep from my face, soaked my head, and ran a soapy washcloth over me just hitting the high spots.
Five minutes later I was dressed, combed, unshaven, and staring in disappointment at the tiny cup of coffee Mickey had prepared for me.
“This is pathetic,” I sighed before tossing it back in one gulp. “I should have brought a mug from home, and a coffee pot.”
“You Yanks do like to supersize everything.” He tugged on an oversized vest with some intricate seaming that went well with his tartan pants. The shirt under the vest was a dull green tee with an alien face reading ‘Have you been probed today?’ which was kind of funny in a stupid way.
“The airport in Denver has this restaurant where you can get a bucket sized cup of coffee to go.” I slid my feet into my sneakers. “They boast it’s the biggest cup of coffee Colorado. I had one while I waited for my flight. Wish I had that now.”
“You’ll be grateful you only had that wee cup I wager. Who knows what kind of hell they’ll be putting us through today.”
He made for the door. I grabbed my sewing kit from my upended suitcase, pulled on a Boho flower hippie jacket I’d made for myself with some psychedelic material I’d found at a yard sale.
“Nice.” Mickey gave my jacket a nod then we rushed out the door.
The halls were quiet yet aside from a group of young women at the elevator.
“Some of our peers. Let’s say hi,” Mickey said then called out to the women.
The intros were fast. Suki Navarro from Japan was a tiny thing in a vivid floral dress, Ayumi Cross a chubby woman from Thailand wore a slim suit with a ton of jewelry, Nova Sinclair who lived in Australia was a tall skinny designer who was rocking a large tee with tight jeans.
Freja Lennox from Sweden was blond and shy as we quickly exchanged greetings before the elevator doors opened.
Freja was clad in a bright pink skirt with a bold pattern blouse.
I’d never been packed into an elevator with so many other designers.
Shop talk took off right away. We were still discussing what our brands were – not that I had one yet but many in the elevator did – when the doors opened to the lobby.
Stepping out was akin to walking into another world.
There were at least two dozen people in the main welcoming area.
People with cameras, people with boom mics, people sitting, people standing, people running.
It was chaos but I had to assume it was controlled chaos.
Claude stood off to the side of the grand staircase getting a last minute touchup from a woman with a makeup tote.
A lean man with dark hair combed to the side was taking Monsieur Pamplemousse to the front door for a walk.
Along the far wall, where the display case filled with past students creations, stood four men in suits.
One I thought I recognized but surely it couldn’t be him. IT sure looked like him though but—
“Finally. Okay, let’s go. You’re all to be lined up at the foot of the grand stairs when she makes her entrance.
Everyone needs to be stunned, awed, and overwhelmed when she presents herself.
Tears are fine, as is bouncing in adoration.
Whispering to each other about how amazing she is would be great.
Stand here.” Camilo – who looked about as wiped out as me – hustled us over to another small group of smartly dressed people.
The rest of the contestants I guessed by their assessing looks at what we were wearing.
I was horribly underdressed but it was too late to change now.
I nodded at the men and women waiting for the grand entrance of… whoever the host would be.
Someone off to the side called for quiet. The cast and crew fell into silence.
“Everyone is needed to be silent now,” an older man with dark red hair bellowed. “She is ready to descend. When we have cameras rolling in three, two, one…”
Claude, who I was staring at, met my look for a moment.
A flash of recognition lit up his gaze before his sight went to the staircase.
He looked amazing. Dark gray suit, jacket longer in the back, which was the style of the season, slim slacks, no socks with his loafers.
The shirt under his asymmetrical jacket was a buttery soft lemon just like the vest his dog was showing off as he piddled on a streetlamp outside.
My gaze flicked from Claude to a woman at the top of the stairs.
I didn’t have to pretend to be awed. Soline Valmont drank in the adoration of everyone packed into the main vestibule of the Barrons Academie.
In her early fifties now Soline was the epitome of grace, style, and fame.
The once supermodel still maintained her famously toted figure of 38-27-38 quite proudly.
Dark brunette hair resting on her shoulders, bright green eyes made-up to perfection, she was wearing a butternut squash toned wool wrap dress that hugged her body like a glove.
A Claude Barrons creation. I’d bet the farm on it.
It had his touch in the draping. The demure evergreen was perfect as it rested on her creamy pale skin.
Discovered at the age of sixteen walking near the Palais Garnier she became the youngest face of a major Paris luxury fashion house ever signed.
She closed shows during Paris Fashion Week for three consecutive years.
An ungodly rare achievement. Forty international covers of Vogue.
Earned the nickname "The Ice Rose of Paris" for her elegant runway presence. She went on to become the highest paid French model in the twenty-tens she walked more than a hundred run way shows in Paris, Milan, New York, and London in a single year. Then she turned her sights on film after winning all of the major fashion awards. She made Midnight on the Seine, The Velvet Empire, and a few others which brought her more awards such as best actress at the Cannes Film Festival and an Academy Award nomination for The Velvet Empire. She received France’s Ordre des Arts et les Lettres for her contributions to culture.
Hell, she even inspired her own hairstyle called ‘The Valmont Cut’ which she still wore to this day.
“Holy hell,” Mickey whispered. No one among us peons spoke.
We just stared. This was a coup of epic proportions for the show.
Of course Soline and Claude were close. She wore his clothes all the time.
She seemed to float down the stairs as a small round of polite applause broke out among the crew, students watching from the balcony above, and we designers.
Claude moved from his spot to offer her his hand for the last two steps, tucking it into the crook of his arm as she stepped down to ground level.
“Bonjour,” Soline said with a smile that probably stopped traffic out on the street.
She bussed Claude on both his cheeks. I was close to weeping to be in such exalted company.
Several of the designers on the show were openly crying.
“I am overjoyed to be your host and one of the judges for this premiere season of étoiles de Style!” Her accent was cultured as it flowed over us and the filming cameras like warm honey.
“I shall let my dear friend Claude explain the minutia of the show while I whisk these up and coming designers to one of my favorite boulangerie where they will learn of the first design contest!”
“What is the comment?” A tall, heavyset man with a Spanish accent asked as Claude and Soline exchanged tender hugs.
“Something about showing us the first challenge,” I whispered to the side, my sight darting back to Claude and Soline smiling at each other with devotion. “Kinder Graham,” I added. He nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Dante Rossi. I’m from Spain. You’re American,” he asked then got a dark look from one of the sound techs.
I pretended to zip my lips. He did the same.
My attention settled back on the power couple at the foot of the grand stairwell.
Soline was stunning. Claude was stunning.
How was there such gorgeous people on this planet?
What kind of gene pool lottery did they win at the moment when sperm wiggled into egg?
Sure, I was okay. The dark looks of my mother’s heritage were a blessing as was her bone structure but I was a wart on a troll’s ass compared to the luxe twosome before us. Soline waved goodbye to Claude.
“And now we are on our way! Come along ducklings. Waddle after Mother Ice Rose,” Soline called as she was shown to the front doors. Waddle. Like hell. That woman moved as if she were on the runway. Camilo broke from the mass of crew gathered scurrying around.
“You heard Mama Duck, waddle along. Quack, quack.” Our wrangler clapped his hands to get us moving. I shot a glance over my shoulder at Claude addressing a camera, his dog being placed into his arm. His hazel gaze found mine and held it tightly.
I tripped over someone’s huge foot.
“Sorry mate, they’re always in the way,” Mickey said as we tumbled out the front doors of the academie like a pack of exuberant beagle pups. “But you know what they say.”
“Something about big feet equaling a small penis?” I fired back.
The others around us tittered. Mickey barked out a laugh before we were gently pushed in the direction of a waiting van.
“Good one. We’re going to get on famous,” Mickey told me with a firm rap on the bicep.
“Inside. Hurry along. The restaurant is waiting. Ayomi why are you trying to cross the street?” Camilo yelled out. Ayomi flushed bright pink then dove into the van.
“I saw a sign for Ferragamo,” she confessed once we were packed into the custom made Mercedes van. “My feet found life of their own.”
Camilo, seated beside a driver who looked like he wanted to be doing anything else including having a tooth extracted without Novocain, wiggled around to face us in the back.
“They’ll be having their fall bags coming out in a week or so,” Nova informed us.
Chatter about bags, belts, and shoes broke out. Camilo whistled through his teeth. We fell silent.
“Thank you. I understand the lure of a Ferragamo belt. I own five. But we are not to leave the group while outside. Every moment is scripted. Your time belongs to us now. I promise there will be a day or two where you can wander the city but is also under supervision. Now, for the rest of the day you’ll be having a sit-down breakfast with Soline and Claude where they will announce, on camera, your first challenge.
Claude will escort you back to the academie where you will begin working on your designs. ”
“How long do we have to finish?” I asked because someone had to.
“That will be discussed at breakfast. We want your reactions to be fresh and unrehearsed. Now sit back and enjoy the ride. If you look quickly on your left you’ll be able to see Notre-Dame.
Rumor has it there is currently no-one named Quasimodo hiding in the bell tower but there is a beautiful Romani woman named Esmerelda and a small goat performing on the streets near the basilica. ”
I chuckled softly. My sisters loved Disney movies. I could sing along to most of them, and did when prompted, even though I was off-key. I’d barely left home and I missed them already.
Every head save the drivers turned to the left to grab a fast peek at the famed cathedral.
Oohs filled the van. Suki began crying. As my sight touched on the famed facade my stomach growled softly.
Not even flying buttresses could tame the rumble of a hungry American in Paris. If only I could dance like Gene Kelly…