7. Chapter Seven #2
No reply. I peeked to the side and caught him looking at me. My cheeks went red as my cock began to plump. Claude’s smoky hazel eyes flared then narrowed. “To your seat, Kinder.”
I made my way out of the backstage area, hands shaking, and sat down next to Freja.
She gave me a nervous nod. My body was alive, jittery, and not only from this epic moment in the Kinder Graham story.
Had I really caught Claude checking me out?
Did he really think I was lovely? Just thinking about it made me even harder so I crossed my legs to hide the boner I was sporting. How fucking embarrassing.
Get it together. If you win you can’t stand up with a hardon. Think of something nonsexual.
Right, yeah, something to take the starch out of my dick. I pulled up a painful memory of our downstairs neighbor on the day she went outside to water her begonias in only her bra, granny panties, and support stockings.
Dick softened instantly. Worked every time.
Back to the show and Freja’s work. Her design had been outlandishly amazing.
Tall collar, trim waist, a massive five panel mermaid skirt with flounces of chiffon.
Not a soul outside someone attending the Met Gala would have worn her creation, or mine to be honest, but that was what avant garde was all about.
Breaking boundaries. If clothes that sparked the love of bread wasn’t experimental and daring I didn’t know what was.
Time felt as if it was dragging yet speeding at the same time.
There were some really strong designs that had been shown, and some pretty dismal ones.
Dante, the poor guy, hadn’t finished his gown after ripping it apart to start over so he’d tried his best to hide the unfinished seams on the bodice.
He’d thrown together a bolero jacket to hide the mess.
It wasn’t working. The judges had been frowning as his model had done her best.
When the last creation – Chadwick’s wildly innovative ballgown of buttery taffeta with vertical slices to resemble the angled scoring found on loaves of French bread – disappeared behind the backdrops with the academie logos the upbeat music flowing into the room stopped.
“That’s a break. Designers move to the lounge to your left.
The judges are going to confer then we shall call you back,” Xavier shouted as crew and staffers converged on us.
Cameras followed us into a small room filled with sofas, a cooler with drinks, and a few ottomans.
No windows. Just us sixteen nervous people packed into a far-too small room.
“I can’t feel my toes,” Nova, the contestant from Australia, announced then slid her feet from her narrow purple boots.
“I’m going to be sent home,” Dante whimpered before burying his face into his hands to weep softly.
Everyone else was stunned by the breakdown.
Yes, those of us in the fashion world were known to be emotional creatures.
Famous designers could be megalomaniacs to be sure.
Just Google designer tantrums. The internet is full of them.
A small woman with a handheld camera moved in closer to Dante.
I pushed from my seat beside my roommate to drop down beside Dante who was bowed over on a lime-green ottoman.
“Hey, dude, it’s okay. You’re going to be just fine.
” Was it a lie? Yeah, it was. His creation was the worst. Would he go home?
Probably. But being a big brother for ten years had plucked some sort of empathy string inside me.
Seeing someone cry made me want to make them feel better.
“I mean we all have bad days. Starting over was killer. The premise was amazing, and the headdress was cool as fuck.”
I rubbed his back as he worked at getting himself under control.
The cameras never stopped recording. Deep down I wanted to tell them to fuck off and let the guy breath but this was what we’d signed up for.
Reality TV was all about the drama, the tears, the bitch fests.
Didn’t mean I had to like it. A sharp rap on the door took our attention, and the cameras for a second, off Dante to Camilo sticking his head into the lounge.
“They’re ready for you. Come along. Hurry.
” He waved us along, stopping Dante to pass along a hankie.
Camilo was a good guy. I followed the rest onto the runway where we were lined up like targets in a shooting gallery.
Probably by the time the judges were done ripping our work into shreds we’d all feel like we’d been peppered with condemnatory bullets. Dante was on my left, Esme on my right.
“Welcome back to the runway,” Soline said with a soft smile as she looked us all over.
“Every challenge raises the bar, yes?” We all nodded.
“The competition gets tougher. Today, one of you will stand out from the crowd, and one of you may be packing your bags. The question is: who has brought us what we want? Vision, confidence of design, and a point of view that demands attention. Now we will see. If I call your name you may leave the runway as your designs have been judged highly enough to see you remain.”
My guts were tied in knots. I wished I had eaten something to soak up the stupid amount of coffee I’d ingested since I’d woken up before dawn.
One by one the judges pulled a contestant from the pack to give us short critiques before sending us off.
When I was called up to stand with the ones who were safe I felt immense relief that I’d be here for another challenge but also some disappointment and frustration as well.
I wanted to win. I had to win. This show, that prize money, the scholarship.
Those would lift me and my family out of poverty.
Being one among many of mediocre designers wouldn’t cut it.
“Kinder, I liked your look,” Gabriel said with a kind smile. “It was bold, eye-catching, and the draping was outstanding.”
“Yes, I agree. You have a fine hand with draping material. It is not an easy skill to learn. Draping is about paying homage to the body’s natural contours and curves. Well done.”
I softly thanked Soline then headed back to the lounge with the other so-so designs. Claude stood behind the backdrops.
“You all did well,” he told us as we gathered round him.
He handed out comments to each one of us while Pamplemousse napped in his tote.
When it was my turn I found his gaze to be soft, almost caring.
“Kinder, your gown was well-crafted, inventive, and nicely sewn. You do have a touch with draping as Soline said but your garment had too many folds, and while the draping was elegant the overabundance took away from it. Editing. It is so important. That goes for all of you who are in the middle. As Coco Chanel once advised, ‘When you leave the house, look in the mirror and take one thing off.’ This is the lesson many of you have learned today.”
“Merci, Claude,” I whispered as if this conversation were just him and I and not him, nine other people, a snoring dog, and five cameras.
We made our way to the lounge where we flopped down, sipped bottled raspberry waters, and waited for the winner to arrive. Enzo Pirasbounced in, a gleeful smile on his face, followed by the two runners up. Then Rafeal slipped in looking downcast as did Suki. We all glanced at each other.
“Dante is left. They’re going to send him home,” Suki confided while cracking open a bottle of water. We all nodded. We’d kind of known. His creation was a mess. “Soline said his design was the antithesis of joyous expression.”
“Ouch, damn,” I groaned. Mickey hissed and held his side as if stabbed.
“Yeah, it was brutal. They called him out everything. The proportions not working, the shoddy workmanship. I felt so bad for him. They weren’t kind to any of us. Being in the bottom hurts.”
Zara rubbed her back then looked at me, large brown eyes filled with worry. That was when the door opened. Dante entered with Claude behind him.
“I’m going home,” Dante said as tears began to stream down his cheeks.
I felt so bad. We all got to our feet to say goodbye among hugs and well wishes.
We hardly knew each other but every one of us knew how much it hurt to have our art torn apart.
Much like an art critic bashing an oil painting or a book reviewer maligning a novel.
That shit cut deep. These were our ideas, our creations, our sweat, tears, and yes blood at times – needles and shears are sharp – on display.
Cameras rolled, sound techs hid in corners, and Dante forced a smile then was given a firm handshake by Claude.
“You possess much talent or you would not have been chosen. Keep refining your work and someday we will see you at Paris Fashion week,” he told Dante then opened the door for him to exit.
With a wobbly wave the first designer was gone.
The door closed. Claude gave us all a firm look.
“There is now one less. Take what you have learned today, store it away with your prized shears, and remember your lessons. Go now. Eat, sleep, rest. Tomorrow a new challenge will be presented to you.”
“Merci, Claude.”
And out of the lounge we were led to a tiny room where we all gave our thoughts about the first competition and losing Dante.
I was honest. That was what they wanted we’d been told.
I said I’d liked Dante and his creative eye but the critique from Claude had knocked him off his game.
Maybe I was just tired as hell and things were rolling out of my mouth when they shouldn’t be but they asked for the truth so I gave it to them.
I admired, and yes secretly lusted after Claude, but his comments had sank Dante.
Thinking on what I said that night as I lay in bed listening to Mickey singing an old Beastie Boys song in the shower I had to wonder if the candor the producers so craved was going to bite me on the ass when I saw Claude tomorrow.