18. Chapter Eighteen #2
I said nothing. The woman was upset enough.
Yelling at her now would only make things worse.
She was bloated. We’d work around it. Stress rode on the hip of a fashion designer like a dog in a sling.
God I missed Claude. I totally got how Nash felt.
I’d eaten enough junk over the past few days to try to ease my melancholy heart to sink a damn ship.
I was bloated too. Only thing was I didn’t need to stick to exact measurements like fashion models did.
“No problem. We’ll make this work.” I took the bustier to a corner, sat down, and with a pair of trusty seam rippers began working at a side seam. Nash dried her eyes as I worked, whispering with the other models about how truly terrible men and menstrual cycles were.
“Okay, let’s try this.” I rushed to wrap the bustier around her.
She tucked her breasts inside, inhaled, and with some gentle persuasion we slowly got her zipped up.
“Good. Fine. No sour cream and onion chips can defeat us.” I eased her arms into the jacket.
With the puffiness of her tummy it was not going to button properly for that fitted jacket.
“New plan. When you hit your stop do not take the jacket off for any reason. The judges will see the shoddy seams. Just open it slightly to show the bustier and your amazing cleavage then finish your walk.”
Mom yelled yay over in the corner as she was giving a skirt a last minute steam to work out any wrinkles from being packed into a garment bag.
The trailer door opened. “Models to the runway. Designer to their seats,” Kris, one of dozens of crew members, barked. They were stressed just as we were. This day was going to be horrendously long. Two shows, hundreds of shoots and reshoots, celebrities…
“Okay,” I ran over to help Monique into the freshly steamed skirt, button her up in the back, and then give the blouse she was modeling a final onceover. “Gorgeous. Let’s go.”
I followed my models out into the cool fall day.
The Eiffel Tower stood majestically behind us as we made our way to the rapidly erected backdrops with art deco images of the Paris skyline.
There we joined the other designers who all looked as keyed up as I felt.
Mickey was pale as curd, Enzo was chewing on a pen cap, and Zara was eating the cuticle around her thumb.
She yet had said one word to me or would meet my eye.
I was torn on how to deal with her so the silence worked for now.
Soline met us wearing a stunning blue suit fitted to perfection. Wide lapels, a silk slip of a blouse, and wide bell bottom slacks. She was to beautiful it robbed me of my breath for a moment. She gave us all a warm smile.
“Hello my little ducks! Are we excited?” Soline asked. We all groaned like we all had food poisoning. “Poor darlings. Nerves are a good thing though as they sharpen your focus and give you energy. Which you will need to get through this most amazing day!”
How was she always so chipper? I wanted to puke.
“So, this is the day. By nine this evening we will have a winner of étoiles de Style. I wanted to take a moment before I lose you to your destinies to tell each of you how proud Claude and I are of you all. He wishes he could be here but as you know he is indisposed temporarily but his heart is here.” Her gaze darted to me then was quickly pulled away by producers and sound men and a dozen other staffers needing her to step out to open the show.
“I’ll see you after the show. I love you,” Mom whispered before joining the rest of the friends and family that were here for Mickey, Enzo, and Zara.
They were escorted to the front row on either side of the judges.
She got to sit next to a famous soap opera starlet.
That would give her something to talk about for years.
I smiled then softly burped. Anxiety burps were a thing.
“Good luck,” I said to my fellow contestants. They all said the same thing back, even Zara, and then we were told to be ready. Soline made her entrance to thunderous applause from the hundreds of VIP guests.
“Bonjour!” She called into the mic to which everyone seated and those on the other side of the fencing barriers replied in kind.
“Welcome to the finale of the very first season of étoiles de Style! We are so very excited to have you here for this day of fashion and fun. Sadly my dearest friend Claude Barrons, who has been the advisor for our new designers all season was not able to attend the shows today due to illness.”
Broken hearts were a medical condition I guess. God knows mine had been paining me for days now. “We wish him a speedy recovery. Yes, yes, our director is tapping his watch. I do tend to talk too much I know. Let’s get our designers out here shall we?”
Our names were called, one by one, to wave, bow, and smile before being sent backstage to supervise the models. Which was where we belonged.
We’d drawn straws – actually they were numbered bobbins in a hat box - days ago to set up who went when.
For the ready to wear section I was second.
For the red carpet this evening I was last. Closing a show could be bad, or it could be good, it all depended on the wow factor of the clothes.
I’d poured my fucking heart, soul, tears, sweat, and whatever else I owned into my final designs.
I prayed they would be good enough. Right now some divine intervention and some Alka-Seltzer were all I needed.
Tomorrow my needs would be vastly different one way or the other…
***
Nighttime in Paris was magical.
Nighttime with the Eiffel Tower behind you and your clothes being walked under the lighted tower is beyond anything a young guy from North Dakota could have dreamed.
Closing the show was working well for me.
I felt the judges had enjoyed my ready to wear looks if one could make assumptions on four people with no expressions.
It was the vibe I’d told Mickey after the day show had wrapped and we’d been whisked up the tower to sip champagne, take photos, and do even more confessionals.
Looking out over Paris, my nose tickled by find bubbly, I felt the pull of France – and this city – in the depths of my being.
I didn’t want to leave. Ever. As my final piece was strutted to perfection by Monique I watched with a mixture of pride in my accomplishment and abject fear of losing.
Losing would mean going home with my Mom in two days. Never coming back. Never seeing Claude again. Never getting out of the fucking feed mill…
No, no. Nothing but positive vibes. The energy you sent out you got back tenfold Ivy always told me when I grew dour.
Watching the sixties look inspired by that memory of my parents I knew I’d done the best I could and now it was all in the hands of the judges.
Enzo and Zara had shown well. Mickey’s designs had been exceptional.
He was my biggest competitor. When my Jackie O dress disappeared into the darkness I threw my head up, patted my father’s hat into place, and made my designers bow walk hand in hand with Monique.
The guests stood to applaud my clothes but they’d done the same for the other designers.
Still it felt good to see world famous designers clapping for my work.
Even if it were merely being polite I’d take it.
There was a cut in the filming as we shared hugs with our models.
A commercial cut I called it where they would slip in ads before returning to the show.
I gave each of my models a kiss on their cheek and glowing compliments.
There would be no show without the women and men exhibiting our clothes on the catwalk.
“Designers to the stage for final judging,” Camilo shouted as he darted around sound crew and cables stretched out like snakes writhing around in a mating frenzy. “You all did amazing. Seriously, I could not pick a winner. The judges will be hard pressed.”
We shook his hand before stepping out onto the runway. The judges we had come to know and like so well – even if they were harsh at times – all nodded at us as we took our place side-by-side.
“Welcome back designers,” Soline said, her evening gown of soft silver glistening in the lights shining down on us.
The crowd applauded politely as we murmured a weak hellos.
“You four made this decision very difficult. Each of you brought us clothes that were incredibly lovely. Your ready to wear collections were young, hip, and elegant. The red carpet looks were to die for. Honestly, I saw four gowns that made my little heart falter as I gazed on their beauty!”
The gathered guests laughed as did the other judges. “It was a close call for the paramedics but I pulled through. But you are not sweating bullets to listen to me gush about your clothes.”
“We don’t mind,” Mickey chimed up, always the chatterbox. Everyone laughed.
“No, I suppose not,” Soline smiled. “Still there is a party at the L’éclipse Dorée to attend afterwards, plus a little thing like your futures so I will stop blabbering.
The four of us have tallied the scores of your six designs, taking the totals for your day looks and your red carpet looks then adding any extra points we may award for excellence in hair, makeup, and accessories.
In the event of a tie the final decision would have been made by me but, Dieu merci, there was no tie.
” She was stretching this out on purpose.
If one of us died from the wait it would be on her dark head.
“The winner of season one of étoiles de Style is…” another long dramatic gap as we all sweated through our shorts.
“Mickey Blake! Second place is Kinder Graham. Third to Enzo Piras and fourth to Zara Akello.”