Coco shrugged. “You could have handed Monsieur Baudelaire a wad of cash to enter, for all I care. I’m only competing for fun.”
“What?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, fashionismy passion. But my mother already owns a fashion house back in London. If I win, it will just be my excuse to stay in Paris and run my own house.”
Bastien could only guess what Celine was thinking. Her earlier smile had drooped a smidge. “Well,” she exhaled, “at least you are not intent on cheating, either.”
“That’s rich coming fromyou.” Franz Olivier joined in arrogantly, flicking a strand of blonde hair from his eyes as he advanced towards their station. “Weren’t you the first to break the rules, Mademoiselle LeBeau?”
The only sign of Celine’s exasperation was a long sigh. “The rules mentioned nothing about the gender of my model, Monsieur Olivier. I did not cheat.”
After the first day, Bastien had taken the liberty of doing a littleresearchabout their opponents. Celine might have been set on winning honestly, but Bastien had no qualms about playing dirty. Nor did he shy away from doing everything he could to get them to first place.
Living with Juliana was like an eternal party, but one week of sleeping on that crooked chaise and he could already feel his spine starting to deform. He needed to win, desperately.
So Bastien had done some digging. Or rather he’d asked Anaïs to dig around for him.
According to his sister, Franz Olivier already owned his ownmaison de mode. Only it was failing. At a time when ten major fashion houses ruled the industry in Paris, it was difficult for a small atelier to join the ranks. Gaining ownership over Maison Baudelaire would offer him that opportunity.
Bastien knew that someone with Franz’s ambition would stop at nothing to salvage his battered pride. Simply entering this competition must have cost him a lot more than he allowed to show.
“A word of advice, Mademoiselle LeBeau,” Franz said, hunching his shoulders slightly to reach Celine’s height. “Heretics are usually ousted. You won’t make a great challenge if you’re too unconventional.”
Celine peered at him from under her lashes, utterly calm. “Your fear only flatters me, Monsieur Olivier.”
Franz huffed.
“I’m glad you think I will be your greatest challenge.”
“Try not to get used to your new station,” Franz warned. “I have a feeling you will be parted from it earlier than you expect.” He dragged his eyes away, running them over Coco next. “The same applies to you, Miss Jones. That is, if Celine manages to win a round and you’re the one who leaves today.”
“Oh, I would love to claw out that smug smile from his face,” Coco said when Franz sauntered away.
Celine patted her arm. “Let’s give him a day or two, just to watch him sulk when he sees we’re still in the game.”
“I like you,” Coco announced. “I hope I get to face you in the finale.Bonne chance!”
Departing with a small wave, Coco returned to her station and began sketching long, enthusiastic lines on a piece of paper as large as her desk.
Realising he had a task to tend to, Bastien tried to sneak away quickly, when Celine caught him half-way across the cubicle. Hands on her waist, she squinted at him as though she was squashing his head in her mind.
“Didn’t I ask you to get me something?”
So bossy.
Bastien poked her cheek. “You know, you’d make a great dictator.”
“Believe me”—she batted his hand away—“you’re lucky I’m not one. Go make haste.”
Drumming his fingers along the spine of the pocketbook, Bastien ambled towards the fabric room.
It was relatively easy to navigate the fashion house, despite the grandeur of the building. The fabric room was located on the first floor, along with the designing hall. On the second floor, Monsieur Baudelaire presided over the competition from his office. And the rest of the building consisted of Maison Baudelaire’s current designers, working on wrapping up the twenty year long history of the House under Claude Baudelaire’s supervision. Soon it would be the winner who would take over.
Celine was more than talented enough to win, but she had been right earlier. The other contestants weren’t too happy with them being here. Bastien recalled Monsieur Baudelaire’s words about there being no rules when it came to the integrity of the competition. He worried that maybe some of the other designers wouldn’t mind stooping as low as sabotage to further their own progress along. He wasn’t sure if Celine had fully grasped this.
Descending a set of three stairs, Bastien reached the fabric room. The frosted glass door glided open easily and the concentrated scent of cloths was a violent greeting to his senses. Bastien began his search.
He wondered if Celine trusted him to choose for her because his mother had been a designer once too, or becauseshe just wanted him out of her hair. Whichever was her reason, Bastien was glad to have been given a task, especially one he actually knew how to do. He had spent most of his childhood swathed in his mother’s expensive rolls of fabric, watching her pin the first patterns of a gown on the white, half body mannequin she kept in her studio. She would murmur to him every step, even the stitching patterns she was using and the names of the pleats, until the sketch had taken a corporeal form.
