Coco extended a hand. “I’m Coco—”
“Chanel!” Celine spat out quickly—too quickly for her brain to shoot a signal to her mouth and keep it shut. But the word had left her lips and all Celine could do was clear her throat. “TheCoco Chanel, maman.”
An expression of horror crossed Coco’s face, turning her skin paler than Celine’s own had been the entire morning.
“I—” Coco stammered. She cast Celine a confused glance.
Celine’s brows came together in a plea.Please, play along. I will explain everything tomorrow.
Recovering fast, Coco returned to Madame LeBeau. “Oui, pleased to meet you Madame.”
Her mother quirked a brow, trying to peer through the shade cast on Coco’s features by her hat. “My, my. Pardon me for my confusion, Mademoiselle Chanel, but I had always assumed you would be…”
“Older?” Coco filled in, struggling to mask her accent. Celine shut her eyes tightly, cursing herself for forgetting that the real Coco Chanel would turn thirty eight that year. Although it helped that Coco’s hair was bobbed (despite it being strawberry blonde) and that her style matched that of the real Chanel’s. “No need for apologies, Madame. It is merely cosmetics. I am experimenting with a new line and who better to try it on first than myself, don’t you think?” She chuckled nervously. “Good to know it works.”
“Right, right,” Madame LeBeau mused quietly.
Celine chewed on her bottom lip violently, expecting to taste blood at the ripped skin. The only person who seemed to be enjoying all of this was Anaïs, who continued munching on her chocolate bonbons like she was sitting at a picture. When she caught Celine’s narrow glance, she shrugged, as if to sayI’m not saying anything. But this is what you get for weaving a large web. One British breeze and it all comes apart.
“I’m assuming,” Madame LeBeau dragged out, and that was enough for the three girls to whip their heads in attention. “That you will want my daughter featured on the cover again?”
“Nothing like that, maman. Mademoiselle Chanel was only…” Celine trailed off, unsure.
Oh no. No, no.
Real panic swept in now. How could she be out of lies already? How could there be an allotted amount of lies per brain?
What to say? What to say? What to say?
“She has agreed to design Celine’s gown,” chimed Anaïs, nodding proudly at her swift intervention. “For the birthday soirée. Remember? You said you wanted it to be something special.”
“Is that so?” Madame LeBeau droned, cutting her daughter an icy glare. “I wish Celine would have told me earlier. I certainly hope it will be something appropriate. A long silhouette, of course.”
“Of course,” Coco nodded without missing a beat.
“And no ruffles. I detest them. And no—”
“Maman,” Celine interrupted, slipping her fingers underneath her glove to scratch her wrist. If she kept lying at this pace, she would soon hit bone. “We should let Mademoiselle Chanel be on her way now if we want that dress ready for the party. You can send her a list of preferences later, no?”
“Right,” Anaïs added, guiding Madame LeBeau away. “Besides, Celine and I are supposed to meet Jacques and Grandfather at the races in”—she gave her wrist a flick, consulting her watch—“forty minutes. We best be on our way too.”
Hearing that, Madame LeBeau needed little persuasion to give her thanks and goodbyes to Coco, following Anaïs into the car. Celine tarried behind for a moment, just to clarify what had happened. But Coco was already waving a hand in the air as if to dissipate the thought from Celine’s mind.
“Explain it to me at Maison Baudelaire. It gets awfully droll there with everyone focused on their work. I will see you soon.”
Once Coco was back in her car, waving a small goodbye, Celine let out a grateful smile. Though she had been lucky they had run into someone who didn’t wish her imminent doom, she still had to be more careful.
Slipping into the backseat, she drew in a deep breath and eyed the storefronts as they left Place Vendôme.
• • •
“Bonjour, Monsieur Ménard.”
Celine shielded her eyes as she stepped into the private box the Ménards rented at Hippodrome de Longchamp Racecourse, Anaïs at her side.
The hand on her watch was slowly creeping eleven and the sun was still hanging high above the course. The sharp smell of dew and turf permeated the air, sneaking along the seats that lined the grandstand. Excitement electrified the atmosphere as they weaved through the throng of people who had come to watch.
Celine had never been much of an equestrian. Having fallen from a horse when she was younger, she was now terrified to so much as touch one. But Jacques adored them, so she’d become well acquainted with the jockeys and the race club. His purebred, Pharaoh, was Monsieur Ménard’s pride and joy, including the ten professional races it had won his grandson.
