Celine reached for his thigh underneath the table and dug her nails in. He choked on his words, masking it with a cough.
“Great then,” Monsieur Ménard continued. “Do give me a list of those designers you wanted to meet. I might pull a few strings and get you to be the face of their brand if you want.”
There wasn’t much Celine could say to that other than a shy thank you.
“Anaïs, you too, my flower.”
“Merci,pépé. I will.”
Once Monsieur Ménard’s attention returned to the track again, Celine released Bastien’s thigh. “You forget that you stand to lose too, if anyone finds out.”
“Thanks to you, I have a physical reminder now.” His eyes flickered back and forth between her and his grandfather. “I thought you said you’d tell Jacques about…you-know-what.”
“WhenI tell him is none of your business.”
“Well, I’d tell him soon if I were you. I would also ask what Grandfather really thinks of fashion designers. What he’ll say when he finds out you don’t want to be just a cover girl.”
Celine’s expression shuttered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bastien didn’t get to respond right away—Anaïs had got to her feet and was shouting: “Look! Jacques is in the lead!”
Celine rose too, though her mind was elsewhere, until Bastien shifted next to her. “My mother was a designer,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t a welcome concept in our house.”
“But she was revered.”
“Maybe by little girls like you who dreamt of sewing and wearing pretty dresses when they grew up. To my grandfather, she was a woman who preferred to work over enjoying and showing off the leisures our wealth provided.”
Celine didn’t like what he was implying. “…I doubt Jacques thinks the same.”
“Jacques thinks what Grandfather tells him to think,” Bastien sneered. “Enjoy your oblivion while it lasts, baby vamp.”
Without another word, he exited the grandstand. Celine was still clapping, albeit absently, her attention fixated on Bastien’s figure as it disappeared down the stairs, back into the betting hall.
Once he was gone, she shifted her eyes on the track, where Jacques was riding in front of a dozen journalists and flashingcameras, carrying the cup. Celine couldn’t focus. Bastien’s words had stirred a dark cloud into life, casting an unshakable shadow over her thoughts; her brain did not register anything else for the rest of the day.
Chapter 11
By The Pricking of My Thumbs
A few days later Celine was waiting for Bastien in front of Maison Baudelaire, foot tapping impatiently against the walkway. Her eyes kept darting from the silver watch on her wrist to the street, then to the watch again, huffing angry puffs of air through her nose at every second that Bastien hadn’t materialised from thin air.
It was the third round and the rest of the contestants—eight of them now—had already started their work inside. Celine hadn’t even picked out her fabrics yet. While Monsieur Baudelaire allowed the models to do as they pleased inside the studio, as long as their designers didn’t need them, he had strict rules about showing up without one.
Celine checked her wristwatch again, watching as the minute handle crept twelve…
Bastien’s car pulled up in front of her at the stroke of ten, along with a strong breeze that ruffled the pleats of her skirt. She shot him a dirty look as she scrambled to preserve what little modesty she could.
“A shame.” Bastien sauntered up to her, dipping his chin to peer over the frame of his shades. His eyes travelled languidly up her legs. “Do you think I should have driven faster?”
Yes, preferably right into the Seine.
As usual, he was missing his hat, though his hair had magically stayed in place, despite the breakneck driving. Celine’sperusal, however, snagged on the three buttons he had left undone on his cream shirt, showcasing the bow of his collarbone and a patch of smooth brown skin. They had both stayed up all night it seemed—engaged in very different activities—but Bastien somehow looked chipper.
Maybe the tableaus were right about her. Celine was a vampire, and the daytime hours made her a perpetual grump.
Putting his shades away, Bastien winked at her. “Perhaps next time.”
“If you think I will be waiting for you—”
