Such a simple question for a girl whose mother herself had sent her to Paris just for this competition. For Celine, it remained unclear.
Because my life has been planned out for me and this is the only decision I have made for myself? Because if I can’t have anything else, at least I will have this—the knowledge that I tried and that I—hopefully—won?
“Because it’s complicated,” Celine managed. She knew Coco deserved a better explanation than this, but she couldn’t have another person tell her that all she had to do was rebel a little and her mother would relent.
Celine had tried that, a year ago, and it was the tentative that had gotten her tied to Jacques. There had been another competition, though the prize was less grand than the inheritance of Maison Baudelaire. But Madame LeBeau, as usual, had refused. Celine had attempted to work on the design in secret, hiding the dress in her wardrobe, between her own clothes. Only she had forgotten to include her mother’s spring cleaning day into her calculations. Madame LeBeau had emptied out the closet, gotten rid of the clothes that were out of fashion, and had found her daughter’s creation in their midst. Celine wasn’t sure what her mother had done with the dress afterwards.All she knew was that she had been plucked from the doorway when she had returned home that day, sat onto a chair, and endured an earful of Madame LeBeau’s reproach.
At last, her mother had dropped the bomb.
“Jacques Ménard,” she had said, “will telephone you tomorrow for a stroll along the Seine.”
Jacques’s sudden interest in Celine had sounded, of all things, suspicious. Until Anaïs had told her Emilie was out of the picture and Celine had entered it. Until she had overheard her parents discuss the possibility of an engagement.
“Besides, it would do her well,” her mother had put forth, rather determinedly.
Celine had pressed closer to the door, hoping to hear her father disagree. When he had kept silent, she had dragged herself back into her room, feeling like an anchor had been tied to her ankles and she’d been pushed off a cliff and swallowed by the dark waters below. For some reason, she hadn’t been able to object to the decision. She hadn’t been able to produce any words that would save her from being tied to that anchor.
“I see,” Coco said, bringing her to the present. “What are you going to do about the Chanel dress now? I’d love to help, but you must have noticed by now that my designs have nothing in common with her. Unless she announces a new line featuring feathers.”
Celine imagined her mother would be plucking her from head to toe like one of the chickens the cook had prepared for them last night. “I will figure it out myself”—she clutched Coco’s hands tighter—“I truly appreciated your help yesterday. And I promise, you won’t have to lie again.”
“Don’t mention it. We’re friends, no?”
“Definitely.” Celine smiled. “We better get to work. The timer will go off soon.”
“Speaking of…” Coco broke off, peering around Celine’s station. “Where are your supplies?”
Celine whipped her head around as if to catch a glimpse of Bastien from across the hall. She had been so taken up with her sketch that she hadn’t even looked up at the timer. But he seemed to have vanished from the building altogether. “Bastien was supposed to collect them for me, but I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Come on.” Coco hinted with a tilt of her head towards the fabric room. “The last I saw him, he was in there.”
The corridor was empty, save for a few scattered rhinestones that must have fallen like bread crumbs out of someone’s supply box; the door to the fabric room locked. Celine pinched the bridge of her nose to keep her temper at bay.
“Maybe he’s still trying to find your supplies?”
A sudden rustle came from behind the door. Coco and Celine leaned in, pressing their ears to the frosted glass. Quiet for a moment. Then a muffled moan echoed, causing them to reel back—Coco’s cheeks heating, Celine’s eyes narrowing.
“I cannot believe”—she started, sharply twisting the handle and pushing the door inwards—“that you are actually this sordid!”
Sprawled on the floor between rolls of fabric, Bastien was leaning against the wall, his arms wrapped around Elana, who was straddling his lap. His face was hidden in her dark waves.
“Sordid?” he asked, lazily lifting his head from her neck.
Celine’s nostrils flared. “I thought I told you to collect my fabric, not fornicate in it.”
“You also told me to be friendly if I ran into anyone from the other teams. This”—he flicked a long pointer finger between himself and Elana—“can be construed asmaking friends. At least in my vocabulary.”
He had finally crossed the line. She had tried to overlook some of his jibes, even the fact that everyone, including his own family, assumed the worst of him. Always for the sake of the competition. But two weeks hadn’t yet passed since they had started their team; Celine’s patience was wearing thin and this was the final straw.
From now on, there could only be war on both sides or begging on his, for she planned on making Bastien Ménard regret the day he decided to taunt her at Folies-Bergère.
“Get. Up,” she seethed. “Now!”
“Apologies, Mademoiselle LeBeau,” Elana drawled, lifting herself from Bastien’s lap. Compared to his dishevelled appearance, she had actually managed to retain her poise. “I didn’t know you two were like that.”
Celine’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“You know…”
