Page 25 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

“Yes, it is exciting for tomorrow you will be taking part in a press party brunch at Claude’s appartement.” Everyone gasped. “I know, it is so luxe! You’ll love it. Claude is being so kind to open his home to us for this presser.” She pecked him on the cheek. “The brunch will start at eleven and end at three. After the brunch you’re going to be taken to a few famous spots in the city for sightseeing, dinner, and some dancing. How does that sound?”

“Incredible!” I yelled as the others shouted similar things.

“So, rest up so you don’t have big baggy bags under your eyes for interviews in the morning.” She pulled down her lower lids which made Claude’s brows rise. “Your van will be outside at nine-thirty. We’ll see you at Claude’s! Dormez bien !”

Sleep well. Yeah, I was sure we’d all do that. Pfft. If I could erase the sad look on Ronan’s face as he left the runway in dejection from my mind then maybe. It could have been me. That was scary as hell.

A shower sounded good but the producers were waiting in the wings for us to do more confessionals. As if rehashing our humiliation was good for calling forth pleasant dreams.

Chapter Eleven

The next day was bright and sunny after a passing rain overnight.

Looking down at the quad as Mickey worked on making his hair stand up I leaned out the window – no screens so it was easy but wow how dangerous – and breathed in fresh clean air wafting through yellow tinted leaves of the sycamore.

We’d slept until nine. Something which never happened as we were always in the workroom at eight so the extra rest felt wonderful. It had taken a little while for me to doze off last night, Ronan’s slow walk off haunted me, but I did drop off eventually. Exhaustion will do that to a guy.

Now I was dressed casually but sharply for the press brunch at Claude’s, waiting on my roomie, and breathing in the scent Paris. I’d chosen a pair of dark denim jeans, a pale green long-sleeved shirt, and a well-worn black leather jacket. I’d found a pair of Chelsea boots back home at the Goodwill so I was wearing them. They were comfortable and looked a touch dressier than sneakers.

The rich scent of daily life in the city mixed with the aroma of historic limestone and earth. And, if you sniffed hard enough, a teasing scent of fresh bread baking at a nearly boulangerie. My stomach rumbled.

“Here mate, a bite to tide you over,” Mickey called from the tiny kitchenette. I turned my head to spy an incoming protein bar I plucked from the air before it sailed out the window to land in the abandoned bird’s nest on a stout bough. “I cannot tell you how fucking jazzed I am to get to a club and get laid. Rumor has it the boys in Paris are the prettiest in the world. Horniest too.”

“Yeah, I hope they’re super horny,” I replied as I tore the protein bar open then took a bite. “And don’t mind Americans who can’t speak a word of French.”

“Kinder, mate, looking like you do no man in his right mind will care if you speak the tongue or not. They’ll be too busy stuffing their willy into your mouth to care about talking.” I nearly choked. There was one person who visited my dreams at night but I doubted he’d be in a club. Claude was too refined and mature to hit nightclubs for bathroom blowjobs. Not that I’d not fantasized about that every night for the past week. Claude giving me head. Not the grimy club toilets.

“What do you think of this tux?” He paraded around the room, giving me a pause and turn, hands on his hips. “Think it will grab the eye of the press? Got to get my face out there for the world to see. Being second in this race won’t get me the shop in Chelsea I’ve been dreaming of. Where do you want your boutique when you get it?” I gave the paisley tux a once over, admired the dark blue and purple design paired with a rich lavender button-down. No tie, no cummerbund, no boutonniere.

“I fucking love it.”

He gave me a wide smile. “Thanks. Something of a showstopper if I do say so myself.”

“Totally,” I agreed then popped the second half of the almond, honey, and raisin bar into my mouth.

“Right, well, let’s get going. Don’t want to make the media wait. I woke up with a feeling today is going to be the day the world discovers how bloody amazing we are.”

I nodded as I chewed, linking an arm round his waist as we exited our mess of a dorm room to join the others outside on the sidewalk. As it was a Saturday – or I thought it was days had started running into each other – the lobby of the academie was a bit less frantic but there were still students hustling about. Probably either attending a few Saturday classes, heading off to work, or possibly just chilling. Most of the students didn’t mingle with us obviously as we were to be isolated but they did nod, or wave, or call out that they liked certain designs as they were invited in for each runway show. Also, several were our models which led to hugs mixed with cheek kisses when we met outside of the work area.

Camilo stood on the sidewalk in a stunning gray single breasted suit. “Good morning,” he called out as he herded his little ducks into the van. It was much roomier inside now that we’d lost so many contestants. “You all look very trendy. We have some things to go over on the way to Claude’s,” he informed us before shutting the door of the van. The ever-present cameras stepped back from the curb as the van, driven by the old man who’d ferried us to the museum.

Once we were moving Camilo twisted around in the passenger seat, his tablet fired up with a soft white light. “So there will be press from around the world at Claude’s, but only a selected dozen, hand-chosen by Xavier, Soline, and Claude. This way there will be no dissenting or rude questions asked. We expect you to be polite, charming, and to answer each question with candor but not to reveal anything about the episodes that have been filmed so far. Xavier would like to push the antagonistic feelings that popped up during the group challenge, especially between Kinder and Enzo.” I shot a glance at Enzo, wearing a stunning outfit that highlighted his Mediterranean features by framing his narrow face with an explosion of gold silk tied into a fashionable cravat. His suit was black pashmina jacket and trousers spoke of his taste. He met my gaze with a look of indifference as he flicked some lint from his trousers. I was really underdressed but they’d said to wear things we’d made and reflected us as designers so here I was looking like a reject from Grease.

When we pulled up to the building that housed Claude’s penthouse apartment a thousand buzzing flies had come to life in my gut. I’d never done a presser before. I had no people skills really, other than what I’d picked up tossing cow feed into the back of pickups, and my choice of a leather jacket on a warm fall day was making me rethink my ability to be a fashion designer.

“Okay, out we go,” Camilo called as he exited the van. A doorman in dark green uniform held open one side of a set of huge glass doors. We entered a grand reception area with lounges, a small fountain, and a concierge desk.

The soft hum of residents conversing in French washed over me as we checked in with security. Once we were cleared we rode up four floors in a fabulous birdcage elevator with a polite elevator operator also in dark green. Once at the top we stepped out of the lift into a small lobby with shining marble floors, two chaises on either side of the penthouse door, and a collection of tall clear glass jars that sat behind urns filled with fresh flowers.

“This is something,” I whispered to Mickey who closed his jaw with a snap.

“Never seen anything like it back in Cheapside,” he confided as we took a moment to allow Camilo to give us one final assessment.

“You all look incredible. Such young, vibrant, eager faces. Remember, smile, be honest, be polite, and always act as if a camera is on you for it most generally will be.” We nodded then the doorbell was rung. A beautiful gentle chime was answered not by a footman or some hired doorman but by Claude himself. His gaze roamed over us, always the eye for fashion, and then he smiled. Pleased with what he saw. Voices carried out into the foyer.

“Bonjour, welcome, come in. Everyone is dying to meet you all,” Claude said, moving to the left to allow us to enter his home, Pamplemousse watching us pass from within his sling, his vest today a sharp Harris tweed that paired with his master’s smoky gray suit. Claude wore no tie today, just a simple white tee of organic cotton. A stylish casual look that made me feel less underdressed.

We entered his home. And what a home it was. A small hall with a long coat closet opened into a wide living room packed with about forty people. Many of them crew members filming the gathering, but many were faces I had never seen before. The living room was airy, open, and done in tasteful shades of white, blue, and charcoal. Short round glass tables rested on ivory and navy rugs brought out the buttery color of the oaken floor boards. Sofas were arranged artfully, many with throw pillows with tufted blue fabrics. White couches sat before a fireplace. One white wall held shelves filled with books and gold awards, while the rest of the walls were minimally decorated. One by the open patio doors had an abstract oil with dark gray, blue, and white shapes. All eyes flew to us as we were gently prodded into the throngs. Soline appeared from what I assumed was the kitchen like an angel in a flowy white A-line taffeta dress. Her dark hair was pulled up into a smooth chignon. She was stunning. As always. Small pearls on her ears and a tiny gold bracelet were all the jewelry she wore which was, as ever, perfection.