Page 26 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

“Our designers have arrived!” Soline grabbed Esme to lead her to a waiting reporter as Claude placed a hand to my back.

“We have a French reporter here that is dying to speak with you,” he informed me while steering me to the far wall by the painting. “Barnaby Trembly, very young, very hip, one of the elite roving fashion reporters for Vesture.”

“No shit,” I whispered, smiling at every one who glanced my way. Vesture was the top of the top. An elevated, refined magazine that emphasized the art of garments and textiles as well as spotlighting upcoming designers. Ivy always let me sit in her parent’s store to read it cover to cover a dozen times. “I’m kind of speechless.”

Claude gave me a smile which sent tingles to the ends of my fingers. “I hope not. It will be a very short interview if you are.” I chuckled nervously as I was introduced to a stunning Black man in a chic fall ensemble that screamed New York City street. “Barnaby, our American contestant, Kinder. Kinder, Barnaby. Sit, chat, I’ll send a server over with some champagne and canapes.”

When his hand left my lower back I longed for it to return. But no, Claude was a host and had done his duty. So it was me and Barnaby. He motioned me to sit on a large hassock while he took a seat on one of the sofas, people in well-tailored suits and designer dresses chit-chatting as a soft wind blew into the luxury penthouse.

“So, Kinder, tell me what your first thoughts were when you arrived in Paris.” Barnaby asked as he leaned closer, phone in hand.

“Tired. Mostly tired.” Barnaby laughed, his cell held between us. “Exhilarated with a sense of belonging once my feet hit French soil.”

“The soul of a Frenchman in the body of an American! Trust me the French people are going to love you when the show airs next spring. Look at your face. Truly it is exquisite. A beautiful queer man. And you know how we French adore things of beauty.”

“Oh I…” I felt my cheeks warm. Claude appeared then, seemingly out of nowhere, with a server in tow.

“Perhaps a sip of Dom Pérignon will cool your rabid admiration of one of my designers,” Claude tossed out. The barb did not miss its mark. Barnaby took the flute of bubbly, leaned back, and gave Claude a look over the top of his fashionable glasses that made me hurry to drink my champagne and I hated champagne.

“Sorry, Monsieur Advisor,” Barnaby said after his tender sip. “I didn’t realize the contestants were off limits for some playful banter.”

“They are not. What they are off-limits for is drooling media hounds hoping to trip them up to reveal something they ought not to,” Claude replied cool as an ice cube. “Now I insist you try the canapes. They were made right here in Paris in a local épicerie over on Boulevard Haussman. The smoked salmon bites are particularly divine.”

Barnaby and I both plucked a puff pastry from the tray the caterer was offering us. Pamplemousse was fed one as well but Claude didn’t have one, instead he watched us chew ours as if waiting for a verdict.

“Delicious,” I said because it had been.

“Good. Now please, continue with the interview.” Claude then walked off to stand by the abstract painting as people and cameramen and women circled the penthouse. Barnaby was far less complimentary after his canape. When he excused himself another member of the press took his place. And older woman with dark green eyes that matched her power suit. We talked. She left. Another reporter took her place. Question after question, reply after reply, forced smile after forced smile. The longer things went on the more personal the questions became. One blogger asked me about the way my father died, then another woman poked at me about losing my father, and yet a third came right out to ask me if my father being run down by a drunk had been traumatic. No bitch, it had been a fucking day at the park. I stumbled over myself to try to be polite and not offend the chosen press peeps.

I had no clue how to do this schmoozing. Mickey, on the other hand, was a natural. He had the press in stiches wile I fumbled over how to answer the simplest questions about my training, my homelife, and my upbringing. Was I supposed to tell them that my mother, my sisters, and myself had spent several months in a shelter after our house had to be sold to pay off medical bills? How could I tell them that I had no formal training when most of the other contestants had gone to big fashion schools all around the country. I’d never interned at a large fashion house, never been to college, never left my bigoted home town before.

Feeling more and more inadequate as the bruncheon went on, I finally got a small respite when a Carlton entered the penthouse looking incredible in a tailored suit. He moved through the guests chatting amiably. I took the arrival of Claude’s ex to slip out onto the patio to breathe. Traffic sounds rose up as I took a deep breath, then another, letting the sun warm my face. After a few moments, elbows resting on a concrete balustrade, I leaned out slightly to see around two massive cement urns with ferns on either end of the patio. My gaze fell on the Arc de Triomphe a mere block or two away on my right.

“Wow,” I whispered into the Parisian air.

“Inspirational, is it not?” Claude’s voice floated over me. I tugged my sight from the famous arch to find him standing beside me, his dog on his hip, as he dug into the front pocket of his jacket for his cigarette case. “Did you know it was commissioned by Napolean to honor the French Army after the battle of Austerlitz?”

“I did not. Can you really go to the top to look around?”

“Mm, oui.” He opened the case then gave me a funny look. “Will you be offended if I light up? I’m feeling the strongest urge to either have a puff or toss my ex over the side of this patio to see if the fucker will bounce. He has an amazing amount of Botox in him, he may carom back up like a rubber ball.”

“Does Botox make you bounce?”

“No, I doubt it but it’s fun to think.” He plucked a thin white cigarette from the case then looked at me with an arched brow. “So?”

“Oh, I mean it’s your patio. If you want to smoke then smoke.”

“Merci.” He lit the cigarette with a slim silver lighter then tucked both the case and the lighter back into his breast pocket. He drew in a deep inhalation, held it for a second or two, and then released it slowly. “Superb tobacco. I feel calmer already. “

“That’s good, I guess.” The wind carried the smoke upward I was happy to note. “I’m sorry your ex is running your brunch.”

“Meh, it’s not important in the grand scheme of things.” Pamplemousse began to whine so Claude lifted him out of his sling to place him on a plush doggy bed on a wrought iron patio chair. The dog made a few circles then lay down to sleep, or perhaps more accurately rest with one eye open in case Claude might leave him. “This party is for the show, and the show is very important to the school, and so the trustees of the academie are always present for social gathering such as this.”

“Oh, I get it. So Carlton is on the board for the academie.”

“Yes, foolish ass I for putting him up for the position.” He took a long puff then let the smoke out slowly to that it curled around his head before lifting upward. “But we were in a good state at the time, in our marriage. Before he found succor in the arms of another man. Seems mine were too cold for him. Cheaters should be made to strut naked down the Champs-Élysées with their dirty dicks swinging for all the world to see.”

Shit, that sucked. Poor Claude. I was dying to know how he had found out Carlton had been unfaithful but didn’t dare to ask. Why he was telling me all of this was beyond me. Sure he was my advisor on Étoiles de Style but we were hardly friends. Just acquaintances who sort of flirted sometimes…