Page 32 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

And the advisor. Don’t forget him.

Like I could. My sketchbook was holding so many naughty ideas that sounded so damn good it was a wonder the damn thing hadn’t burst into flames. Shoving Claude and my pages of how to suck his dick like a pro – or like a well-seasoned British playboy – I gathered my necessities into a little cloth bag before racing to the workroom to get started. Two days seemed like two weeks after so many one day assignments but I’d never made sleepwear before. Also, when Claude arrived for his critiques he could look at mine, call it dog doo-doo, and leave me having to start over.

Surely after our amazing afternoon yesterday he’d be gentle to us. I’d woken up happy so I had to think he had as well.

***

Apparently Claude had not woken to the sweet chirps of tiny birds and “Morning Mood” by Edvard Grieg playing in the background.

He blew into the messy studio like a hurricane with a grudge against the Florida Panhandle. His suit was a dark green, single-breasted wool suit with a chambray light blue shirt. Pamplemousse seemed to be in the same dark mood for he snarled at anyone who looked at him sideways. I threw a worried glance to Freja who appeared as if she might chew her lower lip off as Claude made his way to her worktable.

“Tell me about this,” he demanded, waving a hand at the rather tawdry babydoll top on her dress form. I’d been called in for a few short confessionals not an hour ago in which I commented on the fact Freja’s set was not going to fly. Too much boob and hootch showing for the censors.

“It’s a classic lace set with unlined sheer lace cups, a low rise thong with a coverup that—”

“What are these?” He reached out to lift one of the cowbell sleeves on her robe. She stared at him in confusion. “What is this? A cowbell sleeve?”

“Uhm yes?” Her sight darted to me. I shrugged as I pinned, the tension in the room so thick you’d need a sword to cut through it not the dressmaking shears Freja held in her trembling hand. “I thought they would add a bit of charm and whimsy to counter the sexiness.”

Claude’s expression was flat as a pancake. “Charm. You thought a woman with elegance and taste would find cowbell sleeves charming? Perhaps if they lived where he grew up yes.” He waved a manicured hand at me. My eyes flared. Shit, that was rude. True possibly. My mother loved cowbell sleeves. Was that a hick thing? “But do you honestly think a refined women in Paris, Milan, London, or Tokyo would call this ensemble charming?”

“Yes?” Freja was a trembling breath away from tears. Wow, this was incredibly brutal. I had no clue what was up Claude’s ass but I made a vow to keep my distance if at all possible. “No, I mean no.”

“Now you are learning. This is a tragedy. You need to start over before you waste more of my time. Burn those sleeves.” He turned to look at us staring in horror at the dressing down Freja was receiving. “If I see anyone else with cowbell sleeves I will hurl myself down the closest escaliers de métro. No cowbells. This is not Fiddle Sticks, North Dakota, this is Paris! We are not taking part in a Saturday Night Live skit. We do not need more cow bells! Repeat after me my little couturiers. No cowbells or Claude’s death shall be on my head.”

“No cowbells or Claude’s death shall be on my head,” we all said in unison. Even poor Freja who now had wet cheeks.

“Excellent.” And he stalked over to my table. “This is common. You can do better. Why are we in matching textiles?” He motioned to the two dress forms, one male and one female, I had my patterns and material pinned to.

“It’s a set.” His hazel eyes narrowed. Shit.

“A set. How utterly middle class America. I shall say the same to you I said to Freja. This is wasting my time. I see no inspiration here or on any of the dummies that are being forced to wear such mediocre lingerie. If I were a woman who had to look at this in my bedroom I would lock myself in the closet until the man wearing it changed or better yet left my home never to return again. Redo this. Show some imagination. All of you are blasé today. Do better. I will return after dinner and I hope you’ve all managed to reconstruct these atrocities.”

He sailed to the door, Pamplemousse barking at us, as two cameras followed him out of sight. We all stood there gobsmacked. Freja raced out of the workroom sobbing. Esme went after her. I looked at Mickey who was slowly cranking up his middle finger at Claude’s departing back. I closed my slack jaw with a snap.

“Christ he’s a fucking drama queen,” Ayumi sniped then began tearing her rather cute matching set of silk sleepwear off her dummies.

“I’d like to shove this lingerie up his tight ass,” Enzo growled.

Everyone left in the room nodded in agreement aside from me. Yeah, he’d been harsh but I sensed there was a reason he’d been so damn cruel. Also, I liked my set. Maybe it was middle America. So was I and I wasn’t changing it. I could be stubborn about my designs. Was it a mistake to cling to my set? Maybe. Maybe not. The judges would decide tomorrow.

Chapter Thirteen

Iwon the lingerie assignment.

Guess the world wasn’t in agreement with everything Claude Barrons thought all the time. I’d been stoked for another win, pleased with the comments about my simplicity of lines and the focus on fit. Also, Soline had gushed over how adorable my set was and asked if I could design a pair for her and her new boyfriend. I’d replied I would be happy to make her a set. Soline’s appreciation of my sleepwear was a far cry from Claude’s when he arrived in the workroom at the end of day two of the assignment as we were stuffing catered food into our faces while we sewed, hemmed, and did final fittings. He’d given my set a dark look and said he was disappointed in my mulishness.

I’d spent the night before lying in bed mulling over how a man could be so kind and sweet one day and such a jerk the next. Something must have taken place. Perhaps he’d had a fight with Carlton or Xavier. Not that that was any reason to be a prissy twat to quote Mickey but it might explain his erratic behavior.

He had been much more subdued on day two but the stern eye he gave my models had spoke volumes. I’d not let him dictate to me and that seemed to tweak his nose. Good.

Knowing I’d stood up to a fashion king made me feel pretty good. Having to say goodbye to Suki had not. She’d not been able to pin down a runway look that had pleased the judges so she had failed. We’d said goodbye to her in our little lounge then went to our rooms. Balancing the loss of another designer with the rush of a victory was tough. Mickey and I had talked about the assignment, our dwindling numbers, and what we would do when we won. We’d gotten really close but we both still wanted the grand prize. That money would set my family up for life and the scholarship would just about guarantee me a job in the fashion industry in some regard. Hopefully designing but I’d be happy to start at a lesser job in a famous design house then work my way up to design assistant.

After Mickey had dropped off I worked on the skirt for my sister a while longer. They’d love them I was sure. Well, I hoped they would. They were at that age where dressing twins alike was either adored or hated. Depending on the day and their moods. A cool breeze wafted in the cracked window. The smell of cigarette smoke wiggled into our room. I laid the skirt down then kicked off the covers. At the window I looked down to see the soft glow of a lit smoke as well as the form of a tiny creature moving though the bushes in the flowerbed.

The moon was a sliver but it cast enough light to see the silver threads in Claude’s hair. My feet were moving before I was even fully aware of it. I stepped into my old sneakers, pulled on a NDSU Bison hoodie, and slipped from our room. Downstairs I crept, using a side door we’d discovered beside the library, to enter the quad. It was relatively quiet out here, just the soft whisper of the wind through the sycamore leaves and the always present sound of traffic as I walked to the man sitting on the same bench we’d shared before.

“Bonsoir,” I softly called, startling Pamplemousse who came charging out of a rhododendron to sniff my leg. Seemed he thought I safe enough to go near his owner for he turned, kicked grass at me with his back legs, and went off to ferret out what he could find in the thick dark mulch. He glanced up, a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of what I guessed was wine in the other.