Page 36 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

The random model assignment brought me a small girl with dark brown skin and eyes big dark eyes. Her name was Adélaïde, and she was nine. Her mother, a tall white woman named Claire, was incredibly softspoken.

I knelt down to be on Adélaïde’s level. “Bonjour,” I said and that pretty well exhausted my French language skills. “Do you speak English?”

“Oui, yes, very much. Papa is in the American Embassy.” She was a lovely child with bouncy ringlets and a shy smile.

“That makes things easier for me then. Why don’t we and your mama go sit down to sketch out an outfit that you’ll like?”

We sat on the runway for the consultation over both outfits. Adélaïde seemed more into playing with her friends than a new uniform but the sketch for a play dress grabbed her attention fast. I’d worked out a fast drawing of a cute little jumper dress, denim because despite what Claude thought of the material it was adorable on kids and took a beating, with true farm flair. No cowbell sleeves. No sense poking the bear on those even if the bear was a teddy on the inside.

What Claire and I, and also Adélaïde, finalized was an upcycled pinafore dress with buttons, bows, and a fat lace ruffle flair along hem. Oodles of pockets, lace edging, butterfly lace appliques on the back pockets. I’d create a pink and white ribbed top to wear under the pinafore, some bike shorts to match the top because I knew from experience little girls were prone to doing cartwheels even if wearing a dress. It was an easy enough design so I might also throw in a top for warmer weather. Maybe a ruffled shirt for a playful, breezy look. Pink sneakers, and a tiny, quilted backpack. The uniform was way less playful obviously. I decided to update the look by adding pleats to the skirt, adding a dash of color to the boring sweater, and embellishing the tie. Nothing too over the top but some damn color splashed about to make it look less like something one would wear to a funeral.

With the sketches done we hit the fabric vault. Most of my take was recycled, repurposed goods so the mad melee over bolts of fabric was not my battle to fight today.

I returned to the work room with an armload of old jeans, lacey bits, and some flamingo pink material that had been tossed out halfway through becoming a gown. Enzo was already bitching when I arrived with my loot. He threw me a look which could peel the hide off a rhino.

“The trashman has arrived,” he sniffed around me like a dog.

“Hey, asshole, its not garbage, it’s discarded fabric,” I snapped, my tolerance with his elitist shit at low, low, low level. Cameras moved around the room, two coming in closer like sharks scenting chum hitting the water.

“Inform me of which starlet in Hollywood wants to wear something that has been tossed into the trash,” he fired back, the only thing separating us was my work table.

“Uhm well, let me think. Who among the famous love upcycled and sustainable fashion?” I started ticking off names of actresses, singers, diplomats, politicians, and influencers. He rolled his eyes before stalking off. I shot a look at Mickey who seemed to be struggling with his creation. When he tossed some muslin into the air with a cuss I laid down my pins and paper. He threw me a glance.

“Hey, be a mate and come see if this is right. I never sewed a kids outfit in my fucking life,” my roomie confessed.

“No problem. I’ve been doing it for years,” I replied then walked over to his space.

“Funny that,” he mumbled, his mohawk hanging down over one eye. I shot him a look.

“What does that mean?” I asked. The room grew quiet. The cameras hovered nearby, always buzzing around like biting gnats.

“Nothing. Nothing. I’m being an arse. Sorry. I’m a bellend.” He blew out a breath that made his hair rise then fall back into his face. “They’ll cut that out.”

“You want help or not?” I asked and got a weary nod. Knowing we were all bare bones fried I let his snarky comment slide and got to work. The day raced by. Every designer in the room came to visit me, asking for assistance in some form or another. Even Enzo who had been in a tizzy after the fittings. Fittings were stressful for all. Little girls were not professional models. They didn’t stand still. Ever. I’d mentioned the tiny little bows on the waistband were not safe at all. He waved them off as being fine and that I was jealous.

Oh-kay. Whatever. I’d tried.

He’d not taken into consideration the larger heads and shorter torso of a child in his sketches. I could have told him his fabrics were all wrong as well. Kids clothes had to be wash and wear. He was staunchly sticking with a party dress made out of stiff crinolines and satin. There was no eye to safety as well on his design so when Claude arrived later in the day Enzo was about three quarters done with the mini ballgown and in a mood. Claude’s attention skittered to me as we all called out a greeting. I caught the soft warmth in his gaze before his sight locked onto Enzo. Claude passed by Mickey – who sighed in relief – to study Enzo’s creation. I kept hand-sewing the lace butterflies onto my jumper. Pamplemousse eyeballed me from his sling, his little vest bunched up under his neck making him look like Jabba the Hut in miniature form.

“These bows are too small,” Claude said, his head tipping to the left as he stroked his bristly chin. I could still recall the soft scratch of his whiskers the night we’d kissed. A sharp pain in my finger yanked me back from my daydreams. A drop of blood welled on my finger.

Eyes on the design not on his lips, lover boy.

Sucking the pinprick I caught Mickey staring at me from under a fall of red hair. He yanked his attention away when I glanced over. He was acting really weird today. Burnout was an ugly thing.

“They fit on the sash perfectly,” Enzo argued, his sight darting to me as if I’d put Claude up to that comment somehow.

“Fit is not the problem. It’s safety. They’re too small. They present a choking hazard. They’ll have to be removed.” Claude flicked one of the itty-bitty bows with a finger before making his way to Mickey. Enzo glared at our advisor’s thin back. If looks could kill Claude would be ten feet under. Then in a soft flurry of heated Italian Enzo stripped the bows off with passion. We all watched the show, even Claude, who had been asking Mickey a question, glanced back to watch Vesuvius explode. Bows flew everywhere. Then he stormed out of the workroom.

Pamplemousse barked at the door closing as if to say goodbye and good riddance.

One cameraman chased after Enzo. Two more moved around the room to film reaction shots. Claude cleared his throat.

“So, Mickey, tell me about why you chose this fabric for your uniform revamp,” Claude said, keeping his tone low, and his expression placid.

Shit but that kind of control was sexy. I wished I could school my features so well. I tended to share everything I was feeling on my face. Mom always said I was an open book to anyone who wanted to read it. True enough. Claude seemed to enjoy my candor and inability to deceive but now and again being Mr. Cool as a Cuke would be damn nice.

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