Page 9 of Under the Shade of the Sycamore

***

Forty minutes passed.

Camilo had departed for who knew where on who knew what task leaving me to rest on a folding chair outside a door with a small brass plaque reading salon étudient. Which, if I had not given my phone to Camilo before he’d run off, I could have Googled. A wild guess was maybe student lounge but no one went in or out and it was locked. Maybe that was why the students were lounging on the grand staircase. Whatever. Here I sat, on the floor, back resting on the wall, legs out in front of me trying to stay awake. The rhythmic tempo of surgers and sewing machines was like a lullaby.

Head resting on the door, the sharp yap of a dog brought my sight from a crack in the ceiling to a door down the hall as it flew open. Claude Barrons stepped out wearing a burnt sienna turtleneck under a black blazer and chic black trousers. On his hip was his dog, the famous and fashionable icon of dogdom in a sleek vest of silken sienna to match his master. The dog spied me on the floor then proceeded to lose his mind.

Claude’s brown-green gaze flew to me as I hurried to get to my feet. His exhalation was legendary.

“Du calme Monsieur Pamplemousse.” I ran my hands down my wrinkled tee as he stormed down the corridor, fire in his hazel eyes. He hit me with a spat of French to which I could do nothing but shake my head.

“Sorry, I don’t speak French. I’m an American designer here for the show.”

Pamplemousse growled from within the confines of his little tote as Claude came to a stop in front of me. He was taller than me, far leaner, and smelled of a sinful mix of vetiver caressing a lesser base scent of clary sage. His own cologne then. I’d sniffed it once on a sampler in a fashion magazine. The cost of over two hundred dollars an ounce meant I could only rub the cardboard advertisement on my wrist for a week before it faded out.

Claude’s eyes narrowed as he assessed me. “You’re not a model?”

“No, sir, no I’m not a model.”

“Hmm.” He tipped his silver-gray head this way and that, the furrows on his brow easing slightly as he studied me closely. His beard was perfectly trimmed. “Pity. You could do well. Your cheekbones are exquisite. Your skin clear, eyes bright, shoulders wide. Yes, you would wear some of my men’s creations quite well.”

“Thank you. That’s flattering but I’m a designer. Kinder Graham, from North Dakota.” I held out my hand. His sight fell to my hand. He slid his into mine, a smaller warm palm with callouses, and shook just once before letting go. “Being here is a lifelong dream.” His sight touched on my mouth as I spoke. That tingle began to grow again, the tickle now a soft buzz of destiny when he lifted his gaze to touch mine.

“American. Self-taught. Yes, I remember seeing your face now. The photos did not do you justice.”

The throaty tone of his voice, his languid tumbling accent, was like an intimate whisper in the dark. I could feel myself getting aroused. I needed to shut that shit down now.

“Thank you again. Can I just say what an honor and privilege it is to be here?” I couldn’t feel my toes now. Was I stroking out? No I didn’t think so. I was just elated to be this close to the man who I’d worshipped – along with Cristobal Balenciaga – for years. “I’ll do my best on every challenge.”

“It is not me you have to impress but the judges. I am your advisor, your guide, but know this Kinder Graham from North Dakota.” I’d never heard my home state said with such beautiful, effortless grace. “I will not be easy on you. Fashion is not a business for those who have paper skins. You will learn I am just, fair, and brutally honest in my walkthroughs.”

“Yes, sir, thank you. I look forward to your critiques and feedback.”

His gaze held mine for a long, long moment before he shook free. Taking a step back his shoulders stiffened.

“We’ll see if you are thanking me by the end of the show. Most curse me.”

He walked off, his dog peeking over the top of the tote to glare at me with tiny glittering eyes. A huge rush of air exited me as he turned the corner without looking back.

Holy shit. That had been everything. Even if I was eliminated on the first round I’d always have this meeting to hold close. Not that I had any plans of being booted first thing. Now that I was here, had breathed in the smells and sounds of the academie and its founder, I wasn’t leaving until I had won it all. My family was depending on me. I could not, would not, let them or myself down.

***

Shooting TV shows was harder than I’d imagined.

And we’d not even started the real filming. We’d just done an intro, supposedly spontaneous, but after ten takes the spontaneity had worn off. Then they’d wanted snippets of me posing with my shears – flown all the way from America in my sewing kit because old they may be but they’d belonged to my grandmother so they always cut with love and some random bolts of fabric. They had me walk, pose, pout, and pretend to be using a lovely roll of lavender chiffon as a battle axe. To chop down the other designers maybe? Who the fuck knows. I was too brain-drained to appreciate the artistic take on textile warfare.

Camilo showed me to my room as he told me we’d be up at six to take part in a welcome breakfast at a local eatery with Claude and the host. The host who was still a mystery to us and the world.

“Get some sleep. Set an alarm. Tardiness will set Claude off ask me how I know,” he gave me a tired smile then ambled off to find his bed I assumed. With a swipe of my key card the lock clicked and I slipped into a room I’d presumed would be dark. Nope, not in the least. A small wall lamp was on, showing my roommate to be wide awake. A tall, lanky sort of guy sat up, pulled off his earbuds, and gave me a winning grin.

“Hey, you’re finally here. Thought about tucking in for the night but wanted to be awake to greet you.” He pushed to his big bare feet to allow his Union Jack nightie to fall to his knees. His red mohawk was limp, tumbling down to hide half his lean face. “Mickey Blake. Evening wear, classic silhouettes with a slim cut, leather fetishist at times.” He held out his hand. I tossed my bags to the floor to shake.

“Kinder Graham. Repurposed Boho Chic, men’s wear, women’s streetwear, some cocktail and evening wear as well.”

“You proper done in. Why not grab a shower then get your head down? We can have a natter in the morning,” he said as our hands fell apart.

“That sounds amazing. You cool with me just throwing my shit in the corner for now?”