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And of course, all of them have that ‘I’m seductive but just sucked on a lemon’ look that a lot of models have. I chalk it up to high cheekbones and not enough calories. Or maybe they teach that at the modeling agencies?
“Ladies... ladies,” Tobias says, gesturing to each group. “No ceremony, I’m sure you all want to get to work. So I shall leave you be.”
To figure out who goes with whom, we call out our models’ names. The models split up, and I’m approached by a tall brunette girl. “‘Allo. I am Jeanette.”
“Bonjour. I’m Autumn Fisher. Nice to meet you.” I offer my hand, and she shakes it with a smile that shows her bright white teeth and makes her look friendly and happy. I make a mental note that I want that expression on her face when she walks the runway. That’s the look of Summer of Youth.
I need to know as much as possible about her as quickly as possible so I can get to work, so I pick up my measuring tape. “May I?” I ask, and she nods, holding her arms out in a T.
“How long have you been modeling?” I say, writing down measurements as I go.
“Twenty-one years.”
I freeze, the measuring tape wrapped around her right biceps. Her model card said she’s twenty-one years old, but I guess she could’ve been a baby model? “Wow. Uh, where are you from?”
Jeanette nods her head, smiling again. “Oui.”
My brows furrow. “Uh, what?”
Seeming to realize that she’s misspoken, she dips her chin. “Uhm, pardon. My English is...nonmagnifique.”
Ah, that explains it. But also... shit! I definitely have the worst French of any of the designers, and being partnered with a model who doesn’t speak English will be a definite challenge. I look over to Molly, knowing that she can mostly only curse in the other languages she knows, but she seems to be doing fine. They’re chatting it up like long-lost besties.
“It’s okay,” I assure Jeanette. Fashion is a global, multi-linguistic industry, and I won’t let this first obstacle stop me. “We’ll figure it out.”
I point to myself. “America. Massachusetts.”
Jeanette thinks for a moment and then says, “France. Marseilles.”
I flash her a thumbs-up and then hold up my tablet. Pointing to my eye and then the fabric, I ask, “See clothes?”
“Yes!” she answers confidently, knowing that word for sure.
I show her several of the sketches I’ve been playing with, eyeing the screen and then Jeanette’s body. I can visualize the completed outfits, flattering designs that will highlight a woman’s shape and be timeless and exciting.
I open a new page and sketch a caftan type dress with a low V-neck and mirrored low V-back. I add a belt for shape and side slits to create a flowy drape. I hold up the tablet to let Jeanette see. She looks at it with excitement, but then worry lines appear between her brows.
“Uhm...” She holds her cupped hands in front of her chest and sing-songs, “Va-va-va-voom.”
I can’t help but laugh. We’re making it work, but this is going to be interesting. Nodding, I explain carefully, “Yes. Peekaboo.” I gesture to the inside edge of my breast—side boob, but on the sternum side.
She laughs back and gives me a thumbs-up.
We work our way through several more jolting conversations this way, and I learn that Jeanette is concerned about her curves. Of course, ‘curves’ being subjective.
“Designer say I need to lose weight,” she explains, this time patting her hips and butt.
Honestly, her butt is nearly non-existent. Whoever said that is a fucking idiot. “No way, José. If anything, you needmoreass.”
“José?” she echoes, lost in translation.
I shake my head. “Love your ass. ‘Thicc’ is in.”
She tilts her head, even more confused.
“Like Autumn!” Molly shouts, having picked up on our conversation. “Men wanna smack that ass everywhere she goes.”
I blush, not ready to explain what that means to Jeanette. Plus, it’s definitely not true with me, though I do wish a certain someone would...
