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CHAPTER17
AUTUMN
“We’re wasting an entire morning,”Beatrice gripes as we walk along the sidewalk in the Faubourg Saint-Honoré district, checking out the beating fashionable heart of Paris. If Fifth Avenue is the heart of NYC fashion and Rodeo Drive the heart of Los Angeles, we’re here in Paris’s heart, seeing the best the city has to offer.
We’re supposed to be here to get inspiration for our next show which is themed Seduction.
I get the feeling Beatrice has seen all this before and definitely doesn’t need any help in the seduction department, but today was arranged by House Corbin so I’m not going to turn down a day out with the girls... or the three thousand euros of ‘pocket money’ they’re giving each of us to pick up any little trinkets that spark our imaginations.
“Check her out,” Molly says, trying not to point to the woman on the other side of the street. She’s definitely a sight, wearing eight-inch-high platform stilettos that would make Gaga at her weirdest lift an eyebrow. To the woman’s credit, she doesn’t so much as wobble as she struts down the street.
“I am... in trouble,” Yori says quietly. “Many, many beautiful fashions. But I don’t know Seduction.” She poses with her hands on her hips and exaggeratedly pursed lips.
“What is seduction in Japan?” Molly asks.
“Girl lay back, pretend to behazukashii, then make sounds like this,” Yori says before starting to squeak like a hyperventilating hamster on helium. “That issekushiiin Japan.”
“Ugh...” Katarina groans, and then quickly adds, “No offense.”
“No. It’s okay. The pretending is ridiculous.”
Molly agrees vehemently, “Hell yeah, it is. If you’re pretending, that means you’re probably not getting your own Os. Who’s got time for that? Do seduction that makes you feel sexy. Who cares what he thinks about it?” Molly is caressing her own curves as she makes her suggestions, completely oblivious that she’s drawing the attention of several other people on the street.
Beatrice clucks her tongue. “Tis true. If left up to men, we would all be dressed either virginal in white, orla putainin black leather.”
I’m not sure of the exact translation, but I get what Beatrice is saying.
Meanwhile, Molly’s got her own mental wheels turning as we pass by a boutique with a display of hip-hop inspired outfits. There’s music playing inside, and she’s bobbing her head in time with it. “Yeah... yeah!” she says, throwing her hands up. “I love it when you call me Big Momma! Throw your hands in the air if you’se a true player!”
“What is she doing?” Katarina asks me in a quiet voice. “Is she... rapping?”
“She’s trying?” I reply just as quietly, not that Molly would notice. She keeps going, adding in some hip shaking with her singing. It’s... a hundred percent Molly, to be honest. She’s the least hip-hop person I know outside of myself, but she’s going at it a hundred percent, never doing anything half-ass.
And now she’s putting her whole ass in it... literally. She starts twerking in a way that reminds me of Tina onBob’s Burgers. But Molly seems certain that her moves are worthy of a Twerk 25K contest win.
Laughing, I gather Molly in my arms, pushing her out of the store and down the sidewalk, waving an apology toward the store manager. She says something in French, but it ends with ‘American’ so I don’t think it was complimentary.
We keep going, checking out the people as much as the shops and boutiques. While it’s interesting to see the displays in the windows of such shops like Hermes, Versace, or Saint Laurent along Rue Saint-Honoré, I have more fun and find more inspiration in the streets full of people. Still, we wander in and out of shops, sampling perfumes, fondling luxury lingerie at La Perla, and soaking in so much art that my brain buzzes.
“Photo time!” Yori calls out suddenly. “Group photo!”
“You have got to be... ah, what the hell,” Katarina says. “How do we do this?”
Beatrice comes to the rescue, talking a shop worker into taking photos of us with our cell phones while we pose in front of a store window with a dinosaur skeleton holding a purse. I’m not sure of the connection, but it looks fun at least. I kneel in front, smiling, so I miss most of the other girls’ poses, but when I get my phone back, I have to laugh.
Of course, Molly would be sticking her hand up in a rock n’ roll devil horns pose, her tongue hanging out. And Yori’s perfect with one leg kicked out, her fingers up in a peace sign, while between them Katarina holds her hands over her head like an invisible crown, and Beatrice does a near perfect imitation of theBreakfast at Tiffany’spose. All she’s missing is the cigarette holder. And I’m simply cheese-smiling in the middle, which ironically seems equally silly when you put all of us together.
Afterward, we pile in taxis and go to Saint-Ouen to browse the famous flea market there. Molly finagles for me and her to share the second cab, and as soon as the driver pulls away, she pins me with a look of expectation. “You gonna tell me what’s up?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, and Molly snorts.
“Girl, you’re in la-la land that hasnadato do with Paris. You’re walking along, smiling at nothing and shit.” She mimics what I supposedly look like today, but surely, I haven’t been that obvious. She makes it seem like I’m wandering the streets of Paris looking like a blissfully drunk raccoon grabbing at the air with tiny hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you got your back blown out by some top-notch dick.”
“What?” I shriek, cutting my eyes toward the cab driver who is definitely listening to us now. “My back feels fine,” I reply, and it’s true. My back feels great. My pussy is sore, sure. But in a good way. “I’m just excited about the competition and the day out of the workroom.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her hum says she doesn’t believe one word of what I’m saying.
The truth is I don’t know what to tell Molly. I feel like I’ve developed some serious feelings for Simon after just two dates, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I want to do my best in the competition, but if I tell the other designers, I have no doubt that their next stop will be Jacqueline’s office and I’ll be removed from the contest.
