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“Be good!” Molly calls after me. “Or really good at being bad.”
* * *
The week has flown by in a flurry of sketching, drawing out patterns, cutting out fabrics, sewing bits and baubles together, and then fitting the final pieces. All mixed in with a few dates with Simon. We’re careful about being seen now, opting for dinners at his place and drives through the city in a nondescript luxury sedan, not his eye-grabbing Bugatti.
But we did go for one more visit to the Dungeon.
With all the hard work and hard play, I’m not even half done for the fashion show yet. But luckily, I am finished with my dress for tonight’s fundraising gala.
I’m thrilled with how everything’s turned out as I slip into it. My makeup is sultry, and it only took me thirty minutes to successfully apply without racoon eye smudges—winning!—and I’ve pulled my hair up into a loose, messy updo that, coupled with the strapless gown, leaves my shoulders bare. The pearlescent black gown is my spin on a little black dress, though amped up to a Jessica Rabbit degree. There’s a slit up the thigh that comes within inches of the thin side of my thong, and the structure inside the top securely holds my breasts in place—if high and tight was ‘a place’ to hold them. I walk the small space of my apartment in the five-inch heels I’ve selected, making sure that I’m steady, and with a grin of victory, I head out to the gala.
Back home, I would be labeled scandalous anywhere other than on a red carpet. Here in Paris, in fashion? Slightly tame... but enough to cocktease the hell out of Simon tonight.
The quick ride in the hired car—because even steady and sure in my heels, I cannot walk the streets—is a time for me to calm and center myself. I practice my ready-to-go speech of my style, design aesthetic, and hopes for my future in the fashion industry. I review the growing number of French phrases I’ve learned. In between, I look around at the sights of Paris, still in disbelief in some ways that I’m here, that this is my life after starting out in little old Newton.
If only Mom could see me now!
Soon, we come upon the site of tonight’s event, a Seventeenth-Century villa that’s been turned into a luxury hotel near the Palace des Vosges. How a former royal villa survived four hundred and some odd years of French history, including at least two revolutions, two world wars, and countless other things, is truly a mystery... but whatever the case, the hotel is breathtaking.
And Lady Jacqueline knows how to throw an event for sure. From the red-carpet entrance, complete with journalists covering the gala for the society pages, to the rich garden that’s been set up with refreshments and roving waiters with little bits of food that straddle the line between hors d'oeuvres and amuse bouches, it’s spot on.
But nothing can prepare me for the main event, the grand ballroom. It’s true royal styling on a level I’ve never seen, with three enormous chandeliers that cast little diamond sparkles of light around the room. The white walls and black marble tile floor glimmer with that hint of understated elegance that only truly opulent places can pull off.
The assembled group is equally high-class, with the men in either elegant evening suits or full-on tuxedos and the women in gowns ranging from the super daring—I see more than one barely blurred nipple—to classic gowns that would have looked right at home when Bardot sipped Dom here in the sixties.
Tobias approaches, the other four designers in tow. “Ah, the gang’s all here!” he says brightly. “Which makes me the luckiest man in the room.”
I scan the others’ gowns. “Wow! You all look amazing,” I praise honestly. It’s interesting to see everyone’s take on a gala gown. Somehow, though completely different, we all shine in our own ways.
“You too,” Molly snaps back. “Do a little spin and show Momma what you’re working with.” She twirls a finger in the air, and smiling, I do a model-like turn to show her the back of my gown. “Ka-chow!” she says, flashing finger guns at me. “You are the McQueen, Lightning!”
I totally get her play on words, but the others look a little confused. “Champagne?” Tobias asks, stopping a waiter and handing each of us a flute. “As Jacqueline mentioned, an event like this can make your career.”
I nod, sipping my champagne as I take in the rest of the room. There are about a dozen rows of gilded gold chairs set before a podium. Flanking the podium are about two dozen or so mannequins, each of them clad in a gorgeous gown of some kind or another. I recognize a few of the designs—they seem to stretch back over the past decade or so, all of them House Corbin designs.
“IsMadameJacqueline cleaning out her closet?” Katarina jokes quietly, probably so no one but us can hear.
“Most of these haven’t been worn except for the fashion show in which they debuted. A few are from Jacqueline’s personal collection and will have been worn once or twice. Even for the buyers tonight, they won’t wear them. It’s about being seen, about the bidding more than the actual dress.”
“What happens to the dress, then?” I ask.
“Usually, it becomes a display piece in the buyer’s home or donated to a museum. Or sometimes, simply donated back to House Corbin for ‘storage’,” he confides, adding finger quotes.
“Ah,donations,” Katarina repeats, “the rich’s word for funny money.”
Tobias doesn’t disagree, adding, “At least the bids from this evening go to a good cause. Though most of these people wouldn’t care if the funds went to an orphanage, a hospital, the homeless, or to put a fresh coat of paint on the parking lot of Paris Disneyland. It simply doesn’t matter to them.”
The instrumental music that’s been playing in the background since we walked in swells to a crescendo and fades, signaling that the auction is about to start. With Tobias leading the way, we find our seats somewhere near the back since the front rows are reserved for those who will be bidding. With Tobias on my right and Molly on my left, I’m sure to be entertained with constant auction commentary.
Despite our back row seats, I still have a good view as Simon emerges from the curtained side of the ballroom and crosses toward the podium. He’s devastatingly handsome in a royal blue tuxedo jacket with black silk lapels, black pants, and a white shirt. His hair’s styled similar to how he wears it for work—slick and parted to the side—but different from how he’s worn it on our dates. Then, he’s usually more casual and natural.
It’s like there are two sides to Simon... and I’m the lucky woman who gets to see both.
Every eye is on him as he stands behind the podium, the unspoken king of the room. Even Tobias notices. “A handsome devil, isn't he?”
I’m cautious of answering honestly. Does Tobias know about us? Would Jacqueline have told him? Or is Simon’s dalliance with one of the competition’s designers the talk of the water cooler? Hell, for all I know, Simon might’ve told Tobias. They seem friendly enough as work friends.
But it’s not like I can disagree with a well-established fact. Simon is handsome. That’s why he’s the face of House Corbin. “Yes, he is.” I’m hoping the simple answer will end that conversation, but Tobias isn’t finished.
