Bonjour Girl

by Isabelle Laflèche

  “Shhhh, please don’t cry. Let me explain. It’s not what you think, I promise …”

  And with those comforting words, I feel a glimmer of hope come rushing back.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Where did you rush off to? I looked everywhere for you after the show,” Jonathan asks, holding my hand.

  We’re huddled together at the back of the school amphitheatre. We sneaked in here to find some privacy and I’m relieved we’re finally alone. I probably look like a complete mess with my face stained with tears and mascara, but Jonathan doesn’t seem to care and, frankly, right now neither do I. He gently caresses my face and brushes a strand of hair aside.

  “Where have I been? What happened to you at Milk studios?” I ask, before getting to the real question I’m dying to ask, the one that may break my heart. I’ll stall as much as I can. I don’t want to feel more pain.

  “I was thrown out on the street,” Jonathan says, staring at his shoes. I haven’t ever seen him look this beaten. I guess we’re both in the same state of mind.

  “By that wicked PR witch?” I ask. Her angry features are still engraved in my mind.

  “Yeah. She was totally wicked,” he says, nervously running his fingers through his sexy, messy hair. I’m dying to do that, too.

  “I wasn’t registered as an official photographer for the event so they threw me out. I couldn’t even retrieve my bag from the coat check. I totally freaked out. I mean, my entire livelihood is in there.”

  “How did you get it back?” I point to his black bag on the floor.

  “I had to beg for it. It was a real nightmare but I finally managed. Then I went back inside to look for you but you were gone.” He takes off his jean jacket and there are traces of sweat on the sides of his shirt. I can tell he’s had a rough day.

  “Anyway, it’s just a camera and a few lenses — it’s not the end of the world. What’s more important right now is telling you how much you mean to me, Clementine. I feel like such a jerk. I was worried sick I’d lose you.”

  My heartstrings are pulled in a million directions. Does he really mean it? Or is he saying this to make himself feel better? Before I can ask any questions, he moves in closer, stares into my eyes, and kisses me softly on the lips. My heart flip-flops and bangs hard against my chest. Instead of pushing him away and demanding answers, I let his soft, luscious lips linger on mine for a moment longer.

  “I know what you saw in Stephanie’s office,” he finally says, breaking away but still holding my gaze. I try to look away but he keeps gently holding my face.

  “The truth is that Stephanie has been helping me resolve some legal issues of my own.”

  This comes as a complete surprise. “Oh? What kind of issues?”

  He sighs loudly and nervously runs his fingers through his hair. “Issues I’ve been ashamed to tell you about.” He lets his face fall into his hands. “I met this model, Julia, on a photo shoot in Paris several months ago. We spent a week working together, and she turned on me. She became aggressive and demanded more money than I could afford to pay. When I refused to increase her fee, she became nasty toward every person working on the shoot and poisoned the work environment. It became so unbearable, I had to terminate her contract.”

  It’s the reverse of what Jake warned me about. Jonathan isn’t really a modelizer, he’s just being harassed by one. I can tell this is really painful. I rub his shoulders gently. It sounds like we’re facing similar issues.

  “Since Stephanie and I share some clients in the fashion industry, she offered to represent me pro bono. She’s doing me a favour. There’s nothing going on between us, I swear. Just occasional meetings to go over things,” he says.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? It’s not your fault.”

  “I was worried you’d be upset with me. Who wants a crazy model suing her boyfriend for breach of contract? And what if your family finds out? Your mother is a famous opera singer in Paris and your family has connections in the fashion industry. Word gets around — it already has in some circles.” His eyes are filled with tears.

  I exhale a long sigh of relief and my entire body relaxes, as if I’ve taken off a pair of uncomfortable shoes. He’s not dating her. He even calls himself my boyfriend. We’ll get over this; we’ll be all right.

  I remain silent for a moment longer as thoughts swirl through my head. We’re both the victims of bullying and manipulation. I let myself fall into his arms as a few tears run down his cheeks. I am genuinely touched by his earnest display of emotion.

  With tears in my eyes, I decide it’s time for me to admit my own dark secret. If he’s being honest and vulnerable, then I should, too. I take a deep breath and break the silence to tell him about what’s been eating at me for months.

  “I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions so quickly. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. I’ve been feeling insecure and heartbroken a lot in the last year. I faced a major betrayal that scarred me deeply.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  I feel a big, giant lump in my throat. What I’m about to share is so painful that my mouth goes dry and I begin to shake, just like I did back then when I saw them together. It’s the kind of traumatic memory that gets frozen in your cells and triggers the same painful reaction each time you think about it. I tried discussing this with a therapist but it didn’t help much. Leaving for New York was the best option for me to escape the pain and trauma.

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” Jonathan says, caressing my hair and squeezing my hand.

  I try to look away again but he delicately places his fingers on my chin and forces me to look at him while I tell him everything.

  “It’s pretty horrible. I caught my ex-boyfriend kissing my mother in our own home. Or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, I was still with him at the time. It hurt like hell. I haven’t been able to get over it or forgive either of them.”

  “Oh man, I’m so sorry, Clementine.” He holds me while I continue to weep. It feels good to let it out. “He kissed your mom? What a jerk,” he says.

  “Mm-hmm. But it takes two to tango. My mother has a reputation for creating that kind of drama. He’s not the only one to blame in this mess.”

  “Did you talk it out with her?”

  “We tried. She said it was an innocent flirtation, just a ‘momentary lapse of reason.’” I use air quotes. It still cuts to the bone just thinking about it.

  “She sounds like quite a character.”

  “She is. Thankfully, my father is more grounded and mature. He’s managed to keep the family together. Apart from an affair with his employee a few years ago.”

  “Wow, your family’s been through a lot. Does he know about your mother and your ex?”

  “No. I haven’t been able to tell him. It breaks my heart just thinking about it. I broke up with Charles and I’ve been trying to move on. It’s not easy.”

  Instead of asking more questions, Jonathan squeezes me close and holds me tighter. His embrace is soothing and it brings me peace. We stay like this, cradled in each other’s arms, until my phone makes a pinging sound. I don’t look at it. I already know what to expect: more crap.

  I finally get up from my seat and reach for Jonathan’s arm, and we leave the auditorium holding hands. It’s time to show the world what we’re made of. No longer will we be fearful, easily manipulated, or weak.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I meet Jake downtown at Sigmund’s Pretzels on Avenue B, one of his favourite New York hangouts.

  It’s renowned for its impressive handcrafted pretzels made from organic flour. According to Jake, the best flavours are cinnamon, truffle, and cheddar. Personally, I prefer French baguettes and pastries but I’m willing to give the pretzels a try.

  I can tell Jake is heartbroken — he has three giant pretzels in front of him with a gallon jug of iced tea.


  He sees the look of concern on my face.

  “Churro pretzels with raspberry jam are my new therapy.”

  I crack a half-smile, taking a seat next to him and patting him on the back. I get it, I really do. I’ve done it, too. In my case, it involves eating an entire box of macarons or a giant Toblerone. Our vices kick in at the worst of times.

  I’m dying to tell Jake that Jonathan and I made up, that his dinner with Stephanie was strictly business to solve a legal issue, but this isn’t the time to mention it. Jake wants to talk and I’m here to lend an ear.

  “Have you told the Parsons faculty about what happened?”

  “Nope. Not yet. I was hoping to handle this myself. I’ve searched every corner of our campus, Clem. I swear. I didn’t say anything ’cause I don’t want to lose my scholarship. What if Parsons asks me to give the money back? I really can’t afford to … I spent all of it on fabrics and accessories and my new website.”

  “Why would they do that? Honestly, I doubt the school would hold you accountable. It’s not your fault they have thieves on campus,” I say.

  “Right.” He tears off a piece of pretzel and pops it into his mouth. Clearly, I haven’t managed to calm his anxious mind. “But the school might think it was negligent to leave my things unattended.”

  “Unattended? Don’t you keep everything under lock and key?”

  “Nope, not this time I didn’t. I was late for the runway show so I left my work on the mannequins. I guess someone happened across the unlocked door and took it all. I’m so pissed off at myself for doing that. You have no idea.”

  “What about your studio pal? Could she have taken it? Do you trust her?”

  “Yes, I do. She’s far more talented than I am. She’d never take my stuff. I just regret telling anyone about my concept. I was so excited about the idea that I told people in my design class. I should have kept my big freaking mouth shut.”

  Listening to Jake talk about his predicament, it hits me that this is also what harassment does to you: it plays tricks on your mind and makes you think you’re at fault when in fact you’re just the victim. It’s hurtful and damaging and detrimental to your self-confidence and mental health. It just sucks.

  “I made some progress on our investigation. Nothing substantial yet, but I think I’m on the right track,” I say.

  Jake drops his snack on the counter and wipes his fingers with his napkin. “Really? Whose ass is getting kicked?”

  “She didn’t admit it outright, but my gut tells me that Stella is behind this.”

  “Pfft, same shit, different day. Now there’s a frickin’ surprise!” His plump cheeks turn a deep burgundy red and I imagine steam coming out of his nostrils like a bull about to charge. “Do you have any clues?”

  “My hunch tells me that she didn’t do it herself. She’s too much of a wimp for that. She likely got somebody to do it for her.”

  “Okay. What makes you think that, Ms. Agatha Christie?”

  “She’s trying to blackmail me.”

  “WHAAAT?”

  “She has a photo of me snooping through the school archives. It was a trick, Jake; Ellie wasn’t trying to help me. She’s on Stella’s side.” How could I have let myself get caught up in this silly game?

  “This shit is bananas. You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I wish I were.” I reach for a piece of pretzel and dip it into the jam. The flavour explodes in my mouth. It makes me feel a little better.

  “Stella has a huge entourage of mean girls that eat out of her hand. They’ll do anything for her. She’s a ruthless, conniving bitch. So if she’s capable of rallying Ellie to her side, she’s capable of stealing your collection.”

  “If you say so, darling. Ellie, though? That’s a real downer.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. I’m so angry at her for manipulating me. What a fool I was,” I say, going for another bite of pretzel. These flavours are starting to grow on me.

  “So, what do you think we should do?” Jake asks.

  “How about we give Ellie a taste of her own medicine?” I say. I’m ready to turn the tables for once.

  “YEAH!” He raises both eyebrows conspiratorially and gives me a fist bump. “Any ideas?”

  “How about we catch her with the most powerful bait out there?”

  “Which is …?” He cocks an eyebrow.

  “Cécile and Madame Grès.”

  “Okay. Tell me what to do and I’m there,” he announces, standing up from his chair.

  “Where are you going? I haven’t told you about my idea yet …”

  “Ordering a pretzel for you. Before you finish all of mine.” He winks.

  He comes back with a cheddar-flavoured pretzel and I snap a photo of it for my Instagram page.

  “Look at you, back on social media.”

  “It’s about time, don’t you think?” I shoot back, referring to my extended silence on Twitter. Although I’ve been sharing Bonjour Girl posts online, I haven’t responded to Stella’s hurtful comments. This probably makes me look weak.

  “Well, you know what they say, sugar plum. Silence is golden and duct tape is silver. You’re better off keeping your mouth glued shut. I didn’t and look where it got me. Nowhere fast.”

  He takes a bite of his pretzel, whispers something about revenge under his breath, and smiles, something I haven’t seen much of in the last few days. If I can help it, Jake will get his spark and his collection back. May I find the courage and solutions to make it so.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I sit in the Parsons library across from Jake. We’re surrounded by thousands of books about design, art, and fashion. It’s heaven, really. I dragged Jake here after class to follow up on our meeting at the pretzel shop.

  Why? Last night, as I was looking for a book in Maddie’s extensive library to help me with a school project, I came across a quote by French writer Victor Hugo. Its rough translation goes something like this: “To read a book is to see the light. Open it wide, let it shine upon you, let it work its magic.” This sparked a flash of inspiration: maybe we can use books to find some creative ideas for responding to Ellie and Stella. Since Cécile’s book has been so helpful already, I wonder if some of the answers that elude us can be found in fashion textbooks. Besides, it’s fun to look, n’est-ce pas?

  After I told him about my plan, Jake agreed that the answers to all of life’s issues can be found by looking back into fashion history. He thinks we’ll find helpful ideas in the Grès archives. I also have Cécile’s etiquette book in my bag. Armed with both, I’m confident we will.

  This whole ordeal has been a huge burden on my spirit, and I can’t wait to get it over with so I can get on with studying, my relationship, and my blog. Thankfully, Jake brought a secret stash of gummy bears; he says it will elevate our mood and help us concentrate. I couldn’t agree more.

  After asking a charming librarian for help, Jake finds two copies of Madame Grès: Sphinx of Fashion. The librarian was curious as to why we needed them, as apparently this particular book has been borrowed a lot lately. Who would have guessed there would be so much renewed interest in this vintage designer?

  Jake carries the books over to our table and asks me to speed-read through the first five chapters. He’ll focus on the next five.

  “I hope we find something …” he says, placing a pencil behind his ear and popping a blue gummy bear into his mouth. “I’m running out of patience.”

  “These books will help us with Stella and Ellie, I just know it,” I say, trying to sound hopeful.

  “Really? I think we’re on thin ice here. We have no real proof Stella stole my stuff,” he whispers. “Maybe we should just call it quits and let the school take care of it.”

  “Oh, stop it. We both know she’s behind this. But why and how — that’s what I want find out. Just focus on the boo
k. Look for something out of the ordinary. Something that may lead us to motive.” I say, sounding like a private investigator. The truth is, I have my own doubts about this plan. But I’m following my instincts, so we should just go with it.

  “Okay, kiddo. If you say so. I’m on it.” He pops a red gummy bear into his mouth and cracks open the large hardcover book. I follow his lead and do the same.

  I read through a few pages and learn that Madame Grès was considered by fashion historians to be one of “the most important couturières of the post-war period.” It’s amazing to think that my great-grandmother was her muse. Wow. It’s worth reading this book just to make this realization.

  Apparently, the designer disliked her given name, Germaine Krebs, and replaced it with Barton, the surname of one of her first employers. It was only much later that she took on the surname Grès.

  I keep flipping through the pages. They reveal that Madame Grès was a true modernist: she was independent and forward-thinking, and she created an identity shrouded in mystery.

  This makes me think of Ellie — mystery and hidden agendas are her thing, too. I still can’t believe she managed to fool me, though. What does she have against me? It makes no sense. I recall the look in her eyes when we came face to face in the archive room. I thought I recognized kindness and compassion. Boy, was I completely off base. What a joke and what a shame.

  I keep reading and find out that, like today’s young entrepreneurs, Grès displayed an early desire to strike out on her own. Yet, while Coco Chanel was a household name and a familiar face, Grès stayed out of the public eye. She wanted to remain enigmatic and do her own thing.

  While Jake furiously takes notes for his haute-couture shenanigans, it hits me that even though school has barely begun, just about every student I know has made their pet project known one way or another. Everyone except Ellie.

  Could this somehow explain her behaviour? Is she looking for a project of her own? Has she been following me around to copy my ideas? And could this be a motive for her to steal Jake’s work?