Something I said made a dent, because they looked contrite and offered in unison, “Sorry.”
Thank god! The show commenced. This year’s theme was the colors of Air France: red, blue, and white, punctuated with silver that mimicked the chrome and glossiness of airplanes. The mood lightened as models began zig-zagging across the room, mimicking travelers searching for departure gates cleverly titled Moscow, Rome, New York, and Shanghai.
***
All fans of Lagerfeld, we extolled the bouclé jackets, hip-yoked, pleated silk skirts, and lightly ruffled and feathered chiffon party dresses as we hustled as quickly as possible to Le Carrousel du Louvre to see Akris and Christian Lacroix. Given that Charlotte had decided to teeter her and her baby atop four-inch heels, our hustle was more like a life-risking saunter.
Finally, seated in Salle Delorme to see the Akris collection, we watched the creations of Albert Kreimler glide down the runway. These pieces were in complete contrast to Lagerfeld’s. They were calm, monochromatic, billowing, draped, and utterly feminine.
We decided to skip the Costume National and find something to eat before the Christian Lacroix show at 4:00.
“Anything around here?” Marian wondered, while Charlotte looked about, ravenous.
I rolled my eyes. “There are about a million ‘things’ around here. What sounds good?”
Hillary clucked her tongue. “Don’t ask a question like that. She’ll want to go to McDonald’s!” I gave her a look that told her not to test my patience. “Sorry,” she quickly responded.
I squinted my eyes against the bright sunlight and glanced around for inspiration. Remembering one of the first restaurants I had eaten in right after moving to Paris, I suggested, “There’s a restaurant where local artists hang their pieces up on the wall. The food is good. What do you think?”
“Well, I’m willing to try any place where a man hangs his piece on the wall!” Marian snickered.
We laughed at her quick wit and decided to try it. Enjoying the crisp autumn weather, we walked across the Pont du Carrousel and along the Quai Voltaire. The trees that flanked either side of the walkway were beginning to turn color; the yellow and orange leaves fluttered gently in the breeze against the bright blue sky. The view across the river to the Jardin de Tuileries echoed the colorful trees on our side.
When we arrived, it was clear from their expressions that my friends were pleased with our dining option. Inside the Salle Gainsbourg, we were seated at a long wooden table in dark leather chairs. I read them their choices and fumbled through the wine list.
“Well, you mustn’t have botched it. The waiter didn’t burst into tears or look at us with utter despair,” Marian offered as a backhanded compliment before turning to gawk at the art-covered walls.
She trained her focus on a collage just behind Hillary’s head, while Charlotte sighed happily. “We’re in Paris, at a lovely restaurant, during fashion week. Let’s stop and reflect on the perfectness of it all.” Indulging her, we were silent.
It lasted for all of two seconds. “Okay, so tell us about Sébastien. Is it me or does he remind you of someone famous? An actor?” Marian mused, as Charlotte nodded.
“I think he looks like that male model from Argentina… I cannot remember his name,” Hillary offered.
“Oh my god. That’s it!” I said excitedly. Since the night Sébastien and I met, he had reminded me of someone. I looked at Marian. “Remember that movie you were in love with? The one we watched over and over? You were convinced one of the actresses was your kidnapped twin.”
“The Wedding Date,” Charlotte answered for her. She was a movie trivia aficionado.
Marian got sidetracked. “I really should look up Sarah Parish—the actress. I still think it’s possible.” I frowned at her for going off topic. She resumed, “What does the movie have to do with anything?”
“Michael Buble! When Debra Messing and Dermot Mulroney are dancing…”
I got that far before Charlotte jumped in. “They were dancing to his song, ‘Sway.’”
“And…” I prompted her.
Charlotte muttered under her breath, puzzling out the pieces. Then, excitedly, she pulled it all together. “Michael Buble is married to Argentine actress Luisana Lopilato, who starred with Rodrigo Guiaro Diaz in his first Argentinian telenovela after he quit modeling.” She had become obsessed with all things Michael Buble, including his wife.
“Rodrigo Guiaro Diaz,” I declared.
Tiziana, who had been silent throughout this, changed the subject. “Things seem to be going well with Sébastien.”
My instinct was to say as little as possible. Our relationship was early days, and, given everything, I wanted to keep the details to myself. I attempted to change the subject, hoping my story would distract them. “So, this room is dedicated to Serge Gainsbourg. He was a painter, musician, and actor. Very significant celebrity amongst the French. I think he was married once or twice. Supposedly had tons of illegitimate children and an affair with Bridget Bardot. His song, ‘Je t’aime… moi non plus,’ was written for her, though he performed it with Jane Birkin, the woman he lived with for many years.”
“You know, if she doesn’t ask, I will,” Marian said, proving my efforts had failed.
Clearly, I hadn’t chosen the correct path for distraction. I appealed to Marian’s base sense of humor and upped the ante, hoping she could be redirected. “Once appearing together on a talk show, Gainsbourg told Whitney Houston, in French, that he wanted to fuck her. As the translator explained what Serge had said, the audience went wild. Apparently Whitney was left quite speechless.”
“And asking,” Marian continued, strumming her fingers on the blond wood table. Tiziana, sitting beside her, nodded her head.
Amused by their determination, I held my course, wondering if they’d give up. “The man was a raging alcoholic, apparently quite revolting at times. He died of a heart attack when he was in his early sixties, I believe.” I paused, and when she went to speak, I continued, “Petula Clark wrote a song for him. I don’t know the title.”
“Serge or Sébastien?” Hillary said, joining in and winning a smile from Marian.
“He became quite a folk hero in France,” I continued.
“Sébastien?” Marian asked.
“Serge,” I responded, laughing.
Our wine arrived. If it hadn’t been for that, I would have caved in. After filling our glasses, the waiter left the bottle in the center of the table, and Marian proposed a toast. “To Kathleen, for her fine taste in cities, restaurants, and men. May we someday know as much about Sébastien as we do Serge.”
She caught me off-guard. I sputtered my wine and had to dab at a dribble on my chin. I caught a stern look of disapproval from the waiter delivering lunch, so I quickly rattled off praise and delight, which seemed to satisfy him. He politely smiled and, with a “bon appetit,” quit the table.
After we discussed Lagerfeld and Akris, Hillary asked, “Will we see Yvette and Anaïs again before heading back to London?” They’d all met a few years ago, at the unveiling of my first apartment.
“Actually, they’ll be at Bethany Halvorsen’s show tomorrow.”
Charlotte gasped. “Kathleen, seriously, I can’t thank you enough for helping her out. I’m so sorry I didn’t thank you before. Honestly, I don’t know where you found the time to be a translator, let alone be on-site and help. Are you nervous? Is everything ready for tomorrow?”
Uh, yeah! While I wanted to let loose my nerves, I feigned calm. “A little, but we’ve worked hard, practiced everything a thousand times. It’ll be fine.” I hope!
“Will Sébastien be there?” Marian poked her finger back into the beehive.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” I hadn’t. Crap. I could feel nerves ping-ponging throughout my body. Giving in, I finally relented, out of a desire to distract myself. “Obviously, I enjoy his company. But—and there’s a big but—we’ve only just met. I have no idea what’s going
on. Maybe he just wants sex.”
“What’s wrong with that? If he looked at me the way he looks at you, I wouldn’t be sitting here eating with you lot,” Marian stated candidly.
“Yes, well…” I could not exactly find a witty retort. I was lost, contemplating just a physical relationship. Honestly, I couldn’t see myself saying no to him, but my heart squeezing painfully told me I wanted him to want more than that.
“So tell me about the new house,” I prodded Charlotte, needing to talk about something else.
Charlotte and Liam had recently purchased a house in a borough of London called Sutton. From Hillary’s facial expression, I assumed it wasn’t on par with Chelsea, where Hillary lived. “Why Sutton?”
“It reminds Liam of the area in Dublin where he grew up. The schools are supposedly excellent. Most importantly, we could afford it.” Charlotte looked pointedly at Hillary. “Not everyone gets given a house in Chelsea.”
“Well, those sound like good reasons to me,” I offered, trying to keep peace.
“State school?” Hillary half-asked, half-stated.
“Well, lest we forget, many of us ignoramuses attended government-funded schools. Even Alexander McQueen!” I hastily reminded her.
Langevin and Lanvin
Balmain floored me. This was the show of all shows, the one that everyone who had a passion for fashion was talking about and would talk about, long after they left Paris. From the slew of celebrity models to the creative and technical genius of the fashion house’s creative director, Olivier Rousteing, Balmain was this season’s show to attend. The five of us sat on the edge of our seats, eagerly waiting, alongside everyone else.
From the moment that Brazilian model Caroline Ribeiro opened the show, wearing a caramel suede jacket and cigarette pants with an enormous pewter neck cuff, I was hooked. I sat mesmerized as models strode toward us down the long gleaming walkway of the Intercontinental Hotel, wearing supple and delicate fabrics in bold colors. The cuts of the pieces were strategically woven, ruffled, and cut away, proudly exhibiting Olivier Rousteing’s knowledge of fabric and form.
Maybe my enthusiasm was fueled by the audience’s reaction inside the packed ballroom, but when a model appeared wearing a stunning floor-length gown constructed of layers of transparent red chiffon that formed a crisscrossed bodice, leaving a diamond-shaped cutaway above the beltline and transitioned into ruffles from the mid-thigh down, I was almost jumping up and down. This dress, I wanted. It was like Cinderella’s ball gown. I wanted the dress and an extravagant occasion to wear it, too.
“Oh my god. That is so beautiful,” I all but shouted to Tiziana.
She was equally as excited. “Bella, that would be perfect on you.”
“I know!”
At the end, I felt flushed, out of breath, spent. “You look like you’ve orgasmed,” Marian whispered in my ear.
“I feel like it.” I grinned back at her from ear to ear. Finally, a show this season that truly thrilled me. “I think I am about to sell my soul for one or two of those gowns.”
Whatever else I wanted to say was forgotten when Sébastien appeared. “Chérie, I cannot tell you what a single ensemble looked like. You were mesmerizing.” Then he kissed my flushed cheek. “Given you have excellent taste, I’m certain each would look superb on you.”
***
In complete contrast, from the moment the first Lanvin model stomped her way down the runway to menacing music, I was horrified by the collection. There was no bounce, no color, no texture. The models looked miserable.
“What do you think?” Sébastien whispered to me.
Just then, the music switched to some weird blend of jazz and techno funk. I heaved my shoulders. “Too militant.”
“Is it possible to leave? Have you ever done that? I would much rather hear what it was about Balmain that excited you.”
I watched an androgynous model in a chartreuse, knee-length dress stride past. “I told the girls I’d meet them for drinks. Still interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, let’s give it a try.”
“If we are successful, we can text them and tell them where to join us.”
I pulled my phone out and, on a group chat, typed, Going to get a drink nearby. I’ll text you where we are. Join us afterwards.
As we ducked low and slipped out of the room, I imagined the fashion police handcuffing me and dragging me off as the fashionistas scowled at me shamefully. Once safely outside, I laughed. “That was fun! I was so nervous. I definitely need a drink. Where to?”
He was laughing, also. “Me, too. How about Hotel Costes?”
“I haven’t been there. Have you?”
He looked aghast! “You’ve never been? It’s pretentious and overpriced but has spectacular ambiance and excellent cocktails.” It was my turn to look surprised. He sounded like a Yelp review. Looking guilty, he continued, “Marian was telling me earlier she and Hillary were hoping to find a bar or club. I think she’s interested in finding company. When I asked around, it seems many Americans go there, so it improves her chances, no?”
I felt myself grinning like an idiot. “You’re a very nice man, looking out for Marian and her love life, like that.”
“If your friends are happy, then you are happy.”
I reached for his hand, and said, “I am happy.”
***
I drained my first mojito quickly. Too quickly. I was excited and nervous. I drank the tart cocktail quickly. The bar, with softly lit Greco opulence, was indeed filled with Americans and Brits. “It is really odd to be around so many people speaking English. That generally only happens when I’m with the girls.” Speaking of them, I checked my phone to see that a text had arrived from Hillary: Heading home. Charlotte’s tired. Another time?
I read it aloud. He looked disappointed for about two seconds then returned to our earlier topic of conversation. “You don’t go home to Seattle often?”
I shook my head. Seattle and Mikkel went hand in glove, so I skirted the subject. “No. What about you? Do you hang out with Americans often?”
He shook his head. “You’re my first.”
I snorted, and when he gave me a confused look, I explained the idiom to him.
In an effort to cover his embarrassment, he asked if I wanted another drink. I shook my head. “I think it’s time to head home.”
***
Sébastien looked around the room as he laid his coat over the back of a chair. “Any luck finding your muse yet?”
“I haven’t even tried. I’m hoping, once everyone heads home, I’ll have more than a minute to think about it, and inspiration will hit.”
I nervously sat down on the couch. I had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen, and, while I wanted it, I was nervous. He had barely settled in beside me when his lips dropped to mine. Instantly ablaze, he pulled me tighter to him. I felt his heart pounding against my chest as our kiss deepened. Our kiss tasted of limes, blackcurrants and cedar. When mixed with the tantalizing friction of his lips against mine and the scent and touch of his body, I was entranced.
His hands and body promised all manner of things as we clung to each other. In between kisses, he whispered soft, nonsensical phrases; words fluttered here and there into the silent room around us. While his words filled my head with images, his undulating body led me to softly purr. As his breath blew hot and moist just below my ear, I pressed myself to him, feeling inexplicable pleasure and the absolute perfection of being in rhythm with someone.
He loosened my hair from its knot, and it tumbled free. “So beautiful, so sexy,” he whispered as he thrust his hand into it, caressing and gently tugging it as he slid his fingers from my scalp down the length of the silky strands.
I was so lost in my desire for him, so lost in the sensation of him beneath my hands, that when I felt us roll over I simply held on for dear life. That the world was rolling and spinning made no difference to me. That his mouth was latched onto mine, his body
cradling me, was all that I cared about.
Thursday 8:00 PM, October 1
All or Nothing at All
DAY FOUR OF Fashion Week found me standing in the dark, where no one could see me. Frank Sinatra’s voice crooned, “All or Nothin' at All.” The lyrics that followed caused my thoughts to jump between last night’s sensual encounter with Sébastien and what I was about to do. Excitement. A leap into the abyss.
Up high, where I stood on a worn wooden staircase inside the old warehouse, I could see models climb stairs to the second-floor platform then find their poses. Models were also queuing up behind a heavy black curtain at the entrance to the catwalk, all waiting their turn to strut through the one open door.
White lights suddenly lit the interior of the two-story structure painted a high-gloss black on the outside and bright white within. Bold red doors, hung one above another, created a very graphic grid pattern. Frosted glass panels in the doors created a perfect canvas for the models’ silhouettes. Golden light bounced off the building’s exterior surface, bathing everything with a warm and shimmering effect.
Ol’ Blue Eyes worked his magic, and the wistful plea of a lover swayed the audience into silence. The first model stepped onto the runway and sauntered in a floor-length, white evening gown that was a definite nod to the style of the 1930s and Jean Harlow. The pale skin of the model’s shoulders and arms was sheathed in sheer fabric, embellished with miniscule, flickering seed pearls. The faux plunging neckline was embellished with the same delicate pearls. What would have been a full skirt was gathered, the delicate silk neatly pleated and draped down the front of the left leg, showing just a hint of ankle.
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 9