Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“Go!” Tobias shouts, and we take off like bats out of hell, aiming for the single door. The bottleneck is inevitable, but we manage to squeeze through without injury. Barely.
The supply room is heaven, fabrics as far as I can see stacked on shelves up to the ceiling. There’s a cutting table in the middle, but Tobias told us on the tour that we’re welcome to take the fabric bolts back to the workroom if we’d prefer. I start grabbing, not sure where I’m going with my designs but also not willing to lose out on fabrics that speak to me.
I run back to the workroom with several bolts, spreading out on my assigned table. The space we’ve been given is enormous, much larger than anything I had at FIT or even at Nora’s. The room is large enough to hold five generously sized tables, a slew of various sewing machines, laptops, printers, and every other thing I could possibly need to design and create clothing.
Even better than that is the vibe it has. The rest of House Corbin is modern and cold, but the workroom has a much friendlier feeling. It’s open, organic, and has tons of light, and even now, as the five of us perch at our workstations, we can chat easily as we draw. I’m on a tablet, as are Molly and Katarina. Beatrice and Yori said they prefer the feel of pencils and paper.
“What are you thinking?” Molly asks me. “And if you say that gingham is going to be old-lady capri pants, I’m gonna barf.”
Glancing at the fabric, I hold a finger to my lips. “Shh, don’t tell my secrets yet. I’m totally going Martha Stewart Remix—the country club version, not the prison edition.”
Molly snaps her fingers. “Dammit, I should’ve thought of that.” To the room at large, she asks, “Everyone happy with their model?”
There’s a chorus of agreements.
“I feel like we’re on The Bachelorette, waiting for our dates to arrive,” Molly quips. “Or something like that.”
“Love Island,” Beatrice says, shrugging nonchalantly when we look over. “What? It’s a good way to practice my English.”
The door opens and Tobias leads in five girls. They’re all beautiful, clearly models with runway experience given their struts, and all five of them are equally appealing in their own ways. They’re all also dressed identically, in black leggings and T-shirts.
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 . . . non magnifique.”
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.