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)
Molly, crazy woman that she is, bends down and starts drumming on her thighs. “Dum-dum-dum-dum-dum,” she sings along with her self-made percussion.
“Amour. Love, in all its incarnations,” Jacqueline reveals after giving Molly a snooty glare. “Having two weeks is a luxury, so I will expect to see excellence, in both design and execution. Any questions?”
Minds already whirling, we all shake our heads. As the entourage leaves, Simon looks back. He doesn’t smile, that would be too obvious, but I can see the glimmer in his eyes as they meet mine. Heat rushes to my cheeks, both sets, as I turn away and head to my worktable.
“I need to sketch!” I announce needlessly to the room, though everyone else is already hunched over their tablet or sketchbook. “My brain is like” —I make a tornado around my head with my hands, swirling them wildly— “whoosh . . .”
“Me too!” Molly says. “I mean, love? Come on! That’s like a softball pitch if ever I heard one.”
Beatrice sighs huffily. “I think I’m going to the fabric room for inspiration . . . and quiet.”
Oops, I guess Molly and I are being too loud and disruptive in our excitement. “Sorry, Bea!”
She gives us a no-big-deal wave before disappearing down the hall.
Yori stands, stretching. “I think I’m going to sketch outside today. Maybe by the Eiffel Tower. See if I can catch a proposal as inspiration.” She packs up her things and leaves.
“That’s a great idea. I think I’m going to get out of here today too. Later this week, we’re all going to be chained to the sewing machines, so I’m getting out while I can.” I pack my tablet in my bag and sling it over my shoulder.
“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.