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)
It’s Simon.
He’s doing it quietly, not making a big deal about it so as to avoid the notice, but he lifts the paddle in his crossed arms twice more, at nine hundred and fifty and then at nine hundred and ninety thousand, before literally bowing out at the next bid.
“Un . . . deux . . . trois!” the auctioneer, who’s sweating at this point, says triumphantly as he bangs the gavel on the podium. “Vendu un million d'euros!”
The entire crowd gasps, and the winner, a blonde woman who looks to be about fifty or so, leaps to her feet in delight as everyone breaks into applause.
Jacqueline takes the podium, nearly hipping the newscaster-slash-auctioneer out of the way. She makes quick comments that don’t need translation to tell me they’re a thank you for everyone for coming, and make sure you pay up if you won.
Afterward, Tobias escorts our group out of the ballroom to the garden area to mingle, telling us, “I would be honored to introduce you around if you’d like, or if you’d prefer, you’re free to do so on your own.”
We look at each other, and slowly, everyone else wanders off, leaving only me and Tobias. “Shall we?” he asks, offering me his elbow. I slip my arm through his, glad for the company.
“Autumn, meet Herr Schlieter,” Tobias says as I shake hands with an older German man, and then his date, who Tobias doesn’t introduce, making me curious. “He’s the Chief Legal Officer for one of Germany’s biggest department store chains.”
“Ah, ah, Herr Tobias,” Schlieter says good-naturedly, but at the same time correcting him, “the biggest.”
“Apologies, of course. Herr Schlieter, Miss Fisher here is one of the contestants in House Corbin’s under twenty-five contest. Her designs are lighting up the runways.”
“Really?” Schlieter asks, giving me a look of interest. “I shall have to remember your name, Miss Fisher. Do you think you will win?”
“I hope to, but regardless, I’m thankful to House Corbin for giving me this opportunity to do my best work.” I’ve done this song and dance before, back at F.I.T. when we would have mingle-and-meets with professors and designers, and easily slip into polite niceties.
“Are you based in Europe?”
“Until now, I’ve been in New York, but I’ve loved what I’ve seen of Paris so far. I think I like Europe very much,” I say with every bit of charm I possess.
Schlieter hums and smiles. “Well, if you find time, I hope you get a chance to visit Munich while you’re in Europe.”
As Schlieter and his date leave, I turn to Tobias. “His date?”
She was completely silent during the entire exchange, smiling vacantly and only offering an occasional nod to show she was listening.
Tobias chuckles but looks at me shrewdly. “There is an old European saying. A powerful man should have three women in his life. His wife, his mistress, and his whore. Hopefully for him, the three never meet.”
He grins, expecting me to get the humor, but mostly, I just feel sorry for the woman at Herr Schlieter’s side and wonder which she is. I’m reminded that Beatrice said something similar about all Frenchmen . . . and it makes me glad that I’ve found the one who is the exception to the rule.
We move on, Tobias introducing me around more. I appreciate every meet and greet, but as we do, I come to realize something.
I have absolutely nothing in common with these people.
It’s a strange realization. I’ve spent over half my life wanting to rub elbows with the fashion elite, to get myself into the orbit of the movers and shakers in the fashion world. More than that, I wanted to be admired by them, to be more than just another name. I wanted to be the name, one of those people so famous in fashion that I didn’t even need to use my full name.
Autumn would stop meaning a season and start meaning a person, a brand, a lifestyle.
But being around these people tonight, I’m realizing they don’t set trends. They follow. Their idea of deep conversation is to throw shade at anyone who isn’t ‘hot’ at the moment. They don’t look you in the eye. Everything is side-eyeing. And their approval waxes and wanes on a whim.
“Tobias, can I ask you something?” I ask when we get a relatively private moment. When he nods, I gesture around us. “Does this . . . fulfill you?”
“What do you mean?” He looks at the people around us laughing and talking, having a good time, and not getting what I’m talking about.
“I mean . . . I got into fashion to create, to express myself, my truth. To make people feel fabulous and beautiful, to give people a lens to express themselves. Especially myself. But . . .”
“But so many here are about as deep as a tea saucer?” Tobias surmises before shrugging. “Sometimes it troubles me. But you know what helps me?”