Page 32 of All the Gossip from Paris
At the top of the steps they came into a vast, cavernous space. It reminded Liam of the Really Big Space, the place in New York where Camille had held her first public fashion runway show.
I thought that was big, but this place is huge.
“This is the YOYO, a contemporary space for art and culture,” announced Sophie. She pointed at the highly polished concrete floor, then up to the ceiling.
“It offers over seven hundred square meters of space. And the tech in here is state of the art. This is one of the main areas where Paris Fashion Week is hosted. Major designers will exhibit here, and also at places such as The Grand Palais, The Louvre, Le Carreau du Temple, and many other locations. Paris does not lack for want of major exhibition spaces, which is why it is the biggest fashion week of them all. New York, Milan, and London battle it out between them for second place.”
Liam who was sipping his piping hot un café and slowly taking it all in, caught the pride and defiance in Sophie’s voice. This place was enormous.
They could hold an NFL game in here, and pack a decent crowd.
He thought better of making mention of American football. She was indulging him in playing fashion teacher and tour guide, and he’d not been a great student so far. She didn’t need to know he was thinking about sport.
“Does your family have their fashion shows here?” he asked.
Sophie shook her head. “No. Papa hates it. He prefers the Petit Palais or one of the other older venues. My father says this place is not good enough for his level of haute couture. The designers who actually sell their clothes in stores can come here, but he won’t.”
“So if your father doesn’t have a store, how does he sell his designs to customers?”
Her brows furrowed. Sophie appeared to be on the verge of real anger when she came to stand in front of him.
Shoot. I think I’ve really pissed her off now.
“Sorry. Forgive me if I wasn’t clear enough. I was asking if you have something like a website. You know, where people can go online and order from you,” explained Liam. It was cold in the concrete space, but a bead of sweat still trickled slowly down his back.
Sophie clasped her hands together. “If my father heard what you just said, he’d throw you down those stairs. La Maison Royale is not a fast fashion house.” She let out a tight breath. “Here is a quick lesson in Haute Couture, Mister Collins.”
He held back a grin. Sophie was deadly serious. But at the same time she was so damn hot. All he wanted to do was kiss her. Have her melt in his embrace.
Stop thinking about her like that, and focus on what she is saying.
“Are you paying attention?”
“Yes.”
“Haute Couture is strictly made-to-order high fashion clothing for private clients. Only a few women wear it, because only a few can afford it. Our clients pay anything from twenty five to thirty five thousand euros for a single piece of daywear. Evening wear ranges up to sixty thousand euros per garment. And a bridal gown can easily cost in the vicinity of two hundred and fifty thousand euros.”
From his travels, Liam knew the exchange rate between various currencies. Euros were roughly the same value as the US dollar. Which made the world of high fashion outrageously expensive.
“Who are these clients?” he asked.
“I’m not finished. There are strict rules before a house can call itself haute couture. They must have an atelier in Paris, employing particular numbers and skill levels of staff. And the house must present two full original collections of designs each year. A minimum of fifty pieces for each collection.”
“When you say a house? What exactly does that mean. I know of the House of Dior. House of Chanel,” replied Liam. He wasn’t foolish enough to toss in House of the Dragon.
“And you know of the La Maison Royale—or in English the House of Royal, Papa’s label. They are all members of the Fédération de la Haute Couture et de la mode. Membership is highly coveted.”
Liam nodded. So there was a major distinction between the haute couture houses and the rest of the fashion world. You couldn’t just set yourself up as a designer and call yourself haute couture.
Sophie drained her coffee. “As for clients, each house has a book of names and contacts. Carefully curated, and fiercely guarded. When clients can and do spend millions of euros with a house each year, you can well imagine each one of them is a highly prized customer.”
Liam couldn’t hold back his curiosity. “How rude would it be for me to ask just how many women actually wear haute couture?”
“Not rude at all. Globally, it’s somewhere around four thousand individuals.”
Little wonder people like François Royal didn’t need a store front, or even a detailed website. The women who had the level of wealth to be able to afford high fashion likely moved in the same exalted circles. They all knew who was who among the super-rich, and what designers they each wore.
“That’s a very small number of people with a very large amount of money,” he murmured.
