Page 70 of All the Gossip from Paris
Liam came and stood beside her. “Yeah. Just having that space makes all the difference. I find that the best photo shoots are the ones where I’m given room to breathe. To step back and look at the entire concept. Not just snap off hundreds of close up pictures.”
Having a sane person helping her was such a huge relief. Liam was in sharp contrast to her ex. True to form Patrice, had decided right from the get-go that the best way to manage the team was through threats and intimidation.
Sophie would admit to being a bit of a coward and hiding out in the ballroom. But it was better than having to deal with tearful seamstresses and irate tailors.
“Speaking of photography, what do you think about me taking some photos of each of the runway pieces? I’ve done some work with web apps. I could create a virtual lookbook for you, and a mini website,” said Liam.
She’d seen the lookbook he’d created for Camille’s New York show, and had thought it a clever concept. “I’d love to be able to do something for our clients beyond just tracking their orders. My father does not love technology he says it’s all so gauche. I’m convinced that if we were able to show him how we used the photos on a secure website he might finally think of stepping into the twenty first century.”
“I could easily set up a series of rotating images, and your clients could view their potential purchases from all angles,” replied Liam.
The idea was brilliant and well overdue.
“How long do you think it would take to photograph the collection? Most of the pieces are here, and the remaining few will be completed by the end of the week. There will be eighty garments in the final show,” she said. Then doing a rough calculation, of some extra pieces, added. “Or there abouts.”
She had stepped forward, ready to catch a stray dressmakers pin which had fallen from a backless gown, when the clunking of hard soles on parquetry flooring echoed in the cavernous ballroom. Sophie remained steadfast and focused on her task.
There was only one person who wore the kind of footwear which made that much noise. Only one person who didn’t walk, but rather marched when he wanted to make a statement.
“I wondered what had become of my runway show. Mystery solved. It would appear you have stolen it,” remarked Patrice.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
Finishing tidying up the gown, Sophie turned as casually as her temper would allow. She slowly looked Patrice up and down. Taking in his well-cut suit. His shiny cufflinks. The handcrafted shoes made in Italy. And the hair which was styled to within an inch of its life. He really was a well put together man. Uber confident.
But his slick self-assured package had long ago lost its luster for Sophie. She knew the cruel male which lay beneath the two thousand euro bespoke business suit.
“I am in charge of the garments. It is well within my authority to move them to a place where I can better view them,” said Sophie.
Patrice huffed. “I don’t think that’s what your father had in mind when he said you were in charge of the clothes. I think he meant you were to make sure they were all completed.”
He waved his hand in the air, as if doing so would help explain what he meant to a simpleton such as her. “Hems. Buttons. Zippers. Oh, and steaming the fabric. That kind of work.”
“No, that’s not what was agreed. I was there, you weren’t. Was there a purpose to your visit, Patrice? I’m sure a busy man such as yourself has plenty of other pressing matters to concentrate his efforts on. And Liam and I have things to do this morning.”
The expression on Patrice’s face shifted from one of slight surprise to pure venom.
“And what does he have to do with haute couture?” sneered Patrice. “It’s bad enough that one of the Americans is involved with Camille’s ready to wear, but it’s beyond the pale to have this one anywhere near your father’s work.”
Liam had held his tongue. Let Sophie fight her own battle, but if anyone was taking things too far, it was this asshat. How dare he speak to either of them like they were so far beneath him they didn’t matter?
“I would suggest you think very carefully before you say anything else Patrice. My brother is now a part owner of Camille’s design company, not to mention her husband. He wouldn’t take kindly to hearing you speak about him like that,” said Liam.
His heart was racing as adrenaline coursed through his veins at a rapid knot. This wasn’t the first time Patrice had spoken to him like he was such a piece of nothing. Liam was just about at the end of his leash when it came to holding back his temper.
Patrice turned from Sophie to Liam. “I don’t need to do a damn thing. You are not a member of la maison du Royal. You are not a member of the family. I am in charge of the runway collection. You should be the one who is minding his manners.”
He spun slowly on his heel, making a great display of his obvious athletic prowess. When he returned to the point where he was facing Sophie, Patrice addressed her in French. Liam was effectively cut out of the conversation.
When Patrice was finished, he turned one last time and wagged a finger at Liam. “Stay out of things which don’t concern you.”
And with that he marched from the ballroom, slamming the door loudly behind him as he went.
“Yikes! What’s gotten into him?” whispered Liam, trying to lighten the mood.
“I expect not one particular thing is to blame. Unfortunately that’s how Patrice always is—superior and condescending at best. At worst.”
Sophie let out a long tired sigh. “At worst, he is someone you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of. He is well known for holding a grudge.”
