Page 50 of The French Kiss

“Da, I really must go,” he says, a pained expression on his face. “I’m in the middle of a show.”

Faintly, as Tobias gets closer, I can hear a man’s voice on the other end of the line. Tobias must have his phone on speaker to try and get past the music out front.“Shush! You can spare a few minutes for your da! Bloody hell, Toby, turn on the camera, show me all of it! So many knockers and beautiful arses! Mmmhmm, makes me feel like a young ballsy bloke again! Just a blue pill and I could take all of them.”

“Da, be quiet!” Tobias says, clearly embarrassed. “Mum would kill you if she knew you were saying that about these women, and you’ll kill my job too!”

“That’s why she doesn’t know! Go on, boy, you need to take one of them home with you tonight, shag her right in the boot if you ask me!”

“I have to go,” Tobias says, hanging up before his father can get him in more trouble. Tobias catches my eye and shrugs helplessly. “Old dirty fool’s a wanker. Sorry.”

I actually feel a bit sorry for Tobias. It sounds like his father is a real piece of work, and Tobias seems so proper and respectable. Guess his apple fell far from the tree and then rolled a few more feet just to get away.

“Shake what yo’ momma gave ya!” Molly yells from her stall, and I look to see her and her highlight model actually dancing. I guess she’s not as nervous as I am, or if she is, she’s handling it very differently.

They bump hips before Molly drops into a little twerk in time with the barely muffled music that’s pumping around the room. “Check my fine ass, I’m gonna break TikTok!”

It’s just what I need, and I laugh, shaking my head. Of course Molly would get up to something, especially when one of the models does whip out a phone and film Molly’s antics, breaking rules, but it seems nobody cares. Of course not. It’s all in fun.

And everyone’s dressed now.

Soon enough, it’s showtime, and I walk with the models to the side of the stage. “Remember... you’re gorgeous, young, and full of attitude. No gentle politeness. Be your raw, real, powerful self. That’s what’ll make the outfits look best.” I speak slowly, with lots of hand gestures to be sure they’re getting it. “And smile! Happy, happy, happy!”

“You got it, Boss,” Jeanette answers.

Even the short sentence is growth from where we were mere days ago with our communication, and I consider that she has helped change me for the better too. One of her favorite words is ‘why’, and it’s caused me to do some soul searching on my own designs and why I feel called to certain elements, fabrics, and styles that are comfortable to me.

My first model takes the runway, fierce as fuck as she stomps down to the end and strikes a pose. Throwing the back of the skirt with a flick of her hand, it lifts and then falls dramatically as she gives a shady smirk and whirls to walk back.

Okay, not a smile, but I’ll take a badass bitch too.

I can see the faces of the judges, and they’re nodding. Or at least not scowling.

“Slayed,” I whisper to her in excitement when the model steps through the curtain to the backstage again. “Great job.”

“Outfit two.” I’m talking to myself mostly as the model stands still, letting me have one last look before she walks out, not that I can do much about it now.

“Wait,” Jeanette hisses, and my heart jumps into my throat.

“What’s wrong?”

“This.” She steps in front of the model wearing the pleated shorts and black cami and mimes pinching her nipples. Thankfully, not actually touching her because if she wrinkles the silk, I will lose my shit.

The model looks to me for permission. Jeanette assures me, “Sexy-sexy. Better.”

When I grin, the model slips her hands beneath the silk and pinches her nipples, harder than I think necessary, but I’m not gonna judge what she’s into. Regardless, they perk right up, and as the cami settles back into place, I can see that Jeanette was right. The model’s nipples add a bit of naughty sexiness to the outfit without being too much. I add the long, flowy toga-like drape, which the model holds at her elbows. When she walks, it’ll swish and sway behind her similarly to the caftan dress, but as a segue to more tailored pieces in the collection.

I clap my hands as I sing, “It’s about damn time!”

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