Page 49 of The French Kiss

“After the showing, there will be little feedback. Nothing more than a few comments here or there if I see fit. I want each of you to present your best for every show, to strive for greatness with every opportunity.”

Wow... talk about cranking the pressure up. Not knowing how I’m doing other than a few comments? Adjustments are going to be totally on my gut, on the fly.

“You okay,chica?”Molly asks me as we go backstage to continue rehearsals. “You went white as a sheet at Ole Jackie’s announcement.”

“Just nerves,” I whisper, hating that I’m lying. “Shit just got real, that’s all.”

“Bah,” Molly says with a grin. “It is what it is. Either way, we got this!”

But for the first time, I’m not so sure.

* * *

Tits and ass... everywhere.

I guess I should expect it. I mean, I am backstage at a fashion show. But it’s still strange to be surrounded by all these examples of supposed female beauty, most of whom are casually naked or near naked as they get ready for the show.

It’s the big day, and I guess I shouldn’t be worried about the amount of supple female flesh on display around me. But the truth is, I am. I’ve been working my entire time in fashion to design outfits that are sexy oneverybody. I studied and worked with the idea that every woman, every man, every human, deserves to feel good in their clothes.

Yet, Jeanette is worrying over her non-existent ‘fat’, all the other models are rail thin, and even the hair and make-up artists are runway slim. Is it a French thing? A European thing? Hell, a global trend?

Frankly, it’s disappointing. It’s been, what, fifteen years since Christina Hendricks had men spanking the monkey left and right to her curvy redheaded sexiness? Some of these girls here today were in diapers when she was making their daddies have wet dreams.

At least the fashions we’re presenting are varied, even if the body types are not. Yet.

I feel like I’ve done my style and myself proud, creating unique pieces that stay true to who I am as a designer. They’re classic but fresh and would look good on anyone, regardless of their size.

I walk over to the makeup artist’s chair, where Jeanette is sitting. “Hey, girl, you ready for the Summer of Youth?” I ask, spreading my hands wide in a rainbow motion above my head.

“Oui. Walk: bouncy, likeboing!Energy: young and fun. Smile, but with a good size,” she reports, word-for-word of our rehearsal notes that had taken Google Translate and a video search to communicate with each other.

“Excellent.” I watch for a moment, ensuring the bold green eyeshadow look I requested is working. After seeing that it’s going well and the makeup artist assuring me that she’s already sent my other models to hairstyling and is almost done with Jeanette, I relax a tiny bit.

“Ten minutes, over there.” I point back to my work area.

Jeanette nods agreeably, knowing that today is planned and choreographed down to the second. Getting back to my station, I busy myself studying the caftan dress for any lint, even though I’ve steamed, lint rolled, and studied every square inch of it.

I hear noise out front, and I sneak over to the curtain, taking a peek. I spot several of the VIPs—celebrities, fashion designers, and journalists—and it sends my heart into overdrive, my fingers tingling so hard I can’t imagine being more freaked out without needing an ambulance.

“Breathe,” Yori says, looking over my shoulder and seeing the same thing I do. She seems completely fine, though, no panic attack in sight. “You panic, you make mistake. You must havemushin.”

“Mushin?”I ask, dimly remembering the term from somewhere. “That’s like Japanese chill out, right?”

“A little. Means ‘no mind’. You do the work, you know you are good. Now let go of the rest.”

I snort. “That’s easier said than done.” But I try, telling myself that everything is fine, but it just feels like more static.

Yori takes my hands, tugging me out of my thoughts. “Breathe. In through nose, out through mouth, very slow.Isshoni.Together.”

I follow her, taking deep breaths, and I feel myself start to calm, but that calm evaporates a minute later when I see another big name come through the door. “Oh my God... fuckingWonder Woman’shere!” I gasp. “This is going to be so bad.”

Katarina comes over, slipping a flask into my hand. “Here. Yori is sweet, but you need Russian stress relief. A flask of this, nerves godasvidaniya.”

Blindly, I spin the cap on the flask and drink, trying not to choke as harsh vodka goes rolling down my throat, burning the whole way. “Holy fuck!” I cough, covering my mouth so I don’t start a fire with only my breath. “That’s not alcohol, that’s gasoline!”

“But now, less stress,” Katarina says with a little laugh. She claps me on the back, right between my shoulder blades, before going back to her station. I follow, hoping to help a fully made-up Jeanette at my own station.

My models are there, stripped down to their underwear and waiting on me. I’m helping the first girl into her outfit when Tobias comes into the back with his phone. Normally, that’s a huge no-no. There are no phones backstage, but he’s obviously talking to someone, and honestly, I don’t think any of us have the balls to tell him to get off the phone. Still, I watch carefully and eavesdrop a bit.

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