Page 48 of The French Kiss

Okay, and correct.

We make our way backstage and find workspaces divided out for each of us. My rack is set up, each of the bagged outfits a week’s worth of inspiration, creation, and obsession. I can feel anxiety chewing at my gut. People of influence are gonna see my work. What if I’m not ready, not good enough?

My mom’s voice echoes in my head, this time a memory from when I made my own prom dress.

“Oh, you look beautiful, baby!”

“Thanks, Mom. It came out pretty good, don’t you think?” I know I’m fishing for compliments, but she can’t deny this dress is gorgeous.

Mom scans the strapless dress I’ve been working on for weeks—first, drawing the design over and over with improvements each time, then, cutting the patterns carefully out of the expensive fabric I splurged on with my own money, and lastly, learning how to do hidden boning channels as I sewed it all together. There’s nothing she can nitpick, I know it. This dress is my best work and I feel amazing in it.

“You did a great job with the boning work. You can’t even tell they’re there.”

The sewing, that’s what she compliments, of course. Not the design, not how flattering it is. Nope, ‘you ran that through a machine really well’.

“Thanks.” She’s never going to realize how much I love designing, the whole process of it, not only the stitching. She’s never going to think I’m good enough, talented enough, creative enough to do more than make other people’s ideas come to life.

Jeanette comes up, looking wired. “Allo! Ready?”

Energy is buzzing off her, making her look particularly bright-eyed and her smile broad. It hits me. This is a big deal for her, too. Most of her career, she’s been part of the ‘cattle call’ set, the models who take spots but aren’t known. This is the first time she’s been paired with someone as the highlight model.

We both have a lot riding on this.

“I hope so,” I tell Jeanette. “Let’s do our last fittings and see where we’re at.”

I dress Jeanette and then my other four models, who are more like robotic clothes hangers. They seem nice enough but are definitely accustomed to working with designers who want them to show up on time, stand still for dressing, blankly walk the runway, and leave. They honestly seem surprised that I want to speak to them at all and shocked that I want them to actually smile on the runway.

“Yes, really. Teeth and all.” I demonstrate a big, happy smile, poking at my full cheeks. “Be happy, look happy.”

I put outfits on each of them, making changes and last-minute tweaks as they’re needed.

Soon, it’s our turn to do an onstage rehearsal, a practice walk in street clothes and show heels that gives the models a chance to get the feel for how it will be tomorrow night. At Jeanette’s urging, I even take a practice lap, and it’s... intense. There’s light directly in my eyes no matter how I turn my head, and as I walk, music starts blasting me, which is even more disorienting.

I damn near walk off the end of the stage.

I’m not the only one struggling with the runway walk as the other designers try it too. Molly laughs. “This is impossible and I have on boots! How do you do this in heels?” she asks her model. All the models laugh at our difficulties, breaking the tension of the afternoon.

The doors at the far end of the room open, and in walks Jacqueline Corbin, Tobias, a man I haven’t seen before, and Simon.

I haven’t seen Simon in a couple of days, not since he stopped by the workroom to speak to each designer one-on-one on Wednesday. It had nearly seemed like a ruse to see me, but all the designers had been over the moon at having a chance to talk to him. As for me, I’d struggled to keep an all-business face, especially when he pointedly licked his lips when no one was looking.

And now, seeing him again, I swear it instantly went up about ten degrees in here. His eyes find mine as the group walks over to the chairs with their names on them.

“Hello, ladies!” Jacqueline says regally. She looks like a million bucks, wearing House Corbin, of course. Her white suit jacket and pencil skirt are tailored to perfection, her multi-strand pearls likely real, and I’m not sure if it’s a pet or an accessory, but she has a small, white French bulldog puppy cradled in one arm. It’s adorable and takes just a hint off Jacqueline’s harsh look. “Are you ready for tomorrow's show?”

No, we’re all so nervous I’m sure at least half of us are about to piss our pants. But we’re not going to tell her that, so we nod mechanically, hoping that’s some reassurance that things are fine, totally fine, completely ready for a show in less than twenty-four hours.

Instead of looking at Jacqueline, I turn my attention to Simon, whose eyes are heated even as his face remains professionally impassive.

“This is Albert,” Jacqueline says, introducing the unknown man. “He’s my right-hand man and head assistant. Treat anything he tells you as though it’s coming directly from me. Understood?”

She doesn’t wait for our agreement, continuing her speech. “I’m certain you have seen the names upon these chairs. Some of thecrème de la crèmeof fashion. They will be judging you, providing feedback, and helping me to make my decisions.” She looks over the chairs and then to Simon. “Along with these guests, my nephew, Simon, will be assisting me.”

Simon does a double-take. “Jacqueline, we agreed I wouldn't be on the council.”

Jacqueline looks miffed that someone would question her words in public but waves it off. “I changed my mind. Dear nephew, you will help judge the outfits, and your feedback will be valuable for deciding who wins.”

Simon’s eyes find mine, and I know what he’s thinking. This means our spending time together is a clear conflict of interest and complicates things greatly. Before, it was questionable. Now, it’s flat-out wrong.

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