Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) (11 page)

Balmain floored me. This was the
show of all shows, the one that everyone who had a passion for fashion was
talking about and would talk about, long after they left Paris. From the slew
of celebrity models to the creative and technical genius of the fashion house’s
creative director, Olivier Rousteing, Balmain was this season’s show to attend.
The five of us sat on the edge of our seats, eagerly waiting, alongside
everyone else.

From the moment that Brazilian model Caroline Ribeiro opened
the show, wearing a caramel suede jacket and cigarette pants with an enormous
pewter neck cuff, I was hooked. I sat mesmerized as models strode toward us down
the long gleaming walkway of the Intercontinental Hotel, wearing supple and
delicate fabrics in bold colors. The cuts of the pieces were strategically
woven, ruffled, and cut away, proudly exhibiting Olivier Rousteing’s knowledge
of fabric and form.

Maybe my enthusiasm was fueled by
the audience’s reaction inside the packed ballroom, but when a model appeared
wearing a stunning floor-length gown constructed of layers of transparent red
chiffon that formed a crisscrossed bodice, leaving a diamond-shaped cutaway
above the beltline and transitioned into ruffles from the mid-thigh down, I was
almost jumping up and down. This dress, I wanted. It was like Cinderella’s ball
gown. I wanted the dress and an extravagant occasion to wear it, too.

“Oh my god. That is so beautiful,”
I all but shouted to Tiziana.

She was equally as excited. “Bella,
that would be perfect on you.”

“I know!”

At the end, I felt flushed, out of
breath, spent. “You look like you’ve orgasmed,” Marian whispered in my ear.

“I feel like it.” I grinned back
at her from ear to ear. Finally, a show this season that truly thrilled me. “I
think I am about to sell my soul for one or two of those gowns.”

Whatever else I wanted to say was
forgotten when
Sébastien appeared. “Chérie, I
cannot tell you what a single ensemble looked like. You were mesmerizing.” Then
he kissed my flushed cheek. “Given you have excellent taste, I’m certain each would
look superb on you.”

***

In
complete contrast, from the moment the first Lanvin model stomped her way down
the runway to menacing music, I was horrified by the collection. There was no
bounce, no color, no texture. The models looked miserable.

“What do you think?”
Sébastien whispered to me.

Just then, the music switched to
some weird blend of jazz and techno funk. I heaved my shoulders. “Too
militant.”

“Is it possible to leave? Have you
ever done that? I would much rather hear what it was about Balmain that excited
you.”

I watched an androgynous model in
a chartreuse, knee-length dress stride past. “I told the girls I’d meet them
for drinks. Still interested?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, let’s give it a try.”

“If we are successful, we can text
them and tell them where to join us.”

I pulled my phone out and, on a
group chat, typed,
Going to get a drink nearby. I’ll text you where we are.
Join us afterwards.

As we ducked low and slipped out
of the room, I imagined the fashion police handcuffing me and dragging me off
as the fashionistas scowled at me shamefully. Once safely outside, I laughed.
“That was fun! I was so nervous. I definitely need a drink. Where to?”

He was laughing, also. “Me, too. How
about Hotel Costes?”

“I haven’t been there. Have you?”

He looked aghast! “You’ve never
been? It’s pretentious and overpriced but has spectacular ambiance and
excellent cocktails.” It was my turn to look surprised. He sounded like a Yelp review.
Looking guilty, he continued, “Marian was telling me earlier she and Hillary
were hoping to find a bar or club. I think she’s interested in finding company.
When I asked around, it seems many Americans go there, so it improves her
chances, no?”

I felt myself grinning like an
idiot. “You’re a very nice man, looking out for Marian and her love life, like
that.”

“If your friends are happy, then
you are happy.”

I reached for his hand, and said,
“I am happy.”

***

I drained my first mojito quickly. Too
quickly. I was excited and nervous. I drank the tart cocktail quickly. The bar,
with softly lit Greco opulence, was indeed filled with Americans and Brits. “It
is really odd to be around so many people speaking English. That generally only
happens when I’m with the girls.” Speaking of them, I checked my phone to see
that a text had arrived from Hillary:
Heading home. Charlotte’s tired.
Another time?

I read it aloud. He looked disappointed for about two
seconds then returned to our earlier topic of conversation. “You don’t go home
to Seattle often?”

I shook my head. Seattle and Mikkel went hand in glove, so I
skirted the subject. “No. What about you? Do you hang out with Americans
often?”

He shook his head. “You’re my first.”

I snorted, and when he gave me a confused look, I explained
the idiom to him.

In an effort to cover his embarrassment, he asked if I
wanted another drink. I shook my head. “I think it’s time to head home.”

***

Sébastien looked around the room as
he laid his coat over the back of a chair. “Any luck finding your muse yet?”

“I haven’t even tried. I’m hoping, once everyone heads home,
I’ll have more than a minute to think about it, and inspiration will hit.”

I nervously sat down on the couch. I had a pretty good idea
of what was about to happen, and, while I wanted it, I was nervous. He had
barely settled in beside me when his lips dropped to mine. Instantly ablaze, he
pulled me tighter to him. I felt his heart pounding against my chest as our
kiss deepened. Our kiss tasted of limes, blackcurrants and cedar. When mixed
with the tantalizing friction of his lips against mine and the scent and touch
of his body, I was entranced.

His hands and body promised all manner of things as we clung
to each other. In between kisses, he whispered soft, nonsensical phrases; words
fluttered here and there into the silent room around us. While his words filled
my head with images, his undulating body led me to softly purr. As his breath
blew hot and moist just below my ear, I pressed myself to him, feeling
inexplicable pleasure and the absolute perfection of being in rhythm with
someone.

He loosened my hair from its knot, and it tumbled free. “So
beautiful, so sexy,” he whispered as he thrust his hand into it, caressing and
gently tugging it as he slid his fingers from my scalp down the length of the
silky strands.

I was so lost in my desire for him, so lost in the sensation
of him beneath my hands, that when I felt us roll over I simply held on for
dear life. That the world was rolling and spinning made no difference to me.
That his mouth was latched onto mine, his body cradling me, was all that I
cared about.

DAY FOUR OF
Fashion Week
found me standing in the dark, where no one could see me. Frank Sinatra’s voice
crooned, “All or Nothin' at All.” The lyrics that followed caused my thoughts
to jump between last night’s sensual encounter with Sébastien and what I was
about to do. Excitement. A leap into the abyss.

Up high, where I stood on a worn wooden staircase inside the
old warehouse, I could see models climb stairs to the second-floor platform
then find their poses. Models were also queuing up behind a heavy black curtain
at the entrance to the catwalk, all waiting their turn to strut through the one
open door.

White lights suddenly lit the interior of the two-story
structure painted a high-gloss black on the outside and bright white within.
Bold red doors, hung one above another, created a very graphic grid pattern.
Frosted glass panels in the doors created a perfect canvas for the models’
silhouettes. Golden light bounced off the building’s exterior surface, bathing
everything with a warm and shimmering effect.

Ol’ Blue Eyes worked his magic, and the wistful plea of a lover
swayed the audience into silence. The first model stepped onto the runway and
sauntered in a floor-length, white evening gown that was a definite nod to the
style of the 1930s and Jean Harlow. The pale skin of the model’s shoulders and
arms was sheathed in sheer fabric, embellished with miniscule, flickering seed
pearls. The faux plunging neckline was embellished with the same delicate
pearls. What would have been a full skirt was gathered, the delicate silk
neatly pleated and draped down the front of the left leg, showing just a hint
of ankle.

A minute later, I quickly ran a damp cloth down my body,
trying to remove the sheen of sweat that coated my skin, but I was so nervous,
I kept fumbling. A stylist grabbed it out of my hands before I could take another
pass. An iridescent, blue silk gown was slipped carefully over my head and
tugged into place. I felt jittery.
One short walk, that’s all.

To calm myself, I focused on what should be happening on the
other side of the curtain. The walls should now be awash in a gradient top to
bottom of warm, burnt sienna to pale apricot.

Sinatra’s voice had long since faded. Now, bows romanced the
strings of violins and violas, introducing, “What a Wonderful World,” the
soulful duet version with Tony Bennett blended with KD Lang’s mellifluous
voice. Together, they slid smoothly up and down the scale, painting the image
of a perfect day, and, despite the song’s promise of happiness, I fought the
impulse to flee.

Bethany Halvorsen grabbed my arm, squealing with delight,
“Kathleen, I’d kiss you if it wouldn’t ruin your makeup. How can I ever say
thank you? This is so much better than any dream I’ve ever had. The set
showcases the collection brilliantly—
your
brilliant idea.”

“Nonsense. I had the spark of an idea.”

“You, my dear, are far too modest.”

I released a breath full of tension and attempted to settle
a cool demeanor about my shoulders. The gentle tapping of piano keys told me it
was time. “I’m genuinely pleased I could help.”

I swept a hand over the heavily-beaded choker collar and
bodice before stepping into the fray. The light boxes on the runway were
bright, causing my gown to beam like a beacon in the night. Trying not to ruin
the effect by squinting against the brightness, my only option was to peer far
into the distance and pray that I didn’t walk off the end, exactly where my
friends and co-workers were seated.

As I approached the end of the catwalk, I saw my guests
applauding, some more raucously than others. Anaïs and Yvette were only
slightly more exuberant than Messieurs Detriche and Huse. I couldn’t resist
winking at Marian when she hooted then flashed Sébastien a smile.
Sébastien
?
He hadn’t mentioned attending Bethany’s show.

The skirt of my evening dress swished around my ankles as I
performed the much practiced, “turn, pause, and pose,” presenting my backside
to the audience. Crystals and colored-glass beads ran the groove of my spine,
my back otherwise very bare. The column of color held together the choker
around my neck and the dangerously low-cut skirt. The response to the back of
the gown was a rising, “
Oh
!” The applause was generous.

At the fittings, the gown had felt a little risqué. Now, I
felt positively naked and prayed the fashion tape held the dress to my skin.
Once we made it back behind the curtain, Bethany jealously mocked, “Should I be
offended that people like the model more than the dress?”

“Clearly not so! The gown would make anyone beautiful.” I
grabbed her hand, since she and I would be walking out together. “Time for the
second pass. And to show everyone the genius behind the collection.”

Tony Bennett crooned, “The Way You Look Tonight,” as the
models took their final walk. From the back of the line, I was stunned by the
overall beauty of Bethany’s modernized 1930s pieces: day and evening wear in
white, black, red, and navy. After completing my moment in the spotlight, I
felt enormously relieved.

That detour was forgotten, however, when Bethany tugged my
arm. “Come on.” She shooed all the models back out front. Falling as far back
as possible, I cautiously watched the proceedings. The audience had remained in
their seats, apparently aware there was more to come.

A handsome and very familiar gentleman made his way to
center stage holding a microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, how about
another round of applause?” His voice was soft and relaxed as he spoke. Self-deprecatingly,
he continued, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victoria Beckham’s husband.”
The audience laughed at his joke. Everyone knew who David Beckham was,
especially after he’d signed the Armani underwear deal.

He read from a notecard, “A year ago, an idea was conceived
and tonight it was brilliantly executed. Tonight was a unique experience in the
world of fashion. The concept was to celebrate those individuals employed by
companies attached to the fashion industry but who are neither designer nor
model but who excel in other capacities. Each model was nominated and carefully
selected by a panel comprised of CEOs from each company represented. In your
programs, you will find the biographies of each model, including their
accomplishments.”

“The designer, Ms. Halvorsen, was chosen through a similar
process—a panel of established designers supporting the next generation chose
her from a cast of many.”

Now that the show was over, I found myself enjoying the
moment and admired the accomplishments of all the women nominated.

“In case you are unaware, these women will be featured in
December’s issue of
Forbes Magazine,
photographed earlier this year in
Bali
.
” He gave a little nod and waved before walking off stage to
exuberant applause.

There was a rousing round of applause when Bethany took the
microphone. Dressed in a navy blue gown, clearly part of her collection, her
upswept auburn hair allowed her sparkling, vintage earrings to swing freely.
She looked tall and elegant and a little overwhelmed.

Wearing a shy smile, she began speaking in halting French
that had a twinge of southern drawl. She exuded happiness and pride as she read
from the card I had written out phonetically. “On behalf of all of us, we thank
you for this honor. For me, it is an unimaginable pleasure to be given this
opportunity. I am so very grateful.” She fanned herself as she breathlessly
recited a long list of names.

I was completely taken by surprise when she ended with, “While
I am indebted to many, I am particularly thankful for Mademoiselle Ehlers from L’Oréal.
She has served as interpreter, set-design collaborator, and carpenter from the
beginning of this project. Merci beaucoup!” After another round of applause, we
fled behind the curtain.

***

I found
myself parched, as did Marian. “How do you say ‘slow down’ in French?” she
asked, as a waiter carrying a tray full of Champagne flutes zipped past us.

“
Sébastien!” I teased her
and pointed at him as he stepped into the path of the same waiter, glanced back
at Marian and me, and collected three glasses.

“Jaysus, you are fecking
marvelous!” Marian told him as she carefully extracted one of the glasses. “Don’t
waste a drop. Who knows when we’ll have a second chance.” With that, she and I
drained ours. I was still thirsty, and she looked disappointedly at her empty
glass.

As luck would have it, Tiziana
made her way over to us, bringing with her a long line of wait staff. We passed
our empty glasses to one person while taking full ones from another, along with
mouthwatering if absolutely tiny hors d'oeuvres.

“If I had a straw, I could inhale
all these with one big breath,” Marian whispered in my ear.

I smiled at her comment as
Monsieur
Detriche approached, offering his high praise. “Mademoiselle, you are more
impressive than we knew! You did not tell us you were assisting Ms. Halvorsen.”

“She was overly generous in her compliments. She is a
friend, and since she doesn’t speak French, I volunteered to help.” I was
explaining Charlotte’s connection with Bethany as Monsieur Huse arrived.

He asked me about my collaborating on the set design. “I
cannot accept much credit. I saw a picture of a house, in London, covered with
doors. I found it intriguing. The set builders worked their magic.”

Monsieur Huse continued, “Nonetheless, we are indeed honored
to have you and your many talents represent us.”

Embarrassed, I redirected the conversation. “Messieurs Huse
and Detriche, I am honored by the nomination. Thank you again.”

To my surprise, Monsieur Huse chuckled and said, “Please!
You are more talented than the rest of us combined. Tomorrow, we will be
fending off our competitors. I imagine they are formulating offers as we speak.”
He looked me straight in the eye and said, “We will make sure that cannot
happen.”

***

Tiziana pulled us a little distance
away, carefully turning her back on the men. “Hillary, I just heard that Jean
Victor Meyer is here.”

Hillary scanned the room. “I heard he would be.”

We searched the crowded room, looking for the classically
handsome thirty-year-old who represented the Bettencourt family at such events.
We finally located him, orbited by every “who’s who” attending.

“Now that we’ve found him, how do I get him alone?” Hillary asked.
“I would really like to talk to him.”

“Me, too!” Marian leered suggestively at Meyer. The expression
on her face would have made Serge Gainsbourg proud.

Simultaneously, we all turned and looked at Tiziana in her
dress, which was perfectly plunging. I whispered in Ted’s ear as we shuffled
past, “We’re borrowing your wife to restore world order.” He gave me a curious
look and then followed the direction I’d nudged my chin.

I heard, “Ah!” as we walked away.

It turned out to be more simple than I’d expected. Her
cleavage, her reputation, and her name may have preceded Tiziana, but it was I
with whom he made eye contact. “At last, Mademoiselle Ehlers. I am so delighted
to finally meet you.”

I wanted to punch the air and shout, “Score,” but I didn’t.

“Monsieur Meyers, thank you. It is a pleasure to meet you,
too.”

“May I?” he asked.

Not quite sure what he meant, I nodded.
What could he do
in front of all these people?

He took my hand and gently turned me in a wide circle. “The
back is quite exquisite. The gown suits you perfectly.” He kept ahold of my
hand, and when we once again made eye contact, he continued, “My family and I
are very grateful to have you represent L’Oréal today. Thank you. If only all
our employees were as hardworking and talented…”

I waved off his praise, blushing. My mind was completely
blown away by the fact that someone so far up the food chain even knew who I
was. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “Allow me to introduce Aksel Pedersen. Don’t let
the name fool you. He speaks French.”

I took that as a hint and switched to French, engaging him
in conversation while Hillary elegantly held her hand out and introduced
herself. “Monsieur Meyers, Hillary Cavendish…” As they became better
acquainted, my new friend Aksel Pedersen and I talked about my actual position
at L’Oréal. He seemed very surprised to find out I was a corporate lawyer in
the business acquisition division.

Clearly, he hadn’t read the program. “And what do you do,
Monsieur Pedersen?”

Whatever he was about to say got lost when Tiziana arrived, followed
by Ted. Marian took advantage of those three making small talk and tugged at my
elbow. “Something’s up with Sébastien.”

Concerned, I searched the room. “Look there!” She pointed
and, sure enough, he was making a beeline for us, looking quite serious. I
sobered up quickly. I hadn’t seen that expression on him before.

I walked to him, expecting something serious, but instead, when
he reached me, he didn’t say or do anything other than place a kiss on my cheek
and smile. “Everything okay?” I asked suspiciously.

“Of course, ma chère. What about Hillary? Has she landed her
fish?” She was still talking to Jean-Victor Meyer.

Utterly confused, I answered him, wondering what he didn’t
want to talk about. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

He led me back to the group, where Ted and Aksel
acknowledged him, and, once again, I was surprised by his boundless connections.
Something felt different, though. I had only seen Sébastien impeccably calm and
poised. As he spoke to them, he seemed guarded and tense.

He said, “Yes, I’m very proud of Kathleen,” and sounded
strangely covetous as he slipped his arm around my waist.