Soon, it was their 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, Monica even took a practice lap, and it’s . . . intense. There was light directly in her eyes no matter how she turns her head, and as she walks, music starts blasting her, which is even moredisorienting. She was damn near walk off the end of the stage. She was 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 their 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 she have not seen before, and Jackson. Monica haven’t seen Jackson in a couple of days, not since he stopped by the workroom to speak to each designer one-on-one on Wedn
“Breathe,” Yori says, looking over Monica's shoulder and seeing the same thing as she do. She seems completely fine, though, no panic attack in sight. “You panic, you make mistake. You must have mushin.” “Mushin?” Monica asks, 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.” Monica snorts. “That’s easier said than done.” But she tries, telling herself that everything is fine, but it just feels like more static. Yori takes Monica's hands, tugging her out of her thoughts. “Breathe. In through nose, out through mouth, very slow. Isshoni. Together.” Monica follows her, taking deep breaths, and she feels herself start to calm, but that calm evaporates a minute later when she sees another big name come through the door. “Oh my God . . . fucking Wonder Woman’s here!” Monica gasps. “This is going to be so bad.” Katarina comes over, slipping a flask into her hand. “He
Each designer will have their five designs walk, there will be a two-minute break, and then the next designer’s time begins. The small separation will give people a moment to digest, make notes, and prepare for another stylepresentation. As they wait for the show to begin, he listens to the chatter around him. Most of these people are high society by birthright. They were people who have never had to struggle for a meal in their lives. Even the ones who did work their way up, as designers themselves or industry insiders, have forgotten what thattime in their life was like. Jackson was blessed to have never known struggle but also acutely aware that his life could have been so very different, and the seriousness with which these people discuss the latest red carpet fashion is off-putting. Why aren’t they discussing politics or poverty or anything that’s actually important? Jackson loves fashion. It was been the foundation on which he was raised. But there’s got to be more to it. It
The last collection is from Beatrice, and it’s quite well done too. Of course, that’s likely because it’s very Parisian. The dresses are short but appropriate, the skirts are long and flowy, and the tops are cotton bustier-typecamisoles under oversized linen shirts. It’s mostly solids, with a color palette of mostly pale blues and navy, though her finale maxi dress is a floral print that combines the two with a pop of red. After the show’s conclusion, he gives his notebook with his evaluations to his aunt. “A good start, don’t you think?” “I think there was a lot of promise in some of the pieces,” she answersevasively. “I look forward to seeing what another week produces.” Jackson watches as she leaves, Albert at her side, as always. They were deep in conversation, and he wonders what they were saying. Which designer theyfavored, which pieces they loved, and also, which they didn’t care for. Knowing he will be expected to make his way to the after-show cocktail hour to mingle and
He drives for a bit, and the whole way, Monica gawks out the windows to visually feast at every tidbit that they pass. She wants to absorb it all, use it as a muse, and create designs inspired by it. Jackson turns into a parking garage and carefully parks his car. They get out, and Jackson takes her hand as they walk out onto the sidewalk. In front of a large cast iron gate, Jackson asks, “Do you know the Luxembourg Gardens? It’s one of the most beautiful places in Paris.” “I have heard of it and seen photos. It’s like Central Park in New York, a pearl in the middle of the city, right?” Monica looks around, already fully charmed by the greenery and statuary she can see. They walk along the wide, sandy dirt paths, taking in the sights. There were people everywhere, smiling and chatting, taking advantage of the weather toplay tennis and basketball and sit in groups in the green chairs among the paths. “Would you like to see the Statue of Liberty?” he asks. Monica laughs. “I have. In N
“It’s something I want to focus on with my designs—making everyone feel they are accepted just as they are,” Jackson says fiercely. “An honorable goal,” he agrees just as fiercely. “But make no mistake, what Jacqueline prefers on the runway and what I prefer in my bed are not one and the same, Princesse.” She can see the fire in his eyes, the possessive appreciation, and it settles some of the concern churning deep in her gut. His words reassure her, and she was able to relax a bit, though it takes a while before she was comfortable enough to enjoy the wine, cheese, and meat again. But Jackson doesn’t seem to notice one way or the other, playing tour guide and telling her about the history ofthe gardens. Though Monica was not sure his stories are in any of the gardens’ literature. “Once, I must have been about eight, would guess . . . I was here on a school trip and we were allowed to rent the sailboats. I chose one in red and green and readied it for entry. There was another child
“No, I’m glad that I get this chance,” Monica tells them. “Really. I want to learn about all of Paris . . . and Jackson.” They hoot at that, teasing Jackson in French that no one translates, but it must be good because Jackson blushes slightly. The tallest of the boys looks at her with keen interest. “You are . . . most beautiful woman I see.” The compliment is delivered haltingly as he translates in his mind. But he also seems intense, his dark eyes almost diving into Monica's soul. “Aww, thanks. What is your name?” “Jamaica ,” he says, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles much the same as Jackson did. Monica wonders if Jackson is teaching them some of his charm too. “You have made my day good.”“You romancer,” Samuel teases his friend, grinning. Wanting to get onto a safer topic, Monica asks, “What do you typically do when Jackson visits?” “He normally tries to show us athletics,” Raphael says, winking as he adds, “and we let him feel nice about it. He is good . . . for an old
“We have a charity event coming up. I will have to discuss it with Jacqueline first because it’s a gala, with the highest of society attending to see and be seen, but it would be perfect to highlight the competition’s designers.There is an auction of donated pieces and vintage House Corbin pieces, even some of Jacqueline’s personal pieces, and the funds are donated to the orphanage.” “Wow, that’s amazing. You are doing so much for the boys here,” Monica tells him, touched. Monica wonders if anyone else knows Jackson’s personal connection with this cause and the way he gives his all, especially to those boys. “I was one of the boys here. For a short period compared to some of them, but it just as easily could’ve been me fighting with anyone who offeredhope because there is nothing scarier than losing hope . . . the second time.” They have made it back to the building, and he pauses at the steps. “This is where my mother left me. Or so I have been told. I don’t have any memories of