He was such a sharp wit.
The girl said, “Mignonne. It’s a French word.”
“Meaning?”
“Pleasant.”
Consuelo corrected her. “Charming. Delightful. A pretty little thing. And isn’t she just?” She patted the sofa beside her. “Sit, Mignonette.”
Mignonne chose a chair to Consuelo’s left, low to the ground, with a simple dark iron frame and white leather cushions. It looked good with an attractive girl in it, especially one dressed in such an understated, refined ensemble—a ravishing ensemble, actually; deceptively simple. And the choice of chair put her and her outfit on eye level with Consuelo for a change. Smart girl. Worth a closer trial.
“Mignonne is a girl of many talents,” said Consuelo. “A student of fashion. A deputy of her father’s esteemed cultural club. A former teacher.” She curled her hand into a loose fist and clicked the ends of two long, pastel-green nails against each other. Watch the girl carefully now. “And perhaps a petite amie.”
“English,” said Binty.
“Girlfriend.” As if he couldn’t tell that by looking at Mignonne—those outrageously blue doe eyes, the unconscious grace with which she moved. Tonio must have been half in love with his beautiful tutor. But Mignonne, sitting so composed in the low chair, hadn’t reacted to the suggestion. Maybe he hadn’t been. Or maybe she had rebuked him. How dare she rebuke him? Only Consuelo understood how fragile and insecure Tonio could be.
The girl was quieter today than she had been at the Alliance; even somber, without the excitement with which she had told Consuelo about her prospects with Véra Fiche. But she was still guileless, still unguarded. Those eyes. A bit of sadness suited her. A woman was more attractive when her pain rose a little to the fore.
14
I focused on sitting up straight in the low chair. My pale gold dress and its matching jacket each wrapped across my front to form a collarless V neck and would gape in a most revealing way if I slouched. I had telephoned Consuelo, and had come all this way via Brossard’s and through Central Park without arriving at any conclusion on how to make my pitch. If I had no words with which to sell Atelier Fiche, at least I could try my best to do so using the clothing on my back.
Consuelo was continuing her report to Binty. “Tonio says she was a good teacher. But he’s through with all that. They’re just friends, is what he says. He tells me they have barely spoken since her return.”
“The man is in another country, after all.”
“Before that, Binty. What a pest you are. Tonio is a paragon of self-control, or so he tells me: too busy writing and lecturing and meeting with his endless generals to even think about l’amour! His poor darlings. Up and down Manhattan, all the beautiful girl toys are weeping into their satin sheets.”
“Look who’s talking,” said Binty.
“Oh, yes, I weep too, now and then. But I have my consolations.” Her gaze swept over me. I was listening, trying to make sense of her claims and to balance them against Antoine’s insistence that his wife told lies. She had a way of talking that sometimes bounced off my ears or confused my thinking; it took far more concentration to follow her unique logic than it did to listen to her clear illogic. Besides, my mind was wandering: I kept wondering whether Antoine’s apartment was as magnificent and stylish as this one.
Consuelo yanked my focus back. “Why are you here?” she asked coldly.
It was an interesting question. How complicated the answer could be. “You said you like the work of Atelier Fiche.”
Consuelo looked away, toward the Central Park view. Though the rain had stopped, the overcast sky was heavy and dark, the bulky clouds cumbersome.
Was I boring her? Consuelo had seemed glad to have me there when I first arrived, but now—should I leave?
I thought, I’ll just stand up and go.
But instead, Consuelo rose. She walked to the wide window, the sway of her hips exaggerated by the clacking heels of her ankle boots, the swishing of her nylon pants. I had never created something quite so form-fitted, so blatantly, purposefully gauche. Madame Fiche would have a tantrum. Yet, on Consuelo, it worked; it was irreverent and fun.
Or, at least, it had seemed fun before this sudden change.
“I like Atelier Fiche, and you are with Atelier Fiche,” she said. “Blah blah blah. What of it?”
Binty said, “The minion wants your business. Isn’t it obvious? Here comes the spiel.”
Without turning around, without trying to catch my eye in the reflecting glass expanse, Consuelo commanded, “Get up.”
Was she talking to me?
I looked at Binty. He closed his notebook and crossed his legs. I stood, and immediately wanted only to disappear. But Consuelo had turned; she looked me up and down. She motioned with raised fingers: Come to me.
I tried to cast myself into the bodies of the models I’d seen in fashion parades and in the pages of Vogue: hips forward, walk a line, pose with front foot turned suggestively out.
I forgot about Binty, I forgot about the lushness of the apartment and the vertigo-inducing view. I saw only the calculation and commanding desire in Consuelo’s eyes. With careful posture, with unhurried, even steps that belied the choppiness of my breath and the racing of my heart, I crossed the parquet floor.
15
Nice.
Consuelo was tempted to make the girl turn around and do it all over again: watch her beguiling movements from the back as she retreated, savor again the languid ease with which she approached from across the room. It had been a long while since she’d had someone she could play like a Pinocchio. Binty was mostly amenable to her whims, but only when it suited him. He was his own man, with his own caprices.
“Do you know why I adore Valentina?” asked Consuelo, letting Mignonne remain standing before her, ready for inspection, beginning to tremble a little on her feet.
The girl asked, “Because of her draping?”
“Because she appreciates the body. Not as a receptacle for color theory or formal construction techniques, but as the most raw and intimate thing that exists in nature.”
Oh, the girl was a much better listener than Tonio when it came to discussing design. For him, concrete details existed only to convey the abstract, to vault the reader to some higher or inner realm. The man could write, but he was no sculptor or designer. Just try to tell him about the feel of a fabric, about the way it communicated with the skin. This girl, though, look at her hang on Consuelo’s words! Such concentration and anticipation. This was why Consuelo loved to instruct. She should have been a teacher! Not a stuffy professor, though; a mentor.
The first rule of mentorship was to discompose one’s most self-possessed student.
Consuelo went on. “Valentina works with only the most exquisite, most sensual fabrics, and shapes them with the sparest of seams. There is no interfacing, no padding of the shoulders, nothing to obscure the beauty of the material or the woman on whom it is draped. When I speak of real design, this is what I speak of. One can only submit fully to it. Under a Valentina, one must wear nothing, only bare skin.”
The girl’s cheeks had grown flushed in the centers. Now a delicate rosiness sprung up on her chest, within the valley of that deep, layered gold V.
Very nice.
Consuelo touched the edge of the fabric that crossed the girl’s chest, steadying the hem, her cool fingers sensitive to its trembling and to the warmth of Mignonne’s skin. She thrilled to imagine the emotion that would overtake Mignonne if she were to nudge the fabric aside. Her fingers itched to provoke it. She said, “Don’t be alarmed, darling. We are daughters of Eve. We were made to live naked, to take pleasure in one another. Clothing is an aberration. It’s a punishment from the Lord.”
Binty stretched and yawned.
God, he was irritating. He knew nothing about fashion, or sensuality, or the intricacies of sex. Rut like a chimpanzee, that was all he knew. Not that Consuelo minded some rutting now and then. Better that than nothi
ng. But still, a woman of her beauty, her life force, her drive, was entitled to some variety. Consuelo’s tastes ranged beyond the simian and the silver dollar—though the ready combination had its obvious appeal. She was a woman of refined and diverse tastes. And what one appreciates, one should pursue: it was a duty to art and soul.
Consuelo asked, “Did I tell you about my earliest foray into fashion, when I created the most beautiful dress in the history of the world?”
Mignonne shook her head. Her hair gleamed.
“It is precisely why the Butterfly Collection caught my eye. I was just a child, as wild as the tropical forests of Central America. When the cook had her back turned, I snuck into the pantry and stole an enormous jar of honey. I took it into the forest and shed every stitch of my clothing, leaving it on the ground for the snakes and the rats. Then I ran through the trees until I found a patch of sunlight that tunneled down from the canopy. I stood there”—she trailed her fingers through a strand of Mignonne’s hair—“as you stand before me now, and let the honey drip over every inch of my body. I can still feel it oozing down my shoulders and the tender buds of my chest.”
She laid the lock of hair between Mignonne’s collarbones. “I ran through the forest, dripping and sticky. With every step, a dozen butterflies alit on my skin and stayed there swaying, riffling their wings. When I emerged from the darkness I was wearing a brilliant garment made of shimmering butterflies, of every size and color you can imagine.”
Binty guffawed. “Honey? Sure.”
Mignonne said, “And that’s why you’re so sweet.”
Spunk. Where did that come from? Fickle bitch.
16
I tried to keep my eyes and focus trained on the view, over Consuelo’s shoulder, as she inspected my outfit. I tried to not read too much into her touch. I tried talking myself through it, to distract myself. I made myself imagine what it would be like to live here, twenty-three floors above the city, Central Park unspooling endlessly below. Just let Consuelo do what she must, I told myself. Let her take her time. You did the work to make this piece as perfect as possible; do nothing to stop her from discovering that for herself. I told myself it was no different than how a designer handled a model: objectively, hands on fabric, unintentional fingers on skin.
Consuelo fingered the fabric of my unlined, collarless jacket where it crossed my chest on a diagonal, following the line down to the single covered button at the left side of my waist. “I should have taken your jacket at the door. I’ll take it now.”
Deftly, she undid the button and held the coat open. It slid from my shoulders. Under it, I was wearing a matching, sleeveless dress, a narrow wrap style that mimicked the lines of the cover-up.
Underneath that, almost nothing.
I knew the tenets Valentina imposed on her clients. I had dared myself to create an ensemble that would justify following them myself. But it was one thing to walk in a veil of steady rain, with an umbrella held low and a parcel pressed against your front. It was another to stand inches from a client, from someone as curious, sensuous, and bold as Consuelo, with only a swath of silk like a watercolor wash separating the skin of your breasts from your interrogator’s eyes and hands.
I willed my shoulders to ease down, my arms to hang loose and relaxed at my sides. I told myself to learn what I could from Consuelo’s expression as she studied the design.
A second time, she ran her hand from the top right to the bottom left, now turning the edge to assess the width and bulk of the hem. The light-woven silk faille yielded to her touch.
Her face softened as she handled the fabric. She seemed to lose her hyper self-awareness as she gave over fully to the experience of touch.
“You mentioned that you make art,” I said. “You’re a sculptress?”
Consuelo looked up, surprised. “How did you know?” Her brown eyes narrowed. “Did Tonio tell you?”
“I asked because of how you use your hands.”
“How do I use them?”
“Like an artist with clay. How a writer uses words.”
“Oh God,” Consuelo laughed. “With agony?”
“With sensitivity and confidence.”
“You really haven’t been talking to Tonio, not if you think writers feel confident as they work.”
“I don’t know about writers, but I know what it’s like to be someone who works with her hands.”
“You do indeed. Your work isn’t like that of an apprentice. Not at all.”
She placed her fingers on my shoulders and slowly spun me around until I was looking at Binty’s profile. He paid us no regard. He’d put his notebook aside to read a newspaper. Through the supple fabric, I could feel Consuelo’s touch on the nape of my neck, on my spine, and then on the small of my back. Her hands moved to my sides and probed for the seam allowance, testing the fit. Then her palms slid down my rib cage, igniting a thousand nerve endings as they travelled.
I swallowed a gasp.
Consuelo’s fingers curled around my torso and slipped down until they rested on the bones of my hips. She said, very close, “The draping here”—her fingertips pressed—“is superb.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice uneven.
Consuelo chuckled softly and breathed a word into my ear: “Brava.” Then she released me, moved past me, and rejoined Binty on the sofa. “There is no label at the neckline of your dress. Your ensemble is, of course, designed by Véra Fiche?”
I hesitated. Madame had never even seen this dress.
“Naturally,” mused Consuelo, “you wouldn’t try to woo a client wearing anything else. A countess, for example, can’t be expected to wear something some unknown assistant thought up.”
“Of course.”
“I admit I’d no idea Atelier Fiche had such finesse.”
“But now that you know …”
Binty flung his pencil over his shoulder. It hit a wall, bounced to the floor, and rolled to a stop. “For God’s sake, spit it out, Minion.”
“Would you like to come to the studio and see what else we’ve been working on?”
Binty applauded. “Finally. Okay, Consuelo, say yes and put the thing out of her misery.”
“As you wish, darling. Mignonne, tell your boss I’ll visit the studio sometime in the next few weeks.”
“Ta-da,” said Binty. “Mission accomplished.” He took his pencil from my outstretched hand. “Ciao, pleasant one.”
I pulled on my jacket and fumbled with its closing as I walked to the foyer.
Consuelo waggled her fingers goodbye. She was barely repressing a laugh.
17
Rainstorm over for the moment, the street was fresh and clean. I crossed to Central Park to gather my thoughts among the trees. The park seemed to be opening up, its benches washed of grit, its oaks and roses still silently soaking up the welcome drink. I could walk its paths again, or I could walk the sidewalks for a while; the last thing I wanted now was to go underground.
I chose the streets. Let people look at me, look at my outfit, at how I walked. I had done it! With hardly a word, I had earned Consuelo’s commitment to visit the studio. Madame could do things her own way, sell fashions through smooth-tongued guile; I might never master that skill, but today I had proven there could be another way. Consuelo would come to the studio sometime in the next few weeks.
What on earth could we show her? Had I come up with anything, beyond the dress I wore now, that I’d be proud to call my own? I did a mental inventory of my sketchbooks as I walked. The drawings melted together, one forgettable piece into another. Was there nothing striking and memorable, nothing that could make Consuelo leap up and take notice?
I replayed the events of the last hour: how she had been captivated, even captured, by the simplest of garments, an unadorned wrap. And yet this same woman had loved the ornate Butterfly Collection. How much of it was about the clothes, and how much was about how they were worn?
I emerged from the park and set off down the sidewalk. Peopl
e were standing in open doorways, sitting on stoops, anything to try to catch a fresh breeze. I was walking past a shoe store when a few buildings ahead something white tumbled down from the sky. It landed on the sidewalk with a muffled thump.
A pillow. I looked up. Three stories up, two young boys were peering from the rooftop, guffawing. At street level, a door flew open. A boy in bare feet and pajama bottoms scrambled out. He grabbed the pillow and held it at arms’ length as he stood catching his breath.
“We’re going to sleep on the roof,” he said.
“Isn’t it wet up there?”
“Who cares!”
What was stopping me from pouring out ideas? How had I done it before? Week after week, as a student, I had produced and produced. Where had all those concepts come from?
I needed a trigger, something strong and distinctive. Did I expect something to fall like a pillow from the sky?
The rain started and stopped twice by the time I made it back. I was sodden. In my flustered state, I’d left my umbrella in a stand in Consuelo’s lobby. I hoped to slip into the studio, grab a garment from a rack, and get changed in the bathroom down the hall without too much attention. But when I entered, Madame was there in a black raincoat, hanging her key on a nail by the door. Her stark brow lifted and furrowed.
“I’ve been at the Saint-Exupérys’,” I explained, beginning to shiver a little. “I have good news: Consuelo said she’ll come to the studio to see our work!”
“This is a revelation? Did I not already arrange this through le Comte de Saint-Exupéry?” Her lip curled as she took in my clothes. “You are completely soaked to the skin.”
“Not quite.” I looked down. The fabric was clinging provocatively to my arms and thighs. Even the extra layer of the jacket couldn’t completely obscure the form of my nipples pressing against the dress. I crossed my arms.
Madame spoke in a tone of severe distaste. “One generally wears more than a nightgown to visit a count and his lady.” With two squeamish fingers, she lifted the end of my damp sleeve. “What is this?”
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