Bonjour Girl

by Isabelle Laflèche

  I take a deep breath, look around the room, walk up to a mannequin, and stare into Cécile’s eyes. I pray that she’ll help me find the stamina, courage, and resilience to fight back.

  Chapter Forty

  I enter Maddie’s apartment and I can tell she’s upset. Usually, she welcomes me with a warm hug. Today, it’s with bone-chilling silence.

  I walk into the kitchen and see that she’s making a jug of iced tea. She barely turns around when I take a seat on one of the stools. She’s not just upset; she’s really pissed off.

  I can’t blame her. She took me into her home and under her wing, applied for a scholarship on my behalf, and provided me with love and moral support. What did I do in return? I put all of it in jeopardy because of a silly cat fight with an unstable, angry girl. Maybe I’m the one who needs help.

  I’m not sure where to begin or what to say so I lean forward on the counter with my hands pressed together and wait for her to turn around. I’m wearing a sweatshirt that says BE AWESOME but I sure don’t feel that way. I’m tired and in no mood for a speech but I don’t want to lose Maddie’s respect, either. It means way too much to me. Although my energy levels are low from trying to deal with all of the drama, I try not to show it. I wish I could make her turn around and face me and say something, just to break this uncomfortable silence.

  When Maddie does turn around, her eyes meet mine. She doesn’t offer me any iced tea so I know this is about to get rocky.

  “Can I at least explain?” I ask meekly.

  “Sure, go right ahead. But that photo says a lot, Clementine, especially about your lack of judgment. I mean, what the hell were you doing in student records? Do you understand you could be expelled for this? And do you have any idea what position this puts me in? I know you’re under lots of pressure, but this is unacceptable.”

  I feel terrible and filled with shame. No words come out of my mouth to defend myself. I just want to put all this behind me. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying. I can barely hold back the tears.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was just trying to protect myself.”

  “You know, Clementine, I agreed to have you stay here, even though I had some doubts. Then I helped with the scholarship application so that you could break out on your own, make some money, and eventually become self-sufficient. Just like I did many years ago. And I know it’s realistic — I’ve seen the traffic on your blog. I even gave you Cécile’s precious book. And this is how you repay me? By doing something illicit?”

  She had doubts about me? Ouch. That hurts. A lot. I had no idea she’d thought my staying with her was a bad idea. And now, it’s turned into a complete disaster. Tears roll down my cheeks. Her words cut deep but I’m just angry at myself.

  I let my pride get in the way of my better judgment over a silly Twitter fight and now there’s collateral damage. Lots of it. Maybe I should just pack it up and move back to France, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.

  “It’s just that … I’ve been the victim of bullying … and now Jake’s collection has disappeared.” I can’t help it — the floodgates open wide and I burst into tears.

  “What?”

  I wipe my tears away with a piece of paper towel. “His fashion collection disappeared. Someone stole it from school.”

  Maddie looks disgusted. She takes a deep breath and walks over to the cupboard, pulls out two tall glasses, and fills them up in silence while shaking her head. She throws a lemon slice into each glass and hands me one.

  “Why didn’t you come to me about this?”

  “I dunno. We were trying to figure things out on our own.”

  “Look where that got you. With a compromising photo in my inbox.”

  “Right. Poor judgment. I get it.” I sniffle into my paper towel. She hands me a tissue.

  “I can’t believe this happened again,” she murmurs.

  “What do you mean again?”

  “This isn’t the first time this kind of thing has happened. One student had her collection destroyed last year. We never found out who did it. I need to alert faculty about this. It’s getting out of hand. Does Jake have any information about who could have done it?”

  She’s right. Things are out of control. I just wish Jake had left his collection pieces under lock and key.

  “Clementine, did you hear my question? Do you or Jake have any idea who did it?”

  I stare down at my shoes. I know it’s Stella but I don’t want to say it. I don’t want Maddie to do my dirty work for me. I’m sure I can come up with something smart that resolves this once and for all. Enough people have been dragged into the mud and it needs to stop. I just want to move on with my life, my blog, and my relationship with Jonathan.

  I take a long, cool sip of iced tea and get a flash. It’s a passage I remember from Cécile’s book: “A lady is always discreet, and uses her cunning intellect to resolve life’s trivial problems.”

  “No,” I finally answer.

  Maddie cocks an eyebrow. She knows I have something up my sleeve.

  “Whatever you say, Clementine,” she says, then pokes my nose. Thankfully, the mood has shifted and she’s smiling now. “I’ll try to make sure the photo doesn’t go around the school, but I don’t want any more trouble, understand? I’m so busy with teaching and the TV show, and I think you need to figure this out on your own.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You’re just like your mother, aren’t you?” she says. I react with a frown. I’m not sure what she means by it. In my mind that’s either an insult or a reproach.

  “You’re pig-headed, determined, and despite that girly exterior, you’re feisty as hell.” She finishes her iced tea in one swoop. “Speaking of your mother, she wants to talk to you.” Maddie says, with a strange look on her face.

  “Did she contact you?”

  Maddie shakes her head and points to the space behind me.

  “Hello, Clementine,” my mother says, standing in the middle of the loft in all of her glam glory: a pair of beige suede track pants, a matching cashmere sweater, and designer sneakers. There are several gold necklaces hanging around her neck. They could be medals representing all of her romantic conquests.

  I nearly fall off my stool. Maddie grabs my arm to help me maintain my balance.

  “What … when did you get here?”

  “This morning. I overheard you crying. Is everything okay, ma chérie?”

  No, everything is not okay, I want to shout, but I keep that to myself for now. I don’t want to explode at her in front of Maddie, who shoots me a sideways glance with an I’ll just leave the room now look.

  I think it’s best that she go. My mother’s visit is totally unexpected, and after what I’ve been through these last couple of weeks, the last thing I’m in the mood for is a heated discussion. But I realize that she’s come at just the right time. We need to clear the air. Otherwise, this ugly situation will remain stuck in my heart forever and prevent me from truly loving myself or anyone else.

  I need to get some closure so I can move on. I need that more than anything and I need it now.

  After Maddie leaves the room, my mother walks toward the espresso machine in silence. She knows I’m still livid about what she did; I haven’t returned any of her calls since I arrived in New York. And there have been many, many calls.

  “Would you like a coffee?” she asks, her luxurious brown hair floating just above her shoulders as she pours the dark grounds into the machine. Despite the long flight and probable jet lag, she looks as youthful as ever, probably half her age. And acts like it, too.

  “No thanks,” I say, following her every move. I’m watching her like a safari explorer watches a lioness waking from her sleep. Or is it a cougar?

  She prances elegantly and swiftly around the kitchen, just like she does on stage. She unsurp
risingly turns coffee-making into an art form. If only she’d done the same for her personal life and marriage. Ever the soft-spoken gentleman, he manages to tiptoe around her issues. I just can’t handle it anymore.

  “Clementine, are you ever going to forgive me?” she asks, taking a seat at the kitchen island. I get a whiff of her strong perfume and it turns my stomach. I turn away to breathe some fresh air. I forgot how heavy and musky her expensive eau de toilette can be and right this moment it makes me want to gag.

  “No, not really. What you did was unforgivable,” I shoot back. I’m not mincing words. It’s also had terrible effects on my self-confidence, but I keep that to myself.

  “Right. I know.” She takes a quick sip of coffee, staring out the window and into the courtyard. “I just want you to know that I talked it over with my therapist and she thinks we need to get this out in the open … to get past it.”

  “Your therapist? What about me? Did you ever consider how it’s affected me?” I shoot back. I’m about to lose it now.

  “Yes! That’s why I consulted with her and that’s why I came here to talk to you.”

  “So, what’s your conclusion?” I ask, although I already know the answer. She’s pretty messed up. And thanks to her, so am I.

  “My father, Cécile’s son, was emotionally distant. I suffered immensely because of it, and now I seek attention from men … much younger men. That’s my pattern. It’s one that I’m trying to break. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, you know. I’m terribly ashamed.”

  “Mm-hmm. So, what now? I’m not sure our relationship will ever be the same. How could it? I was betrayed by my own mother,” I say, reeling.

  Her face drops and her complexion turns pale. ’“I know, Clementine. I haven’t been a good mother. And I’m sorry.” She puts her elbow on the counter and drops her forehead into her hand. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been a terrible mother. You deserve so much better.” Tears run down her cheeks. This catches me off guard; I haven’t seen my mother cry much. She’s always been the stoic, over-confident diva, acclaimed artist, and in-demand socialite. Imperturbable, flawless, and at the top of her game. Always. Now, there are cracks in that suit of armour.

  I remain silent and I can tell from the look in her eyes that this is causing her more grief. I’m not doing it on purpose to get revenge, though. I’m just thinking things through carefully and weighing my words before I speak.

  “Listen, Clementine,” she says. “I came to New York to apologize and make amends. What I did was reckless and unforgivable, but I want to change. I can’t promise you perfection, I just don’t have that in me, but I can promise you this: I’m ready to work hard to become the best version of myself. And that means being a better mother. I’m committed to this journey. I want to heal my past and all the harm I’ve caused both you and your father. I just hope that I can count on your support.” Her mascara runs down her cheeks. I reach for the box of tissues and hand her one.

  I think about Jonathan and Jake. What would they do? What would they say? Would they forgive her? I’m not so sure.

  Then I think of Cécile. What would she do? Of course, she would forgive her granddaughter. But I try to recall a specific passage of her precious etiquette book, a chapter on indulgence:

  A lady is always indulgent, especially with those who do not act like her. She forgives quickly faux pas and blunders, without making those who perpetrated them feel uncomfortable or embarrassed. She understands if someone else is not yet a lady, thanks to her self-assurance.

  What my mother did was worse than a blunder or a faux pas — it was downright disgusting. But she’s my mother. Can I move past it? Maybe forgiving her will help me overcome my own self-confidence issues. It may help me get closer to becoming the woman I want to be.

  I put my hand on her shoulder and sigh. “Okay, maman, I’ll do my best. For your sake and Dad’s. I can’t promise you perfection, because I just don’t have it in me, but I’m willing to try.”

  She cracks a half-smile before jumping into my arms, where she begins to sob. I let her, just like Jonathan let me in the school amphitheatre. It’s called coming full circle, and I guess there’s something liberating about forgiveness. It takes a heavy load off your back.

  “And that boy wasn’t for you, anyway. He kept coming on to me when you had your back turned. You deserve better, ma chérie.”

  I know she’s right and that’s what really hurts. I don’t say anything about Jonathan. I’m not ready to share that with her yet so I just remain quiet, trying my best to forgive both her and Charles.

  After a few minutes, she breaks the silence.

  “You were crying earlier. What was that about?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just dealing with stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “An aggressive classmate.”

  “Is she hurting you?”

  “Not physically, no.”

  “Want me to get involved? I’ve been doing Bikram yoga and Pilates. I could kick her derrière.”

  I roll my eyes. I know that she’s only half-joking. My mother is addicted to drama, and I don’t think that’ll ever change. I try to look beyond that and see her genuine concern for me.

  “Non, ça va. Thanks for the offer though. You always taught me to look out for myself, right?”

  She squeezes my shoulder and leans into me.

  “Oh, Clementine, you’re the mature and reasonable one. I should probably take notes.”

  “You could start by reading my blog,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

  “You have a blog?” She looks surprised and impressed.

  “Yes, it’s called Bonjour Girl.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Eco fashion, ethics, and fashion diversity.”

  “Oh! I’d love to read it. Why don’t you get your computer and I’ll make us something to eat. You can show me while I get dinner ready.”

  “That sounds like a good start.”

  As I fetch my computer from my room, it hits me that being a lady has some rewards, including having an open and carefree heart, which leads to receiving love and support in return.

  While Maddie and my mother chat over dessert, I sneak into my room to text Jonathan and notice that I’ve got a message from Jake.

  Wanna hang out?

  Can’t right now. Mom is in NY for 48 hours

  Oh the famous opera mama!

  More like infamous

  Ooops. Sounds like there are issues

  Yup. Tons. But working through them

  If you say so, sweet pea. Wanna share?

  Nope

  Gotcha

  Are you still working on our plan?

  Yes. Have some ideas. Will keep you posted

  Sounds good. Good night. Hope you dream in technicolor, babe

  Right back at ya mon cher ami. Sweet dreams

  

  XXOO

  Chapter Forty-One

  Today is the day.

  After spending yesterday afternoon visiting some museums and enjoying a reconciliatory lunch with my mother, I sit nervously in the dean’s office with my laptop on my knees. It holds the interview notes I came up with late last night.

  I borrowed one of Maddie’s designer pieces for the meeting: a blue and white striped silk dress she bought on a business trip to Milan. I’ve had my eye on it ever since I moved in with her and I’m grateful she let me wear it today.

  I’ve accessorized it with pretty blue chandelier earrings and navy-blue pumps I picked up on sale when I first got to New York. I knew they’d come in handy. For good luck, I’m wearing a yellow ceramic flower necklace that belonged to Cécile. I feel like Reese Witherspoon at a Hollywood luncheon. Oh, and I finally found the courage to colour a strand of my hair pink. Because that’s what badasses do.

  My plan
will either make or break my future. I’ve decided that my peace of mind and Jake’s sanity are worth the risk. This charade can’t go on any longer.

  The dean of Parsons School of Design is a tall, elegant, handsome man who spent most of his career working in the fashion industry. Apparently, he was a business consultant for some of the world’s top labels and brands before joining Parsons and has successfully co-launched several internet businesses. Despite his impressive resume and stature, he remains very approachable and down-to-earth. He’s quite popular with students and faculty members.

  I’m here to interview him for Bonjour Girl. Since he encourages every student to develop an entrepreneurial spirit, getting him to agree to this meeting didn’t take much convincing, but I do have butterflies in my stomach. Who wouldn’t, right? I can do this, I tell myself. I just need to execute my plan flawlessly and everyone will be home free.

  “Hello, Clementine, nice to have you here. I’ve heard lots of positive things about you and what you’re doing,” the dean says, shaking my hand.

  “Really?” I respond, dumbfounded. I can’t imagine how he would have heard about me. Who told him about my blog?

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Dean Williams. I’m very grateful.”

  “Please, Clementine, call me James,” he says with a friendly glint in his eye. I see why students speak so highly of him.

  “Okay, James.” I catch myself feeling (and probably looking) insecure and decide to step up my game. If I’m going to make it in the big leagues, I need self-confidence by the bucket load. I clear my throat and imagine that I’m a famous blogger like Garance Doré interviewing Michael Kors. I immediately become more self-assured. I sit up straight in my seat, cross my legs, and let her rip. I just hope this works.

  “I’m honoured that you know about my work. I do my best to blog about the industry in a unique way. My goal is to reach the widest audience possible and write about topics that are outside of the fashion mainstream.”