“Augustine is a good designer,” she protested.
“And he hates me. You know he does.”
Francoise didn’t argue. She just pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, and because she was French, actually made it sexy. A nearby guy groaned.
“If you saw eet, you might change your mind,” she told me.
“I might. Can you ask him for me?”
“I do not sink zat would do any good,” Francoise said, looking thoughtful. “ ’E is very strict wiz his designs.”
“But?” I said, because there’d clearly been one in her tone.
“But ’e is on lunch at ze moment. . . .”
“And?”
She pulled something out of a drawer and dangled it off one finger. “And I ’ave his keys.”
She waved one of the other girls over to cover for her, and in less than a minute, we were past the back counter and into the fitting area, where I had to stop to deal with my shadows. The two golden-eyed vamps had been loitering nearby all morning, pretending to be part of the scenery. They weren’t doing it particularly well. Everybody else was in shorts and T-shirts, in respect for the 120-plus-degree heat wave outside, while they were impersonating the Men in Black.
Still, we had a truce; I pretended I didn’t notice them, and they didn’t crowd me too closely. But enough was enough. “Out,” I told them abruptly.
“We have to do a check first.”
“Then do it and leave.”
“Why?” One of them demanded. He was one of the new guys and I didn’t know his name. “What are you planning to do in here?”
I blinked at him. “It’s a dressing room. What do you think I’m planning to do?”
“That doesn’t explain why we have to go.”
“Because I might be trying on some clothes.”
“And?”
“And I might have to get naked!”
He just looked at me for a moment. “You are aware that we’ve seen it, right?”
“OUT!”
As soon as they’d left, Francoise unlocked the door to Augustine’s workroom and we scurried inside. It was a lot like the man himself, a flamboyant sprawl of creative excess, which in this case involved bolts of expensive fabric, bins of precious trims, heaps of glossy furs, and assorted sparkly things. There were tables holding materials, whiteboards covered with sketches and some half-assembled mannequins looking like war victims in the corner.
But I didn’t see any sewing machines or other nonfabulous equipment. Only a couple of tomato-shaped pin cushions that buzzed around our heads as soon as we entered. Like they knew we weren’t supposed to be there.
Francoise waved them away and they floated over to the back wall, where they huddled together ominously. Then she pulled back a curtain, and I promptly forgot about them and the vamps and even my aching body. Because Augustine was a bastard, but he was a brilliant bastard.
“Ze spring line,” Francoise said with a flourish worthy of a TV spokesmodel.
I didn’t say anything, because my mouth was busy hanging open. Okay, I decided, maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Because obviously he’d been busy.
I recognized some of his staples: a nude sheath dress with black lace fans embroidered on it that opened and closed every few seconds; a bunch of kicky little origami dresses that constantly reworked themselves into new shapes; and a selection of jeweled columns of what looked like liquid ruby, sapphire and diamond, the last so bright it was hard to look at.
But the real story this season was obviously the seasons themselves.
A nearby pale blue gown was printed with a swirl of autumn leaves—russet, gold and rich, earthen brown. But the leaves didn’t just move; they also didn’t see any need to actually stay on the fabric. They tumbled down the garment and spilled out into the air, swirling around the dress in one last, brief, ecstatic dance before finally vanishing.