“Enough of the showroom, I think it’s time to show you the new collection,” Adèle says suddenly, and her dad agrees with a small nod. They take me through doors that leads to a big office space.
The building looks small from the front, but it’s a maze in here.
We meet another staircase at the end of the office space, which I assume leads to the same place the doors in the lobby lead to.
Women in white coats work with Singer machines while others scurry around with fabrics and measuring tapes.
“This is where the magic happens, or as most people call it, an atelier.”
“It’s amazing,” I tell him in awe.
“Adrienne, sortez-moi les dessins pour la collection noire,”he tells a woman, and she runs for what I assume are the designs. Shortly after, she brings out several white bags with the wordAdèleon them.
Hanging them up on racks, she spreads them out. Mr. Manon walks up to one of the garments and pulls the zipper down. I gasp.
I’m obsessed.
“Tilt your head back so that it touches your neck; basically just look at the ceiling. Also, can you put your hands in your pockets for me?” Doing as the photographer, Crue, tells me, I pose.
After seeing the garments and absolutely loving every single one of them, they sent the makeup and hair girls flocking towards me. Acting like they were about to give me Botox and an eyebrow lift. They quickly escorted me to the chair and worked their magic. My hair is straightened, and I have a natural makeup look on my face. Layers of foundation cover up every pimple and discoloration known to man. A gloss and a shimmer shadow were applied shortly afterward. My makeup has a matte finish, and let me tell you... my skin has never looked better.
I’m posing in the “signature” pantsuit, as Mr. Manon likes to call it. He’s very passionate about his clothing. He told me an extensive story behind each piece. This look in particular embodies gender neutral clothing and gives a sort of masculine look to the female body. Since Adèle is known for its hyper-feminine structure, he wanted to do something vastly different. I don’t have a shirt underneath the straight suit jacket. It curves at the waist, giving it a flattering finish. The pants are completely straight-legged while hugging the ass. The accessories are composed of a belt with silver embellishments as well as metallic rings scattered on my fingers.
I was also quickly introduced to the world-renowned high fashion photographer, Crue Thomas. Coming from first-generation immigrant parents, he moved to France when he was just a child.
He’s hot as fuck.
“Ugh, you are fucking brilliant,” he says as he keeps taking photos. This man does wonders for a woman’s ego.
I think I’m in love.
“Okay, shall we get you into look two?” I almost burst out in joy; it’s my favorite look out of them all.
“Yes, please.” I grin like the fucking Cheshire cat.
Walking back into the changing area, which is pretty much a dressing barrier, I begin changing. When I came in, they told me it was okay to change in front of them. But I am not letting it all out for my potential boss to see. It may be the French way, but these people are not going to see my vagina on our first photoshoot. We can work up to that.
Taking off the suit carefully, I grab fishnet tights that are going to match the shorts and the corset bodice that has a sort of matrix black leather coat paired with it. Slipping on the black ten-inch heel boots that are made of velvet, I feel like I’m in heaven.
I could be a model at this rate because I am damn good at it.
When Mr. Manon said that this line is made for strong women, he was not lying.
All these looks are so good. It’s chic, modern, and still has that Adèle appeal all bundled up into one collection.
The assistants help me get everything sorted. I take a few steps out of the curtain thing or whatever you call it.
“Qu’est-ce que tu as encore fait, Adele?”I hear someone burst through the doors. Everyone looks up, including me.
Of course, he’s here and why in the ever-living fuck does he speak French so well?
What, is this man a parseltongue too?
“Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici, Luc,”Adele sighs into her hands in frustration at his outburst.
“Tu sais ce que je fais ici, tu penses que tu peux me poursuivre pour quatre millions de dollars alors qu’on a divorcé il y a des années. Ça va dans ta tête?”Mr. Donatello holds up a piece of paper waving it in Adèle’s face.
Am I witnessing a lover’s quarrel? Someone get the popcorn.