“Ach, Fabian…” Henri waved his free hand, as if Fabian were a very tall, very good-looking insect.
“A literal legend with the needle. I’m studying fashion at Saint Martin’s, and I come across here every break to intern with Henri. He’s a god.”
“God or no, I do not design gowns for unwilling customers. Stop blathering and put the kettle on,” Henri said, waving Fabian away. “So…?”
“Yes.” I felt a rush of relief when I said the word, and by the exhales of the men in the room, they did too. Lucien just stared and then nodded, as if in acknowledgement of the sacrifice I was making.
“Oh my god, yes, girl!” Fabian said, turning on his heel and marching back, pulling a tape measure down from a hook and advancing on me. “Come this way, and I’ll take your measurements.”
“Always with the rushing in!” Henri threw up his hands as if in irritation, but the twinkle in his eye told another story. “Mademoiselle—”
“Just Sage,” I said.
“Just Sage,” he agreed. “My assistant will take your measurements. Your Luc will be outside, just in case you feel uncomfortable. Then we’ll talk events, styles, and fabrics.” He gave my hands a squeeze. “We can make beautiful art together. I believe this to be true.”
“Come through, babes,” Fabian said, sashaying across to what looked like a changing room, and then flicked the curtain wide with a flourish. “So I’ll just get you to strip down to your smalls, then I’ll take a few measurements…”
And….we hit our first obstacle. I looked Fabian up and down, seeing the gold earrings glinting in his ears, the body con top he was wearing, revealing all of his lean musculature, as well as the fitted pants that sat low on his hips—hips that cocked sideways as he watched me thoughtfully.
“Soo…does it need to be said that you don’t have the requisite bits for me to want to get down and dirty with you in here? And even if you were that six-foot-four smoking hot delivery dude who only speaks in French around me, when I know he speaks English as well, I don’t come onto people at work.”
“God, it’s not that,” I said with an abrupt shake of my head. “I’m sorry, I’m being an idiot.”
“Luv, no.” A hand went to my arm, his touch careful, his beautiful eyes concerned. “Is it…?” He sighed and then did something completely unexpected, peeling up his shirt to reveal his back. “See all of these?” He pointed clumsily to the fine lines spanning his back, barely perceptible against his mocha-coloured skin. He yanked his shirt back down again. “I went from being this tiny little fella to like a damn giraffe in like a year. I’ve got stretch marks everywhere.”
He moved over to the mirror and ran his hands down his front.
“My torso’s too long. I’m tall, but I don’t have the really long legs that I should have, so everything fits a little weird.” His eyes found mine in the mirror. “Except Henri’s creations. He’ll tell you some stupid story about his atelier being no big thing, but it is—it really is. People, important people, come in here all the time, wanting something only he can give them, clothes that work with their body shape, not what Vogue declares is hot this year, and he can only do that with this.”
Fabian held out the tape measure as a flag of truce somehow.
“We get those measurements, and he’ll work his magic. Trust me, babes. It’ll be worth it.”
I let out a ragged sigh, staring into his eyes for a second, before nodding. I took off the jacket, that wasn’t so bad, then my heels.
“This is nice, luv,” he said, smoothing a hand over the shoulder seam of the jacket. “You’ve got a good eye. Sometimes, jackets can look boxy on women, but you found a flattering cut.”
Then came the shirt underneath, then my pants. I blinked, staring into the mirror, the black lace of my underwear looking rudely stark against my pasty body.
“Thank you,” Fabian said, and then he went to work, moving fast, but not so abruptly as to set my teeth on edge. His touch was fleeting, light and professional, scribbling all of my details down until he was done. “Good job. The worst is over, and now the fun bit begins. Take your time getting dressed, and then come out when you’re ready for the consult.”
Putting on my clothes felt a whole lot different. It wasn’t as onerous, and strangely, I felt lighter, both before and after I was dressed, as if I’d just jumped over some hurdle and it was nowhere near as hard as I’d thought. By the time I came out of the changing room, both Fabian and Henri were talking in lightning fast French, hands waving as they seemed to toss around ideas until they caught sight of me.
“Dresses, I’m thinking,” Henri said, his eyes running up and down my body as I walked over. “Formalwear, sun dresses, some light floaty things for lazy summer days.”
“Yes to all of that,” Lucien said, reminding me he was still here.
“And suits? This is what you wear to work?” Henri approached me, pausing for a moment to ask permission, then tweaking my jacket, looking down at my pants for fit. “Like most women, off the rack is hard for you. You have something of an hourglass shape.”
“Ah, no I don’t,” I replied. “Apple all the way.”
“Then why are your pants loose around the waist, hmm?”
“Because I need something big enough to get over my huge arse,” I shot back.
He waved my words away as I was getting the feeling Henri did a lot. “Australians—always so basic in their estimations of things. Come.”
He summoned me imperiously and then drew a simple caricature of a woman’s figure on a piece of butcher’s paper that was laid out on the table. He added some measurements beside the bust, hips, and waist.