I didn't stop to unpack, instead quickly changing into a breezy red, spaghetti strap sundress I'd bought at French Boutique on Melrose, a white shrug sweater and red and white polka dotted ballet flats (okay, one ballet flat and one ugly blue boot) before grabbing my purse and heading out to find a cab to Le Carrousel du Louvre – site of Jean Luc's show. Fashion Week, here I come!
If you've never been backstage at a fashion show, there are few things in life that can compare to it. The excitement, the energy, the sheer chaos. And while Jean Luc's show wasn't scheduled for another week, as I neared the white tent with the words "Le Croix" painted in bold, black letters, the air was already electric with anticipation and the chaos was in full swing. Men in white coveralls converged on piles of lumber that in just a few short days would be transformed into runways the world would be watching to learn what they'd be wearing this season. Reporters with cameras slung around their necks stood in the corners, interviewing anyone who'd stand still. And models, tall, slim almost inhumanly beautiful creatures, were everywhere. Sipping water bottles, smoking slim, brown cigarettes, and strutting their impossibly long legs in impossibly beautiful couture.
This was as close to heaven as I think I'd ever been.
In the center of it all, like a clever ringmaster, stood the man himself, Jean Luc Le Croix. He was tall and thick, in his forties. Jet black hair, dark sunglasses, a look on his face like he was perpetually constipated. He wore black jeans, black snakeskin boots, and a black cashmere sweater with a big gold medallion hung around his neck. His voice reminded me of an auctioneer, constantly barking out orders at whomever happen to be within earshot.
"Maddie!" he cried as I approached.
"Hello, Jean Luc." I leaned in and did a very French pair of air kisses at him.
"We've been expecting you. It is madness, yes?" he asked gesturing around himself. "Come, come, we've got the models being fitted inside." Jean Luc lead the way through the construction toward a large building beside the famous Louvre museum. Me hobbling awkwardly behind, trying to keep up with his long-legged gait.
The room he led me into was full of worktables, dress forms and tall, rail thin models in various states of undress. Among them flitted assistants and seamstresses, long yellow measuring tapes draped around their necks. A chorus of different languages were being spoken, Italian, French, Spanish, and even a few words of English here and there.
Jean Luc barked to the models as we threaded our way through the room. "Tanya, darling, that's a top not a skirt. Angelica, you need a necklace with that shirt. No, no, no, Bella, that color is all wrong on you. Take it off, quickly, darling!" He turned to me. "You'll have to excuse me, the majority of the models only came in yesterday and I'm still in the middle of a full blown aneurysm."
I grinned. Despite his brusque manner it was impossible not to like him.
"Becca! You're killing me," he shouted to a pouty redhead. "That's a front closure, you must wear undergarments with it!"
"Jean Luc," called a voice from the back of the room. "Jean Luuuuuuuuc." A short, slim brunette wearing all black, thick glasses, and a headset hailed him from across the room, making purposeful strides toward him.
Jean Luc closed his eyes in a mini meditation. "Not again," he mumbled under his breath. Then he turned around, all smiles.
"Maddie, meet Ann, my assistant."
"Charmed," Ann shot, giving only a cursory glance my direction. "Listen, Jean Luc, it's Gisella. She's lost her necklace for the finale."
"Christ, not again."
Ann gestured toward a tall, long legged brunette with stick straight bangs and thighs so slim I could wrap my hands around them. She looked bored, jutting one bony hip out and contemplating her fingernails.
"She says she left it in her room, but we can't find it anywhere."
"Fine, I'll be right there." Ann walked away and Jean Luc turned to me. "I'm sorry, apparently my two second break from crisis has ended. But come, I'll introduce you to Gisella."
I hobbled after Jean Luc again, as he stalked toward the bored brunette.
"Maddie," Jean Luc said as I caught up, huffing just a little, "I'd like you to meet my lead model, Gisella Rossi.
"Nice to meet you," I said, sticking out my hand while simultaneously trying not to lose my grip on my crutches.
Gisella gave me a limp wristed squeeze and a wan smile. "Ciao."
"Gisella will be wearing the black baby doll in the finale, so we'll need a tall heel for her. But nothing chunky."
"Got it. No problem." I had just the right shoe in mind for her already. A black, three inch, pointy stiletto, with rhinestone studded ankle strap I'd put the finishing touches on last week. I looked down at her feet, trying to gauge her size.
"Now, Gisella, darling, what's this I hear about the necklace gone missing?"
Gisella rolled her eyes. "I dunno where it is," she answered in heavily accented English.
"Honey. Sweetie," Jean Luc said, though the look on his face said he was mentally calling Gisella a whole host of less endearing names. "That necklace is worth a lot of money. We have to find it."
Gisella shrugged again. "It could be anywhere."
"Where was the last place you saw it? Retrace your steps."
She blew a puff of air toward the ceiling, ruffling her stick straight bangs. "Last night, I went to the party at Hotel de Crillon. Then, after, I go back to my own room. I put the necklace in my room. Then, I go to bed. I wake up, the necklace is missing."
Jean Luc started breathing hard like he needed a paper bag. "You wore the necklace to the party? And took it back to your own room!?"
Gisella contemplated her nails. "Yes. It is a fancy party."
Jean Luc looked ready to spout steam from his ears.
"You took a priceless piece of jewelry from my show to a private party?"
Gisella didn't answer, thoroughly engrossed in her cuticles.
Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to compose himself. "At least tell me you put it in you room safe?" he finally mumbled.
Gisella bit the inside of her cheek. "I dunno."
"What do you mean you 'dunno?'"
"It was a late party. I had a lot to drink. I can't remember."
Jean Luc took deep breath through his nose.
"Maybe it is stolen," Gisella said.
Jean Luc visibly paled. "No. No, no, no, no. It cannot be stolen. It's on loan from Lord Ackerman's private collection. It is not stolen. You just misplaced it, Gisella."
Gisella shrugged. "We'll just have to get another one." And she stalked off, her long legs gliding with a grace that was at complete odds with her grating disposition.
Jean Luc pinched the bridge of his nose again. "Get another one? Christ, it's worth over 300,000 euros. Get another one?! Good God, Lord Ackerman would kill me," he mumbled to himself as he walked away.
Well, I guess life could be worse. I could be Jean Luc.
After settling in at a table in the back, I spent the rest of the day seeing one model after another, trying to match shoes to outfits. In most cases, the shoes I'd brought with me were a little on the larger size, something I'd been prepared for, bringing a whole bag of tricks to make large shoes fit a medium foot. One thing they'd taught us in design school was that it was always easier to fit a larger shoe on a small model than have her try to squeeze into a too tight one. The only one that fit perfectly was, ironically, Gisella's. It was almost as if the black stiletto had been made for her foot. A good thing too, as she wasn't the most patient of subjects, fidgeting and twisting in her seat the entire fitting.
By the end of the day, I was beat. The pain pills were wearing off, my leg was throbbing, and I was seriously wondering what the French equivalent to Starbucks was. I was relieved when Ann walked through the workroom, announcing they were packing it in for the night.