I throw the fabric across the room at the back of Olivia’s head and try not to completely self-combust at
the little bitch who has been goading me all day. I’ve had enough with all this shit lately. She spins in
shock as it hits her and glares at me as though she hates me, which she probably does… She is one of
the ringleaders in this class and is forever pulling me up and singling me out.
“You are so going to burn for that.” She sneers at me and takes off in the direction of our lecturer
Claude in the far corner. I just glare after her, unphased by this constant barrage of snide bullying from
my own personal mean girls. I have learned to stand my ground and ignore them for the most part.
Arry has only been gone four days and I am counting every second until he gets back. The stress of
this show is killing me as I’m doing everything alone. Everyone else paired up and helped each other
out, but I have had non-stop obstructions and bitchy girls trying to sabotage my attempts at success. I
had to take all my designs home two days ago to protect them after I found dye had been ‘accidently’
spilled down a couture dress that took me four weeks to sew. I now have to try to either hide it, cut it
out and patch it, or start over. I do not have time and have a really deep gut feeling on who was
responsible.
I glance down at the table in front of me, water all over my papers and ink running across my sketches
where Olivia knocked over my jar of water I was using with my paints. I know it wasn’t accidental, they
never come near me unless it’s doing something juvenile or to spy on what I am working on. There is
no end to the immature behavior in this class and I for one will be glad of the end of term, to get the hell
out of it for a while.
“Sophie, can I have a word Cheri?” The heavily accented male voice drags my eyes up from the mess
and I spot my tutor standing at the other side of the narrow table. He is one of the schools most
respected designers and has a real foot in the fashion world. He has worked for some big brand names
as chief designers, before coming to instruct upcoming students in this world-renowned school. He has
a name that I had even heard of before coming here and he still intimidates me a lot. I look up to him
and his expertise in terms of talent.
“Yes, Mr Trevaunt.” I don’t even try to look innocent. I’m pretty sure Olivia was quick to tell him I threw a
roll of fabric on a card tube at her head. I’m not one to lie my way out of something I’ve done, and I
won’t be phased by a scalding on inappropriate behavior when I am surrounded by girls with a
combined mental age of five. I stand my ground and wait for it.
“Sophie, ma Cheri, you are one of my most outstanding students, non?” He nods at me and I nod back,
always so confused with this way of answering a question negatively when meaning yes. The French
are still a mystery to me. Claude is one of the tutors I don’t interact with much as he has always given
me a really cringe vibe. He also seems a little inappropriately cozy with one of my biggest haters in the
class, Vivien. Olivia’s sidekick in crime.
“I guess.” I watch the cold grey eyes, homed in on my face. Claude is not really an ugly man, maybe
around mid-forties. He has full fair hair that is greying at the temples slightly and a masculine sort of
rugged face and physique, but there is something about him that just unnerves me. He has never said
or done anything to spook me out, but he just has that vibe. That predator or creepy underlying aura
that I seem to be able to sniff out in men. Which is weird, I guess, as most of the men in this school are
gay. Although I don’t get that vibe from him either. Claude definitely does not seem gay at all and
Vivien’s moon eyes at him daily do not go unnoticed.
“Is it not better to get along with your classmates and not make waves while under the care of this
school?” He narrows his brows at me, and I frown straight back, part in trying to decipher his words
from his heavy accent and partly because it’s always down to me when my ‘classmates’ are being
dicks.
My fault they hate me, obviously.
“They make life hell for me, every day. I try so hard to not react.” I point out.
“I know, ma Cherie… these girls, they are jealous. They see a shining star, a beautiful talented star that
will go far and they want to take it down and stomp it out, but you must rise above if you are to
succeed.” He smiles slightly, an odd twinkle in his eye as his gaze run over my face and down my
dress with a little more approval than I’m comfortable with, making me tense. His eyes linger on the
fitted bodice of my dress and for once I’m nervous with any form of skin on show even though this has
a modest neckline.
Guess he is definitely not gay after all.
“Thanks, I will try harder to not react to their pettiness.” I retort sassily, I don’t know what else to say to
that. Claude has never really singled me out or shown any real favoritism towards me. He never really
interacts with us closely either, so I guess this is why I am finding this uncomfortable. Claude tends to
lead from afar and is a bit lax on the ‘one on one’ communication unless necessary.
“That is pretty. You like pretty things around your neck?” he reaches out randomly, startling me away
from the topic and fingers my necklace on my throat, making me jerk back in surprise. His touch
unwelcome and my skin burns with the shock of the gentle assault from out of nowhere. Instantly
uneasy and nervy and try to cover it with a laugh, dismissing it as giving me a little scare but I move
back slightly and cover my puzzle piece necklace with my hand to eradicate the feel of him against my
neck.
“My boyfriend gave it to me; it symbolizes something between us.” A year ago, Arry gave this to me
and I still love it as my most prized possession. I wear it constantly and never take it off. Arry even has
a matching tattoo on his inner left wrist that he got shortly after giving this to me, to connect us in some
way and it still warms me to my core at how sweet he can be. A bond, he said, another really soppy
Arry moment, but I love him all the more for it. My boy is a hopeless romantic who isn’t shy to show it.
“Ahh, the billionaire Carrero… Lucky girl, non?” His eyes move to my face and I move back further out
of arms reach. Stomach turning itself in knots at the way he seems to be dissecting me and I wonder if
it’s my outfit and I am over-thinking this. I mean he is our fashion lecturer.
I withstand the urge to look down, knowing fine my classic Audrey Hepburn styled black dress and low-
heeled black shoes are pretty much a normal Paris look, even teamed with my little baby pink cardigan
and belt. He can’t really be evaluating it with any criticism as there are two other similarly dressed
students in here today.
“Very lucky. He’s amazing, I couldn’t ask for a more perfect man.” I eye him warily, completely unnerved
at his attentions and can see the girls in the background looking my way and whispering to one
another. Faces twisted and glaring, probably wondering why I am getting so much friendly Claude
attention if he is meant to be chastising me. I sigh heavily and pull up my ruined sketches from the
table.
“I guess I better get this cleaned up. I have a lot to do still for the show.” I subtly hint at him to leave and
try to avoid the penetrative gaze as he watches me do so, suddenly feeling more uncomfortable with
how much this dress allows you to look down into the neckline when I bend over. I catch both his eyes
settled there so I stand up taller, so he no longer has a view down my dress; straightening it with a
smile and it seems to bring his attention back to my eyes.
“I have high hopes for you, I look forward to seeing what you put out on the runway, ma Cheri. I’ve
been waiting for your unveiling moment.” He winks at me, creepily, before turning slowly and wandering
back off towards the others, waving a dampening hand in their direction and barking something in
harsh French that turns a few of their faces red. I have no idea what he just yelled at them, not that I
care. I catch a couple of glances my way before they scatter and bury themselves in their own work,
although Vivien’s unconcealed hatred aimed at me from her corner does not go unobserved, she looks
scathing. Whatever he said, it’s done the trick and they are all quickly getting back to leaving me the
hell alone—except her and her ‘Die Whore’ looks.
Definitely something going on there.
***
Getting home I kick my shoes off across the hall and throw down my jacket and bag in another rage. I
seem to come home feeling this way every single day now. My front door meets a daily temper tantrum
and my blood pressure hasn’t been normal in months.
My day started bad and only ended up close to tears when the ‘mean girls’ managed to rile me up at
every opportunity and then one of them fell over my mannequin, hauling my pinned dress with her and
ripped it off the stand. A whole day’s work wasted on adjusting a finished piece and a whole week of
finishing the god damn thing. I feel like giving up. I so wanted to punch her in the face and stomp on
her head, but I kept telling myself that I needed to breathe and count to ten before reacting. Just like
Arry showed me… Breathe and don’t kill anyone.
It’s practically my mantra, fifty times a day.
I ended up walking out early, taking all my drawings and my dress and clearing out my workspace in
five seconds flat. Unable to control the fiery demon that wanted to rip her stupid clumsy head from her
shoulders. Claude said nothing about my early departure, just smiled and waved as he saw me hauling
on my jacket and heading angrily to the door. I swear I heard Olivia laugh behind me, and if she’s not
careful, I may go in tomorrow and end this childish feud she has with me spectacularly. She hasn’t met
crazy psycho Sophie who was taught how to throw a punch and disable a human by the current MME
champion in the USA. Arry has turned me into a capable little fighting machine over the last two years
and she better watch her back.
I can kill her with my thumbs!
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Huntsberger, you had a good day, non?” Janetta our housekeeper comes
sauntering from the kitchen, the smells of homemade bread and something good wafting after her now
she has opened the door to let it escape. Arry made a point of increasing her hours over the past
months as he disappeared more and more so that I wouldn’t be alone so much and even though I
barely understand her most of the time, I like her company. It’s better than the silence of being alone
here.
She is a kind older woman who reminds me a lot of my own mom at times. Caring, maternal, wise with
a soft face, although she is a lot older with grey hair in a permanent neat bun and rosy cheeks which
kind of make me think of Mrs. Claus. She always dresses in floral frocks, and navy cardigans, over
dark laced up shoes. She’s very old world and I absolutely love her.
“Not particularly, but I’m sure whatever is cooking will make me feel a lot better. I’m starving.” I try for a
smile and it ends as a grimace of some weird proportions. I was never any good at smiling through
murderous thoughts without coming off as creepy.
“Ahhh, but oui, you love our food, non. You are a good girl with your hearty appetite.” She smiles at me,
crinkling eyes and puffing cheeks in an almost proud way and pats me on the shoulder before turning
on her heel.
“How long do I have before it’s dished? I want to call Arry.” I watch her go, head on just finding my calm
in his voice. My deep breath in just connecting to him.
“Deux minutes, ma Cherie…on you go.” She doesn’t turn back and leaves me staring after her like a
moron, trying to count in French in my head and getting nowhere fast. I don’t even know what comes
after one. Arry usually translates my life here and when he is not around, I become completely
hopeless. I shake it off and head to my bedroom instead, pulling my cell from my discarded bag with a
sigh and figure I better tell him I have ‘dooo meenootes’ before dinner.
Once inside and nestled on the bed I call his cell and hope I’m not interrupting anything important. The
time delay confuses me most days, so I gave up working it out; he never seems pissed when I call
anyway, and he always answers.
“Hey, baby.” Arry is like a warm summer breeze washing over me the second he does, and I literally
uncoil all the tension in my body in a nanosecond and physically relax.
“Hey, you. I miss you.” I sink back into the cushions on the bed.
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