Page 18 of All the Gossip from Paris (Royal Fashion #2)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Yves Saint Laurent museum was interesting, but after a while Liam was finding it all a bit of a struggle.

While Sophie gushed over the clothes, he had to force himself to pay attention.

It was like being back in high school. Sitting through one of those classes where you knew you had to pay attention, because at some point there was going to be a pop quiz about it.

When Sophie started making noises about the late designer having changed how the world viewed Prêt-a-Porter, all Liam could think about was dashing out the door and finding the nearest Prêt-a-Manger sandwich shop.

I’d kill for a strong hot coffee.

She caught his eye, and Liam gave her his best smile.

Sophie stepped away from the glass cabinet she’d been studying and came to his side.

“You’re bored. I can tell that looking at the garments on display is not doing a single thing for you.

I’d call you a philistine for not bowing before one of the fashion greats but I get it. ”

Liam winced. “Guilty as charged. I’m a thirty odd year old male from New Jersey who hasn’t a clue about fashion.” He threw up his hands. “You’re right, I don’t get it. Which considering that I’m hoping to get a gig or two at Haute Couture Week, is really stupid of me. I promise I’ll try harder.”

“No it’s alright. I’d rather you were honest with me. This is an industry driven by ego, so it’s quite refreshing to hear someone admit they don’t understand what it all means. Too many people profess to know the world of fashion. In my experience few actually do.”

“Would Monsieur Saint Laurent take offence if we went to find a coffee?” he asked.

“No, I think his legacy is safe. Come on. Then we can walk down to the Palais de Tokyo, and I’ll show you the exhibition space.”

Class dismissed.

* * *

Takeout coffees in hand, they made their way up the front steps of the Palais de Tokyo. Sophie didn’t miss a beat as she marched straight through the front door and toward a set of nearby stairs. Liam dutifully followed as she began the circular climb.

At the top of the steps they came into a vast, cavernous space. It reminded Liam of the Really Big Space, the place in New York where Camille had held her first public fashion runway show.

I thought that was big, but this place is huge.

“This is the YOYO, a contemporary space for art and culture,” announced Sophie. She pointed at the highly polished concrete floor, then up to the ceiling.

“It offers over seven hundred square meters of space. And the tech in here is state of the art. This is one of the main areas where Paris Fashion Week is hosted. Major designers will exhibit here, and also at places such as The Grand Palais, The Louvre, Le Carreau du Temple, and many other locations. Paris does not lack for want of major exhibition spaces, which is why it is the biggest fashion week of them all. New York, Milan, and London battle it out between them for second place.”

Liam who was sipping his piping hot un café and slowly taking it all in, caught the pride and defiance in Sophie’s voice. This place was enormous.

They could hold an NFL game in here, and pack a decent crowd.

He thought better of making mention of American football. She was indulging him in playing fashion teacher and tour guide, and he’d not been a great student so far. She didn’t need to know he was thinking about sport.

“Does your family have their fashion shows here?” he asked.

Sophie shook her head. “No. Papa hates it. He prefers the Petit Palais or one of the other older venues. My father says this place is not good enough for his level of haute couture. The designers who actually sell their clothes in stores can come here, but he won’t.”

“So if your father doesn’t have a store, how does he sell his designs to customers?”

Her brows furrowed. Sophie appeared to be on the verge of real anger when she came to stand in front of him.

Shoot. I think I’ve really pissed her off now.

“Sorry. Forgive me if I wasn’t clear enough. I was asking if you have something like a website. You know, where people can go online and order from you,” explained Liam. It was cold in the concrete space, but a bead of sweat still trickled slowly down his back.

Sophie clasped her hands together. “If my father heard what you just said, he’d throw you down those stairs. La Maison Royale is not a fast fashion house.” She let out a tight breath. “Here is a quick lesson in Haute Couture, Mister Collins.”

He held back a grin. Sophie was deadly serious. But at the same time she was so damn hot. All he wanted to do was kiss her. Have her melt in his embrace.

Stop thinking about her like that, and focus on what she is saying.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Yes.”

“Haute Couture is strictly made-to-order high fashion clothing for private clients. Only a few women wear it, because only a few can afford it. Our clients pay anything from twenty five to thirty five thousand euros for a single piece of daywear. Evening wear ranges up to sixty thousand euros per garment. And a bridal gown can easily cost in the vicinity of two hundred and fifty thousand euros.”

From his travels, Liam knew the exchange rate between various currencies. Euros were roughly the same value as the US dollar. Which made the world of high fashion outrageously expensive.

“Who are these clients?” he asked.

“I’m not finished. There are strict rules before a house can call itself haute couture.

They must have an atelier in Paris, employing particular numbers and skill levels of staff.

And the house must present two full original collections of designs each year.

A minimum of fifty pieces for each collection. ”

“When you say a house? What exactly does that mean. I know of the House of Dior. House of Chanel,” replied Liam. He wasn’t foolish enough to toss in House of the Dragon.

“And you know of the La Maison Royale—or in English the House of Royal, Papa’s label. They are all members of the Fédération de la Haute Couture et de la mode. Membership is highly coveted.”

Liam nodded. So there was a major distinction between the haute couture houses and the rest of the fashion world. You couldn’t just set yourself up as a designer and call yourself haute couture.

Sophie drained her coffee. “As for clients, each house has a book of names and contacts. Carefully curated, and fiercely guarded. When clients can and do spend millions of euros with a house each year, you can well imagine each one of them is a highly prized customer.”

Liam couldn’t hold back his curiosity. “How rude would it be for me to ask just how many women actually wear haute couture?”

“Not rude at all. Globally, it’s somewhere around four thousand individuals.”

Little wonder people like Francois Royal didn’t need a store front, or even a detailed website. The women who had the level of wealth to be able to afford high fashion likely moved in the same exalted circles. They all knew who was who among the super-rich, and what designers they each wore.

“That’s a very small number of people with a very large amount of money,” he murmured.

“Yes, but it’s not just about wealth. Or even clothes. Haute Couture is an art form. A craft passed down through the generations. There’s history in every stitch, every bead, and every thread. I’ve been working in my father’s atelier since I was a child, and I’m still learning.”

Heat blossomed on Liam’s cheeks. He’d been disrespectful in not paying attention at the Yves Saint Laurent museum. The garments that Sophie and her family made were not just clothes—they were the result of a level of career expertise he could barely imagine.

“I’m grateful that you’ve given up some of your valuable time to teach me, Sophie. I really appreciate it.”

He’d learned from her. If only he could teach her something in return.

An idea slipped into his mind. He could keep trying to teach Sophie that she was beautiful.

“Could I please take your photo in here? This space is impressive, but if I’m being completely honest, you’re what makes it truly amazing.”

Oh god, do I sound like a suck up?

She held his gaze for a moment, and Liam wondered if Sophie was thinking the same thing. That he wasn’t being sincere.

“I mean it. You’re gorgeous, Sophie. And having a stunning woman who can hold her own in the vastness of this exhibition space, is something which has to be captured on film.”

Her head dipped to one side. She was studying him. Probably wondering if he was worthy of her time. The relief he felt as a slow smile crept across her lips was palpable.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

Naked in bed. Beneath me. Crying out my name as you come.

Liam cleared his throat. “Maybe dance around a little bit. Show me your electro punk pop moves.”

Sophie slowly shook her head. It was going to take more than that to get her dancing.

Pulling his cell from his coat pocket, Liam opened up his music app. Since that night in New York he’d developed a bit of a taste for 90’s pop.

The smile on Sophie’s face when the opening strains of Macarena filled the air, had Liam swallowing down a lump of emotion. Did this girl have any idea how amazing she was? When Sophie sat her tote bag at her feet, Liam quietly claimed victory.

She shrugged out of her coat and dropped it on the floor. Her hips began to sway, as she moved in time to the hypnotic beat. She held out one arm, followed by the other. Then raised her palms in turn.

Liam grabbed his camera from out of his satchel. He moved closer. Sophie was humming along with the song.

She faltered for a moment, and he feared she might stop. “No, keep going. You really are a nineties girl,” said Liam.

He snapped off a dozen or so shots, reveling in the vision of Sophie as she was lost in the joy of the 90’s era Spanish megahit. When he finished taking the last of the photos, Liam slung his camera over his shoulder and came to stand alongside her.

Right hand. Left hand. Right palm up. Left palm up.

“You need to move your hips,” she said.

Liam forced himself to sway just a little, but he held back on his killer dance moves.

The closer he was to her, the harder it was to get his lust filled body to behave.

When it came to the part with the full hip sway and the leap to the next move, he came to a sudden stop.

A line from the catchy pop song openly taunted him.

‘I’m not trying to seduce you.’

The singer might not have had those thoughts, but he certainly did. He wanted Sophie. And if she wanted him too, then what was stopping them from repeating the amazing night they’d spent in each other’s arms? No strings attached. Secrets kept.

She kept dancing for a moment longer, then finally halted. Picking up her coat, Sophie said. “You should see the rest of my disco ball moves. When I get started on the sprinkler you want to stand well back. I’ve been known to take people out on the dancefloor with it.”

The joy in her voice was that of the Sophie he’d met in New York. A free spirit who embraced life. When she’d spoken about haute couture her words had been flat. Like she was reciting something she’d been forced to learn. Something she endured.

“Did you get some good photos?” she asked, slipping on her coat.

Liam picked up Sophie’s tote and handed it to her. “I did.”

She moved to take hold of the camera, but Liam held it teasingly out of reach.

“At the end of the day I’ll show you the photos, and the videos I’ve taken. You’ll just have to be patient.”

“Videos? That wasn’t part of our bargain.”

“Yeah well, the Macarena needed both photo and video media to do your dancing justice. I’ll try and get some other pictures before we head to the next design house.”

Sophie finished buttoning up her coat, then said. “Change of plans. We are not going to the other designers.”

“Oh, so where are we going?”

She started for the winding stairs, and Liam hurried after her.

“There is no point dragging you around Balmain or Dior. Let’s go back to the hotel, grab anything else you need, and pick up my car from the valet service.

After that I’m taking you home to my family’s chateau.

The best way for you to get a true appreciation of the world of haute couture is to step inside a working atelier. ”

Sophie was taking him home. To her father’s workshop. That wasn’t where he was hoping they might end up today.

Damn. When she said we were going back to the hotel, I was kinda hoping she had other plans in mind for the afternoon.

He was going to be spending the rest of the day with beads and fabric. He’d much rather be sharing rumpled sheets and sighs of pleasure with Sophie.