Page 10 of Everything About You

Among my less brilliant ideas? Offering up brilliant ideas to Yvette without actually having any.

Rhodes has been gone all morning on messenger errands. Before rushing samples to French Vogue , he had to grab a watch from a boutique that wasn’t open yet, ringing the manager, who was fast asleep. Then he had to pick

up samples from a studio where some assistant had left them overnight, which is apparently a major, huge no-no. Such a huge

no-no that I think Yvette’s forehead vein almost burst when she came in and told us about it and how the assistant had been

fired.

I’m not sure where Rhodes is now, but it’s lunchtime and I have no freaking clue what brilliant ideas I’m going to deliver

to Yvette by end of day. I know plenty about the history of Maison Dauphine. I know so many extraneous details, studying for

this apprenticeship harder than I ever studied for the SATs, but they’re not connecting to a creative way to package an Easter

egg for a pop-up event at Versailles.

Note to self: Don’t say “Easter egg” around Yvette. I think she’d hate that.

Yvette and I have been getting along really well today, though. She said, “Thank you” when I sent her an email with a delivery confirmation of an international carnet containing some resort samples.

My email notification dings, and it’s Sophie.

Milo, do you happen to know if you have FW25 Look 34 available to send overnight to NY? We loaned it for a shoot in Arizona,

and we really need it if possible— Vanity Fair is requesting and we’re thinking it might make cover.

LMK!

xx Sophie

I really like emailing with Sophie. It’s nice how warm she is. It helps me feel like I’m not entirely alone, even if I am.

Scrolling through our inventory, I see that the look she’s asking about is available.

Hi! Yes, we have all items. Do you want the accessories too? Or just suit?

I don’t think Sophie sleeps, since it’s only six a.m. in New York. She replies instantly.

The belt would be great! TYSM! Can send to my ATTN. I’ll take it to the shoot.

I confirm, inputting all the shipping information and printing the label.

I scan out the suit and the belt, and then I make up one of the cardboard boxes from the supply closet, lining it with tissue paper and carefully folding the look.

Once it’s all packed and the label is affixed, I go to drop the box off at the mailroom on my way out to lunch.

“ Merci ,” I say, setting it on the outgoing table.

The mail lady gives me a sweet smile. “It’s good. Try like... merci .”

Got it... less mare -see, more mehr -see.

I sigh. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I am so bad.”

“No, it’s good. You know, it’s nice that you try. Go ahead. Merci. ”

Mehr- see.

Clearing my throat, unable to fight my slightly embarrassed giggles, I nod. “Merci.”

“ Merci ,” she says. “Bit quicker. More with the throat. Do you hear?”

“Merci.” It sounds like I’m hacking up phlegm.

“Oui, voilà.”

I thank her profusely in English before offering one more merci , which she seems to approve of.

Once I’m out on the street and on the prowl for a cafe, I notice my stomach is essentially numb.

It’s not growling, it’s not empty, but it’s also not full.

This is the most annoying feeling ever, one I’m familiar with from big match days.

Nobody ever seems to get the ways my anxiety affects my appetite, which is frustrating, especially because they assume that since I am an athlete, I must be starving all the time.

Sometimes even when I am starving, I can’t stomach the idea of food.

The dietitian at Citrus Harbor High got me on protein shakes, and they were a lifesaver, but I have no clue where I might find some in Paris.

Of course you don’t have an appetite, Milo. You have, like, four hours to come up with a genius idea now that you’ve completely

oversold yourself.

For a moment, I wonder where Rhodes is. I wonder if he’s eating some delicious gourmet lunch. He’s probably eating at Le Grand

Colbert, and the chef probably made him something that’s not even on the menu. I’m not sure, but I just imagine his celebrity

status gets him all kinds of perks. He’s probably enjoying seafood and posting stories about how amazing French food is.

I stop walking and it occurs to me I haven’t even looked at his Instagram since we met, which is borderline off-the-grid behavior,

so I navigate to his account.

Rhodes Hamilton’s Instagram account is exactly what I expected. Two million followers, no bio, and a black-and-white profile

photo from an editorial shoot where he’s wet in a white button-up and black bow tie. Photos on a boat in a black swimsuit—annoyingly

toned physique—holding a bottle of champagne with a girl who looks like a model. Photos in a pub with some guys in Armoury

United kits and scarves. A photo of some flowers with a handwritten note, perched on a marble kitchen island. There is a photo

of Rhodes and Ollie squished together on a big ivory sofa—Ollie has his feet up on the coffee table and is pinching Rhodes’s

cheeks, while Rhodes seems to fight laughter, arms folded and hoodie pulled over his head.

There aren’t any photos of Paris yet, and he doesn’t have any Instagram stories either, so I haven’t made any new discoveries, and as I look at the screen, I realize there is no purpose to this and I am only wasting time.

Okay, Milo. What kind of brilliant ideas do we have just waiting to be unlocked?

I look around, thinking there must be some inspiration in Paris.

I’ve come to a cobblestone roundabout at the end of Rue Francois 1er, with quintessential Parisian buildings that curve around

the road and the fountain at its center. Each building seems to have a courtyard out front, with wrought-iron fencing and

gold-gilded accenting. Greenery grows over much of the fence, with flowers blooming behind the gates, and trees line the fountain.

As motorcycles and cars drive past, tourists take photos. It’s gorgeous—an absolutely beautiful French vignette, with a blue

sky and emerald foliage—but I can’t seem to fully appreciate it because I’m desperately searching for the tiniest seedling

of an idea.

The ticking clock in my mind only gets louder.

This is an opportunity , Milo. Think of it as a positive opportunity.

And it is, but I’m blanking.

I wish I had someone to talk to about this.

Celeste is probably in-flight, and even if she were back home by now, I don’t want to bother her about something like this when she’s dealing with so much.

My family is asleep, and honestly I don’t know how helpful they’d be for this.

The only person who could truly understand without needing a full debrief is Rhodes, and that is obviously never going to happen.

I can practically hear Celeste now: Couldn’t hurt to brainstorm together!

My phone buzzes.

Hi, Milo! Long time no chat. Do you happen to have the updated guest list for the Versailles pop-up handy? Seems mine is not

the most recent.

xx Sophie

I forward her the latest, and then, as soon as the idea strikes, I figure it’s worth a shot.

Also, do you by any chance have time for a quick call? It’s totally cool if not, I know it’s early. If you do, here is my

cell.

And within a minute, a 917 number is calling me.

“Hi, Milo!” Sophie’s voice is cheerful. Frantic, and a bit shaky, but cheerful. I can hear her smiling somehow.

“Hi, Sophie. Thank you for taking the time to chat. And I know we haven’t had a full, formal introduction. I’m in Paris for

the summer to—”

“Oh, I know. We all were very impressed by your entry for the apprenticeship. You should have seen the Teams messages about

it. We’ve all got our eyes on you. I mean, no pressure.” She chuckles. “It was great, though. A timely and innovative idea

for the house.”

I laugh. “Oh, wow. That’s really nice of you. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says. “And just for your reference, I’m the main PR assistant here in the New York office. I report to our

PR manager, who reports to our US director. But you’ll be working with me on everything.”

“Awesome,” I say. I cringe a bit, because it feels so unabashedly American of me. Then, of course, I remember I’m speaking

to another American. “I was wondering if you might want to help me out, and if you don’t have time, I get it. But Yvette is

allowing me to send her some ideas for the Versailles pop-up—ways to subtly hint at the resort theme.”

I glance around, as if someone might hear me, or I might be bugged.

“Nice,” Sophie says. “Very nice. So, what do you have so far?”

“That’s the thing.” I sigh. “I don’t have anything. And I really, really need to come up with something good. I need something

that’s quiet but makes a point. Something the house hasn’t ever done before, if I can push the envelope that far. I really

want to make a good impression, especially since this is sort of my first project.”

Sophie hums on the other line. “I totally get it. It’s hard to think of something the house hasn’t done before.”

“I know.”

“It’s also a bit hard to think of something subtle that wouldn’t give away the L’or des Fous theme. We want some theories and speculation, but we don’t want to indirectly confirm yet.”

“Very true.”

“I’m sure there is something....”

Even though we’ve made no progress, it’s nice to have someone to talk to who doesn’t seem to be at odds with me in any way.

“How long have you been with Maison Dauphine?” I ask. It sort of just comes out, but I want to learn more about Sophie and

her career.

“Two years,” she says. “I interned with a PR agency during my last semester in college and met my current boss through that.

She let me know about this job before it was formally posted. It was a blessing.”

I nod. “That’s amazing. Damn, that’s such great luck. Well, of course you worked really hard and earned it, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s true. Luck and timing. I will say, the majority of jobs in fashion come down to who you know.”

Rhodes’s face pops into my mind, and it takes everything in me not to groan.

Trust me, Sophie, I know.

“But you got here on your own,” she says. “Which is pretty cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” Then, after a beat: “I’m about to get on the train, but I’ll continue to think, and if you need anything at all,

this is my cell. Feel free to text.”

Somehow, this small gesture means more than I can even express.

“Okay, will do. Thank you again for taking the time. Or rather, merci .”

I do my best to make the throaty phlegm sound.

“ De rien ,” Sophie chirps, and then the call ends.

I’m still here, standing in the same spot, and I am crushed to not have a single new idea, but at least I have an ally.

Totally detached from the world around me, I begin to wander.

I’m not even sure entirely for how long or in which direction.

My thoughts are incomplete and erratic, zipping around my head, trying to join and fully form like dogs chasing their tails before disappearing.

The frenzy in my mind distracts me from the beauty of Paris—everything blurs together as I walk and walk and walk and think and think and think.

Some ideas come to me, but they’re not right. Gold macarons are too obvious. Gold flowers or edible plants seem way too gimmicky.

Maybe it isn’t about gold at all, but I don’t know how else to reference L’or des Fous. We’re already referencing the locations,

and like Sophie said, this needs to be subtle. It needs to be something people piece together in hindsight and can’t believe

how genius of a clue it was.

The pressure is overwhelming, but the good news is, with all the walking, I finally feel hungry just as I stumble upon a cafe.

I’m seated outside immediately, and I absent-mindedly look over the menu, body in search of food, and brain in search of brilliance

that is evading me with everything it has.

“ Bonjour , how are you today?”

Oh. I guess I don’t even seem like I am going to speak French.

“ Bonjour , I’m great.” Reflex. As American as it gets, probably. I’m actually floundering , my fear of failure is threatening to expand until it’s larger than the Arc de Triomphe, and then crush my bones and squish my organs into the cement. “How are you?”

“Wonderful. Would you like something to drink?”

“Water, please.”

“Oui, bien s?r .”

I sit with the menu.

The only thing that even sounds remotely good is a cheeseburger, which I know is hardly embracing the new culture I’m supposed to be immersing myself in. It wouldn’t be so bad to just have a comfort meal and try to relax.

Maybe, if I can relax, an idea will come to me.

Besides, it’s not entirely off-brand. I remember reading that Renard Florin fell head over heels with a cheeseburger in America,

and it became one of his signature conversation topics. They called it malbouffe , or junk food, and Renard even—

Oh my god, that is it. So brilliant.

Malbouffe .

Renard Florin’s love for malbouffe was controversial.

In 1957, one of the most famous articles associated with Maison Dauphine was published with the title “Guilty Pleasures.”

Let’s just say while Renard found it comical, the rest of the company did not.

Then there was an entire campaign against malbouffe , because the stakeholders all thought it was distasteful. The house expanded its flagship location, purchasing another attached

space, and opened its gourmet Restaurant Dauphine—all an attempt to prove it was a luxury brand with no real association with

the malbouffe that Renard was becoming notorious for, which later became something fans of Maison Dauphine found endearing.

The campaign that resulted from Renard’s guilty pleasures was all about opulence and indulgence and luxury—though also a subtle

“fuck you” to all naysayers, if they only thought twice about the meaning.

After all, it was fool’s gold.

L’or des Fous.

When the waiter comes back, I order a burger and fries, and I even ask for a Coke. I haven’t had a soda in a while, but it

sounds comforting, and it sounds like what I’d imagine Renard would want me to do.

I email Yvette my idea once it’s more fully formed, and once I’ve finished my food, I use my maps app to navigate back to

the office, where I sit and wait.