Page 12 of Everything About You

The Palace of Versailles is breathtaking.

I get a sweeping view of the chateau when we arrive. It’s extravagant and dramatic, with so much to see it’s difficult to

take it all in. I can almost make out the front gate, ornate and gold and bordered by stone statues. The gilding has a sort

of magical effect on the palace: the grand gate, the detailing atop one of the buildings. The sun dances across it, a brighter

gold than I’ve ever seen.

Since Maison Dauphine has only booked a portion of the gardens, the palace is still swarming with visitors. It’s hard to conceptualize

the history—that this used to be something so different, not overrun by tourists or part of a city with a McDonalds and KFC

around the block. Where there are now soccer moms in Reeboks and sunburned dads in visors with cameras crossing the streets,

there used to be horse-drawn carriages. It seems strange there was ever a quiet stillness here, separate from Paris, because

now it all seems so busy and loud.

Rhodes doesn’t pay any attention. He might glance up a couple of times from behind his sunglasses, but I gather he is too cool to be concerned with Versailles.

His parents probably took them all to Paris all the time, especially given the fact that they have a flat, so I wonder if for him, this is more like Disney World or something.

I can’t imagine that, but then again, there is a lot about Rhodes’s life I can’t imagine.

He is much more preoccupied with his phone, either way, and that’s for the best, because there is an awkward, seething tension

between us now after this drive.

When we pull up to a side road and are let out, I want to sprint away from him. I don’t, of course, if only because I have

to figure out where we’re going.

Haydée and Zoe rush out of a side gate, looking around as if to determine if we’ve been spotted. By whom, I’m not sure, but

they usher Rhodes and me back through the gate, and they walk alarmingly fast, even for me. We make our way through what seems

like a back alley, though a touch more glamorous for the architecture alone. I don’t have much time to take anything in because

we’re zipping through, and then we arrive at the main gallery of the Orangerie.

The gallery is long and grand, with vaulted ceilings and light flooding in incrementally throughout the corridor from the

arched windows. A large statue stands tall at the end of the hallway; I know it’s the king on his horse because of the extensive

research packet Haydée provided me.

A lot of the pop-up has been constructed: mannequins line the gallery like sculptures in a museum, and they’re all dressed in ivory and beige.

There’s a soft, almost pop-y jazz track playing throughout.

Some of the orange trees, which are typically placed out in the garden during the summer, have been brought back in to add a sense of season, sprouting up from green wooden planters.

Woven baskets and rattan chairs are peppered along the perimeter of the hall.

Some of the most popular wicker purses are displayed on stone pedestals.

Clothing racks are set up, though they’re far and few between, with limited offerings.

There’s no need to have extensive inventory, because Maison Dauphine will sell out of every single one of these pieces today,

and quickly. Anyway, as Haydée and Zoe have made very clear, the goal of this pop-up isn’t sales, but awareness. Most of the

guests will get gift bags anyway. Sure, they’ll buy out the clothing and accessories, but more importantly, they’ll generate

a wild amount of buzz about what the house will do next.

Thankfully, Haydée takes me, and Zoe takes Rhodes, so we’re finally separated, and I can take a deep breath.

I follow Haydée down toward the end of the hall, where Café 57 is being set up.

“Don’t forget, our focus item today is the wicker Darling Dauphine,” Haydée says, heels loud and echoing throughout the gallery,

even with the quiet music to combat their volume. “Any time you have a chance to talk with a guest and there is a chance to

weave it into conversation, be sure to.”

“I see what you did there,” I say, offering a grin.

Haydée stops and gives me a strange look. “What do you mean?”

“Oh,” I stutter a bit, suddenly feeling incredibly stupid. “I thought you were doing, like, a play on words. ‘ Weave it into conversation.’ The wicker bag.” She doesn’t find this amusing, so I shake my head. “Never mind. You were saying?”

We continue walking. “If anyone on the standard guest list asks to purchase, we will have to refer them to the waitlist.”

There are two guest lists. Both are laborious, especially for me since I am still struggling with my French, but one is shorter, and full of the names we must treat like royalty, while the other is longer, listing those who are still valued but will receive no special treatment.

“Right.”

“And you’re comfortable with these lists?”

I nod. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Okay. And now, the pièce de résistance .”

We stop walking, and I am floored by how large of a space they’ve given Café 57. Past a small entrance blocked off by waist-high

shrubs, there are bistro tables and chairs set up for the guests under decorative striped umbrellas, just as if they were

dining on the Riviera. Palm trees have also been added down this way, seemingly to separate the café from the rest of the

hall visually.

A long marble-and-gold counter has been built in front of the equestrian sculpture of Louis XVI, which is also now flanked

by short palms, and gold script on the front of the marble reads:

Café 57. Maison Dauphine. Paris.

There is a large black-and-white menu on an iron stand, and it’s all the malbouffe one could want, though positioned elegantly with names like Hamburger Florin and Gateau du Dauphine . I see Yvette even took my suggestion about the neutral-colored Pierre Hermé macaron tower.

To really tie everything together, they’ve framed that black-and-white photo of Amalia Astor with her burger after the Oscars.

“Good work,” Haydée says, keeping her eyes straight ahead on the café.

That makes me feel warm and even distracts from all the shit with Rhodes on the car ride here. I’m doing a good job, and all

those things he said don’t matter.

After Haydée runs me through some of the itinerary one more time, as if I have not studied this over and over and played it

all back in my limited sleep, she sends me on a wild goose chase to capture content for Instagram and TikTok. She wants establishing

shots of Versailles—not only the gardens, but interiors to set the stage quickly as the beats of the music open the video.

I have an hour and a half to get as much B-roll as possible, and I have to make sure there aren’t any of the general visitors

in the clips.

At first I attempt to consult a map I find online, but then I realize I’m only wasting time, so I just start to power walk

through the halls, taking videos wherever it seems appropriate. I capture close-up shots of glittering chandeliers, slow zooms

of sculptures against floral wallpapers, and somewhat moody shots behind the paneled windows overlooking the gardens, which

I think could be the perfect transition to the pop-up clips.

I find myself enraptured by the glamour of it all. I’ve seen the Sofia Coppola movie with Kirsten Dunst, of course, and I’m

vaguely familiar with the Versailles Broadway show since Benji Keaton starred in it, and everyone knows about that, but the grandeur of it all is overwhelming

in person.

I capture a bunch of details in the Queen’s Apartments.

The bedchambers are dripping in gold—the carved baluster that acts as a divider for the room, the border of the floral headboard, the ornate detailing on the canopy.

The lustrous carvings that cover the ceilings and line the walls, and the giant chandeliers with crystal teardrops.

After zooming in and getting the perfect angles, I wander around a bit more.

I find myself in a stone gallery without any other visitors, and I bask in the quiet for a moment. Daylight brightens the

pale pastel doors at the end of the hall, makes the brass lanterns shine, and illuminates the checkered marble tile and antique

statues.

I look out at the gardens and wonder where the hell Rhodes is. Though this is a peaceful moment, and one I am trying to savor,

I imagine he is getting a VIP tour of the parts of the palace that are roped off to guests. He’s probably having a grand old

time, not stressing about the lists of guests, because he can get by on his charm alone.

Damn it.

Eventually I give up on the peaceful moment when it becomes clear my mind is not going to shut the hell up, and I capture

a few more snippets for Haydée.

Once I’ve navigated back to the Orangerie and found her, I AirDrop the files to her and she seems pleased, though she doesn’t

say as much.

“Where is Rhodes?” I ask. It sounds natural, I’m sure, and not at all like I’m worried or competitive or want to lock him

in one of the storage closets until the event is over so he can’t screw anything up for me.

Haydée looks around. “I’m not sure, actually.” She shakes her head. “Guests will begin arriving soon. We’re going to turn up the music and start to circulate cocktails out in the gardens. You can go wait by the rope, and once someone is inside, get a feel and escort them to the appropriate area.”

“Get a feel for what?”

“What they’re here for.”

I nod slowly. “Right. What they’re here for...”

Very obviously masking a newfound sense of annoyance, Haydée flicks her hair over her shoulder and straightens up. “Some of

the guests are here to shop. If they are wearing a lot of Dauphine, they might be collectors. Some are here to socialize with

friends in these circles. Some want to try and sweet-talk their way onto a waitlist, and some are very introverted—they will

just want the most photographable moments and to be left alone. Are you following?”

“Yes, absolutely. Of course. I will go and do that.”

And while I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to read people without knowing anything about them, as people arrive, it

is much simpler than I thought.

A gaggle of British girls in their early twenties are some of the first to arrive. They’re all wearing dresses—a green toile,

a white toile, a couple of solid-cream variations, a light beige stripe—and accessories from last year’s Dauphine resort line.

The sandals and totes and scarves are one thing, but two of the girls have the exclusive blue resort Darling Dauphine bags

that were only available at the pop-up at Chateau Marmont. That bag is instantly identifiable after all my studying, and it

immediately tells a story: these girls have an affinity to the brand, and they are going to buy something.

I lead them to the shopping, subtly implying how limited the stock is today, and they take off like hunters in search of geese. Well, geese wearing designer sweaters, I guess.

Once I return, the crowd in the garden is larger. People are mingling, clinking champagne glasses and taking photos. It’s

a proper garden party, which is perhaps a stupid observation, because if there’s ever going to be a proper garden party, it’s

going to be hosted by Maison Dauphine at Versailles. Still, I can’t help but be in awe of the luxury and sophistication. It’s

certainly grander than anything I’d ever been to in Citrus Harbor, and I only feel a pang in my chest that I couldn’t have

snuck Celeste into this.

I snap a photo and send it to her, and then go on to greet more guests.

I greet executives and bring them to Yvette and board members who are huddled around speaking French and laughing, big beards

wearing suits and big watches and signet rings. Yvette stands out in her slim cream dress, but she seems to command their

attention as if they all answer to her and not the other way around.

I greet models and athletes who clearly want to feel like they’re getting the VIP treatment—keeping their sunglasses on and

heads ducked as I guide them past the crowd of influencers and into the gallery. They seem intrigued by the malbouffe , though the way they laugh, I’m not sure if they’re excited to partake or just find it cute.

I continue to greet and work the event. There is no sign of Rhodes anywhere, but it’s fine by me because Yvette keeps an eye on me and seems to be pleased.

I’m learning her subtleties—when she’s around other people, it seems her brow will only raise ever so slightly, and her lip will only offer the most minimal twitch of approval.

It’s enough to keep me on cloud nine, though.

I am not only doing well, but compared to Rhodes, I’m fucking winning.

This is going better than I could have even imagined. Honestly, I shouldn’t even be shocked. He’s probably taking photos in

Marie Antoinette’s hamlet, pretending he’s the mayor of his own little town, better than everyone else.

Sure, it’s a bit surprising he’d just admit defeat, especially given how defensive he was in the car, but I guess when it’s

obvious I’ve won, what is there to do other than go have fun and avoid facing the music?

I’ll be sure to bring up what a success it was to Yvette as soon as the three of us are together.

I log into our creator platform, where we are tracking mentions and tags from the influencers and celebrities we’ve invited,

and they’re almost all posting Café 57. The burgers look incredible, and so do the fries, the small slices of pizza, and the

onion rings. The desserts are magnificent—rich chocolates and buttery creams on wedges of fluffy ivory sponge cake, perfect

scoops of pastel ice cream, and delectable milkshakes topped with cherries.

I’m bracing myself for even the slightest dig at the menu, since this is a bit out there, and if anyone hasn’t heard of Renard

Florin’s love of junk food, it might seem like a total miss. Luckily, though, it’s all love. One of the TikTokers even went

so far as to say this was the best pop-up shop she’d ever attended.

Rhodes, you are so out of your league.

This is a great feeling after the initial trepidation I faced about doing this apprenticeship with him. If things go on like this, Yvette will give me the resort show in no time, and then the job is mine.

But just as it seems like nothing could possibly get in the way of me and a win, there’s Rhodes. He’s grinning in a way that’s

entirely concerning, but before I can even theorize what he might be up to, he steps to the side—and everyone in the garden

gasps.

Rhodes Hamilton has brought Amalia Astor to Versailles.