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It had been a running joke ever since Vi had managed to get into the seamstresses’ good graces. Every day, she returned buoyed by successfully fulfilling her assignments, even if she was tired after hours of herding cats over at the atelier.
Still, she was nice to everyone there, and they did what she needed them to do. Everyone was happy and, judging by the grin on Aoife’s face, so was she. Vi returned a smile and dug around the little fridge, but came up empty-handed.
“Yes, yes, love, the locusts from the upper floor raided it earlier. I have some of my fries left, though.” Aoife pushed the little paper bag her way, and Vi decided that beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“Thanks Aoife, you’re the best. I saw another container in there, though. Did Chiara not eat?” Vi wanted to add ‘again’ to her question but stopped herself. Nobody needed to know that she paid close attention to how many meals Chiara missed.
“I think she spent her morning at the vet with that chocolate spawn of the devil. And you know nobody touches Chiara’s food.”
“Well, that’s swell. What am I supposed to tell Zizou tomorrow? He always asks how the food was, and especially how Madame C enjoyed her…” She searched her mind for whatever it was Zizou had packed for Chiara earlier that day. Was it falafel or tuna?
Vi dipped a fry into the mayo and grimaced in disgust. Who chose to have mayo with their fries? “…falafel.” She finished the sentence with a forced conviction despite not being at all certain. Then she grinned around a full mouth and raised a hopeful eyebrow, and Aoife just shook her head.
“You can’t have Chiara’s sandwich. It’s sacrosanct and you know it.” Vi’s head drooped. She didn’t want all of it. And the thought of Chiara going hungry again did not sit well with her at all.
However, the few fries she’d gobbled down hadn’t even come close to filling the hole in her stomach. “I’ll do you one better though, Cinderella. Why don’t you deliver that takeout box to Madame C yourself and beg her for scraps?” Aoife shooed Vi, already burying her head back in the ivory fabric, and Vi didn’t get a chance to ask her about the re-emergence of the nickname.
On the other hand, every day people around this place called her something new.Kid, Courtenay, gopher, you there.
The last appellation—if you could call it that—was from Frankie. She had yet to use Vi’s first name. Or her last name, for that matter.
In fact, every time Vi saw her—which was preciously rare—Frankie was either busy doing something completely fashion-unrelated or talking to some model. Hence, the face of Lilien Haus had very little time for the intern who supposedly had been hired to learn from her, if Vi was to believe her father.
* * *
With Chiara’slunch in hand, Vi climbed to the fifth floor, then simply stood at the entrance. Just for one moment. She told herself it was to catch her breath after the three flights of stairs, but she knew she was lying.
The open floor plan allowed her a second or two to bask in the glory that was a barefoot Chiara Conti bent over a workbench with scissors, singing something vaguely resembling an aria, one Vi couldn’t pinpoint. Her foot was tapping to her own, completely out-of-tune rhythm, and the pencil stuck in her bun was on the verge of falling out and spilling all those masses of dark, wavy hair onto the sun-kissed shoulders.
A decidedly disgruntled—which, with an ordinary cat, could be explained by a vet visit, but wasn’t unusual with this one—Binoche was lounging on a cushion on the windowsill. She looked directly at Vi, probably judging her for the interruption as well as for creepily staring at her mistress.
In the week since Vi had rescued the chocolate feline from the rainstorm and the gutters of Saint-Honoré, Binoche had become a fixture at Lilien Haus. Well, mostly on the fifth floor. Since, it turned out, Frankie was allergic to cats, and Binoche was somehow even more disdainful of Frankie than of other, lesser mortals.
The vet had set Binoche up with a splint on her broken paw and she limped around the place as if she owned it.
Vi had assumed Chiara would find another home for the feline after she healed up—after all, Frankie’s allergies were rather severe—but the cat would be staying, despite Vi’s assumptions and despite Frankie’s cursing.
Binoche tolerated Chiara, ignored Aoife, and had silent contempt for Vi.
Vi could, however, understand all of the above. Everyone adored Chiara, most enjoyed Aoife, and even more people would be annoyed with someone who called them names. Which Vi did with a perverse kind of regularity. Every time she crossed paths with the little chocolate ball of fluff, in fact.
She mouthed ‘Brioche’ and grinned at the cat, who demonstratively turned away from her. Yes, Vi almost took pleasure in teasing the feline. Mostly because it got an equal rise out of both the cat and her mistress.
Said mistress, who was still singing—if one could call it that because carrying a tune was not one of Chiara’s many talents—and was an absolute sight for sore eyes. Since she’d started at Lilien Haus, Vi had only really seen Chiara twice. Maybe three times, but who was counting? Okay, who was she kidding? She’d spoken to her four times and was on constant lookout for more.
The most cherished instance was the night when Chiara had hugged Vi. She still didn’t know how to begin to process what had happened, from the sketch of the gown she couldn’t stop thinking about, to the slender arms gently encircling her shoulders, how that skin had felt on hers, and how long it had been since Vi had another human’s warmth seep into her. Those faint scents of verbena and patchouli had worked themselves into her dreams.
She couldn’t stop thinking about that either. How Lilien Haus—which was all about lilies, since they were its symbol, and the flowers were everywhere—still smelled faintly of the earthy notes of those other two plants, so distinct from the sweet, cloying scent of lilies. How one woman, whose presence was largely unseen—except for the occasional seemingly random, bright pink post-it note that was simultaneously perfect in its placement—had imprinted herself so much on everything that Vi could always tell when she was present, up high in her ivory tower, in the studio on the top floor.
And with that, Vi was back to her fairytales. She almost shook her head at herself for being fanciful and romantic and for walking a perilous line. The ring on this princess’ finger was very much a reminder of her marital status.
On her second work day she’d seen Chiara’s long, slim fingers twisting and twirling that too-large ring in what Vi now, days later, realized was a nervous tell.
Well, there’d been plenty to be anxious about in that particular moment, when Frankie had stalked from one end of the studio to the next like a caged animal, her hands flying, tugging at her own hair, picking up and slamming down various objects. The loud noises sent Binoche running down to Aoife’s floor—never having done that before—which was what had attracted Vi up to the fifth floor to begin with.
“…I don’t have time for this, Chiara! Lilien doesn’t have time for this! We talked about whatever it is you think this will turn into, but for fuck’s sake... Son of a bitch. Ow.” A pair of scissors had slipped Frankie’s grip and, with a heavy thud, landed on her rather grotesquely militarized boot, but not before nicking her hand.
She yelped and brought the wound to her mouth, with several droplets of blood falling to the floor. And as Vi watched, Frankie plucked up the offending scissors and flung them across the room. Chiara flinched but otherwise didn’t move, and Frankie stormed away past Vi and down the stairs, still sucking on her bleeding hand.
