The Model Spy

Chapter 8 - Zach's Passionate Diversion

Like earlier that morning, we drove back to the little building on the Rue de Pondichery. The guard simply smiled when he let us in. "How could I forget your sweet face?" he told me. He could. It hadn’t even been a day yet. Like I mentioned before, I was highly forgettable.

We followed different signs reading "fitting." This time, the room wasn't big. Or luckily, for my aching head, chaotic. I was told that the seamstress only did one model at a time in order to establish a more personal relationship with her clients. And because she was old. Really old. She could only do so much at a time.

As a result, it would just be me and Zach. Hopefully it wouldn't be too awkward. No doubt there would be more food so he could stuff his face instead of watching me try on clothes from Nick Minaj’s yard sale bin.

An old lady got up from her desk when she saw me. She was tiny and stout. Her silver hair was cut close to her head and curled.  She looked like someone’s grandmother. The tenseness I had felt the entire day subsided almost instantly. Her presence was warm and soothing.

"You must be Emma Blake." She smiled a little sweet smile. "I'm the seamstress. My name is Madeline LaRose." She held out a small, fragile hand. I shook it gently. Her wrinkled skin was soft and cool against mine.

Her attention focused on Zach. "You must be her bodyguard." Zach nodded. He too appeared to be somewhat relaxed in this women’s presence. His shoulders were not as rigid, his jaw not as clenched. He almost even smiled.

"Good,” Madeline said, “you don't want anything happening to this beautiful face." She put her soft hand on my cheek. I was going to like her!

"You stand here, dear." She took her hand from my face and pointed to the center of the room. "Young man, you can sit there.” With her other hand she directed Zach to a large, comfortable looking chair. “I have scones and tea on the table. Help yourself." I'm sure he would. How he maintained such a fit body was beyond me.

Madeline was so sweet. For over an hour, she trimmed a beautiful ball gown (one definitely not Nicki Minaj’s style) and talked about her life. She spoke to me like she knew me for years, like I was her granddaughter and we were sitting at her kitchen table eating warm cookies and drinking iced tea.

She kindly embraced me since I walked in the door. No one had ever done that before. Well, except my parents, but they didn’t really have a choice. I was sure there were times when they wanted nothing to do with me. Like that one time when I accidently tripped the Governor of California and he broke his nose. My family went into seclusion after that. My parents almost died when they saw him giving a speech on NBC, his face masked by a huge, gauze cast. I didn’t understand why they were so upset, I mean, they didn’t even vote for him.

But Madeline was different. I didn’t have to try and impress her, like I had to do with other people at all of the different schools I was forced to attend. I didn’t have to lie or kiss up to her. She was giddy and cheerful and warm. Every word she said was soft and kind and whenever she spoke she laid a small hand on my arm.

And her stories! Even Zach seemed entranced by them as he shoved his face full of food. She told us about growing up in the French countryside and about World War II. When all that was over, she ventured to Paris. She used her sewing talents she had learned from her mother and became a seamstress. For more than sixty years she sewed and altered clothes for some of the best designers in all of Paris.

"Look, dear." She turned me to a giant mirror hanging from the far wall. "Does that fit well? You'll wear it at Fashion Week." Fashion Week! Hopefully Zach and I would have this case solved by then. There was no way that I’d ever walk down a runway for the world to see, even if I did look absolutely stunning in Madeline’s gown.