Chapter 5
Zoe
There are nine girls in Madame Page’s class at the Marseille-Mediterranean College of Art. Smelling of cigarette smoke, she’s an elderly woman with red hair and overlarge, square-rimmed glasses.
A delicate girl with jet black hair and slanted eyes sits next to me.
“Hi,” I say, taking my sketchpad from my satchel. “I’m Zoe.”
She gives me a sidelong glance, then moves an inch toward her side of the drafting table. Lifting her chin, she says, “I’m Christine.”
The woman on the other side of me snickers. She has dark brown hair and eyes, and freckles like mine. “I suppose you want to know my name, too,” she says. “I’m Thérèse.”
Madame Page walks into the center of the room. She’s wearing a straight white dress with square pockets and black piping. It’s a Saint Laurent number.
“Quiet, please. For your first lesson, I want to get a sense of each of your unique styles.” She claps her hands together. “Quick now. Open your manual on module one.”
I take out my notepad and pens while the others open the module on their laptops or tablets. Maxime won’t allow me a laptop or tablet. I didn’t even have the concession when I was studying French.
Madame Page pushes a printout titled Module One over the table without looking at me.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting the stack of papers stapled together.
Going through the introductory module, Madame Page explains we’ll start with the basics such as design principles, drawing, building form, textile science, business practices, and history, and work our way up to pattern creation. Practical design will only start in the second year for those who make it. A panel of independent judges will judge a design contest at the end of the second year, including compulsory evening wear and a wedding dress, to determine which scholars will make it to the third and final year. The competition is severe. Only six of us will be accepted into next year’s level. She talks about perseverance and discipline before pointing out a few class rules. No eating and drinking. No chitchatting. No copycatting.
“I’m looking for a fresh perspective, for a unique style,” she says. “Each of you shows potential.” She locks eyes with Thérèse. “Thérèse, you have an eye for lines but you’re lacking detail. In this class, we’re going to work on your strengths and weaknesses.” Skimming over me, she moves to Christine. “Christine, I love your dare, but there’s a fine line between eccentric and flamboyance. Juliette, your simplicity is refreshing. I love how you play with color and texture. I’m looking forward to seeing more of your work.”
One by one, she goes around the table, ignoring me. I shake it off. It was probably just an innocent oversight.
For the next hour, we make rough sketches and notes. Madame Page gathers the sketches and goes through our notes. She gives detailed feedback on each one with praise and critique, but she only glances at mine without making any comments.
My chest pulls tight as she places my pad back on the table. I flip the page back to find nothing written in red, not like on Thérèse and Christine’s sketches.
“I bid you a good day, ladies,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Taking my time to gather my stationary, I wait until everyone has left before approaching her worktable. “Madame Page?”
She looks up with a pinched expression. “Yes?”
“Is there a problem with my work?”
She goes back to what she was writing. “No.”
I’m tempted to just leave, but this is too important to me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. Why didn’t you critique my work?”
Her pencil makes a scratching sound as she pulls it over the paper. “You don’t need my input, Mademoiselle Hart. You’ll pass with flying colors.”
The words don’t elicit the warmth of pride in my chest. Instead, they leave me cold, a terrible notion making me shrivel. “You don’t think I merit to be here, do you?”
“If that’s all, I have work to do.” She waves me off, not bothering to grace me with another glance.
Clutching my satchel under my arm, I make my way into the warm sunlight while coldness creeps over every inch of my skin. Maxime waits across the road, leaning on his fancy sports car. His eyes are trained on me, following my progress with undivided attention. Giving me this much freedom is a big deal for him, but I can’t appreciate it. Not right now.
A few of the women from my class are gathered on the lawn in front of the building. They’re looking my way, whispering as they too follow my progress toward the blue Bugatti.
I block them out. I block everything out. When Maxime kisses my lips, I can’t help but pull back. He stills. The coldness I feel in my bones settles over his eyes, turning the gray to winter instead of molten skies.
“How was the first day?” he asks, his observation sharpening on me as he gets my door.
I don’t bother to answer. There’s a tick to his jaw, but I can’t even bring myself to be scared. I just feel numb like on the night that was supposed to be a celebration when I drank myself into a stupor and spent the next day being sick. That sickness descends on me now, turning my stomach.
He says nothing as he starts the engine. The powerful hum of the motor is the only sound in my ears as he heads toward town.
When he doesn’t take our exit, I snap out of my haze. “Where are we going?”
“To celebrate.”
My stomach clenches. I dig my nails into my palms.
“We’re having dinner in town.” He glances at me. “There’s an opening of a new casino.”
“You have to be there,” I say in a flat tone.
He changes gears and accelerates too abruptly. “Yes, but it’ll still be a celebration.”
I register his fancy suit and tie. “I’m not dressed for a party.”
“I have a dress for you in the trunk.”
I can’t face one of his fancy affairs. Not today. “Maxime, please. I just want to go home.”
His eyebrows pull together. “What’s wrong?”
I’m suddenly so tired I sag in my seat. “I don’t want to be your eye candy tonight.”
His knuckles turn white on the gearstick. “Is it so terrible to be seen with me? Is that what was going on back there? You’re happy enough for my money to pay for your classes, but you don’t want your friends to know who’s paying?”
They’re not my friends. He made sure they’d never be. Rubbing a hand over my forehead, I say quietly, “They already know.”
He brings the car to a screeching halt in front of a white building with a water fountain. Grabbing my jaw in his hand, he squeezes painfully. “You’re mine, Zoe, for the whole fucking world to see. Is that clear enough, or is it time for another lesson?”
Tears gather in my eyes. I shake my head. “Please, Maxime. I can’t do this. Not tonight. Just take me home.”
He lets go, the momentum shoving me against the door. “You will go inside and get changed. You will wait for me in the room until I come and fetch you.” His expression hardens. “How tonight turns out is up to you.”