session for reigning beauties held by a Cinderella. You don’t see that every day! That evening, Rose taught Ella how to combine lace with motorcycle trousers, and wool with chiffon. Orange and blue? No sweat! Emerald-green and wine-red? A piece of cake! A genuine smile and elegant accessories. Who really was this woman? What was on her mind?
Ella was scanning Rose head to toe. She was starting to realize why Dina had chosen her. Dina was a shrewd judge of character and again, she had managed to find a diamond in the rough. All she had to do is to facet it, and then it would serve, faithfully and loyally, to its rightful owner. She had once found Ella and now she’d found Rose. Or, rather, found a replacement for the former.
Before saying goodbye, the girls hugged and wished good luck to each other. Each was pondering over something different: one over the past, the other over the future.
Then came the day of the flight to Paris. What could be better? Rose had spent hours scrolling through Instagram pages and had learned all the best angles for photographs. Me and the Eiffel Tower, me and the Louvre, me and a croissant, or colorful macarons on the Champs-Elysées… But everything turned out to be a bit more complicated.
For starters, Rose slept through her alarm. Then she ran around the house, a nervous wreck of a woman. “Suitcase, passport, handbag… Suitcase, passport, handbag,” Rose kept muttering under her breath, eyes wide-open. The taxi wouldn’t arrive. She kept calling and messaging the driver and kept receiving the same answer that was driving her crazy, “On my way.” Finally, the blue car appeared, and the bundle of nerves called Rose took the back seat. It was a slow go because of the traffic jams. Rose kept silent, trying to urge the car on by power of thought. When her agitation was at its zenith, the engine stopped.
“I’m gonna be late for my plane!” Rose yelled.
“You should’ve left home earlier, honey,” the driver replied.
Rose grabbed her suitcase, dashed off to the nearest bus stop, and caught a bus just in time. The bus was also moving slowly, with passengers embarking and disembarking, and arrived at the airport only an hour later. Rose showed her middle finger to the bus doors that had closed behind her, and the exhaust pipe coughed up black smoke in response.
Having surmounted other obstacles in the form of long lines and sleepy border guards behind their square windows, Rose was the last passenger to board the plane. As she walked through the business class cabin, she noticed Dina staring right at her. If one could kill with a glance, the flight attendants would already be wrapping Rose’s corpse in emergency paper bags.
On the plus side, we’re flying in separate cabins. Rose sighed and headed to the rear of the plane, unsuspicious of yet another ordeal. She had the most unfortunate seat neighbors: A man with aerophobia and a six-month-old baby with his exhausted mother. For the whole flight, the man on the right would moan and sweat, while the baby on the left would poop and cry. Rose felt nauseous and could well have joined their puke team, but by sheer force of will, she managed not to use the paper bag from her seat-back pocket.
She met up with Dina by the luggage belt. Dina was glued to her phone, while Rose tried to catch her breath and come to her senses. They were met by a Moroccan man – suit and tie. He drove a Mercedes-Maybach S-Class and took the metropolitan visitors to the hotel Rose immediately recognized. Naturally, where should a top Instagram star settle when in Paris? Of course, at Four Seasons Hotel George V.
Chapter 7
Rose took a quick shower to wash away the stress of the last few days, then slipped into her old sneakers, and went out onto the bustling streets of Paris. It was raining, and the Champs-Elysées were flooded with umbrellas that looked just like flowers. People were speaking all kinds of languages, as if the world had suddenly shrunk to a single small territory. Rose was longing to merge with the crowd. She opened her crimson umbrella and morphed into yet another flower in the city center.
People were swarming everywhere: by cafes, shops, and galleries. While scanning the shop windows and the faces of passers-by, Rose lost the track of time. The next thing she knew, she was at the Arc de Triomphe – a majestic monument that always tended to evoke a mixed emotion. Rose walked around it, looking at the sculptural groups at its base. She knew their names: The Triumph of 1810, Departure of the Volunteers of 1792 commonly called La Marseillaise, The Peace of 1815, The Resistance of 1814, The Battle of Austerlitz bas-relief. Terror in the eyes of the soldiers, frightened horses. Rose wondered what monsieur Gechter had been thinking about when creating his marble relief. Rose had loved history lessons at school, especially when they had covered the 19th and the 20th centuries – the time of rapid changes, incredible discoveries, and women’s fight for freedom.
Rose looked at the windows of various cafes and restaurants and finally chose a place with the sign that read: L’Alsace. A cozy room, warm light, fresh fish, and a glass of Alsatian Pinot Grigio. Rose ate slowly, with relish, enjoying the evening. She didn’t feel the urge to take thousands of pictures, upload them online, and get likes. After dinner, Rose walked aimlessly around the city and along the Seine River, and feasted her eyes upon the Eiffel Tower. The next day, the gallery of her old smartphone had lots of new photographs, after all. They quickly migrated to the Google cloud.
And then, there came the show day. Only a cup of coffee and a protein bar for breakfast to ensure a flat stomach and small waist. Dina kept silent, the porcelain coffee mug kept shaking in her pale fingers, clinking gleefully when being placed on the saucer. Rose tried not to look at her boss, skillfully wielding a knife and fork. An omelet, fresh orange juice, a piece of crispy baguette with butter, a croissant with jam, and coffee with milk. It was such a relief no one actually cared about your hip width! The now-familiar driver took them to a small gallery of modern art. Ed Mann, as stiff as a poker, was bossing around, raising and lowering his voice. He nodded to Dina and smiled at Rose.
A living antique statue and Alice from Wonderland went off stage and found themselves in a fairy tale. Powder, blush, eye shadows, giddy fragrances, and picture-perfect bodies. Dozens of celebrities from three different continents were surrounded by crowds of makeup artists and stylists and chirped in various languages. Assistants were running about the hall with Starbucks cups, mobile phones, and some kind of bags in their hands. They kept stumbling over the long legs of the models. The air was heavy with a pleasantly nervous anticipation.
Rose was running around among the other assistants. She was trying to be of use and was skillfully dodging hair tongs and curling irons that kept falling at her feet. Loud applause, flashes of hundreds of cameras, movie-star white smiles. The show gradually turned into a party with photoshoots and interviews. Champagne, appetizers, live music – the very feast of life. Rose shamelessly eyed the models and guests, happily munched on her croissant, and drank wine. Her joyful solitude was interrupted by a long-focus camera lens aggressively pointed at her. A petite journalist shot a series of rapid-fire images and said something in French, but the words got drowned out by the loud music. Rose failed to escape: The clingy reporter quickly cut her path of retreat. She shoved her microphone into Rose’s face and tried to shout the orchestra down. “How was the show?”
“It was fantastic!” Rose tried to hide an unchewed piece of croissant in her cheek.
“What grabbed your attention?”
“I feel like this is truly a collection for modern and free women.”
“And what is freedom for you?” The reporter kept pressing upon her.
“I believe
