Friday, week 1
---Shaun---
"Holy shoes!"
I imagined that was how fashion folks cursed. Because it sounded just like that, coming from the sophisticated dark-haired woman who caught me lip-locking with Natassja, a 19-year-old Russian model, in the ladies' restroom. While Natassja was one of a dozen blonde teen models that I'd snogged –or attempted to- the young woman with her dark hair up in a French twist was definitely an unclassified article. Too young for a designer, too attractive for a book-keeping staff, too curvy for a model, and seemed way too respectable to be part of my nocturnal delirium. Couldn't quite decide which box I should put her in.
"No. Wait. It's not like what it seems!" I ran after her, who'd marched away from the doomed loo.
She raised a brow with an icy 'Do I look like I care?' stare, then shrugged me off and strode away.
Right. She was right. Why should she care? And why did I bother trying to explain anything?
It wasn't like I dated her or anything –and it wasn't like she needed explanation or anything.
As a matter of fact... I didn't even know who she was.
Blimey, what got into me?
"And may I know why you are following me now?" she suddenly halted and glared dagger at me.
"Huh?" I turned at her and realized that I'd been tagging along her to the lift, "Oh, sorry, I..."
At this, there was a loud 'ding' and the lift door slid open.
"Excuse me." She gave a final glare and distantly stepped into the nook.
"Have a pleasant afternoon." I grinned unthinkingly as the wood-panelled pane slithered close.
"Shaun? Why did you run off?" I turned around to find the typical prettiness of the young girl that I'd been groping just seconds before. Her previously neat platinum blonde hair jumbled and her make up smeared, as her lipstick had smudged badly –mostly onto my face, I figured.
"Natassja..." I smiled appraisingly at her, intending to pick up where we'd left off.
"Who's that? I mean I know who that is. But what made you run after her like that?" she seemed upset.
"You know her?" I gaped. I hadn't expected her to know anything that I did not –anything at all.
"Of course. Everyone does. But you haven't answered me, Shaun!" she insisted.
"Oh. Why I followed her? Nothing. I don't know why I did. I just... did." I made a mess of my hair.
The blonde didn't budge, well, I knew my answer wasn't exactly satisfying. But it was the truth.
"Natashenka..." I tried to console her, resting my arms round her shoulders.
"Don't you 'Natashenka' me!" Natassja brushed me off and folded her arms on her chest, eyeing me with suspicion, before asking, "Are you dating her, Shaun?"
"What?! Crikey! No! Of course I'm not dating her!" I riposted, "I don't even know who she is!"
"Fine. Whatever, Shaun. I don't care. I'm not fucking dating you, either!" Natassja yelled back and turned around, tramping away. Grand.
Gone had tonight's dessert.
Another heartless 'ding' later...
"McLennan." called a voice behind me.
"Paillard." I turned to it.
"Oulàlà! What happens now?" Jerome Paillard leant in the doorway of the opposite lift, weary smile.
YOU ARE READING
Un Faux Pas
RomanceAs a newly recruited designer at one of the biggest fashion houses, Dylan Lee was not lacking in skills nor experience. She has acquired quite a few prestigious design awards under her own name before joining Rutherford. She loves her career and "lo...
