Emma D'Souza knows that Hugo Rousseau is forbidden fruit. Despite being married, Emma and her husband have an open relationship. Yet there are rules.
1. No third party in the marital bed unless all three are there to enjoy it.
2. Always use protec...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
The last time I was in Paris, I was being fucked senseless by Hugo Rousseau. This time, however, I was in the French capital for business, not pleasure. It was Paris Fashion Week, after all, but if I should so happen to cross paths with Hugo, I wasn't stupid enough to turn down Round 2; that man had done things that were definitely worth trying again and again and again.
I hadn't made plans to see Hugo. I was here for work. The fact that we work in the same industry was just coincidental but it meant that I'd inevitably bump into him, whether at a fashion show or at one of the countless after parties that were going on. It was simply a matter of time before I come face to face with him.
In the meantime, I had some networking to do. Since my mother announced her intentions to retire in a few month's time, I was tasked with finding a replacement creative director for Doré. Being my mother's daughter, I had unprecedented access to some of the hottest shows in the city, rubbing shoulders with the greats that I've known since childhood. If they knew my real motives for attending their shows, I don't think many of them would be as welcoming as they have been. Still, when you're recruiting for a new Camille Clément, where better to do it than Paris, the city where the label first began almost forty years ago?
Having done my research, I'd narrowed down my list of potential candidates to five, all of whom would fit in seamlessly with the direction the company would take once Mum retires to become a full time mémé to Léa and Seraphina. One or two are already creative directors for well-known labels while the rest were junior designers who had only been in the industry for a few years. I'm pretty sure my top pick only graduated from design school last summer.
That said, I liked the freshness the younger ones brought to the game; their ideas were new and innovative and they could always be counted on to bring in a new range of clientele. Mum disagreed with me and insisted that we get tried and tested designers to take the helm. Her list, no doubt created with the help of my sister, Sophie Whitaker, comprised of a single name: Delphine Thibodeau, the daughter of an old friend and the person behind one very famous designer's work. She is, according to some, fashion's best-kept secret.
The label she currently worked for was hosting a private preview show at their HQ in Paris and getting your hands on an invite was near impossible. Thankfully, Delphine knew I'd been sent here to scout for a new creative director and has pulled some string to ensure I got a backstage pass. Plus, it always looked good if someone from the Clément dynasty showed up; the French press adored Sophie, Charlotte and me and would constantly follow us around the city during Fashion Week, giving labels a huge amount of free publicity. It's bizarre being followed like you're royalty. Ten years on from my debut season here and I'm still getting used to it.
Inside the show, I mingle with the crowd as a hired photographer takes photographs, ready to be uploaded onto some gossip website and passed around on social media. Standing next to a few socialites, I pose for a handful of photographs before ditching the front row and heading backstage. The hallways were a labyrinth but I finally found my way, recognising Delphine Thibodeau from the photo Mum showed me last week.
