Maddie nodded quickly. One question with the world’s most famous designer who had never, ever spoken to the media? Was there even any debate?
Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Natalii laughed and playfully slapped her arm. “As I thought. I will arrange this. Wait here. Think of a good one, though. Careers are made of less, oui?”
And with that she was gone.
CHAPTER 17
Of Cafards and Couture
Maddie’s thoughts were chaotic and frantic. She mentally sifted through everything she’d ever read about Véronique Duchamp. She could ask about her influences, style, trends, what drew her to fashion. It all seemed too weak, too obvious. And she was no fashion journalist. She barely paid attention to what swirled around her at work. Her whole existence at Style Sydney had been focused on making sure Elena had everything she wanted. Predicting her needs.
She frowned and rubbed her forehead. Maybe that was the answer. What would Elena ask? Some question about the transcendence of seasonal trends incorporating all her lines for the last thirty years probably. In other words, a way to tie in an entire career into one article using a single quote. She could almost picture Elena instructing, in precise detail, her design team to lay out Véronique’s fashions over the years to go with it. Because Elena lived and breathed fashion and revelled in seeing the big picture.
The problem was that Maddie didn’t live and breathe fashion. And she couldn’t see its big picture if her life depended on it. This was no good. She needed something else. Something different.
A profoundly daring idea hit her. She’d either crash and burn or…
Natalii returned, her usual wry smirk cemented on her face, indicating she’d just had another run-in with her mother.
“It wasn’t easy, but she has agreed. Come, we do this now, as she wants it out of the way so she can have lunch.”
Maddie followed the younger Duchamp into an adjoining room that was ludicrously opulent. She stared at the gold fittings and brocaded chairs and felt out of place in her plain pants and linen shirt. Véronique was arranged in one of those fine chairs, stiff and ramrod straight, looking regal in a green and charcoal dress that had bits of fluff affixed to it at random places.
“So? The little cafard who kisses my daughter. Sit!” Véronique ordered.
Maddie dragged one of the heavy “court” chairs over, as the imposing designer watched. It made an awful screeching noise. Maddie finally positioned it opposite the fashion icon and settled herself.
“I’ll give you privacy to do this.” Natalii turned to leave.
“No,” Maddie said quickly. “Please stay.”
Matching eyebrows arched, as mother and daughter swung to look at her.
Maddie gave a nervous grin. “Anyway, thanks for speaking to me, Madame Duchamp…”
“Mademoiselle,” Véronique corrected. She waved her bejewelled fingers. “I am not some infernal homme’s property.”
“Oh, sorry! The stories on you never said either way. There’s nothing about your private life.”
At the designer’s indignant snort, Maddie rushed on, “Hi, anyway. I’m Maddie Gr…”
“I do not care. Je vous accorde une question. Proceed.”
Maddie licked her lips and sent a prayer to any higher beings listening that her insane gamble would work. “You must love your daughter very much.”
Véronique leaned forward, eyes flashing with outrage. “This is your question? What is this? You can ask me one question about anything, and you ask if I love my Natalii!”
“No, I already know you do,” Maddie said, rushing in. “Very much. Or you wouldn’t have let a cafard in here. So my question is, please could you explain, in detail, all the times and reasons over the years you have felt really proud of your daughter? A daughter who, I might add, you have done a wonderful job raising as an independent and strong woman with an excellent eye for design.”
It was no lie—Maddie had seen Natalii’s fashion sketches on Facebook, and she definitely had a gift.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Natalii pale and shoot Maddie a what-the-hell look.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Véronique gave a tiny upward twitch at the edges of her lips. “That would take a while.”
Maddie grinned. “I have nowhere else to be.” She placed her phone on her knee and hit record on the microphone app.
“Hmmph,” Véronique said. “Well then, let us start at the beginning. My Natalii was always different. She didn’t cry much as a bébé. She worked things out quite well by herself. She walked very young. And talked back to me always. I knew then that this one, she was special.” Maternal pride lit her eyes, and the designer settled back with satisfaction, as she sifted through fond memories. “Very special.”
Natalii blushed and didn’t seem to know where to look.
Maddie nodded, trying to look encouraging. “I’ll bet.”
Véronique considered her squirming daughter, and mischief danced in her eye. “At age seven, I almost gave her the new name. Athena. Now why do you think that is? And not because I have any love for the Greeks.” Her eyes became slits at the mere thought. “Non, Natalii was a heroine. Ah, it was a sight, barely in school, challenging two older bullies who had been hurting her friend. Her teacher said she had, what is it, the English words? A mean left hook.”
“Oh, non!” came an appalled moan from beside Maddie.
Véronique laughed. It was an odd sound, a sort of huffing wheeze, but unmistakable.
“You had a junior boxer on your hands?” Maddie smiled. “I’m intrigued.”
“Oh oui.” Véronique slapped her hand on her knee. “She was that and much more. Let me tell you about the time I decided we should move out to the country and live off the land. It was not perhaps the best of my normally géniales ideas. Not good for either of us—we were both so used to the modern ways.”
For the next hour, Maddie sat entranced as she learned all about the lives of the Duchamps—from their ill-fated attempt at milking cows, to the day Natalii decided she wanted to be a designer. Several times, the conversation dissolved into laughter, as mother and daughter were reminded of events long forgotten. By the time they got to the present day, the words were flowing freely.
“This so-called spat I had with Marcello and Donatella—never happened!” Véronique declared out of the blue. “Cafards bored with truth make up lies.” She patted Maddie’s hand. “Never become that, never ever. Truth always.” She shook her finger at Maddie, who nodded with haste.
Véronique, Maddie discovered throughout their interview, was incredibly shy. She had such a fierce approach to protecting herself, her privacy, and her family that she’d been called a recluse. It was more a social anxiety, though—disliking strangers and unfamiliar settings. And it was one of the reasons she’d been so enraged with her daughter the previous night. Natalii had blown off an event she was supposed to attend with her mother and left her alone to fend for herself in a strange city.
