InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Some Like It Haute ❯ Damn you, Jimmy Choo. ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Though influenced by its plot, this is not a copy of the book “Some Like It Haute” written by Julie Dan. Inuyasha characters belong to their creator, Rumiko Takashi. I do not seek out personal gain from this fictional story.

 

There were hardly any reasons in this world that would make me lose my proper sense of judgment, should the occasion rise up for it. One of these reasons, apparently, seemed to be the absence of one very expensive pair of Jimmy Choos. They were the final result of careful craftsmanship and physic dynamics. They were a girl's very own piece of designer shoe Heaven; black Italian leather platform pumps, four-inch heels with two shiny gold clasps that curled around the top of my feet's archs, supporting my stick-like legs from toppling over and crashing down on the floor. And they were, irrevocably, missing. My body let out a shrill noise I wasn't aware I was holding in and I rushed back to my wide, plush hotel bed which was at the moment completely trashed with the contents of four traveling bags full of clothes. I had searched earnestly, but quickly came to peace with the fact that they were probably still lying in their glossy, white packaging in their neat plastic bag back home in Tokyo. And seeing as how I was standing, naked in one of the Rochester Elysee' suites across the Eiffel Tower in Champs-Elysees' district, those Jimmy Choos were getting no use while I was here. I dragged a sigh and curled the loose tendrils of jet-black hair away from my face and behind my ears, walking towards the obscenely large mirror beside the hall to the bathroom.

A slender woman glanced back at me, thin enough that I could fit snuggly into a pair of size 2 HelloSkinny jeans, flown to me all the way from L.A. but not nearly thin to be considered enviable in fashion industry standards. I had too much of a tushy on me, which I had never had a problem with, seeing as I had been raised to accept my body just as it had been given to me. True, that didn't help me from slaving over the treadmill daily and when you added all the Pilates and Yoga classes in-between, I had to admit to myself that I had worked for all of my five foot six, one hundred and two pound body. I had long arms and a rather plain-sized chest, a delicate waist and perfectly proportioned hips, a tight stomach, lean and firm thighs that gave on to scrawny legs and small feet. My legs were probably my biggest pang: I'd been called `chicken sticks' for much of my childhood and, though I'd repressed those childhood incidents quite a few years ago, I still had a nagging voice in the back of my head that would simply not stop.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, arranging a few disheveled strands along the way. It was styled with short, dramatic bangs that were cut sharply across my brows. I shuddered slightly as I remembered my last cut; it had been feathery, loaded with layers that fanned out at the ends and gave me a sort of winded-out look. It always seemed like I had just been outside and a vengeful gust of wind had mussed my hair up, even when stuck in the library for hours on end, stressing over midterms. I'd graduated college with a degree in Journalism and minored on fashion design. I had grown it all out, though; in an even cut that stopped just shy of my waist. It was much more sleek and sophisticated; sort of what a fashionable - and knowledgeable - journalist would look like to make her impression on the stars of her articles. It had taken many embarrassments, ranging from showing bra straps and untied shoe buckles to wearing the wrong designer duds to a fashion show and being skinned alive after by my boss. She was sort of the reason I was even here at all, hair perfectly synchronized with the season's latest trend and surrounded, if not bound to the dozen or so Channel skirts and matching jackets, the Stella McCarthney pencil-skirt dresses, the tweed Armani trousers, the countless H&M blouses, the delectable Manolo's and those red-bottomed Christian Loubotins that drove me mad at night with pleasure. Yes, if it weren't all for Kikyo Nakamura I'd probably be back in Tokyo, still typing away at the small-time magazine company I began working at.

It was a small circulatory pamphlet that went out twice a month: three times if we were unusually lucky and popular that month. I also wrote out fashion reviews, but rather of local Japanese couture rather that the big time Haute Couture I was broadcasting now. I enjoyed the Lolita-esque theme, but it somehow got too boring, too fast. I had always been an ambitious girl, driven by fashion ever since I could remember being two and placed on my mother's first pair of Alexander McQueen heels. I hadn't stumbled once on those fiery red, two-inch heeled slingbacks and I was proud to admit I had not slipped out of high-heeled shoes ever again. There was simply something completely alluring about a well-made pair of heels on a woman's foot; the way it pronounced the foot's poise and bowed shape and how her calves would immediately tighten and somehow become leaner and more defined, the refined arch her bottom would shape into… it was magic. Magic I would not experience with those lovely Choos I had been so excited to buy with the last of my paycheck. I had dived headfirst into my annual French Riviera trip with hardly a dime to spare in my last-season beige Gucci wallet. I sighed and drove away from my reflection, opting to take a quick shower and slip into the assigned outfit of the day.

The hot water jets did well to my tightly wound back muscles and I felt considerably better fit to confront the day head on. I walked back into the room, clouds of steam billowing behind me. I turned my Blackberry on and tapped on the Calendar tab, although I had no need. I'd already memorized the week's schedule so well I could recite it by heart. Today was Donatella Versace, which meant the custom-tailored black coat that stopped just short of my knee. Eight big and round shiny buttons stripped down the top half of the coat, with two slits over my midriff serving as pockets - only a clueless woman would dare to put something in there. The sleeves were tight, though not constricting and flowed down to my bony wrists. The contrast against the black of the fabric and my ivory skin bordered on fashionable vulgarity, and I would only help balance the effect by donning my forty-dollar pair of black leggings. Shrugging out of the silky bathrobe I'd bought for this trip in particular, I slipped into Roberto Cavalli undies and followed it with the Versace coat. I frowned a bit as the fabric settled on my shoulders: I was gaining weight, for it certainly didn't fit so smugly before. I preoccupied myself with doing the inner row of buttons that would hold the ensemble together, checking the bedside clock every few seconds.

I had half an hour to spare and, without taking into the consideration the obvious lack of vacant taxis during Fashion Week and how long it would take me to hail a cab, it was a fifteen-minute drive to Victor Hugo Avenue, the street where the locale stood. I groaned out loudly, grabbing the pair of tights and, mindful of my manicured nails pulled the fabric over my legs and adjusted the skin-hugging fabric across my hipbones. Thankfully, my face only needed a few dabs of concealer and a few dabs of my Channel mascara wand and I was about ready to go. I brushed my hair once more, for reassurance more than a need to tame it down and grabbed my eggshell-white satin Prada clutch. I tried not to give my shoe selection a second thought and wrestled my feet into a size eight pair of Louboutins. I was done with the white accessories and, as I applied No. 5 on my wrists and neck, I tossed my Blackberry, my wallet, and my tube of nude Givenchy lip gloss. I was as ready as any fashionista would be and I felt safe again, behind the mask of a talented and successful journalist. So what if I was twenty-three and obviously, painfully single? No man could get in-between me and my love for fashion. That's what I told myself every night, anyways.

The door made a soft thudding noise behind me and my heels were muffled by the soft carpet padding on the hallway floor. The elevator ride came and went rather quickly and, before I realized I was waking out of the dim-lighted lobby and into the blinding morning Parisian sky. I cursed under my breath when I realized I had left my D&G sunglasses in my vanity. I looked around and shrugged: not many people knew Japanese in France, after all. My eyes darted up and down the street, searching for any opportunity to get a cab. After a few minutes of waiting and pushing my way through the building crowd, I saw an older woman exiting a small Volvo. I captured my chance and began walking briskly towards the vehicle. I was already about to engage in my victory dance when a long, slender hand darted across me and grabbed the silver door's handle. A noise of protest arose from my throat as I looked up, ready to knock some sense into the self-proclaimed taxi theft. Whatever string of profanities was darting across my mind dissolved as my eyes met the thief's. Golden hued eyes, like liquid topaz glared coolly back at her, and suddenly I felt like my soul was being decomposed before the man before me. I swallowed, stuttering slightly before I caught myself and glared back at him with vengeance. “Get your own cab, buddy!” I ground out between clenched teeth, forgetting about the language switch before repeating my sentence again in French. He looked at me still, and I noticed a hint of surprise I had not registered before. “You are Japanese?” He answered back in our native language, an arched brow raised and I nodded. “Yeah. I came all the way from Tokyo and I have a date with Versace in ten minutes. So, if you excuse me...” I prodded, grabbing the door with my hand tightly. I was clearly not budging and I made sure I was letting him know.

Our eyes met in a timeless exchange of daggers, although I was sure the six inch difference in the height department definitely had me lacking in the intimidation department. At least I didn't give up and soon enough, he gave an impatient `tsk' and pushed my hand away, pulling the door open and holding it for me. I was startled, for I was certain he'd put up more of a fight. The sandy-toned Emporio Armani suit was definitely considered a sign of pushiness in my opinion. You could say I was disappointed, even. With a haughty smile, I pulled into the back seat and bumped my head loudly against the roof of the car. I swore and, gathering what was left of my disheveled pride sat and turned toward the cab driver, but before I could recite the memorized address I felt the car shift again over the added weight and the sound of the door closing shut. I turned my head and resisted the urge to strangle the man. He seemed to catch on to me and his eyes hardened to stone. “I was kind enough to share with you. Do not think you are in any position to make demands.” He spoke to me, his voice impassive and cold. I feigned insult and merely shrugged, reciting the address to the driver. My companion looked smug and gave him his direction as well. Soon enough, the car was moving across the traffic-infested pavement. Feeling relaxed for the meantime, I leaned back against the seat and looked at him again. He had sharp features; high cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin that only made the angles in his face much more attractive. He had a long, discreet nose that curved upwards, thin lips and the most beautiful shade of hair she had ever seen. It was silver, incredibly long and silky.

I felt a sudden pang of envy, but wallowed in the self-imposed conformity that he was probably gay. These days, all well-groomed men were. “You hardly seem like the type to parade around Paris during Fashion Week. Is this your first time in the city or do you make a habit out of sharing cabs with fashionistas?” I teased lightly, my right leg crossing over my left as I camouflaged my nerves. He was not lacking in the handsome department, but rather seemed to sport a body and face made for the runways themselves. It had been years since I'd found myself in the company of such an alluring man, it seemed unfair. He, however -and I was certain I was correct in this- did not even seem to spare me a glance. I had to admit all that woman-empowerment crap Donatella had claimed to be flaunting with the Fall collection I was sporting was lost on me. I just wanted the guy to notice me. He kept staring at the horizon, although I could see his mouth receding into a thin line. Obviously, he was annoyed at having the few peaceful moments stolen from him by some Versace enthusiast at ten o'clock in the morning. He should have known not to share a cab with me; I was clearly a woman on a mission and I let the world know it. “You could call it business.” He concluded, after giving his answer a paused thought. I opened my mouth again, keen on abusing his obvious lack of escape but the vehicles' sudden lurch sideward had me toppling over and landing squarely across his lap.

I felt his body tense immediately beneath my body and I cringed slightly, limbs flailing desperately to push my weight off the guy. Leave it to me to sexually assault an incredibly suave stranger in our first ten minutes together. And then it, that tug life gives you every now and then. My eyes widened to the size of saucers, I was quite sure, as I glanced in dismay at my wrist. My two-hundred dollar Tiffany bracelet was caught… on his hair. “Oh, geez, let me get that.” I sputtered, pulling back as gently as I could but he quickly hissed in pain and grabbed my wrist with force. His slender, delicate fingers fumbled with the strands of thin silver hair until he has finally free from the trap. He did not seem overly aggravated at how their ride was turning out to be, but his face did not budge an inch of emotion into its features, so I had no way to tell. Thankfully, I could see the commotion taking place in the distance and I realized this was my stop. Avoiding his eyes, I dug into my clutch and pulled out a couple of multi-colored bills. I shot an apologetic glance, reaching out to my side of the door. “I let you know we shouldn't have shared.” I shot back jokingly, as I closed the door on his emotionless face. Maybe it was too many Botox injections; no human being could be that sour and stoic faced. I didn't have time to ponder upon the guy, though, because my body switched automatically to `Press' mode. I slipped out my carefully tucked invitation from my handbag and pushed past the crowd of failed entry attempts.

“Kagome Higurashi.” I ground out in a sickly, dripping sweet voice. My temples were already pounding in protest; morning affairs were so not my thing. I saw the girl adjust her black, plastic headphones and skim down the guest list pinned to the clipboard she held tightly against her chest. As if anyone would try to wrestle it out of her hands and somehow alter its contents. “Higurashi… yeah, you're here. Let me just check you off. Your row and seat are these numbers right here.” She gestured to a serial number on the back of the handmade invitation and dismissed me without a second look. When you'd been a journalist for so long, the fact that you were merely backroom noise or room space to designers and their staff no longer bothered you. One needed a strong head to keep it afloat in this industry. I glanced around the foyer once, marveling at the detailed chandelier work, the satiny sheen of the wallpaper, the way a slightly older woman had obviously worn Gautier to Donatella's affair. Simply scandalous; I was certain I was doing the woman justice now. Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I began to make my way through the rapidly waning crowd. Music thumped loudly through the speakers, electronica with Italian vocals. My eyes caught the makeshift runway across the room, and I took in all of the models as they flaunted their stuff on stage. I took a detailed note of every wisp of fabric, every button, clasp, fold and crease of every high-waist trouser, stripped overalls, and dark, crafted denim. My eyebrows rose high at the thought of formal denim: would this revolutionize the fashion tendencies forever? Or would the concept be lost to the practicality of a good pair of casual, everyday jeans and the rejection of seeing such cheap fabric being molded into four-figure pieces? I needed to rush to my seat.

I was evidently late; the room was already crammed with people and most of the white plastic chairs were already occupied. I pushed my way through the lingering crowd by the edges of the room, avoiding for the most the blinding glares of white light as the flashes of the cameras burst forward from nearly every direction. The bone-thin models were already fast-set and in motion, their lightweight costumes billowing behind them. My eyes darted nervously across the first few rows of seats in front of me; I had no idea where my chair sat, impatiently waiting for me. I saw the scenario playing out for me in two ways: I could either make my way between the rows, blocking the view of a few dozen important industry people as I made my way to my seat and earn the annoyance and distaste of the designers I had- or would in the future- work with. Or I could simply walk down the narrow hallway between the chairs and slither my way to the front row. It would mean taking the long way and I knew I would get in the way of a few photographers, but what were struggling cameramen to prominent fashion editors? I tucked my Prada clutch beneath my shoulder and lifted my chin as high as it would go, trudging my way through until I reached the runway. I took a long glance at my right, assessing the situation. There was virtually no space between the first row occupant's feet and the runway itself, although its foundation was unusually low enough that I could just happen to step on it and hurry down a few feet to get to my seat. I swallowed and propelled myself to the platform, rushing to be quick about it when I suddenly felt my left ankle give out beneath me on the slippery floor.

My arms flailed at my sides as I sought to regain my balance, but I could already feel the wind give out beneath me and I fell back. It was as if time had suddenly gone very still, mortified in humiliation- not towards itself, but in mere pity of me. I didn't know what it was about embarrassing moments, why your senses suddenly went into hyper drive and everything just seemed to be a thousand times worse when someone had a camera around a ten-foot radius of you. My butt finally crashed against the ground and I winced, my arms on either side of me as I tried to out myself up. My clutch sat a few feet away from me and I instinctively reached out to reclaim my designer possession. And then I felt it: ninety pounds of bones tackled me down from my side as my body once more gave out on me and sought out solace on the cold stage. We quickly became a mess of tangling limbs and I could see hair everywhere. And that's when my ears suddenly decided to let my brain tune in to the circus. The buzz of the paparazzi convulsing in tabloid joy as the cameras only became a hound of frenzied men trying to get the best angle: our faces of sheer terror and mortification, the model's g-string. Suddenly, we were both pulled up and I could see the model being carried away from the spotlight. That left me, plainly sitting in the middle of it all as my hands fidgeted and trembled, dusting off my coat. It was too late for any sort of objective journalism now; with a twist of my six-hundred dollar heels, I rushed out that place faster than you could say “Adieu, reputation!”

 

Author's Note: I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. Review and constructive criticism is welcome and quite appreciated.