One To Watch(2)

“Ah, American.” She switched to English immediately—Parisians always did. “What is your name?”

“Beatrice”—Bea pronounced it the French way, Bay-ah-treez—“but everyone calls me Bea.”

“Enchantée, Bea. I am Jeanne.” Jeanne took her hand and clasped it firmly, and Bea immediately warmed to her; she smelled like spiced wine. “Tell me, Bea, who is the woman whose style you most admire?”

Bea’s mind went immediately to the black-and-white movies she’d spent hours watching as a kid on basic cable in her family’s rec room. She’d taken a couple of film classes at UCLA, and she was thrilled to discover that Paris had dozens of single-screen cinemas with little paper tickets and red velvet seats that showed classic American movies (with French subtitles, of course) every night of the week. Bea frequented these theaters whenever she had a free evening, delighting in the escape of elegant starlets and breakneck banter. As she considered Jeanne’s question, she thought of the different actresses she revered: She could never be twee like Audrey Hepburn, nor statuesque like Katharine. In her wildest fantasies, she imagined herself more like a femme fatale of film noir—a mixture of soft and hard, of danger and intense vulnerability. In Bea’s opinion, there was one actress whose style embodied that ideal more than any other, who effortlessly combined sensual laces and silks with angular sunglasses and sharp-shouldered blazers.

“Maybe this is silly”—Bea ducked her head—“but I think I would choose Barbara Stanwyck?”

Jeanne smiled knowingly, her whole face creasing in fond crinkles. “D’accord—un moment.”

She disappeared among the racks, a few moments of rustling and the jangle of sliding hangers before she emerged with a floor-length cape fashioned in plush velvet, a dark forest green. It was hooded, lined with silk, and clasped at the neck with a silver brooch fashioned to look like lilies of the valley, with clusters of tiny freshwater pearls where the flowers would be.

“Oh,” Bea breathed as Jeanne draped the cape over her shoulders, the fabric gently cascading.

Jeanne led her to a floor-length mirror, smoky with age, and Bea felt a sharp twist in her chest—it was like looking at a glamorous stranger. Bea never had a sweet-sixteen dress, never went to prom, convinced her parents to let her wear jeans to graduation (since, she argued, she’d be covered up by her cap and gown anyway, tentlike and maroon), and reluctantly shoved herself into a series of appalling bridesmaids’ dresses for her brothers’ weddings. In her entire life, no garment Bea had put on her body had ever made her feel like this.

“How much is it?” she heard herself asking, her voice choked and small.

“It is two hundred,” Jeanne offered, but she paused when she saw the look of panic cross Bea’s face.

“How much do you have?” she asked kindly.

Bea opened her wallet—she had forty euros and change, which was also her money to eat for the next week. She’d already spent too much at the flea market, and the credit card from her parents was only for emergencies. Two hundred euros was an unthinkable sum.

“I’m so sorry,” Bea whispered, and reached to take off the cape, but Jeanne put a hand on her shoulder.

“Perhaps,” she said, “there can be an arrangement.”

Bea didn’t understand what she meant. “Arrangement?”

“I will make you a gift of this cape, and in return, you will wear it all over Paris, and you will tell everyone you meet about my shop, yes?”

“What? No, I couldn’t possibly accept—”

“Bien s?r, of course you can.” Jeanne deftly snatched the cape from Bea’s shoulders and removed its handwritten tag. “You would like a bag, or you will wear it now?”

Bea’s face flushed, and she looked down.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this,” she mumbled.

Jeanne tenderly placed the cape around Bea’s shoulders.

“The way you dress, the way you hang your head? I think perhaps you are hiding,” she said quietly. “But in this cape?”

Bea looked up to meet her eye. “In this cape, what?”

Jeanne’s lips curled at the corners, the barest hint of a grin.

“You will be someone who everyone must see.”





AGREEMENT


Los Angeles, California


ONE TO WATCH: FASHION BLOGGER BEA SCHUMACHER


by Toni Santo, TheCut.com


The Internet was ablaze this week when pop star Trish Kelly took to Twitter to complain that multiple designers refused to dress her for the Grammys—because she’s a size 8! Bea Schumacher is all too familiar with this conundrum: With more than half a million Instagram followers and a blog (OMBea.com, a play on OMG) that logs millions of visitors each month, Bea is one of today’s most popular fashion bloggers—but because she’s plus-size, almost no high-end designers make clothes that fit her.

For this week’s edition of “One to Watch,” we caught up with Schumacher to chat about her thriving career, enviable travel schedule, and hottest tips for rocking a red carpet, no matter your size:

TS: How did you get started as a fashion blogger? Have you always loved fashion?

Bea: (laughs) God, no. When I was in high school, I wore exclusively baggy black pants and T-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t want to stand out; I didn’t even want anyone to look at me.