I carefully slip the letter back into the bundle and am just reaching for the next one when I’m distracted by something buzzing under my napkin on the table. For a split second I peer at it curiously, then suddenly my heart leaps. It’s my phone and it’s on vibrate! It must be Jack!
I snatch up the phone. But instead it’s Harriet. I feel a lurch of disappointment. Then feel immediately bad for that.
‘Where are you?’ she demands.
‘At the Louvre.’
‘Oh fabulous! Isn’t it amazing?’
‘Yes, stunning.’ I nod, looking at the breathtaking view across the courtyard.
‘I particularly love Jacques-Louis David’s The Coronation of Napoleon. Such a magnificent painting and stunning detail, don’t you agree?’
‘Er, I don’t think I saw that one,’ I say vaguely. My bladder twinges from all that champagne. I need the loo. Abandoning my omelette, I gather up my things.
‘Oh well, never mind, there’s always a next time,’ she encourages swiftly, ‘anyway, I was calling to tell you that I completely forgot it’s my company’s annual summer party tonight. You’re my plus one.’
‘Oh, er, great.’ To be honest, I’m not really in the mood for a party, but I don’t want to disappoint Harriet.
‘A party is just what we both need,’ she steamrollers.
‘Great,’ I reply again, weakly. Wedging my phone under my ear, I grab Heathcliff’s lead and begin making my way upstairs to the bathroom.
‘Excellent! Well, see you later then – oh, and before I forget, there’s a dress code.’
‘There is?’ My heart sinks. Oh god, I hate dress codes. I always get them wrong. I mean, what is smart casual exactly?
‘Don’t worry, this one’s easy.’
I push open the door of the ladies’ loos.
‘It’s Parisian Chic.’
At which point I catch sight of a girl with messy hair and baggy leggings reflected in the washbasin mirrors and realise with a sort of slow-motion horror that:
A) That’s me.
B) In just a few hours I will be at a party in the fashion capital of the world.
C) Forget Parisian Chic, my dress code is Crumpled Mismatched.
‘Harriet?’ I yelp.
But she’s already hung up.
Oh god.
15
OK, deep breaths.
Back outside, I plonk myself down on the edge of the fountain and try to concentrate on my breathing. Just like I was taught in the one yoga class I did in India that time. Which was about all I learned as I was completely hopeless at the actual poses. Though I’m not sure my yoga teacher had ‘fashion crisis in Paris’ in mind when he was teaching us about the importance of the ancient Sanskrit art of pranayama, or ‘life breath’.
Taking a few deep inhales and exhales I take a tentative look around me. OK, so everyone knows that French women have drool-worthy style. But it can’t be that hard to dress like a French woman, can it? I mean, come on. It’s not rocket science.
I survey the women walking past me, and it’s not hard to distinguish Parisians from tourists. Whereas the latter are stumbling around in trainers and shorts, sporting an ensemble of mismatched colours and patterns and an alarming number of clothes that neither flatter nor fit, the locals stride past looking the epitome of style. Slim, groomed and perfectly colour coordinated, they make it look so effortless.
And another thing: I might not know much about fashion, but I know a designer handbag when I see one and I have never seen so many being paraded around. In Paris, it would appear a Birkin is more common than a Tesco carrier bag.
Glancing at my own accessory of choice – a well-worn backpack that looked perfectly fine in London but here looks like a monstrosity – I feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s hopeless. There is no way I can compete. I just don’t have what it takes. I turn to Heathcliff, who’s sitting in the shade surveying the steady stream of dogs that parade past with stylish collars and matching leads. Something about the way he’s peering at them and sniffing the air makes me wonder if he’s feeling the same way.
Seriously, I have nothing to wear.
And not in the usual sense of, my wardrobe is bursting with lots of perfectly nice outfits but there’s nothing I feel like wearing. I mean in the sense of, all I have is a holdall of screwed-up clothes, most of which are T-shirts and leggings, none of which go together, and some of which might even have stains on.
For a brief moment I think about giving up and backing out, before quickly pulling myself together. I can’t and won’t let Harriet down. Letting people down is Jack’s forte, remember?
Plus, Harriet is right; a party will probably do us both the world of good. So, emboldened by the two glasses of champagne, I take a deep breath, put aside my fears and reservations and stand up.
I, Ruby Miller, am going clothes shopping.
I continue with this positive attitude all the way to Boulevard Haussmann, which according to my guidebook houses the famous department stores that Harriet told me about. It’s not that far to walk from the Louvre, and along the way I do my affirmations. Now, just to make this clear, I’m not an affirmation type of person. I don’t practise yoga, I don’t own any of those inspirational quote fridge magnets and the one time I tried to meditate I woke myself up by snoring. But I read about them recently on one of those lifestyle blogs and at this point I’ll try anything.
1) I am confident about solving life’s problems successfully . . . like for example, finding something that doesn’t make my bum look big.
2) The future is good, I look towards it with hope and happiness . . . and a little black dress that makes me look fabulous and fashionable.
3) I transcend stress of any kind, I live in peace . . . and a fab pair of heels that I can actually walk in.
Wow, this stuff actually works! In fact, by the time I reach my destination I’m feeling really confident – until I’m greeted by the grandest department stores I’ve ever seen. Momentarily overwhelmed, for a moment I stand frozen on the pavement. Oh crap, this takes shopping to a whole new level.
Then I remember my affirmations and pull myself together. I’m confident about solving life’s problems, remember? It will be fine. I’ll just go inside and grab a few bits and I’ll be out of here in half an hour. Nothing to worry about.
And, scooping up Heathcliff, I head for the nearest one and step bravely into the revolving door.
Easy peasy.
Inside the building is simply stunning, with amazing art deco architecture and a beautiful stained-glass dome overhead. Everything is bright and shiny, with designer stores and marble floors and gorgeous staircases. It’s also teeming with shoppers. Think first day of the Harrods sale then times it by about a hundred.
Holding firmly on to Heathcliff’s lead, I manage to navigate myself to the escalator and glide up to the women’s floor. It’s huge. Faced with hundreds of clothes racks and different designers, I feel slightly woozy, and it’s not just the champagne. But I stay focused. I just want something very simple and stylish. Something very French. You know, something chic and Gallic.
I mean, c’mon, how hard that can be? I’ve written books. I have a mortgage. I have travelled alone on a train journey across India. I can totally do this.
Within moments I spot just the thing: a stripy Breton top. What could be more French than that? I pluck it quickly off the rail and team it with a classic pair of black trousers. See, these will look perfect! Thrilled by how easy it was, I can’t resist a matching beret and dive confidently into the changing room. Seriously, all that business about how French women are born with this amazing sense of style that can’t be learned. I mean, honestly, what a load of old rubbish!
I turn to look at myself in the mirror – and balk at my reflection. Oh my god, I don’t look French, I look ridiculous! All I need is a bicycle and a string of onions.
Hurriedly tugging off the outfit, I dive back outside. OK, maybe I was being a lit
tle too adventurous to begin with, trying to run before I could walk kind of thing. Maybe I should start with the basics. I wander round the various racks of clothes, casting my eyes around and trying to appear as if I actually know what I’m looking for. A sales assistant catches my eye and says something to me in French that I’m pretty sure means ‘Can I help you?’ Well, it’s either that or ‘What on earth are you wearing?’
I go for option one.
‘Oui, merci,’ I begin, then realising that’s about the extent of my vocabulary, continue in English, ‘I’m looking for a dress.’
Well how more basic can you get?
‘Une robe?’ she repeats.
Oh dear, she thinks I mean a dressing gown. Jack calls it a robe too.
‘Non, a dress,’ I say, shaking my head, doing a bit of hand-gesturing to show that I mean a dress that comes to about knee-length.
She nods. ‘Oui, une robe,’ and tries to lead me off in another direction.
Oh god, how embarrassing, I knew I should have paid more attention in French lessons.
‘Non, a dress,’ I repeat, shaking my head.
The assistant looks perplexed as back and forth we go a couple more times, like a game of ping pong, until finally I give up, apologising profusely, ‘Pardonnez-moi, I um – oh, look at the time! I have to go . . .’ and quickly dash off into another department.
Well that’s it, I’m doomed. I mean, there’s nothing more basic than a dress, is there? Suddenly realising I’m surrounded by tables, upon which several sales assistants are busy folding up pieces of brightly patterned silk, I stop dead. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before: scarves!
What could be more simple than a scarf? Or more French?
Excited, I swoop upon the tables. Every woman in Paris seems to be sporting one; it’s obviously the must-have accessory, even in summer. Expensive silk Hermès ones, patterned tie-dye ones, skinny woven ones: they come in all different colours, materials and prices, even ones to match my budget.
Eagerly I grab a handful and race into a changing room. What could be easier to wear than a scarf? It will instantly make me look chic and Gallic! Like Catherine Deneuve, or Juliette Binoche, or one of those other wonderfully stylish French women who just have that je ne sais quoi!
Thrilled, I take my first scarf, a delicious swathe of scarlet satin, and start draping it round my shoulders. Now, how do the French women do it, they always seem so effortless. I frown at myself in the mirror. Hmm . . . no, that doesn’t look quite right, hang on, maybe if I just do this . . .
Twirling around behind the curtain, like a dervish, I take the ends and fling them around a bit more. Yes, that looks much better. Then, maybe if I tie it into a knot like this—
Actually, on second thoughts, perhaps not, that’s actually a bit tight. I try to rearrange it, but for some reason the scarf seems to be getting even tighter. Hang on, I must be wrapping it the wrong way, it must be the other way. But now it’s not getting looser; in fact it’s getting tighter still. I feel a slight panic. I’m actually getting a bit breathless, like it’s cutting off my air supply.
An assistant says something to me in French through the curtain and it’s all I can do to respond with a sort of croaking, ‘Oui, c’est bon.’ At least that’s what I try to say but it comes out in a rasping voice, like I’m being strangled.
Which I am. By a scarf.
Suddenly I have visions of being found asphyxiated in the changing rooms like a victim of an erotic sex game gone wrong. Can you imagine? I feel a clutch of terror. Oh my god, what would my parents think? Mum would never be able to face the neighbours again. It was bad enough when Peter from next door was caught not swiping a jar of pesto through the Tesco self-scanners.
My mind flashes back. It was the talk of the village for weeks, though it wasn’t the fact that he’d been caught not paying for something that had caused such a furore; it was his choice of item that got the tongues wagging. Pesto? That fancy Italian stuff? But he’s always been strictly a meat and two veg man! I don’t think Dad has got over the shock still.
And what would Jack think? At the thought, I feel quite dizzy. Actually, no, it’s not the thought of Jack that’s making me dizzy, I suddenly realise, it’s the lack of oxygen. I start panting breathlessly and tugging frantically at the scarf. Oh fuck, this is it, I’m going to die!
I try doing my affirmations: I transcend stress of any kind, I live in peace—
ARGGGHHH!
Clutching at my throat, I suddenly lose my balance and crash through the curtain, into the arms of the stylish sales assistant.
‘Ayeeeee!’
That’s her shrieking loudly as we go flying and land in a heap on the floor. Or maybe it’s me. I don’t know. All I know is that all hell breaks loose. It’s chaos with lots of yelling, people rushing over, a baby screaming, Heathcliff barking – and oh god, now there’s someone lunging at me with a giant pair of very scary-looking scissors . . .
Which is the bit where I pass out.
I wake up to find myself lying on the floor, surrounded by a crowd of goggling spectators. Thankfully I’m OK. Well, as OK as you can be lying flat out on the floor of an upmarket department store in Paris, while shoppers stand around you, whispering and pointing. The scarf is ruined though. The security guard had to cut it into shreds and it lies there next to me in tatters. I buy it anyway. I’m too embarrassed not to.
And that’s when I find it. Tucked into my wallet, it falls out as I’m pulling out my credit card to pay. The answer to all my problems.
Twenty minutes later I arrive at a tiny boutique. The outside is painted a dark, boudoir red and the window display offers up a few tantalising items, including a black velvet jacket with exquisite beading and a gorgeous mother-of-pearl clutch that looks like something you’d see a supermodel carrying and wonder, where on earth did she get that? I glance at the vintage sign, which is hammered out of metal and hangs discreetly over the door: ‘Le Secret.’
How apt. Tucked away down a tiny backstreet, away from passers-by and the steady stream of tourists, this is one of those places you’d never find unless someone let you into the secret. Like someone did for me, I muse, glancing once more at the card held tightly in my hand to double-check I’ve got the right place before I push open the door.
‘Ruby, it is so good to see you!’
As I enter the treasure trove, a tiny blonde dressed head-to-toe in black rushes towards me.
‘It’s even better to see you, Celeste,’ I say with a feeling of relief, as she embraces me with two scarlet kisses.
‘It is good you came,’ she nods, looking me up and down with a critical eye.
I’d explained everything to her on the phone, about the party, about my clothes, about why I’m in Paris, even about the scarf, which had taken a few explanations due to the language difference, but which once she’d understood had resulted in peals of laughter.
‘And I thought ’Arriet was trouble,’ she says, clucking her tongue and shaking her head.
Oh dear. I hate that. It’s the same noise and expression that my hairdresser makes whenever I go to see her. I seem to have that effect on people.
‘No woman should be wearing these athletic clothes,’ she says, wrinkling up her perfect nose at me as if there was a bad smell.
‘They’re not athletic clothes,’ I protest, ‘they’re just leggings and a T-shirt.’
Celeste pulls a face, closes one eye and sort of squints at me as if it’s too painful to look properly. ‘Everything is so . . .’ She seems to cast around in her head for a word, then gives up and finally spits, ‘There is no shape, no silhouette!’
‘But they’re really comfy,’ I mumble.
‘Com-fee?’ she repeats, a deep furrow forming down her brow. ‘What is this, com-fee?’
‘Comfortable,’ I explain.
Her face floods with understanding. ‘Non! A Chanel jacket is comfortable,’ she replies, wagging her finger. ‘This is not comfortable, this is someth
ing that you should only wear at the gym,’ she goes on sternly. ‘You must never leave the house like this again, not ever!’
Celeste can actually be pretty scary when she wants to be.
‘Compris?’
‘Compris.’ I nod, dutifully.
‘OK.’ She nods, looking satisfied. ‘So I need to teach you the rules.’
‘Rules?’ I repeat, feeling a prick of anxiety. Oh god, I knew it. Coming to Paris was a big mistake. I should never have accepted Harriet’s invitation. I should have just stayed home in my slobby clothes, feeling sorry for myself and waiting for Jack to ring.
‘But of course,’ she says with a nod, her face solemn, ‘to be stylish you have to follow certain rules, otherwise you will look . . .’ She trails off and we both look at my crumpled reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. It’s quite clear to all that the only rule I have been following is ‘chuck it on and hope for the best’.
‘Remember, fashions change, but style never goes out of fashion,’ she says, seeming to think better of trying to describe my own non-style and moving briskly along. ‘Number one, never show too much skin.’
Striding over to a rack of clothes, she starts deftly pulling out items with the speed and confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. As opposed to myself, I tend to approach a clothes rail like a teenage boy on a first date, all awkward fumbling and uncertainty.
Thrusting several items at me, she says authoritatively, ‘As the hem goes up the heel goes down.’
‘It does?’
Celeste shoots me a look that says that wasn’t open to debate.
‘Right, OK.’ I nod hurriedly.
‘Number two, stay away from colour—’
I’d ventured tentatively over towards a bright flash of crimson I’d spotted hanging from a rail and was just reaching out to touch it. I snatch my hand back quickly like I’ve been burned.
Love From Paris Page 13
