Paris and us

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

J-1 Haute-Couture Spring/Summer 2019

Winter in Paris was depressing. The overcast and the rain made the city turn into grey. The sky was grey, the Haussmann buildings were grey, the Seine River was grey, even most of the Parisians dressed in grey or black.

France has the highest depression rate per population in the world. I really wondered why.

I was standing outside the emergency exit of the Grand Palais of Paris. My hands were frozen. It was the end of January. The icy wind blew so strong that my head hurt. I forgot my tuque and gloves again. When was the last time I saw the sun? Probably a month ago? It was one of those cold nights that I wish I had stayed at home. The smell of vanilla was in the air, I sat next to the fireplace, sipping some hot chocolate with marshmallows. You know, the 'Hygge' vibes kind of time? Instead, I was here, listening to the constant sirens of police cars and ambulances, the smell of urine filling up my nostrils. Paris, the city of sirens and urine. After six years, I still couldn't get used to it. No wonder the Japanese tourists go into depression after their stay in the City of Lights.

I could have gone back to the semi-warmed chaotic world behind the closed doors, but I needed some fresh air, and a cigarette badly, before I lost my fucking mind. As I took out the lighter, a snow flake fell on my sleeve. Oh, snow in Paris, GREAT! Just Great! Tomorrow would be like post-apocalypse, 50 km of traffic jams wouldn't help the late-as-usual guests to arrive on time. I needed to buy some salt tomorrow morning for the entrance so the ladies with the Louboutins and Manolo Blahnik would not break their ankles and sue us for a million dollar compensation. Maybe I should prepare some umbrellas too. Another items on my to-do list. I blew the smoke of the cigarette into the cold air, wishing the world could end tomorrow, or at least they cancelled the show?

"Could I borrow your lighter?"a deep voice behind me. Even though his voice was so calming and soothing, I jumped and dropped my cigarette.

"Oh sorry, I did not mean to startle you," he said. Just by hearing his voice, even if the world was going to end tomorrow, I still knew everything was going to be alright.

As I turned around, there he was, one of the gods of the fashion world. He was at least 6'4" tall. He was wearing a light blue shirt and a pair of navy blue Levis. His brown leather shoes were probably custom-made from England. He lowered his head and his sleepy blue eyes were staring at me. Louis de Vallois, Count De Vallois was his title. His paparazzi photos appeared in the tabloids from time to time. He was either leaving Chez Castel with the 'It girl' or sunbathing in Ibiza with a Victoria Secret model. Should I bow to him and say 'At your service, your Grace'? But didn't the French overthrow the aristocratic class and behead most of them with Guillotines, so we could skip the titles and be equal, Liberté, Égalité Fraternité, you know, that sort of ideology? Somehow, they aristocrats keep their precious titles in 2019 (in the Wikipedia page, mostly.) The French culture is so confusing, just like their metro maps and cheese names.

I kept my poker face and tried to act cool. One thing I learnt from my job, we had to treat the celebrities and the billionaires like normal people, so they couldn't be an asshole to us. No, I was kidding, they still act like the tyrant king who owns the world. Well, at least I felt better if I did not have to kneel in front of them.

"Oh god, I thought you were going to mob me. It would be your unlucky day, because I just have cigarettes and a Navigo on me," I chuckled and passed him the lighter. He murmured a Thank You, his long fingers touched his messy blond hair. Then he took out a small candle, lighted it up and put it on the floor. He then sat down and took out something from the paper bag.