J'adore Paris

by Isabelle Laflèche

  After an awkward silence, the publicity director agrees. “She’s probably left the building by now, but we’ll try to figure something out with her agent.”

  “Send me the contract. I’ll take care of it.” I might as well be cooperative, I figure.

  I turn to leave the room, Rikash following close behind. As I turn to wave goodbye, I catch him mouthing “Call me” to Jean-Michel.

  He lifts his toned shoulders innocently. “Sorry, hon, I really can’t help myself. I was born this way.”

  Back in our office, I return a few calls and emails. Before long, I receive a copy of the model’s contract from the publicity department. Her name is Yulia Mintovia, and she’s from Bulgaria. I speed-read through the preliminary details until I reach her date of birth. She’s just turned fifteen.

  I know models start young, but Yulia is barely pubescent. The Council of Fashion Designers of America has established a series of guidelines aimed at promoting young women’s health in the fashion industry, including a recommendation that models be at least sixteen years old. Unfortunately, girls of Yulia’s age are still prevalent in the industry.

  Because she’s a minor, I check whether the contract is co-signed by a parent or guardian but find no additional signature. This brings into question whether the contract is actually binding. I make a note to discuss this with our publicity director.

  I wonder where Yulia lives and, more importantly, who looks after her. I’ve read stories of young models disappearing in new cities, falling prey to prostitution rings or to drugs and alcohol.

  I finally find a clause about Dior’s use of the photographs resulting from the shoot. Our standard release allows the company to use Yulia’s image in any way it chooses, but I find a sentence buried in the agency’s agreement that requires written permission to be sought for significant alteration. To be on the safe side, I quickly draft a document that outlines what Dior intends to do with the photos and email it to Yulia and her agent. I also request that the documents be co-signed by a legal guardian.

  Within moments of sending the message, I receive a reply from Yulia: No problem, I’ll sign the document. Were you the lady wearing the red skirt today? Can I call you?

  I look down at my outfit and sigh. My vintage ensemble was definitely noticed by the fashion crowd, but in the right way? Yes, that’s me. What would you like to talk about?

  Mere seconds pass before I receive her response: You are a lawyer, right? I need help. Can we meet somewhere outside your office to talk?

  I think about it. She’s technically a company supplier, and our interests could conflict down the road. I could end up in hot water if we run into any problems with her pictures. But I come up with a plan: Send me the signed document first, and then I’ll meet you. Okay?

  Something is telling me this is the right thing to do.

  I meet Yulia after work at one of my favourite Parisian haunts: Angelina’s on rue de Rivoli. Their hot chocolate is world-famous, and their mont blanc dessert, a meringue confection topped with a chestnut purée and filled with crème chantilly, is simply divine.

  The tea room’s decor is typical Parisian elegance: marble-topped tables, gold-framed mirrors, and gilded ironwork. We sit at a table by the window, where we can watch Parisians hurry home.

  After placing my decadent order, I snap my menu shut. Yulia orders only a Diet Coke. Up close, she’s beyond stunning. She has piercing green eyes, high cheekbones, long lashes, a small freckled nose, and skin as smooth as silk. She has a delicious mane of ash blond hair and looks ten times more beautiful without any makeup. She has an Eastern European accent, but speaks French impeccably. She looks impossibly cool in a faded grey T-shirt and jeans: I think they’re by Zadig & Voltaire, a popular local label. Peering down at my rather untrendy ensemble, I feel as old as my vintage skirt.

  Several of the coffee drinkers around us are staring at Yulia. I guess models today really are as famous as movie stars.

  “You’re missing out on something pretty amazing,” I say, pointing to a tray of desserts one of the waiters is carrying by. “You can have a bite of mine, if you want.” I smile. “So, what do you want to talk about?”

  “Immigration,” she says nervously. “I have immigration problems, and I can’t afford a lawyer.” She bursts into tears and lets her pretty head drop into her hands. “I can’t go back to my country. Please help me.”

  I reach for her hand and offer her a tissue. “Tell me a bit more. Maybe I can do something.”

  Models tend to have no problem getting past the velvet ropes at nightclubs, but getting across a border is a different story.

  Yulia blows her nose, then takes a deep breath. “My visa is expiring soon, and I can’t renew it because of my stupid roommate.” She scowls.

  “Why? What did your roommate do?”

  She hesitates before continuing more quietly. “One night we had a party and the police showed up. They found some weed in the kitchen. They interrogated me, and now I’m having trouble renewing my papers.” She stares down at her sneakers.

  Yulia’s story reminds me of something I read about Patti Hansen’s early modelling days in New York, where she admitted to embracing the party scene a bit too much. I’ve always thought this was part of a model’s rite of passage. But given that Yulia’s a minor, things could get tricky.

  “Is your roommate also a model?”

  “Yes, and I hate her!” She’s so angry all of a sudden. She looks up and her eyes narrow.

  “Really? Why?”

  “She stole money from me,” Yulia snaps. “I owe my agency, and I need help.” She wipes her eyes and puts the tissue in her backpack.

  “I promise I’ll try to help you.” I pat her tiny hand reassuringly. “Why do you owe money to your agency?”

  She sighs. “Our apartment costs eight hundred euros a month, and I owe nine hundred for my plane tickets from Bulgaria to Paris and five hundred for the photography tests they did when I first arrived. I can only withdraw a hundred euros a week as pocket money—it has to cover all my living expenses. These debts are killing me.”

  It looks like some agencies are running a racket, hitting these young girls with huge charges before they’ve even landed in Paris. It’s a far cry from “I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day” supermodel fees, but it’s their reality.

  “I see. I’ll make a few phone calls tomorrow and see what I can do about your visa. But first, you must do one thing for me: try this.”

  I place my hot chocolate, with its side order of whipped cream, in front of her. She pushes it aside, but I’m persistent and slide it back in front of her. It’s non-negotiable. Seeing that I’m not going to back down, she smiles, then reaches for the cup and takes a tiny sip, leaving a moustache of whipped cream under her pretty nose and a wide grin on her face.

  “You see? That wasn’t so hard.”

  She grimaces, but then reaches for a fork to take a bite of my mont blanc.

  “It looks like we have a deal, ma chérie.”

  Françoise Sagan once said, There is a certain age when a woman must be beautiful to be loved, and then there comes a time when she must be loved to be beautiful.

  During my awkward teenage years, when my self-esteem was at an all-time low, my mother was relentless in her attempts to make me lovable. Although I was by no means plump, I did carry a few extra pounds for a few years, and she thought it in my best interest to lose them. She was spoiled by nature with a rabbit-fast metabolism and a dreamy figure. I, on the other hand, inherited more of my father’s genes, including a more naturally round physique.

  I suffered from the same body image issues that most teenage girls do, feeling a little inadequate around more popular girls at school, but never resorted to extreme measures to keep myself thin.

  When I turned sixteen, my mother put me on strict diet of salades cuites, raspberries, grapefruit, and Contrex water. No cheese, no pastries, and no chocolat. It was painful, but it worked: I lost fifteen p
ounds and never gained that weight back.

  I still hear my mother’s voice in the back of my mind when I’m trying on a bathing suit. Although she only wanted to help, to this day, I’m a little self-critical about my body, though I work hard to quell negative thoughts and accentuate the positive.

  Now that I’m back in France, I have my mother close by again, noting any sign of new curves. Many Parisians diet to the extreme, surviving on salads, cigarettes, and coffee, looking as tiny as the Smart cars they drive. I’m not willing to do that—not anymore, anyway.

  In New York there was an openness and acceptance that I don’t find here. In most circles there, you can pretty much eat whatever you want whenever you want to and look the way you choose. Standing out is not only tolerated, it’s encouraged; there’s less pressure to fit into a certain mould.

  Working for the fashion industry, where being thin is a prerequisite, certainly hasn’t helped silence insecurities, but I’m doing my best to quiet my inner critic and feel comfortable in my own skin. Today, though, as I walk home from the metro, I realize that my meeting with Yulia has brought back some of my inner conflict. I begin again to question, as I do from time to time, the fashion world’s ideal of thinness. I’m reminded of the Brazilian model who died a few years ago of anorexia. She was twenty-one years old, five feet eight inches tall, and weighed just over eighty pounds.

  Designers seem to seek out emaciated figures to present their collections: the clothes just look better on those frames, they say. But obviously, the sought-after skinny look is part of the big illusion machine, the powerful engine that encourages women to remain dissatisfied with what they have and what they look like. Much as we all love fashion, we need to keep looking for a remedy for our dissatisfaction, too. Although it can take years to find, it’s priceless. It’s called self-love.

  I agree to meet my mother at Merci, a design store on boulevard Beaumarchais in the 3rd arrondissement. As I walk into its gravelled courtyard, I’m greeted by a charming vintage red Fiat, its open roof filled with flowers and plants. It puts me in a good mood. The large loft space reminds me of interior design shops in Soho. Around me, I see an eclectic array of accessories: delicate silver jewellery, coloured pencils and notebooks, perfumes by Annick Goutal. One corner has been designed to look like a literary café, with second-hand books on sale for only a few euros. I picture myself cracking open a novel while sipping lemonade for hours here on a rainy day.

  Upstairs, furniture, lighting fixtures, and kitchenware are artfully arranged. Another area offers designer clothing and accessories. I see my mother descending the main staircase, engaged in a lively conversation with a woman beside her. She waves for me to join her.

  “Come, ma chérie, you must meet the brains behind this wonderful shop.”

  She introduces me to the elegant woman. “This is my daughter, Catherine. She works for Dior,” she adds proudly in a loud whisper.

  “It’s lovely to meet you.” I extend a hand. “You’ve created a store that’s tasteful and original.”

  The owner smiles gratefully and shakes my hand before disappearing to assist other customers.

  “All the proceeds go to a charity that helps children in need,” my mother says. “Isn’t that fantastic?”

  “Impressive. What a generous idea.”

  My mother then takes me up to the home wares section and begins to bombard me with questions. “What do you think of that sofa and that chair? Would this lamp go well with this cushion?” She’s like a sniper firing at lightning speed. It’s giving me whiplash.

  She walks briskly to a wooden table covered with colourful dishes and begins to load her shopping bag with plates and matching tea cups. Then she dashes toward the sale section and proceeds to examine a display of striped cushions.

  “Okay,” she says, sliding her glasses to the tip of her nose and peeking at her watch. “We need to leave here in five minutes. We have an important rendezvous at Flamant, the furniture store, then we need to run to Caravane. You know, the boutique where Inès de la Fressange shops?” She’s out of breath after all this activity.

  Whoa, that’s one full agenda. So much for enjoying a cup of coffee with a good book in the store café. Accompanying my mother shopping in Paris makes chasing counterfeiters around town look like a walk in the park. I now understand why her client list is growing: not only does she have a good eye, she’s extremely passionate about her work. I’m just a bit worried about her frenetic pace.

  “The way you’re going about sourcing is a bit exhausting, non?” I ask tentatively. “Isn’t there a more efficient way to shop for your clients? How about doing it online?”

  “I do find some things on the Internet,” she allows. “L’Heure Bleue, one of my favourite antique shops in Paris, has gone entirely digital. But there’s nothing like picking something up in your own hands.”

  My mind spins, trying to think of ways to help her save time and energy. I look around at the shop’s young clientele, and it hits me. “How about hiring a student to do this for you?” I venture as we approach the store counter.

  “Oh non.” She shakes her head while juggling her purchases. “C’est pas possible! You know my clients hire me because they trust my taste. That can’t be delegated, ma chérie.”

  “Okay, whatever you say.” I tried. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go fuel up with a quick espresso while you pay. I’ll need it to keep up with the schedule you have planned.”

  Before I even make it to the café, my mother is at the counter, chatting up sales clerks and handing out business cards. I have to admire her. If she’s taught me one thing, it’s to follow your dreams; clearly, they know the way.

  Chapter 15

  “Ready for Shanghai?” Laetitia marches into our office with two envelopes in her hand. She places them on my desk.

  “Excuse me?” I open the envelopes and am surprised to see plane tickets bearing my name and Rikash’s.

  “Sandrine can’t make it on the trip, so she’s sending you and Rikash in her place. She wants a lawyer on site in case anything comes up.”

  “Wow, this is unexpected,” I say, stunned.

  “You better drop what you’re doing and head to the store for a few outfits. You’re leaving later today.” Her look implies that what I’m wearing would be better suited for a trek in Nepal.

  “Okay. When are you leaving?”

  “A few hours after you.” She tilts her head sideways, then laughs. “I need to take care of the most complex and controversial aspect of the show: the seating chart. It can get nasty.” She turns on her stilettos purposefully and disappears into the hallway.

  I want to pinch myself. This surprise invitation to one of the most anticipated fashion events of the year has my blood pumping. Sandrine’s so generous. She makes my previous boss look like the Wicked Witch of West. I immediately dial Rikash’s cell to share the news.

  “I know why you’re calling, sweetness. Xavier just texted me. I was so juiced up, I almost fell flat on my face in the metro.”

  “Did you know that we’re leaving today?”

  “Yes. I’m on my way to pick up a few things from the menswear collection. You better go shopping too, ma chérie, if you want to make a good impression in Vogue Paris.”

  The thought of getting my picture taken again sends shivers up my spine, but at least this time we’re talking fashion photographers, not criminals.

  “Okay. Can you meet me in the Dior boutique in forty-five minutes? I’d like you to help me choose a few things.”

  I’ve grown accustomed to having Rikash by my side when I’m picking out outfits for special occasions. His grand sense of style complements my more conservative tendencies.

  “That’s perfect, dah-ling. It will give me time to attend to the manscaping.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, a bit of man grooming. I need to clean up the superfluous fur. There’s a men’s spa up the street.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay, see yo
u later.”

  I phone Antoine to let him know about my last-minute trip, but my call goes directly to voice mail. I leave him a message, hoping he won’t be upset that I’m leaving on such short notice.

  I then email Lisa, whose firm has an established immigration practice. She might have a contact in Paris who can help Yulia. I also text my new young friend to let her know that some help should be on the way soon.

  Then I have a flash of inspiration: perhaps while I’m in Shanghai I can visit the areas where fakes are sold. I email Chris, letting him know about my trip and asking for his Shanghai investigator’s contact information.

  As soon as I fire off the message, I rush down the hallway to ask Coralie about the protocol for borrowing clothes for company events.

  “Take whatever you like—it’s one of the perks of working here.” She barely turns her head as she types away furiously. I guess everyone is swamped before the big event.

  I want to poke my head into Sandrine’s office to thank her for this generous gesture, but her office door is closed, so I grab my handbag and head downstairs. If my employer wants me to play dress-up on company time, who am I to refuse?

  The majestic Dior boutique adjoins the office on avenue Montaigne. I stop in front of its tall windows and take in the amazing display: breathtaking ball gowns and Lady Dior bags in every colour of the rainbow. I feel like a little girl peering into a candy store. It makes me appreciate the French term for window-shopping, lèche-vitrine, which literally means “lick the windows.” Frankly, if no one were around, I think I might press my lips to the glass.

  I enter the store and am blown away again by its decor: modern design combined with the traditional Dior elegance. Whimsical phrases such as “Look good,” “J’adore,” and “Orchid in the land of technology” are etched on mirrored glass throughout the front parlour, and there’s a private salon d’essayage where one can try on items with the help of a personal assistant. A portrait of Mr. Dior is hung over a marble mantle in the midst of the stunning ready-to-wear. I have to imagine he would be happy there.