One Year Later
Paris was for lovers. At least that's what I'd heard these past four hundred and fifty days. From the media, from the tourists on the streets, and from my very own roommates. I'd tried it a couple of times. A one night stand in one case, and a few date stint with another. Both French and nice enough, but they weren't quite right. Neither of them brought me to life like Eli had, or destroyed me like he had either. They both had just been...nice.
"Mike has a friend from New York who's coming to my show tomorrow. You should meet him. He's really cute..." Rox (short for Roxanne) Reid suggested from above her single piece of wheat toast for breakfast. She was perpetually dieting, and perpetually trying to set me up. Rox was from Houston, but was currently dating a New Yorker she met at a local coffee shop with a chance run in. The kind of shit you see in a rom com.
"Mmmmm...." I mumbled noncommittally, eating my egg whites. My own diet had severely changed after moving here. The Parisians believed in smoking in excess and eating sparingly. Both qualities were exemplified in my other rail-thin blonde roommate, Chantel (no last name), born and raised here in Paris.
I'd secretly thought the way I could count her ribs was a little unhealthy, but the runway groups loved it. She was already booked in several shows at fashion week this week. A feat I still had yet to crack. Apparently prominent fashion houses and big boobs didn't mix.
"Leave her alone." Chantel laughed. "Not everyone wants boring fucking monogamy." She lit another cigarette near our picture window.
"Not everyone wants a different guy every night either." Rox shot back and I held up a hand.
"Will you both stop fighting over what my vagina wants?"
"Someone has got to..." Fiona Harrington, my British roommate and possibly the prettiest of us all teased from her bedroom.
"Gee, not you too Fi." I groaned.
"You know I'm only kidding, love." She kissed my cheek swiftly and stole a bite of my eggs.
"Hey! Make your own breakfast!" I slapped at her hand.
"Can't, I don't have enough time. I'm supposed to be in makeup at Fendi in twenty." She grabbed her jacket off the rack in the middle of our small living room.
"I didn't know you booked it! Congrats!" I hugged her and she hugged me back.
"Any word from Alexander Wang yet?" She asked, pulling her plaid scarf closer around her bony shoulders. October in Paris had proven to be much colder than Malibu. I was glad I had my snow boots and slightly worn army green jacket.
Fiona, however, looked much more glamorous in her black leather coat above her black skinny jeans. She was my height with straight black hair and the most alluring ice blue eyes. A stark contrast to my blonde hair and tan skin, Chantel's sleek blonde bob and sharp pale features, and Rox's ebony dark skin and tight spiral curls. We were all beautiful in different ways. Ways that allured to different designers - my roommates more than myself.
They'd each booked several Paris fashion week shows along with ad campaigns and makeup ads. Whereas, I had yet to book one.
The Dior job had paid well, but they decided to go in a 'different direction' after only a few months. Following that, everyone else had told me I was too fat, or my boobs were too big, or my runway walk was 'all wrong' despite hours of lessons. I was sure Franc was getting fed up with my lack of success and the money from the Dior makeup job was beginning to run out. Living in Paris wasn't exactly cheap.
I sighed, picking at the hem of my hot pink pajama shorts. Shorts that Collins had sent me last year for Christmas when I didn't make it home. The restaurant I worked at didn't believe in time off, so neither did I. I was thankful though, it was still a job and a good one at that. The small bistro down the street was known to frequent fashion execs and rumored to give major supermodels their start. We all slung overpriced coffee in the hopes of someone noticing us over a biscotti.
"No word from Wang yet..." I smiled weakly and Fi smiled her adorable crooked smile back.
"Don't worry, you'll hear something soon." Chantel lied. She was a terrible liar. All of the French people I'd met were.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Anyways, I'm off to shower, I have a double today." I waved once and skipped to my small corner shower. The one saving grace to our tiny fifteen hundred square foot apartment was that we each had our own bedroom and bathroom. Which based on the other girls' messy habits, may be why we all got along so well.
I showered quickly and pulled my blonde hair back into a ponytail that now hung to the middle of my back, longer than it had been in a very long time. I applied a dash of mascara to my eyelashes and blush to my cheeks and stepped out the door. The walk to the bistro was a short one, only about three blocks away, but still gave me enough time to admire the beautiful architecture and culture that lived within in famed Faubourg Saint-Honore district.
"Bonjour, Madam Delphine!" I called to the woman on the corner, selling the croissants I would sell my own soul for.
"Voulez-vous un croissant?" She offered but I shook my head.
"Not right now...I mean, pas tout de suite." I stuttered, my French still something I was avidly working on.
"Okay, maybe when you get off work?" She offered and I nodded, laughing a little to myself. The woman spoke beautiful English, but forced me to suffer through my French for the past six months whenever I wanted to order anything. I oddly was thankful to her, for making me learn the language of a city I had grown to love.
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I decided somewhere around my eighth straight hour of waiting tables, that I loved Paris a little less, and by the time I clocked out two hours later, I couldn't feel my feet inside my black nonslip tennis shoes. It was a just after eleven and the sky was dark, but the streets were lit up in that golden glow only Paris could achieve. I turned the corner lost in the culture again until I came face to face with the last person I expected to see on Boulevard Haussman - Elijah West.
He was larger than life, gracing a billboard with his dark hair cut a little shorter and his blue eyes twinkling as he held a beautiful hispanic woman. Their tanned skin and dark features looked dynamic together. The Last Great Love - in theaters everywhere October 27th the advertisement read in French. I hadn't seen Eli since that morning on my swing set in Malibu and I'd hoped to never see him again. As unrealistic as that was. He was a world famous actor.
"Have you decided if you want a croissant now?" My favorite street vendor asked, this time in English, and she didn't even bother to pretend to take my money. I must look rougher than I thought.
"Do you ever close?" I teased her in French and she smiled at my transition from one language to another. I was getting better at this whole bilingual thing.
"I'd hate to miss an opportunity to feed a hungry model." She admitted and I grinned, waving at her as I made my journey to Toulieres Garden. It was one of my favorite spots in Paris located between the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde. It usually closed before my shift ended, but was open late during Fashion Week.
I walked slowly with my croissant admiring the 18th century sculptures and beautiful landscaping before sitting on a park bench toward the edge of the gardens, facing the Louvre.
Couples strolled hand in hand across the gardens, whispering sweet nothings to each other and kissed openly. "Fucking Paris." I grunted tearing into my croissant and wiping the butter from my mouth onto the back of my hand.
"I guess that's why they call it French kissing..." A female voice joked next to me, and I turned, surprised by her approach as much as I was to hear an American accent. The woman looked to be around my age, of Asian decent, with big brown eyes and glossy straight shoulder length black hair. She wore a crisp black pants suit that was both flattering while also giving nothing away.
"Excuse me?" I asked around the buttery, flaky croissant in my mouth.
"The couple. They're really going at it, aren't they?" The woman joked again, and it was this time that I caught the origin of her American accent. Definitely East Coast. Perhaps...New York?
"I think they're worried that if they stop kissing, then they may actually have to have a conversation." I joked, taking another large bite of my croissant.
"God forbid." The woman laughed and pulled out her own croissant from her purse. "Cheers." She held hers out to me and we clanked our carbohydrates together. This may be the most genuine, and most absurd conversation I'd had in my time in Paris.
We ate in silence for a few moments until she spoke again. "So, you don't believe in love then?" It was a very presumptive thing to ask a stranger and I was caught a little off guard.
"No. I do. I just don't want to be in it ever again." I laughed.
"That bad?"
"The worst." I popped the last of the croissant into my mouth. "Plus, I feel like I see him everywhere." The billboard popped into my mind.
"Oh, I've been there." The woman laughed. "But I have to admit you're a little bit of a riddle."
"Oh yeah?" I smirked. "How so?
"A young beautiful American model sitting in a park, eating a croissant, not smoking, and talking about how she never wants to fall in love again, in the city of love."
"How did you know I'm a model?" I turned, raising one of my blonde eyebrows.
"Come on." She motioned to my waitressing outfit and thin legs.
"Okay, guilty as charged. But there's a big difference between being a model and a working model. Hints the outfit and venue."
"You don't have a job for fashion week yet?"
"No." I shook my head, tears of rejection swimming in my green eyes. "I don't know if you've heard, but boobs and high fashion don't exactly mix."
"Says who?"
"Every major fashion house in France." I laughed, standing to dust the remains of my croissant from my pants. The woman studied me for many moments.
"Well they're all fucking idiots." She stood and joined me. "You're exactly what I've been looking for."
"What?" I laughed. "Look lady, I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, I'm not really into women..."
"Well lucky for you I'm not either. At least not in the sexual sense." She dug around in her large black purse and pulled out a simple red business card. "I want you to walk in my show."
"Your show?!"
"Yes. Tomorrow night, be at this address by five P.M. for hair and makeup." She scribbled something on the back of the card. "The show is at nine and I can email you a couple tickets if you want." She shoved the card into my hand and winked once before walking down the path and away from me.
"Wait! Who the heck are you?!" I called after her, feeling like I was some sordid modern day Cinderella with a fairy Godmother and sticky croissant butter all over my fingertips.
"Read the card, Barbie!" The woman called back and I glanced down at the glossy red business card, but my eyebrows only furrowed further.
Katrina Park
Katrina.Park@EVOL.com
EVOL Clothing LLC
New York City, New York
USA