MARCH 4, 2018.
— BLOOMSBURY, England
It was rather early when Adrian rose from his sleep, the morning of his first day at Paris Fashion Week. Adrian, having done early-morning ballet classes almost a decade of his life, was not only used to waking up early, but did so naturally.
His driver would arrive in about an hour and fifteen minutes, so as soon as his eyes adjusted, he was up and moving. The first thing he did was open the shutters on his windows, a pointless act, given it was still dark outside.
Then, he boiled his kettle. Whilst it was boiling, he went over to his kitchen window, and opened one side. From a little tin he retrieved a lighter and blunt. He lit up, pushing the smoke out the window, into the cold and brisk morning air. It was medical marijuana, to ease his seizures.
A little while later, he put out his blunt and began to prepare a cup of tea. Whilst steeping, he went for a shower. Less than ten minutes later, Adrian was seated at his kitchen counter, drinking tea and eating a single slice of toast.
The excitement really kicked in as he got dressed, with about forty minutes to go.
The first item he put on were cuffed, faded blue denim jeans. They looked like any other pair of jeans, but the packaging and tag said Burberry, so Adrian knew they were worth hundreds of pounds. After them, he pulled on a John Elliott corduroy pearl-coloured crew, something he knew would be expensive, but not overly. He'd done enough research to know the next item of clothing needed to be handled carefully. It was a Burberry jacket worth over a thousand pounds. His shoes, which he had yet to put on, as he didn't wear shoes in his apartment, were Givenchy casual sneakers.
Adrian could barely feel his fingers as he finished off the last of his packing. He'd fit everything into a large suitcase and matching carry-on. Minutes before the chauffeur texted that he had arrived, Adrian quickly bagged his medication by international travel protocol, and packed his tin of low dosage cannabis, alongside a card that would allow him to travel with it.
New World had been the biggest gig of his life, and now, going to Paris for it, he wondered if his life would be like this now. 'This' as in driving to a waiting first class seat in a black tinted private vehicle.
! !
— LONDON HEATHROW AIRPORT, England
As the chauffeur had helped Adrian gather his luggage, he asked if he was in need of any assistance through the airport. Adrian assured him no, he had not only been to Heathrow more times than he could count, but had taken this exact flight. He didn't say the latter; he never told anyone the latter.
It was a short walk to his check-in desk, to which he was able to breeze through in the priority line. Customs was, for the most part, quick, due to his experience. There was a slight hiccup, of course, when he stated he was carrying drugs, but it was soon cleared, for he had all the necessary papers.
Once through customs, he went directly to his gate, arriving in such perfect time that he walked straight from the concourse walkway onto his plane (business had priority boarding).
The plane was as good as a one-and-a-bit hour flight could be, and he knew his seat was much better than that of economy. At the entry of his cabin was a fridge of fresh fruit and beverage. He grabbed a water bottle and apple, for he needed to eat and drink when taking his Valproate (he took one at around eight in the morning and night, as well as Lamotrigine around lunch time) which he would be having during his flight. He pushed down the bitter thought that it didn't matter if he took his meds or not, he still had several seizures per week. He knew, however, that it did matter. He was part of some thirty percent of epileptics who's seizures were still prevalent despite medication, but he hated to think of the amount he would be having without intervention.
Adrian had a window seat. He settled in quickly, pulling out his phone and a book called 'The Children Act', which he believed was about to be released as a film. Until takeoff, he scrolled through social media, swapping over to his book when there was no longer connection. He knew he wouldn't get through much of the book, he struggled reading and writing—not as severe as, say, someone with dyslexia, but not too great.
! !
— CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT, France
It wasn't Paris in its self that made Adrian so hyped he had to block out his emotions so he would explode. Paris was beautiful, he knew that, but he knew it well. It was the prospect of the trip: meetings icons, seeing shows, the possible benefits of his career... seeing Harry again, perhaps.
Those big picture ideas didn't stop Adrian, however, from enjoying the little things, like the way Parisian air smelled, and that excitement that always murmured around airports.
"Mr Ingham," came a young French voice, "bonjour." Adrian turned to face the voice—a woman who looked a mix between a business worker and flight attendant—and smiled warmly. He opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated. Butterflies wound up in his stomach. A moment later he pushed them down, ignoring any uncertainty or unpleasant emotions.
With a deep breath, he smiled once more and put his hand out to shake the woman's own. "Bonjour, comment allez-vous?"
She shook his hand, glancing down at her clipboard. Adrian looked at it, reading what it said. It was his passport picture, travel requirements and a few little bits of information, like preferred language, to which it stated English.
"Je parle Français," he assured. She nodded, then opted to speak her native tongue.
"Je m'appelle Claudia, et je serai votre agent privé à la douane tôts dans la matinée." She began guiding him towards customs. He didn't know whether to be surprised he was getting some sort of private security run through, given the way in which New World was so luxuriously supplying this trip to Paris. He was interested, though, as he had always wanted to know how celebrities and wealthy people navigated airport security without being hounded by the surrounding people.
Adrian had very little time to think about this, as Claudia was a fast walker. He glanced at his phone and understood why. He had very little time to clear customs, get transported to a salon, get ready, and travel and attend the first show. He fought some natural rising anxiety, trying very hard to keep his stress levels down, as not to aggravate his medical condition. Stress, lack of sleep, and repetitive and loud/bright noises and sounds were all seizure triggers for Adrian. He feared he would run into these on his trip.
Again, there was a hiccup over the drugs he was carrying, but again, thanks to Adrian's intense preparation, all was resolved easy. The rest of the time was very quick, due to his passport and citizenship. He hadn't used his passport in a while, and felt an odd flood of emotional nostalgia, as well as discomfort. Once in baggage claim, Claudia located his suitcase. She expertly lifted it to him, before he had time to get it himself. He thanked her, and went on to assure her he could carry it himself after she offered to do it. She accepted this, then showed him the direction towards his chauffeur.
The driver was French, so Adrian kept light conversation with him on the drive to the 'salon'. That's all it had been referred to as, making him a little unsure of what to expect. Thankfully, though, he was running almost perfectly on time.
! !
— PARIS, France
The 'salon' was a beautiful, two-storey boutique. Downstairs was a small store, containing luxury beauty products, what looked to be handmade clothing, and other little knick-knacks. There was an obvious connection to New World, as the cover was plastered in a large frame on one of the walls (it was incomprehensibly bizarre to walk into a store and see your own face looking at you). Underneath was a stack of the Spring Edition, and a little information card:
In 2014, owner and founder of Parisian beauticians house 'The Salon', Annika Abbe had the idea of a magazine that represented what millennials wanted to see in their media, not what people thought they wanted. Six months later, the first editorial of New World Magazine was released. Annika passed The Salon onto her sister, Gideon Abbe. The two work hand in hand in supporting each other's businesses.
Adrian now understood why everyone had been referring to the place as the salon, because it was The Salon. He also felt a little guilty for not having researched the magazine. These thoughts prevented him from noticing the attention he had grabbed from store-goers, standing right next to the framed cover. Nervously he waved, then allowed himself to be taken upstairs.
The oh-so-aesthetically-pleasing interior was open plan, containing stations for every treatment imaginable. He had little time to take the room in, as a tall woman quickly caught his attention.
"Hi, love," she said, "I apologise for not being able to talk much, but we are short staffed and on a time crunch." She moved him into a change room with his bag and ordered him to get change. She left, and began speaking again. "I'm Gideon Abbe, it's so very lovely to meet you Adrian, my sister said you and Harry Styles were her favourite edition ever."
"That's wonderful to hear," said Adrian, taking his clothes off. "You're salon is beautiful, I'll be very happy to spend a fair amount of my time here. I thought you'd be at a show or something, though?"
"Most of my staff is, they are pretty much all doing beauty there today. A lot of freelance artists work out of here to stay connected to high fashion. I'm here today, though, I'm always around for a cover model. I'll be here directing your getting ready every day, to make sure I do justice to Annika's vision. There will more staff tomorrow, it's only that New World is heavily connected with Givenchy that so many of my staff have been employed. The other shows not so much. The connection is why they are dressing you for the NW party."
"Ah, I see." Adrian exited the dressing room. He was dressed in a (Adrian calculated) two-and-a-bit thousand pound outfit. The amount of money touching his skin quite basically terrified him.
He wore Gucci wool slacks that tightened around his mid-riff and cuffed ankles. They were a brown grey that compliment well with black oxford-esque Burberry dress shoes. For a shirt, he wore a perfectly fitting Givenchy white button up. It had a single black arrow on each side of the collar, and Gideon flicked the first few buttons open to show his flat and smooth chest. She then sat him down to touch him up.
"You don't really need anything," she said, "not for the shows, for the party we will have a little fun." She powdered his face, then glanced down. She made Adrian shiver with repressed fear when she pulled his collar across to reveal his clavicle. "Broken collar bone?" She asked this as she collected some concealer.
"Er—yeah." He glanced away. Gideon began to run concealer over a scar that ran on the dip of his clavicle bone. The position of the scar made it look as though his body held extra shadow there, and therefore distorted the area.
"I heard you were a professional dancer. You probably had lots of injuries." Adrian mumbled in response. When Gideon was done, he thanked her kindly, and was rushed back into the car and sent off to the Givenchy venue.
The shows went quickly, with quick changeover between. Adrian sat front row amongst models, the wealthy, editors, and other celebrities. He greeted some of these people, although most he did not know. There were a couple pictures here and there, and he saw someone filming him from across the walk, which felt rather weird. There weren't a lot of 'super' models in either the Givenchy or Valentino show, aside from Kaia Gerber, who walked with the same natural charm as her mother held.
He was glad to be able to go to his hotel for a few hours to rest. He was so exhausted, he couldn't even feel the fullness of his excitement anymore. His stress was manageable, thankfully, and he thanked God that, despite all his other issues, socialising came pretty easy to him. He had always been told he was charismatic.
Hôtel Alfred Sommier was a freshly renovated hotel that offered beautiful, familiar views. Adrian was in a suite, which meant he had a large amount of space, and a very complex bathroom. He unpacked absolutely everything from his suite case, careful hanging up the clothes he had worn earlier (The Salon had put them into hanging bags). He used one of the many surfaces to set up his med tray, as to travel with medication he had to have them in their prescription bottles, and other first aid stuff.
Once he had done this, he sat down in relief and rested until it was time to start getting ready again.
! !
— INSTAGRAM
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adrianingham paris, i'm in love
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usera NOUS T'AIMONS 🇫🇷🇫🇷
userb omg you're in france??? i want to meet you so bad
userc niall liked!
userd Is he in fashion week?
— usere no, he's just watching and stuff
userf wow... such a,, coincidence,, that he's in paris the WEEK before harry's paris show???????????? NOPE
— userg we're all whores for hadrian
— userh OH MY GOD
— useri this is insane, i swear
— userj you're all reading way too much into this
— userk userj oh my god i swear everyone's making shit up
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! ! !
slow burn? the fire has barely caught flame