Haute Couture

There’s a man watching me. Men are always watching me, but this is different. He’s staring, intently. A tall man, in his late fifties I’d say. Distinguished, possibly aristocratic. Sophisticated. Why’s he looking at me?

I’m in Paris. It’s fashion week, and Helene has sneaked us into an after show party. I’m not sure who’s paying – possibly Balmain? Whatever, Helene and I are surrounded by fashionistas. Every other word is darling, cherie, love. Sickening, really. The champagne’s good though.

Helene is looking good in her little black dress. I’m dressed to kill in a scarlet outfit bought that very morning on the Boulevard Malesherbes. The tide of faces parts like the red sea. The man in the grey suit is coming. I nudge Helene but she’s too busy chatting up a dark skinned man in claret. Now he’s here, towering over me.

I know the face, he says, just can’t put a name to it.
I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, monsieur, I say.
It’s uncanny, he says, but you remind me of someone. Someone I used to know. A long time ago, he says. When I was young.
He looks wistful. I’m wondering when someone is going to refill my glass.
I’m not in the business, I say, I’m a gatecrasher.
He laughs. Aren’t we all. But you look like a model, he says.
Very flattering, but I’m not taken in.
My mother was in the trade, I tell him. She worked for Balmain too. In the 70’s .
He nods. Ah, those were the days. Balmain was the king of fashion, he says. He costumed Bardot, you know. Classic designs.
What about now, I ask.
It’s different. Christophe is talented, no doubt. But it’s not my taste. Too brash, too modern.
He taps the waiter and pours me another glass. We drink to Balmain.

He tells me about the YSL auction week, what a marvellous collection of art. I tell him that a friend of mine is an artist, and has met Dali, de Chirico, among others. He seems impressed.
Do you live in Paris, he asks casually.
I tell him no, I’m from the banlieue and I’ve lived in Batignolles. Which is where I’m currently staying.
He raises an eyebrow. I imagined you more on the left bank. St Germain, St Michel, somewhere like that.
I tell him I prefer Batigniolles. More down to earth.
He smiles. Your mother, what was her name, cherie.
I tell him, and his eyes light up in recognition.
Sandrine, he says. Of course. You’re very alike. Very beautiful.
You knew my mother?
Not intimately, of course. But yes, we moved in the same circles.
I’m excited, but try desperately to hide it.
I always wondered what became of her, he says.
I stare at him, sadly.
She’s not here anymore, I say.
My eyes are watering, and out of focus. The room seems hot. Maybe I’ve drunk too much champagne. I excuse myself.