Chapter Three
A Fairchild In Paris
Flora found herself face to face with a snobby and annoyed woman—the assistant editor to the head editor at Vogue Paris. Her name was Clemence Marchand, and she was disgusted by the sight of Flora Fairchild and her well-worn Docs.
“What is this?!” she asked when Flora walked in.
This being Flora.
Flora spoke little French and had no idea what Clemence was saying to the older woman in the editor’s office. The woman in the office was eyeing Flora in a much more friendly way than she expected. The name on her door read:
Mariam Bientot—Head Editor
But Mariam never came out of her office. She merely said something to Clemence, raising her eyebrows, and Clemence stomped back into the hall, huffing to herself. She then began barking things at Flora in French.
“Uh, pardon. Pardon,” Flora said, waving her hand. “Je ne parle pas fran?ais!”
Clemence ignored her.
She just kept speaking in French, pointing to random offices and people and things, obviously giving an overview which everyone but Flora was privy to.
Flora followed her around, tripping over cords, trying to piece things together through what Clemence pointed at. It was a humiliation ritual, and Flora could only think that this entire internship had been a horrible mistake.
It didn’t help that beautiful, well-dressed, and effortlessly chic models and photographers were strutting past her.
A trio of girls around her age sat in the corner, looking intimidatingly cool.
Flora, in her sweater and long skirt thrifted from Buffalo Exchange in Berkeley, felt small, lackluster, and, well, idiotic.
“Where is this from, the trash?” Clemence asked finally, pinching the shoulder of Flora’s sweater between her fingers like she was holding a dead rat.
Flora looked at the ground, grimacing. “Basically.”
“It’s not your color either. You shouldn’t wear beige. Your skin is too pale and your hair is too dark for beige.”
That was the last English sentence she heard for a while.
On top of this embarrassing and soul-crushing introduction, the flight from San Francisco to Paris had been long and somewhat nauseating. She’d spent most of it thinking of the estate, dreaming of the green hills, wondering what Rosa was making for dinner.
Really, the only things that forced her onto the flight were that awful run-in with Finn and the possibility that she might actually have fun at Vogue.
Now, ten minutes in, she was sure this had all been a grand mistake.
Sure, she needed to move on from Roman, but this internship was clearly not the answer.
Her apartment in the 7th Arrondissement was fine, and Flora was adjusting to living alone in a foreign country quicker than she thought, but it was lonely. Really lonely.
She kept expecting to see her dad in the corner reading a book when she got back, but all she ever saw was the ugly heater that made an annoying clicking noise.
Flora resolved that she wouldn’t even try to make friends with any of the other girls at the office, because what was the point? They walked past her everyday like she was part of the wallpaper. Literally.
An?is, a copy editor, had bumped into her and then apologized, saying, “Je suis désolée! I thought you were a couch!”
A couch…
Yes, why would anyone want to be friends with a girl who could be mistaken for a couch. To be fair, the Vogue office couch and Flora’s skirt did have some similarities. For that reason, Flora threw the skirt in her suitcase and vowed never to wear it again. Ever.
Couch mistakes aside, Clemence did not make things any easier.
After a week had passed, Flora was still trying to piece together what she was saying.
Clemence rarely used an English word, and when she did, it was something like “idiot” or “imbecile.” She also got angry when Flora picked up the wrong item of clothing or photographed the wrong person, which made everything ten times worse.
Flora wasn’t stupid, but no one would have known based on everything that had happened in the past week.
She’d flooded the bathroom in the Vogue office, cut a belt in half because that’s what she thought Clemence was telling her to do (turns out the belt was five-thousand euros and one of a kind), and accidentally dialed 911 on the main phone when ordering coffee. The fire department had shown up.
When the firemen asked what happened, Clemence just rolled her eyes and not-so-discreetly motioned to where Flora was sitting, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
All she could hear was In Too Deep by Sum 41 playing in her head over and over again.
Finally, a week and a half after she’d walked through the door, Flora heard the first sentence in English since her introduction—
“You act like an idiot, and you dress like it too.”
As much as that one hurt, Flora absorbed the insult silently. She didn’t know how to say shut up in French and she figured if she did get a jab back, Clemence would just make her life even worse. Flora didn’t know if life could get any worse, but she figured Clemence would think of something.
Mariam had offered an unhelpful consolation after a particularly unfortunate incident with a spark plug took place.
“Don’t worry about Clemence,” she said, waving her hand. “I tortured her when she arrived at Vogue, and now she tortures you. Succeed, and one day you will have someone of your own to torture.”
Well, that was all well and good for people who needed therapy, but she didn’t want to torture anyone!
Flora felt Mariam’s comment just guaranteed that the yelling and screaming wouldn’t go away until she did.
Every day she’d been tempted to pack her bags and head to Charles De Gaulle.
This entire thing was a sadistic joke. Clara Woodhouse had set her up.
She must have known stupid little Flora would show up at Vogue in her ugly dresses and get ripped to shreds.
Flora called her father on a Saturday morning.
“I’m coming home and no one can stop me.”
“Flora, you’ve only been there two weeks. Give it a chance!”
“Everyone hates me! I’ve made the dumbest mistakes a person could make at work. I cut a belt in half that was one of a kind. The guy who made the belt is dead!”
She heard her father snort.
“It’s not funny! I called the fire department by accident.
I caused a flood in the bathroom. If they’d speak a little more English, I might be able to piece it together or something,” she griped, huffing to herself.
“I’m a magna cum laude Berkeley grad. I’m not stupid!
And I want to learn French, but I don’t even know what they’re saying! ”
“You’ll get there eventually,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’s not a two-week process, more like a two-month process to a basic understanding. Lucky for you, you’ve a whole nine months.”
Flora sighed and looked out her window.
Her small studio apartment wasn’t anything like theirs back at home. Much smaller, not as many books. She’d put a pinboard on the wall and decorated it—one tear-out of Roman in GQ, a sticker from Berkeley Bowl, a flyer for a concert, a postcard of the Golden Gate. Still didn’t feel like home.
“Plus, it widens your sphere of influence, Flora,” he continued. “It keeps you busy and not constantly thinking about… you know who!”
Flora’s eyes drifted to her pinboard, and she groaned.
Despite the rough beginnings, she eventually found herself busy, meeting new people, and the job was getting a little better. Of course, it wasn’t easy. She was still lonely. She still felt silly. She still assumed every morning she’d walk in and be fired.
And it seemed nothing would prevent her clumsiness.
The fire department and the belt incident had been bad, but the worst event was a shoot at a water park near the Champs-élysées. Keeping the models from actually getting wet was more challenging than astrophysics.
“M’apporte la ceinture!” Clemence shouted at her. “Flora! La ceinture!”
“Ceinture?” Flora asked, grabbing at a hat.
“Non! C’est un chapeau! Ceinture!” Clemence said, waving her arms in a circle.
Flora shrugged, confused, and turned on the gigantic fan used for making models look windswept. Clemence began shouting and cursing.
She’d been asking for a belt, not the high-powered fan.
The belt thing was really ruining her life.
The fan caused a model to lose the contact she was trying to put in. This led to everyone crawling around on the ground looking for the missing piece of plastic—which was like searching for a clear needle in a haystack.
One of the photographers, Manon, was laughing as everyone squatted and scoured the stones. Manon was in the trio of “cool girls” at Vogue—Manon, Amandine, and Camille—and Flora still hadn’t spoken to them. They always looked at her like she had a third eye growing out of her forehead.
Manon laughed even harder when there was an audible crunch.
Flora had stepped on the contact with her Docs.
Everyone stopped, looked up, and sneered.
Flora covered her mouth in horror—the only emotion she’d been feeling lately.
“Sorry!” she squeaked. “Désolée.”
Her luck was the stuff of nightmares.
Manon clapped, amused to no end. At least one person was finding this funny.
Mariam, overseeing everything, held her clipboard over her mouth, more entertained than angry. Mariam never seemed angry, which was somewhat of a relief.
A few minutes later, Flora stood behind the table, staring at the belt Clemence had been asking for.
“Stupid belts. They’re out to get me,” she muttered. “All she had to say was belt.”
As she stood there, Manon paused. Clemence stood nearby, keeping an eye on Flora in case she tripped over the main power cord or set them all on fire.
“Excuse me.”
Flora looked up and awkwardly glanced at Manon.
“Would you like to hang out with us sometime?”
Flora looked at Clemence to see what she would say.
“Flora! She said it in English, not French!” Clemence hissed, waving her hands in surrender. “I give up!”
Flora felt her brow furrow. Clemence was so mean.
“Flora?” Manon repeated. “Did you hear me?”
“Sorry?” she asked, blinking at her.