Chapter Three #2
“Would you like to hang out with us? Amandine, Camille, and I.”
Flora paused and looked behind her.
There was no one there.
“Wait, are you talking to me?” she asked.
“I wasn’t talking to Clemence!” Manon said, laughing.
Flora let a small smile cross her face and then fell back to concern.
Was Manon really asking her to hang out with them?
Was it a bad idea to say yes?
Wait… was this a joke?
“Is this a joke?” she asked pointedly, her brow furrowing further.
“Joke?”
“Like, are you pranking me?”
“Prank? No?”
Manon looked confused now.
“Oh…” Flora said quietly.
Okay. So it wasn’t a joke.
Did she want to go? Kind of.
But what if she said yes and then Manon said something like “Psych!” or the French equivalent of psych, “Je rigole.” Or what if they hung out and decided they didn’t like her? They had to work together for another seven months.
“Uhm…” she said, swallowing back her lunch. “I—”
“Are you free tomorrow night? We’re going to a café and to take photos of outfits.”
“Tomorrow night?” Her heart shot into her forehead. “Tomorrow? Like, the day that is tomorrow?”
“Uh… I think so?” Manon was looking off to the side, thinking about if tomorrow was actually the day that is tomorrow. “Is six okay?”
“I—uh.” Flora held down every ounce of panic that was welling up in her chest. “Yes.”
Manon smiled. “Alright, then we will see you then. Let me get your phone number though. We have a group chat.”
Flora felt out of her depth already.
These girls were so much cooler than her. Manon was ridiculously stylish—vintage jeans, leather jackets, studded belts, worn-in boots. Her hair was always perfectly undone.
Flora forced a smile, but she felt sick.
She had no confidence when it came to making new friends. She’d spent her life pining over Roman or doing schoolwork. High school and college had been the same—people walking past her like she was wallpaper. In fact, worse than wallpaper, she was invisible. Floating through spaces like a ghost.
So why would Manon ask her to hang out?
Since moving, she’d made small changes to how she dressed.
The long bohemian dresses were folded up at the bottom of her suitcase now.
It’s not like she’d ever really loved them—she just didn’t know what else to wear.
Luckily, Levi 501s and sweaters were an easy replacement.
And she had been forced to wear her hair up more often to use a camera, so her face was more visible.
But even with her small wardrobe upgrade, Amandine, Manon, and Camille dressed five-hundred times better than most people, and she had no idea why they had asked her to join them tomorrow.
She went home that night with no recollection of the fan mistake or stepping on that poor model’s contact—only of Manon asking her to hang out.
What should she wear?
“Heaven help me,” she cried, dropping her bags on the floor and biting her lips together. “I should have said no.”
She found herself digging through her small closet.
After a night of suffering, she chose 501s, a black sweater that fit her well, and, yes, Docs. She resolved to straighten her hair and wear some blush. That’s all she knew how to do.
Friday dragged by at a snail’s pace. She kept eyeing the clock which seemed to be moving backward. Manon, Amandine, and Camille were on assignment, and she was alone in the office, moving like a zombie through her work.
The one good thing was that when Clemence shouted at her in French, she was able to reply… in French.
Miracles did happen.
She’d need two miracles in a day though, which seemed unlikely.
She was worried they’d forget about her.
Maybe they’d ditch her.
They would.
Her nerves were high that afternoon. She was feeling physically ill by the time she got home. Possibly on the verge of needing a stretcher.
Time slowed to a crawl. The minutes after five o’clock were a prison sentence. She sat rigid on her bed, unable to move, afraid she might throw up, staring at her pinboard. Roman’s face stared back. Not even Roman Woodhouse could make her feel better about this mess.
Finally, six o’clock rolled around.
Flora was able to stand, very awkwardly, and pulled back her blinds to see if they were outside her apartment. Not yet.
Six was kind of on the nose though, right? Parisians weren’t punctual.
6:01
“One minute isn’t a big deal.”
6:02
“And again, two minutes isn’t a big deal. You’re ten minutes late to work every day.”
6:03
“I should focus on something else. I could look at the pictures for the new magazine.”
6:04
“This is boring. Never mind.”
6:05
“Five minutes isn’t a big deal!”
6:06
“If they don’t come, I’ll just go to Le Bourbon and get the soup I like. It’ll be fine.”
6:07
“At ten minutes, I’ll just assume they aren’t coming.”
6:08
“I shouldn’t have expected anything, really. Flora, you know better! You know no one has ever noticed you, why would they?”
6:09
“Did I do my laundry?”
6:10
“Yep. Time to leave. You can’t sit here and wait all night for a group of girls who were clearly joking. Why did I take her seriously? I’m such an idiot.”
She grabbed her bag and coat and threw the door open—
“AH!” she shouted, nearly hitting the ceiling. “Manon!”
“Hi… where were you going?”
“Good question! Great question!” She smiled and laughed in a way that only communicated distress. “I didn’t know if we were… meeting downstairs, so I thought I’d check in case…”
“Amandine and Camille are downstairs. Let’s go! It will be fun, no? I think you will like us very much.”
“Oh, I’m sure!” Flora said, following Manon.
She was more worried about them not liking her.
Amandine and Camille were sitting on the steps to the apartment building, laughing. Flora felt that familiar “outsider” feeling creep in.
“Vous deux, réagissez un peu!” Manon called. “Flora est là.”
Camille—who was one of those cliché magazine-worthy French girls with blonde hair and blue eyes and the perfect red lip—got up and smiled at Flora.
“Bonjour, Flora! Je suis Camille. I’m sorry we were not introduced sooner. C’est vraiment impoli de notre part.”
“Oh, it’s not rude,” Flora said, smiling then looking at the pavement. “It’s nice to meet you. Officially.”
“And I’m Amandine!”
Amandine was tall with long, thick brown hair and blonde babylights. She wore brown lipstick, silvery eyeshadow, and had thin eyebrows. Flora eyed her outfit—baggy jeans, rhinestone belt, tank top, and huge boho satchel. So cool.
“Désolées de ne pas vous avoir salués plus t?t,” she added.
They were all apologizing for not saying hello sooner.
“It’s really alright,” Flora repeated.
“Okay, we are going to our favorite café,” Manon said, grabbing Flora by the arm. “Camille has a huge crush on the boy who works there, Valentin.”
“Stop it, Manon!” Camille said, eyes wide. “Flora will think we’re weird!”
“Oh no, not weird at all. I know all about crushes.”
“Oooo!” Amandine said, raising her eyebrows. “We want to hear all about it. Is it someone we work with?”
“No. He lives in the US.”
“I wish I lived in California,” Manon sighed. “Also, do you hate Clemence as much as we do?”
“Well, I definitely don’t like her.”
“I heard from Alexandre—you know, the photographer. He said that Clemence’s boyfriend broke up with her last year because he got a job in the UK. She’s never been the same,” Amandine whispered, as if Clemence could hear them. “I think her boyfriend broke up with her because she’s Clemence.”
Manon smiled and sighed. “Alexandre is so gorgeous, no? Flora, do you know him?”
“No. I don’t think so. But it’s not as if any guy notices me. I blend in with the walls.”
Manon glanced at her. “I think you underestimate yourself, Flora. You’ve got the best bone structure I’ve ever seen.”
Flora blinked in surprise.
“To be honest though, I sometimes think it’s good when men don’t see you. They’re the worst! Idiots, all of them!”
“Evil vipers!” Amandine added, waggling her fingers.
“Always leading you into pits you wouldn’t have gone in otherwise,” Camille agreed.
“Yet we still date them,” Manon said, groaning.
“So we must be the idiots,” Amandine countered.
Flora found herself laughing.
And suddenly, a weight lifted off her shoulders.
Paris had been fine up until this point. Maybe a little overrated and not nearly as magical as everyone claimed it to be.
Until this moment.
As they walked up the cobblestone street, joking about how difficult men made life, something changed.
These girls didn’t see her as Flora Fairchild—passed over for dodgeball one too many times—but simply the other photography intern at Vogue.
Maybe it was the laughing, or doing something new, or being around people like her, but there was something better about Paris now. Almost nostalgic, though she had no memories here.
The air was cold, and the streets busy, but Flora didn’t mind the wind or the zigzagging through narrow lanes or the bumps of the cobblestones. It was a memory she’d never forget.
They paused to take a million photos and giggled the entire way, finally stopping in front of a little café and record store.
“You seem like a music girl,” Manon remarked.
“I am… but how did you—”
“It’s the hair,” Manon said, smiling. “Oh, and don’t talk too much to Valentin. Camille gets very territorial. It’s so toxic.”
“Noted.”
Inside, Flora eyed the menu while the girls lined up. Camille had somehow gone pale and red at the same time.
Flora knew that feeling.
“Salut Valentin, comment vas-tu?” Camille asked, her voice catching.
Flora felt bad for her, but it was nice to know she wasn’t the only one who fell apart around a crush.
“Trois hamburgers… oh, attends. Flora, tu veux quoi?”
“I’ll take the ratatouille and the onion soup.”
“Trois hamburgers, une soupe à l’oignon, et une ratatouille.”
Flora was briefly introduced to Valentin. She tried to act as polite but as stiff as possible so Camille wouldn’t panic. Not that there was anything to panic about.
Flora traced around the records now.