off the feeling, telling herself that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to help anyone. As she stuck her needle carefully back into her mother’s pincushion, she reminded herself how far she’d come, despite the hardships. The city was still a place of infinite opportunity compared to the fishing village in Brittany. She just needed to make the effort, to get out a bit more so that those opportunities could find her.
Harriet
There’s been another terrorist attack. The city is stunned with shock and the headlines scream their anguish around the world. Paris was already reeling from the brutal assault on staff at the Charlie Hebdo offices in January, and now gunmen have murdered almost a hundred concert-goers at the Bataclan Theatre, holding a group of survivors hostage for hours before the French police could end the siege. The reports flood in of lives taken, lives altered in unimaginable ways, sickening acts of brutality. They are difficult to read, but impossible not to.
Dad calls me. ‘Are you sure you’re safe? Why don’t you come home?’ he asks.
I try to reassure him that I’m surely as safe here as I would be anywhere, even though I feel sick with anxiety every time I walk down the street. My heart aches for the victims as their stories come out. Most of them were young, about the same age as Simone and me. But we try to stay focused on our work; the unremitting demands of the job force us all to carry on.
From nine to five, the office is busy with the hushed hum of conversations and the discreet chirp of telephones. I take it in turns with Simone to man the reception desk and I feel the weight of responsibility of being the first point of contact for Agence Guillemet’s clients. The company may be relatively small but it punches above its weight, numbering amongst its clientele several up-and-coming designers, a luxury accessories brand and a new eco-cosmetics company. Of course, the larger fashion houses have their own in-house PR teams, but Florence has carved a niche for herself in the daunting world of Parisian couture. She has a knack for spotting promising new talent and finding creative ways to promote the new kids on the fashion block. Over the years, she has earned the respect of her peers and developed an enviable network of contacts. So, as the days go by, it’s not unheard of for me to find myself making small-talk with a former supermodel who is developing her own line of swimwear, or the fashion editor of a glossy magazine, or an edgy young shoe designer and his muse who wears a skin-tight jumpsuit accessorised with a pair of the most vertiginous platforms I have ever seen, which are embellished with golden pineapples.
Florence also gives me opportunities to work alongside the account managers and I am inordinately proud of the first press release I help to compile. It’s for the launch of the shoe designer’s latest collection, which will be showcased at Paris Fashion Week in a fortnight’s time, and the account manager shows me the list of recipients and asks me to send it out. As I do so, an idea occurs to me.
‘Does anyone in the UK know about this guy’s designs?’ I ask.
‘Not yet. It’s hard for us to break into that market so we are focusing on Paris first.’
‘If I were to translate the press release and send it to a couple of buyers at some of the edgier London outlets, would that be okay?’
The account manager shrugs. ‘Feel free. We have nothing to lose, and perhaps it would be a good way to begin to gauge interest across the Channel.’
So I draft an introductory email and attach the translated release. After digging around a bit and making several phone calls, I come up with a few London contacts and then, with the approval of Florence and the account manager, I press send.
Simone is impressed. ‘Your first press release! We must celebrate this evening. I know a great bar we can go to. There’s live music on tonight and some of my friends will be there too.’ I’ve already learned how much she loves her music; she always has it playing in the apartment, and is usually plugged in to a pair of earphones when she’s out and about.
And so that night we head out, crossing the river and heading for the Marais district with its narrow streets and hidden squares. The police presence is even