Almost French (25 page)

Squinting at my birth certificate, the civil servant at the
mairie
shakes her head in a way that can only be unpromising.

‘
Non, non, non
.’ She actually wags her forefinger at me, making me feel like a five-year-old caught eating chocolate before dinner. The problem is that although Australian by nationality, I was born in the United States where Dad had been posted for several years. Apparently, to issue the document, she requires a letter from the American Consulate in Paris confirming my birthplace.

‘But my birth certificate says where I was born.’

‘We need confirmation from the American authorities.’

‘But the American authorities
issued
my birth certificate.’

‘
Non, non, non
. We must have this letter.’

‘But no-one mentioned the letter! It’s not on the list!’ and frantically I wave the official print-out that specifies all the documents you have to bring to obtain this document.

The civil servant’s face is a mask of bored indifference. It isn’t her problem. ‘Don’t forget it has to be in French,’ and she looks to the next person in line. Dismissed.

Visions of more wasted weeks flash before me. Desperate, I run through my options. Begging? Bribing? Weeping? Instead, in a lightning stroke of inspiration, I lie.

‘Actually, I did try to get this letter a few months ago but the American Consulate was really unhelpful.’ And although I have never even set foot inside the building, I feign a little shrug which is supposed to convey my honest efforts to comply with the French bureaucracy.

What a difference these few words make! Suddenly the mask melts. She is sympathetic. She is on my side. I am no longer Madame Nobody—I am a poor, hapless individual battling the uncaring behemoth that is the United States administration. This is a problem she can relate to. We have a Common Enemy. ‘
Ah les Américains!
They are so difficult! We have so many problems with the consulate.
Ils sont toujours chiants! Toujours, toujours, toujours!
’

France has a love–hate relationship with the United States. Allies in war, rivals in peace, the friction stems from the fact both countries claim for themselves a world role. The US accuses France of being self-important and meddling. To the French, American dominance of the world stage is considered arrogant and perhaps dangerous. Like a squabbling couple, neither loses an opportunity to score points. The other
fonctionnaires
behind the counter join in
the assault and somewhere amid the verbal volley, my piece of paper is signed and stamped.

Sweetly, the civil servant says, ‘Next time you have to come here, Madame, just ask for me.’

Walking out of the
mairie
, the stamped document folded in my bag, I’m filled with a sense of accomplishment. My words had worked like a magic wand back there. The sullen civil servant metamorphosed into a cartoon character of caring co-operation; a seemingly insurmountable obstacle disintegrated abruptly. I feel like skipping all the way home. There’ll be plenty of other times when things don’t go my way, I know. But at least now I know the key to small victories like this is hitting on the
right
response. I need to step out of my old rubric and embrace a new one. To forget how I did things in Australia and learn a way of communicating that works in France. It occurs to me once I’ve achieved this, anything might be possible.

The Givenchy invitation had said 5.00pm. I arrive with two minutes to spare. The Carrousel du Louvre, a vast mall-like complex beneath the museum, includes some large, characterless auditoriums where many fashion shows are held. But although the ready-to-wear parade should be about to start, the area outside Salle Le Nôtre is almost empty. Where is everybody?

In fact, they’re all at the Chanel show (for which I couldn’t get a ticket). Fashion shows, I will discover, never start on time. A thirty-minute wait is obligatory. This often doubles during the frantic ready-to-wear seasons when ninety shows are crammed into nine days. The packed program barely allows for travel time—fleets of taxis hurtle across the city, carrying editors, buyers and clients from venue to venue. Journalists stand on street corners screaming stories down mobile phones to meet overseas deadlines; photographers tear back to their computers to scan and send their images. By the end of each day, the schedule is running hopelessly over time.

I’d thought carefully about what to wear to my first Paris fashion show. This was one time I really wanted to make an effort. It’s important to get it right. The very last thing I want is to attract attention by looking out of place. It is a delicate matter, one which requires a balance between dressing up
enough but not overdoing it, I figured. My outfit should convey the casual confidence of a regular show-goer who doesn’t feel obliged to try too hard. (Already my reasoning has run off the rails—at the shows
everyone
feels compelled to try hard.) In the end, I decided on camel-coloured trousers, a soft, turtleneck top the same colour and a long, burgundy jacket and brown boots. I stepped out our front door, pleased with myself.

But oh no, god no! My outfit is all wrong! As the fashion pack arrives en masse for the Givenchy show, flooding the cavernous space like an invading army, I want to run and hide. No-one warned me there was a uniform. Oh sure, there’s the odd flash of individuality—Isabella Blow’s mad hat with a climbing octopus tentacle that will obscure the view of all behind her; the signature hair-roll of Suzy Menkes, the fashion editor for the
International Herald Tribune
who, let’s face it, is so influential she can do whatever she likes with her hair. But one thing doesn’t change: the very people who for several seasons have been declaring brown the new
noir
and extolling the virtues of grey are a monochrome of immaculate black. In this perfect scene, uncluttered by colour, my subdued tones scream like a garish stain. The fashion pack is a private club with its own unspoken rules. It’s clear to everyone I am an intruder.

Of course, this shouldn’t matter, it doesn’t matter. How silly and shallow to worry about my appearance! We’re here to look at the clothes on the runway, not each other! But it’s no good: the cheery voice in my head can’t convince me. There is something intimidating about this ultra-sophisticated crowd, many of whom seem to have spent last month’s pay cheque on buying their show wardrobes. (If only I had done the same!) Of course, the ruthlessly polished exterior is deceptive. Several
show seasons from now I’ll know that the international fashion crowd is a walking cauldron of insecurities so palpable you can almost seize them in your hands. This accounts for the frail, emaciated figures; the absurd personal rivalries which mean that such-and-such an editor can never, ever be seated next to so-and-so (imagine the fireworks); how one day a familiar face may say ‘hi, how are you going’ and then later in the week stare coolly straight through you.

Flushed with self-consciousness, I join the knot of people surging to get through the auditorium door. My gaffe will be less conspicuous when the corrupt colours are folded into a chair. Finally, it’s my turn to wave my precious ticket at the dark suits on the door. It’s a lovely invitation—textured, creamy cardboard with a dainty rope of gold along its spine. Inside,
Madame Sarah Turnbull
has been handwritten in silver by someone who knows how to write. Above my name is my seat place, ST. My initials. What a nice personal touch.

But to my amazement the doorman shoos me away.

‘Not yet, Madame. You must wait.’

I have already been waiting forty-five minutes. All these latecomers are being directed to their seats. Why not me? Shoving my ticket under his nose again, I try to barge past.

‘NON, Madame!’ He yanks me back by the jacket. Sensing my confusion (perhaps he’s just noticed I’m not in uniform?), his face registers pity. He points to the seat code on my invitation, the silvery ST. ‘
Standing
tickets go in last.’

I can feel my face collapsing. I don’t have a seat. ST means standing! No-one had even mentioned this possibility—certainly not the Givenchy press office which I had to fax five times. And for what? An invitation to stand? I could do that anywhere.

In a state of shock, I wait on the sidelines with one
hundred or so other fashion nobodies. The sitting crowd takes their time, greeting, gossiping, laughing, oblivious to the pen of people waiting for them to find their places. Only when they are all through the door and seated are we allowed in. It’s like opening the gate on impatient bulls—the standing crowd stampedes. Elbows are shoved in faces, heels spiked through toes in the fight for the best positions.

‘How glamorous! You lucky thing!’ This reaction from envious Sydney friends when I’d told them about covering the Paris shows suddenly seems grimly ironic. If only they could see me now. Rejected, trampled and now compressed into two square centimetres of standing space. I don’t even have enough room to pull out my notepad and pen. Luckily, these are no longer necessary—not from my vantage point, anyway. Unable to compete with the athletic energy of more experienced standers, I’ve ended up with my nose squashed in the back of an especially tall Dutch journalist.

The lights dim, the auditorium erupts in ear-splitting, stomping music and an aurora of swivelling laser beams. Somewhere far in front of me the clothes I’m supposed to be writing about step onto a runway. Although it’s incredibly hot and stuffy, I’m too tightly wedged in to even wriggle out of my jacket. The show drags on for twenty-five uncomfortable minutes; I don’t see a scrap of silk, not a sleeve of one of Alexander McQueen’s supposedly sharply tailored jackets. Perhaps I’ve just missed a moment in fashion history, who knows. There’s a lot of clapping and then the lights come back on. I turn on the heels of my sturdy brown boots and flee.

Paris might be synonymous with fashion but I’d never expected to end up writing about the shows. It’s not that I was
oblivious to them—living in Paris you can’t be. Everyone from taxi drivers to your newsagent will knowledgeably discuss the collections based on what they’ve seen on television or photos in the press. And you can hardly fail to notice it’s show time, not with all these models mincing around the streets and the frail-but-fierce magazine editors who drink the city dry of bottled water and steal your taxis. But while it was one thing writing the odd fashion related story such as the piece on French style, judging clothes on a catwalk was so far out of my realm of experience I’d never even considered it. To be honest, I wasn’t that fascinated by fashion. I guess I thought it was fluff.

Then one morning a few weeks ago a newspaper editor called from Sydney. He was ‘desperate’—he needed a journalist to write a summary of the upcoming Paris ready-to-wear week for his news features section. And in the circumstances it seemed like a great opportunity. After all, the commission had just landed in my lap, without any effort on my part. It would be stupid to refuse. If nothing else I figured the shows would be an education. I started to get excited. This might even be fun.

In fact my first fashion week is an exercise in humiliation right from the first faxed request for an invitation. The short notice from the newspaper editor didn’t allow time to get accreditation from the organisation that runs the Paris show weeks which goes by the unwieldy name of Chambre Syndicale du Prêt-à-Porter des Couturiers et des Créateurs de Mode. Such is the demand for invitations these days that journalists are reduced to begging PR people for the privilege of giving fashion houses what amounts to free publicity.

Of course, if the designer is little-known or not currently ‘hot’ then tickets are practically thrown at you. It also
depends on who you are and what publication you work for. The powerful
Vogue
magazines get enough invitations to send private armies. If you’re an influential name in the industry, the fashion houses will not only send a ticket but also a $200 bouquet from the smartest florist in town. It helps if your magazine or newspaper is published in a country where the label has lots of clients. But I don’t meet any of these criteria.
Non, non, non
.