Almost French (27 page)

Some interviews assume a life of their own, prompting you to ditch your list of prepared questions so as not to interrupt the flow. This is one of them. Lacroix has a magician’s power to conjure up characters and images, a magnetic ability to draw you into his world. Arles, his birthplace in Provence has long been his source of inspiration. His memories of his childhood are vivid and incredibly detailed: the mint perfume his mother dabbed on before going out, her handbag with the big clasp that made a snapping sound when she shut it. Elderly aunts in traditional black lace; glittering matador costumes at bullfights; gypsy women with babies at their breasts; Sunday mass with the flowing gold robes, dramatic music and lighting which Lacroix likens to a couture show. His father’s side had the austere demeanour of their Protestant forebears, his mother’s family were Catholic
and unreservedly Latin, always talking and crying.

‘It was an intriguing world of secrets and sensuality,’ he says. ‘Beneath the moral exterior my grandfathers had hidden mistresses.’

Christian Lacroix is the sort of cultivated Frenchman who can criticise his country and culture while remaining flagrantly French (although he calls his identity ‘Mediterranean’). He is irreverent about his country’s reputation for style, claiming that these days the French dress badly. According to Lacroix,
l’élégance française
has been lost.

‘In the past the French had innate taste, refined and personal. Now style is much more
petit bourgeois
, with the petty rules and silly rivalries of this class.’

His views come as a shock. The French are famous for their heritage of elegance, after all. Sure, they have great taste, great style. But what Lacroix is lamenting is the loss of originality. Several months later in another interview, the French–American actor Leslie Caron echoes his words. This time the subject is décor not fashion: we’re talking about the Burgundy inn she has restored. ‘The French have no taste at all,’ Caron tells me categorically. ‘They just inherit nice things.’

But if Lacroix no longer considers Paris the world’s style capital, for him it remains the centre of
savoir vivre
.

‘Go to Fouquet with all the fine food and beautiful products. There are wonderful little artisan
parfumeurs
, beautiful fabric shops, specialist florists. It’s all very refined—especially when you look at what’s happening in America with those malls.’

The story of the house of Lacroix, which now belongs to the Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton empire, is one of constant struggle. Listening to the designer you can’t help thinking how tough it must be, dreaming up new looks and finding
fresh inspiration for four different collections each year. Lacroix’s first couture show in 1987 sparked rave reviews—the voluptuous ball gowns perfectly captured the spirit of excess during the 1980s. But the designer knew it wouldn’t last—and it didn’t. In the early nineties, fashion moved on to minimalism, labels like Prada and Calvin Klein became hot, and those big dresses became irrelevant and dated.

Lacroix is philosophical about the fickle nature of the business.

‘Don’t expect eternal happiness,’ he says, quoting the French poet André Gide. ‘I wasn’t brought up to think every day would be beautiful. I was taught to just stay open every day to whatever may happen and eventually the positive will come back to you.’

But the pressure is on now to sell, sell, sell. Lacroix knows he needs a change of image. He says he wants to design dresses to hang in wardrobes, not costume museums. He’s trying to put those historical, albeit poetic, images of the eighties behind him. To seek inspiration from somewhere other than Arles.

But at heart he is a creative, not a commercial man. His greatest love is haute couture, which is so labour intensive that fashion houses rarely sell enough dresses to break even. Instead, these extravagant shows are supposed to be a showcase for wild creativity and craftsmanship. The theory is they help build seductive brand images, inspiring consumers to splurge on the more affordable items like sunglasses and perfumes.

To Lacroix, haute couture is part of the tradition of
savoir faire
which is unique to Paris. ‘There aren’t very many areas left where France really shines. There’s micro-technology. Perhaps cuisine.’ He looks doubtful. ‘But Paris remains the
world specialist in haute couture. No other city does it.’

‘But what’s the point of it?’

He nods, ready for this.

‘After every collection I receive literally hundreds of letters from women saying how they were touched by its beauty. And that never happens after a ready-to-wear show, even though they’re the clothes that sell. I’m not a dreamer, I like things that are real.’ He touches the table for emphasis. ‘But I do think inspiring people is important.’

That’s what the audience reaction at his show was all about, of course. People felt inspired. By the exquisite handiwork, because perhaps no other designer in the world relishes detailed workmanship as much as Lacroix. By his jubilant aesthetic. By his desire simply to make women look beautiful. Let’s face it, when a rich girl wants to look like a princess she turns to Christian Lacroix. (Catherine Zeta-Jones married Michael Douglas in an ivory satin gown shimmering with tiny glass beads designed by Lacroix.) To the French, he is an artist, not a maker of clothes. You don’t have to want every painting to appreciate the talent.

It says a lot about the designer’s ability to cast a spell that by the end of the interview I am planning a trip to Arles (it’s not the same anymore, he warns). I need to be more daring with colour, it occurs to me now. Suddenly all that ubiquitous minimalism seems pallid, unimaginative. I can almost picture myself tripping about in one of those trailing gowns. At his next show, I’ll toss my carnation into the air. And one year from now I’ll make my first, modest Lacroix purchase from the Bazaar boutique—his most casual, affordable line of clothing. It’s a snug twin set in a singing weave of lime and purple.

When my story is published, I send a copy to the designer as promised. Several weeks later, on a wet Saturday morning,
Frédéric and I are hunting for lost umbrellas when there’s a knock at the door. Standing on our grungy landing is a courier, whose entire upper body is concealed by the most spectacular roses I have ever seen. There are thirty of them, maybe more, in delicious, sorbet shades of vanilla, lemon, violet and silky pink. The fragrance is incredible.

‘
Madame Turnbull?
’

‘
Oui?
’ I can’t keep the question mark out of my voice. It’s not my birthday. I haven’t been sick. And judging by Frédéric’s equally surprised expression, this is not a romantic gesture. The courier asks me to sign for receipt of the flowers. And perhaps because I just stand there dumbly as he trips back down the stairs, he says, ‘There’s a note.’

A slim white envelope is tucked among the buds and blooms. Inside, written in lovely, inky script, is a message from Christian Lacroix thanking me for my story. The flowers come from Au Nom de la Rose, one of those speciality shops he’d talked about. And although seasoned fashion writers would be blasé about this gesture, so many gifts do they receive, I am touched, delighted. Sure, it’s clever PR. But it is also the measure of a gracious man. The truth is I feel privileged—not just to get the flowers but to have been allowed to glimpse this unique world. To have met one of its contemporary masters. If I’d thought fashion was just fluff, now I’m awed by the mastery of technique which underpins haute couture. Its importance goes far beyond providing Oscar night outfits to Hollywood stars. Rather haute couture is about history and tradition, passion and beauty, art and inspiration—everything that makes France a measure of civilised life.

For the next ten days our apartment smells like a rose garden.

A few years ago, after a trip to England, Alicia returned to Paris with a tiny Yorkshire terrier. Lou-Lou is highly strung, smart and—as I discover when dog-sitting while Alicia and Rupert are on holidays—great company. Ever since her arrival I’ve been mulling over the idea of getting a dog myself.

While some people thrive on the solitude of working at home, I’d just say I’ve adapted to it. Although I love my job, although I have plenty to do, an empty apartment can make for a lonely work environment. In many ways it’s pointless complaining about it because I need the seclusion to write. But sometimes I’d kill for a bit of company in my office. Another presence.

Inspired by Lou-Lou, after a great deal of thought eventually I decide a dog is the perfect solution to my dilemma. She—because I’ve made up my mind it must be a girl—would fill my office with a playful presence. Her need for regular walks will force me to take fresh-air breaks from the apartment. And this being Paris, there’ll be few constraints; I’ll be able to take her with me everywhere.

‘A dog will change your life,’ Alicia enthuses (and only later will I notice the omission: she didn’t say how).

Frédéric is markedly less excited. For a long time, he tries
hard to dissuade me. Yes, he understands that a dog would be good company. But what about the disadvantages?

‘Who’s going to take her down six flights of stairs at midnight for her final pee?’

‘I will.’ (We both know this is a lie. This sorry task will be shared.)

‘And what about when we go on holidays, what then?’

‘She can come too.’

‘To Australia?’ He has me there. Six months’ quarantine is a lot to endure for a four-week holiday.

‘Alicia will take her.’ (She’d already offered.) But Frédéric hasn’t exhausted his objections. ‘What about when we go off on the motorbike for weekends?’

In fact, this is his main worry. Frédéric had recently sold his ageing Honda and replaced it with a thundering Kawasaki 1100. The acquisition happened in the serendipitous manner that Frédéric does a lot of things. Stopped at the traffic lights on his old bike, he found himself next to a gleaming navy and chrome machine making a lovely throaty growl.

‘That’s exactly the model I’m looking to buy,’ he told its driver. Was he interested in selling, by any chance? In fact, the fellow was and one week later Frédéric rode the bike home, nervously trying to control its 250-kilo frame and surging power. Thrilled with his purchase, he had grand plans of weekends away, speeding through the gentle hills of Normandy or Burgundy. As far as he could see, a dog would only tie us down.

Secretly, he hoped it would be another of my shooting stars—a bright streak of enthusiasm which rapidly burns itself out. He’d witnessed this phenomenon before. My art classes, for example, which I attended for about two months
before facing up to my lack of talent. Fencing lessons fizzled in an even shorter space of time. But this idea is different.

Instead of losing interest, I become obsessive, studying dogs in the street like some broody would-be-mum. Every day, I stop outside the florist at the bottom of Rue Montorgueil to pat the Great Pyrenees with blood-shot eyes who occasionally gives the pretty pails of bouquets for sale a proprietorial squirt. The Louis Philippe café overlooking the Seine becomes my favourite restaurant—not because of the food but because of the owner’s statuesque Great Dane, who frequently rests his wet jowls on diners’ tables. We make the mistake of taking visiting friends there, an American fellow and his Finnish wife. They are scandalised. In most civilised countries such a creature wouldn’t get one paw inside a restaurant without the health inspectors arriving, they cry, amazed that we are not scandalised ourselves. I find myself bristling, wishing their horror wasn’t so apparent. Privately, I embrace the laid-back Latin approach to hygiene which doesn’t equate canines with uncleanness. And although in other circumstances I would never admit it, I admire the owner’s audacity: if you don’t like his dog snoring beneath your table go eat elsewhere. This nonchalant take-it-or-leave-it attitude is infuriating at times. But there is, at least, something upfront and honest about the French lack of compulsion to please clients.

As the weeks pass, my obsession gathers momentum. Dog accessories take over entire shelves of our kitchen cupboards. A few months ago, on a trip to Australia, I bought a sheepskin bed mat, and when Sue comes to Paris for work she gives me a ceramic dog’s bowl with ‘All Gone’ printed across the bottom. I’ve even decided on a name. Maddie is christened months before she tumbles into the world—before, in fact,
Maddie’s mum has even clapped eyes on Maddie’s dad. Frédéric finally has to admit the battle is lost.

And so we reach a compromise, something to bridge my bubbling enthusiasm and his doubts and fears. In a catalogue, we’d seen canine carry bags for motorbikes which fit over the petrol tank. ‘We’ll get a little dog, one small enough to go on the motorbike,’ I reassure him.

The option of getting a dog from the pound or the French equivalent of the RSPCA barely enters my mind. In Paris, you practically only see pedigrees. The idea of walking down Rue du Faubourg St-Honoré with a mongrel mutt is too absurd to contemplate. In a city that is so hung up on appearances, it’s perhaps not surprising that there are fashion trends when it comes to pedigrees. Breeds go in and out with hemlines and handbags. On weekends, Rue Montorgueil resembles a showground.