Until it wasn’t thrilling. The photo line, the fake smiles, the tedious chitchat. Beautiful people screaming over the throbbing music, looking over my shoulder during conversations because nobody really wanted to talk to “daughter of,” or any teenager, for that matter. If you couldn’t gossip about your worthless agent, an asshole director, or your celebrity therapist, the other guests weren’t that interested in you. I had no interest in a life on the runway or the screen, despite my mother’s encouragement. I mostly stood in the corner, forced to make conversation with other “children of.” I spent a lot of time in ladies’ rooms.
My father says that my mother tolerates her time in sleepy Pasadena until her need to see and be seen builds up to a frenetic crescendo with hair and makeup. That’s when she would coerce us into openings, galas, and fashion shows to blow off steam. But I didn’t feel like indulging her at the moment. Plus, I had plans. And cute Paul, my crush from Swarthmore, was involved. “I’m going to Oktoberfest.”
My mother looked confused. “What is that? A bar?”
“No, Oktoberfest Oktoberfest. In Munich. Germany? You know, with the beer and the hats and dirndl skirts. Our fall break starts tomorrow. A bunch of us are going. We made plans weeks ago. Remember Polly from high school? Well, she’s on this program, too, and we’re staying with her friend from Wellesley who’s in Munich for the year. We’re taking the overnight train tomorrow after our last class.”
“Can’t you go another time?”
“It’s called Oktoberfest for a reason.”
“You don’t have to be so snippy.”
My mother always went to the “snippy defense” when I pushed back on anything, from adding long layers to my hair to going to her choice, NYU, versus my choice, Smith College. I looked at my father for backup. “Dad?”
“Nobody parties like the Germans.” Clearly, my father did not want to get involved. But I could have used some backup.
“The whole thing will be American college students drinking beer,” my mother spit out as if she were describing the least desirable trip she could imagine. “I thought we could do Fashion Week as a family. When will this happen again, that we’re all here in Paris the same week?”
I didn’t even know where to start with this statement, so I started at the beginning. “Is Fashion Week really something you need to do as a family?” My father laughed; my mother did not. I was trying hard not to apologize, because it wasn’t my fault that my parents failed to send a single email or leave a message at the office for me about their plans. I no longer lived on their schedule. “It’s really more your thing than mine.”
“I don’t know why you say that. You could walk in any show you wanted. Look at you. That Kate Moss is only five foot seven.” My mother really struggled with Kate Moss’s success, like it was a personal slap in the face to all the models who’d come before her and had not trashed hotel rooms. But Kate Moss aside, I could tell she was losing steam. Her picture-perfect vision of the two blond Blakely women in vintage Halstons flanking the great artist Henry Blakely on the red carpet was dissipating with every second.
“Remember that charity fashion show I was in when I was ten. And I threw up as I left the stage. That was enough for me, Mom.” I put my arm around her. “I think I’d look better in a dirndl skirt than Halston.”
“That’s not true.” She would get over it the second she stepped in front of the cameras on the red carpet, but not a minute sooner. “I can’t believe we came all the way here and you’re leaving.” I stared silently, having learned over the years that my mother eventually draws the right conclusion, but it takes her a while to get there. “Let’s at least get out of here and find a café. Then we can wander through some shops this afternoon. We’re trying to stay awake today so we can sleep tonight.”
“I have class.”
“Of course you do,” said my mother, the college dropout, perpetually dismayed by my sense of responsibility.
“It’s a site visit to Sainte-Chapelle to see the stained glass windows. You’d love my art history professor. He’s a funny, smart Brit who has zero interests in tests and papers and just loves to show us Paris. Why don’t you come with us?” My olive branch, having purposely avoided talking about my parents to any of my Paris classmates. I didn’t add that Professor Goodspeed, or, as we called him, Jamie, would probably drop dead when I arrived at the meeting spot with Henry Blakely. “Please.”
“My favorite windows in the city.” My father was ready to move on. “Let’s make the most of the time we have together this trip. And next time, some advance conversations might be advised before we plan a Parisian family vacation.”
“Big idea, Dad.”
“The two of you,” my mother said, as she pressed my shoulder back to straighten my posture, a familiar gesture.
Looking back, going to Oktoberfest was one of my biggest regrets. We should have done Fashion Week as a family. Instead, I took a packed train to Munich, drank way too much beer, a beverage I didn’t even really like, and had to watch cute Paul make out with a guy in lederhosen from UVA. All in all, a bust.
Don’t let this trip be a bust, I thought. Make it be the start of something.
As the car made its way through the maze of le Marais, my attention returned to the present. The offices of Margot & Fils were tucked into a seventeenth-century building on the rue de Trésor in le Marais, the area of the city that can transport you back to medieval Paris, if you squint and block out the sounds of car horns and cell phone pings. Beautiful buildings and houses, cobblestone streets, and a labyrinth of alleyways and hidden courtyards. Pre-Revolution, the Marais was home to some of the city’s wealthiest inhabitants; post-Revolution, it was abandoned until the poor Bohemians moved in, including Victor Hugo. In recent decades the gay community had moved into this longtime Jewish quarter of Paris and kept up appearances, maintaining the painted windows and antique adornments.
I loved le Marais, the narrow streets jammed with fashionable pedestrians and motorbikes, the cafés with cheerful red awnings bustling with noise and diners, bright flower boxes and micro balconies of wrought iron defining the densely packed apartments on the floors above the shops. Even in the April drizzle, the neighborhood hummed with activity. As a student, I had spent many afternoons getting lost in the tangle of streets, always finding my way back to the Hotel de Ville metro. But now everything looked new and unfamiliar to me. I felt lost. I hoped it would all come back, like my rusty French.
Margot & Fils was equidistant between the Centre Pompidou and the Place Des Vosges, in an area dense with design shops and restaurants. My plan was to meet with our agent, Beatrice Landreau, see the sketches secured, and then have the car take me to my hotel on ?le Saint-Louis. I’d tried to communicate this to my driver, with limited success. I did manage to direct him to the gallery, but as he double-parked, I noticed the shop looked closed. The dark interior was a concern. “Attendez, s’il vous pla?t.” I hopped out of the car with my rolling bag, hopeful that my contact was simply working in the back.
I rang the bell several times and peered in the window. I could make out a few grand vases, some simple tapestries, and a case of polished silver against the back wall, but not a soul inside. I rapped on the door, louder this time, and called out, “Hello?” Nothing. I motioned to the driver to hold on a minute or two while I checked my phone and texts on the sidewalk. Nothing from the office, but it was the middle of the night in California, so I went into my email and spotted a message from a B. Landreau with the subject line “Family Emergency.”
To: Joan Blakely
From: Beatrice Landreau
Hello, Joan,
I am so sorry. I have a family emergency outside of the city and cannot meet you today. I am unavailable on Friday and have informed the buyer. But we will see you Monday. Je regrette.
Beatrice
Unbelievable. Granted, I wasn’t walking around with a Pissarro in my pocket, but the casualness of her email seemed unprofessional. Oops, sorry, family emergency. While not priceless, the Panthéon Sketches had some value, and I was much more comfortable with the idea of the portfolio locked in a gallery with a top-notch security system than riding around town with a sketchy livery driver. I stared down at my roller bag, as if some solution might materialize. But the only solution was simple: head to the hotel and hide it.