“I was hoping we might get upgraded, but I never imagined this,” Bess said.
At that moment, the little concierge appeared again, perching at the door and clearing his throat loudly. “Mesdames, what can we get for you?”
“A full breakfast for three, please,” Bess ordered before Cat could get in a “Rien, merci.” “Coffee, juice, pastries, fruit, everything you can put together, and some champagne as well. Thank you.”
He nodded. “Someone will be back with that right away, mesdames. Enjoy your stay.” And with that, he backed out of the space and disappeared.
“Bess, we just had breakfast on the plane,” Cat chided.
Bess rolled her eyes. “I’m on jet-lag hours. I can’t control it. Besides, it’s exhausting being us, and Margot’s paying for everything. Let’s order lobster and steak and caviar later when we’re drunk.” She jumped out of the tub, yelling, “Molly! Where’d you go?”
Cat wandered through the suite, marveling at the chef’s kitchen, the dressing room, the beautifully appointed living room, and the foyer. She found doors leading onto the enormous private terrace, a wraparound 360-degree platform from which she could see all of Paris. It was so opulent and sumptuous that Cat half expected to see Caesar wander out of the kitchen and vomit into a velvet bag. She gazed down at the Tuileries, the gardens that were the centerpiece of Paris Fashion Week, and took in the crowds of fashionable people milling along its wide paths and circular ponds. Even the tourists looked good from up here.
Paris was home to the ten official members of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture, most of whom would be presenting their prêt-à-porter lines in the various palaces surrounding the Tuileries, so-called ready-to-wear collections that would be snapped up by buyers for stores like Barneys, Bergdorf’s, Ikram, and Harrods. RAGE would cover as many of them as they could. Cat, in addition to making front-row appearances at the shows and presentations, would try to negotiate exclusive image rights to some of the dresses for upcoming shoots, while Paula met with their European audit team for the annual assessment of various local labor practices. Their first required appearance was tonight, at a dinner catered in the Tuileries on behalf of Cy Bianco, an American jeweler who had relocated to Paris in 1994. Tomorrow they would attend a luncheon for LVMH, which was an unofficial presentation for an up-and-coming designer from Algeria, and then prep the shoot; Thursday morning they’d be up bright and early to shoot Bridle. Then: Fashion Week. It was overwhelming.
Bess wandered out onto the terrace. Molly followed and immediately positioned the women against the edge of the terrace for a Photogram of Cat and Bess with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Bess grinned and jumped up in the air for the shot; Cat pulled down her sunglasses and glared. Bess captioned it, #goodgirlbess & #badgirlcat have landed…on your shoulder, PARIS! who wants to show us around?? before tagging the hotel and uploading it to the RAGE feeds. Within minutes there were thousands of replies in dozens of languages.
“Let’s go out,” Cat suggested. “I need a walk and some fresh air.”
“What about breakfast?” Bess asked.
“Let Molly eat it. We can grab something as we walk.”
“Sure,” Bess agreed, grabbing her handbag. “I’m game.”
They left Molly behind to unpack their bags; all the clothes for their upcoming events would need to be steamed and hung out before their first appearance that evening. Bess and Cat spent the next four hours, their only real free time on the entire trip, walking in a triangle to the east and back. They strolled through the Marais and the Bastille toward Place de la République; down cobblestone alleys and big crowded high streets, taking in the people and the clothing and the stores, the air and the noise and the smells, both good and bad. Their Photogram feeds kept lighting up with suggestions from fans the world over—stop here, stop there, you’re close to my favorite store in the world—and they happily followed as many of the tips as they could. A small crop of photographers kept pace, staying ahead of them and just behind as they entered shop after shop; but they didn’t mind—this way they never had to pay for anything at all.
Five minutes after they walked back through the door of the Eurydice Suite, their two local makeup artists for the week arrived. Bibi and Edith—two little brunettes with skin so clear and hair so stylishly filthy that Cat immediately trusted them—rolled in with huge suitcases of product chatting a mile a minute about how much they loved RAGE. Half of their sentences were in French or verlan, a kind of inverted Parisian slang, the other half in extremely broken English, and they descended on Cat and Bess with a fury.
Bibi rubbed Cat’s head like it was a bowling ball, smiling broadly and cracking her gum. Edith started pulling on the ends of Bess’s hair and poked her earlobes, then lit a cigarette without bothering to look around for an ashtray.
“I love it,” Bibi said to Cat in halting English, her accent thick as cheese. “Votre crane est un rêve.” (Your skull is a dream.)
“Merci, eh?” Cat replied automatically, her accent perfect. “Mes cheveux étaient le cauchemar.” (My hair was the nightmare.) Cat signaled Molly for an ashtray. Bibi and Edith squealed.
“Thank fucking Christ,” they replied in French simultaneously.
“Our English is so bad,” Edith said, with relief and absolutely no embarrassment. “We didn’t know if you spoke French. We were so worried.”
Bibi nodded her head and took a drag of Edith’s cigarette. “Let’s talk details. What are you thinking for tonight?”
“I don’t even care. Let me just hop in the shower,” Cat volunteered. “I need ten minutes. You can choose,” she said, pointing to the area where Molly had been diligently steaming and hanging potential outfits. Edith pursed her lips and sighed.
“Okay, we’ll figure something out.”
“Should I get in the other shower? Do you guys want me to wash my hair?” Bess asked Bibi and Edith, who screamed “NON!” in reply.
“This is Paris; clean hair is for ugly people,” Edith followed up in her broken English. “Just a…” She gestured, at a loss for the words, pointing to Bess’s armpits. “When you make a quick soaping? For the efficiency?” Suddenly, the answer dawned on her. “Whore! Whore’s bath! Yes? You understand?”
“Yes.” Bess laughed. “It’s my favorite kind. I’ll be right back.”
Edith gave her a thumbs-up, then lit a fresh cigarette off the old one and dropped the butt in the nearest vase. Bibi cracked her gum again.