à Paris !
'Excusez-moi ' Danny murmured as he beat on, ceaselessly borne back against the incessant current of commuters flooding onto the street from the nearest metro exit. It was 8:57, he had three minutes. Picking up the pace, Danny obliviously collided with an elderly, unassuming but now angry french woman. 'Je suis très désolé!' He shouted behind him, gripping tighter onto the shoulder of his battered shoulder bag. Thank God, it was in sight. The flurry of Parisians cleared and the large bay windows and proud grandure of it all was now exposed to his ambitious, young eyes.
31 Rue Cambon. Chanel.
The striking black forms leapt out from their white background, boasting their class and elegance to the society that so readily and proudly cultivated them.
I've made it. He had worked as a junior photographer for Chanel for five years. Half a decade and he had never even been inside the couture house before. Abby usually kept her team out of sight and out of mind in some back offices allocated to them. She rarely visited herself, just sent her P.A. It was 17th Arrondissement for Christ sake, she couldn't possibly be seen there. Rolling his eyes and grinning stupidly Danny rushed up the steps before inhaling deeply and smoothing over his shirt and suit trousers. He'd won a fight with Louise that morning about his attire, normally opting for a bomber jacket and jeans, his wife had insisted upon a designer suit to greet the creative director, of Chanel. (Yes, that was still actually happening). She was like his supreme boss and idol a thousand times distanced. Like a bright, burning star he could always observe through his amateur telescope, but never ever correlate with. Until today. After, bashfully smiling at the memory of his argument and good luck kiss earlier, he looked down at the aforementioned outfit, smirked and went inside.
'Jesus Abby, you simply have to stop doing this.'
'No. I don't; I think you'll find that we have a whole 5 minutes, which is plenty of time...' She sensuously whispered into her girlfriend's ear. Of course no-one knew this was her lover, but no-one had to. It was all part of the fun. Pinning her against the wall, she seized the blouse off of the woman's shoulder, hungrily planting lustful kisses and nibbles around her collar bone and top of her breasts, indefinite promises that they would resume their somewhat... informal meeting at a later date.
'Don't you dare rip that, or leave marks. We're so screwed.'
Abby momentarily silenced her with fiery kisses to her lips before they fashioned together and both the kiss and instinctive want in them ardently increased in depth. The recipient let out a long and convulsive moan. To hell with it if anyone heard. Abby devilishly tiptoed her fingers under the silk blouse and traced her fore finger down the valley between the woman's breasts, tantalising slowly when descending across her abdomen before she dipped into her trousers, skilfully beneath her lingerie. A momentary contact in the heat and suspense of the moment nearly sent her lover over the edge, she restrained and opted for a pleading sigh instead.
'Nope, time's up I'm afraid.' Abby smirked, playfully tapping the woman on the nose as she spun around, made an abrupt exit and waltzed off to the bathroom.
He was perched on a soft, beige chair that he didn't feel worthy enough to sit on. It faced Coco's centrepiece, a marble staircase. Hands woven, stomach knotted. He looked around the hall. It was possible to hear the chaos of the Parisian street outside, perhaps the first time I've relished in it's comfort he mused.
'I'm sure Miss Gerhard will be here to join you in a moment.' The vendeuse smiled warmly, an empathetic tone in her voice before gracefully passing across the marble floor back through a big oaken door. There was black, everywhere. And white. Beige too. The opposites engaged in a warm and timeless harmony, le noir always framing; weighting things, even light, with an air of dignity and prowess. Whilst le blanche danced over and through, highlighting, brightening, an ascension into a joyous celebration of equality and classique. Enfin, le beige. A warm humility. A soft neutrality. Reminding us that we all have our place in this fluid composition.
'Danny. Have you been waiting long? How was New York? Abby Gerhard bluntly interrupted his daydream. It would be so great to take photos right here.
'Hmm? Oh right, morning Miss Gerhard. No not at all. It was good, actually. I uhh..sincerely hope that you'll be satisfied with some of my shots, the locations I found will make a great backdrop for some of our campaigns, also...'
'I have every confidence in you. She guided him up the stairs and round to the left. They now faced a crisp, white corridor. It would have been almost clinical in it's meticulous appearance if it wasn't for the large frames hanging alternatively between each door. Danny stared back at each one as they walked briskly past. A side profile of their young founder, one of her with Karl Lagerfeld, a few others, after momentous moments in the company's history; dispersed by baroque artwork, a clear inspiration for the looks they produced.
It's true, Abby was as dismissive and forthright with him as usual but today she was different. There was a look of laughter in her eyes that he hadn't noticed when he rarely saw her... fulfilment and contentment one could say. After slowing, her air of efficient professionalism subsided, her sleek brown hair sliding back over the sharp angles of her dark blazer jacket, Chanel of course. Reserved for important meetings. She opened the door to the studio room and they were greeted by enthusiastic faces, it was hot outside. Danny's eyes travelled around the room. The outer wall had largely been replaced with glass, revealing a stunning view of the city he adored behind it. The sunlight burnished the roofs and corners of each building, reviving their mundanity with a fleeting highlight or two. It's torture to have a meeting in here. He thought solemnly, taking the spare middle seat on the left hand side, reserved by his name. Abby walked around the rectangle and assumed her place next to the right hand of the director's chair, currently empty.
The conference room had a table running down the centre, the rows of chairs on either side at a teasing parallel against the window, reminding the employees that while the sun was shining outside, they had to work tirelessly indoors. The Spring-Summer collection was well underway, it was due to be released in a couple of weeks, but already new talk and new imagination had been plastered onto the Winter-Fall release.
Danny demurely looked around the table, the others were occupied in quiet chit-chat, heavy with the anticipation of what their boss had to offer on each of their ideas. He stole glances at name plaques, ok, so there's a PR manager here, junior and senior head seamstresses, accountant, fashion consultant, atelier manager, Abby for photography, and me. Her what? Assistant?...
And with that everyone stood up, as a perhaps disarranged looking (for her hair was tousled, her scarf was bundled around her neck and her cream silk blouse was not as pristine as it might have been a few moments earlier), Ms Carol Aird, practising creative director of the couture house Chanel sauntered into the room.