A Festive French Christmas Party

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Jet black. Leather. Lace-up to the knee. Pointed toe. Stiletto heel. Silver buckle in the back. 530 Euros…All I want for Christmas Santa will find in the Dolce & Gabbana window on Rue de Rivoli. Unfortunately, there are ten days till Christmas, as illustrated on the advent calendar sent to me by Laura with the pictures of male models’ buttocks reminding me that I’m single and celibate this holiday season; these particular boots are vital for updating my recycled holiday dress that I’m hoping still fits– post pastry, baguette and cafe crème–for Laura’s chi chi company Christmas party tomorrow night, promising cute boys and spiked egg nog. I wipe the window with my glove where my breath has fogged my view of the most beautiful pair of boots I have ever seen. My heart is beating fast as I desperately fight my urge to go into the store. I know that once I open those glass doors it’s all over and my stipend for the month is finished and I will be forced to eat chili con carne out of a can. 530 euros. What do they mean to me? This month’s grocery money; tickets to see Love Actually for the second and third times; a plane trip to New York to see my best friend, Malia, who forced me to go camping with her family five years ago, when I fell off a log bridge into a swamp with my silver lamé train case containing six Chanel lip glosses and an essential collection of Kiehl’s skin- care products; a new cell phone that allows me to make phone calls and retrieve messages (mine does not, as it dates back to the late 80s); approximately 173 cafe crèmes. I lean my forehead against the window. It is time to say goodbye. I turn to go, but as I wait for the light to cross the street to the Concorde métro station, I am reminded of an Angela Lansbury film where she comes to Paris to buy a purple dress that she cannot afford. How romantic, I remember thinking, how French. Shoot–now I have the theme song from Murder She Wrote stuck in my head. But nevertheless, if Angela did it, so would I. I bought the boots without even trying them on. The decision was simple: they were the perfect boots for a fabulous party. The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn and out the door by 9:30, determined to get to the stores by 10 to avoid the Christmas crowd. Sephora: for red lipstick; Le Bon Marché: for sexy black stockings to go with my amazing new boots; and the Pharmacy: for Actifed in case of hang-over tomorrow morning. By late afternoon my errands were finished and it was time to prepare for the party. I was to meet Laura in front of the République métro stop at 6:30 p.m. She needed to stop by her office briefly on the way to the party, which was being held at a club a couple of blocks away. By 5:30 p.m. I was showered and dressed and it was time to put the finishing touch on my outfit. I sit on my bed as I slide my foot into the soft leather–perfect fit. I feel like Cinderella when she tries on the glass slippers for the first time–though, if Cinderella had had this pair of boots, she wouldn’t have left one on the steps of the Palace. Once the boots are on, I can’t help but admire myself in the full length mirror for a couple of moments; five minutes later, I’m going to be late. I grab my purse and cheerfully descend my seven flights of stairs, taking extra care to avoid any scuffing on the boots against the ancient wooden spiral steps. On the métro I notice people staring at my legs, admiring the Dolce & Gabbana, work of art. Yes, I am pleased with my purchase…I pat myself on the back and try to ignore the creeping hunger pains. I hadn’t eaten all day as I can no longer afford food—well, at least not for the next couple of weeks. I’ll be sure to fill up on caviar and foie gras at the party. When I arrive at the métro station, I am shocked that Laura is on time and waiting for me when I reach the exit. She wears her newspaper boy hat, blue jeans and an eggplant wool city coat from Zara. I feel extremely over-dressed and hope that Laura plans on changing when we get to her office. I regret my extravagant purchase. Laura and I walk about a block, shivering in the night air with a wind chill factor of about -4 degrees Celsius, to her monstrous office building. We proceed to the 9th floor where it appears that almost everyone has left for the party except for a short blonde girl in a pink cardigan with silver sequins on it, leaning over her desk whispering to somebody over the phone and a man wearing a blue arm cast in the copy room attempting to lay out his papers on the machine with his left hand. He drops his stack of papers as we pass a mass of cubicles towards the back of the floor, where Laura tells me her boss needs to see us in his office. I am confused my her use of the word “us.” Why does Laura’s boss need to see me? Does he need to approve me for entrance of the party or perhaps he needs help carrying down some Perrier or something? Laura knocks on the door, and gives me sort of a half-smile, though she avoids eye contact. She has been awfully quiet since I met her at the métro–she didn’t even comment on my new boots, which is totally unlike her. Even if she hated the boots or thought that the buckles in the back were a little too much, which I could understand, she would tell me that she hated them…strange. A very tall man in a black suit wearing a red tie patterned with reindeer opens the door. I have to strain my neck upward in order to look him in the eyes…which are brown. He’s about 40, brunette, and looks divorced. He shakes my hand and…
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