Then one day, after about two years of that, Camilla sent me an advert for a journalism job in Paris with the note: ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ It asked for one year of fulltime experience and a portfolio. I only had the latter, but I applied anyway. There was a call, a Skype interview, a Eurostar trip, an offer and now we’re in October and here I am.

They pay me a (meagre) salary and I can put ‘Journalist’ on forms beside: ‘Occupation’.

Yes, as of three weeks ago, Harper Brown (that’s me) officially works for The Paris Observer online magazine. It’s so official that my voicemail now says: ‘Hi, you’ve called Harper Brown at The Paris Observer. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.’ I’m their newest art and culture writer. That makes two of us now: me and glum Wesley.

I mean, no, I’m not writing hard-hitting pieces that end human trafficking or expose white collar crimes, but it’s a cool job in a cool area – Bastille – and I’m thrilled to have it. It’s a stepping stone to my dreams. Which is why it really matters that everything I submit to Hyacinth is impressive. So that, one day, when an opportunity in news comes up she’ll think of me. But how the hell am I supposed to put together something ‘impressive’ between Thursday night and Friday at 10 am?

Unless…

There’s a small fridge full of Evian and soft drinks in front of me, and I check my reflection in the glass: dark roots that fade into crème blonde at the ends and eyes that are either green or hazel depending on the weather. But right now, those eyes are sex-smudged with mascara. Shit. I use my fingers to try to wipe them clean.

Because I was planning on going home right now, but we all know what John Lennon said about life and plans…

Chapitre deux

I’m on Rue Bonaparte, eight steps away from the gallery, Le Voltage. It has a black wooden façade, and stuck on the inside glass is a red and cream poster. It’s styled in Seventies font and reads, ‘Noah X Exhibition, jeudi, le 14 octobre.’

X.

Wow.

Could he get any more pretentious?

I bet he’s one of these types who refuses to wear shoes or has half his body shaved for no decipherable reason. I move towards the window, squint through the glass and try to make out the canvases on the walls. Because I’ve had enough lonely conversations with frustrated gallerists to know how exhibitions run by now: work needs to be hung, lighting adjusted, ahead of time. Whatever I’m supposed to write about tomorrow night will already be on the walls. And if I can just catch a glimpse of it, a sneak preview, get a feel for Noah-bloody-X, I can start the article tomorrow morning. That will give me a strong head start.

But shit, shit, shit – they’re all white. Please don’t have gone all Malevich White on White, that’ll be impossible to write about…