Suze was not at her best, just back from yet another failed « Casting Call ». And that scary incident of the Bus being blown up at the bus-stop right opposite her flat had done nothing to lighten her mood. Pierre had promised her that this was one of the better areas in Paris when they’d moved there from Versailles in 99. He’d listed the number of foreign embassies within walking distance of their new home. This was years before the political situation in the Middle East had blown up in the world’s face. Suze took out her « book » and looked at her portrait headshot which had been taken by the Italian photographer who’d shot Carla, Christine, Naomi and so many others to fame. This head shot had once been blown up and appeared in magazines and on billboards around the four corners of the fashion world. Seemed this was a thing of the past. Suze went to the bar and poured herself a generous shot of her favourite bourbon. She’d just settled down when she heard Pierre’s signature footstep in the corridor.
« Suzy, my sweety, it’s only 4. PM & you’re already on the hard stuff » were his words of greeting. He’d blown up at her before but nothing like the raging storm of that day. Just what she needed. He clearly had no idea what it was like to face such disappointment head on every day. He was really unsupportive, a typical French Phalocrat and she the token trophy wife to be shown at cocktail parties, company functions and artistic vernissages.
A beautiful American model living/working in Paris has a hard day.