He bites his lip shyly waving goodbye to André Léon Talley’s back, as the car jerks away from the Lutécia and down the boulevard, past the sidewalk where only two nights ago he was handing out cigarettes to a group of legendary, previously rival actresses whose names he would forget to Wikipedia later, two loud, wet starlets born from the same artist mother and different artist fathers, Olivier Zahm, Lindsay Lohan, a few people he might have recognised as Kanye West, Alexis Dziena being very polite to a drunk photographer, and Catherine Deneuve wearing sunglasses and chatting on the phone about her holidays or dogs. He remembers laughing when someone mumbled, How sick of Lisztomania can you get? Not sure what he was laughing about, but his reflection behind the bar was satisfying. He remembers overhearing Marc Jacobs referring to him as, possibly, a horny teenager from Mumbai. Now his time is up. As the Stade de France slowly disappears from view, he smiles to himself and holds back a tear, clutching his Bottega Veneta Crocodile handbag, € 10,419.-, filled with Astier de Villatte Crème Suisse for his mother and dirty American Apparel day-glo underpants.
