Paris 1993

By Jeremy Candy

A young man meets an older woman in Paris and love blossoms. This semi autobiographical novel shows the madness of Paris in the nineties through the eyes of an English male model, who falls for a glamorous New York socialite as they both end up in the capital of romance. Things are never that easy though and life drags them cruelly back to reality. A story of love, enchantment and sophistication.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781326981938

Book preview

Paris 1993

Paris 1993

Not maybe the most iconic year in Paris’s long history, but for her and I it was of legend.

Lauren Soivier-Day, what a name and she sure did live up to it. Her husband was a billionaire – even back then – heir to a hotel chain fortune, he had up scaled it in both the US and Europe because that was where the market was going in the eighties. Now the nineties he was less sure and had relocated his wife to Paris to keep an eye on the large investment there that was not making the return expected following the recession or was it still? – I forget.

Mr Yves Soivier-Day was a very direct businessman like his grandfather who had bought into the hotel trade in the US and later, after WW2, in Europe. He had built the start of an empire that his son nearly destroyed, but his grandson took on with aplomb – chip off the old block just a generation skipped. Like his grandfather and unlike his father - Yves sensed the market change a good six months before it did and was never scared to shift his position.

Mr and Mrs Soivier-Day had been the toast of New York, they had close contacts with the French Embassy which gave the best invites in the whole of New York high society. Country clubs, the Hamptons, three children – not exactly breaking records in the academic world – but off to colleges with much money that did not exactly prove unhelpful to their applications. It was an opportune moment for Mr and Mrs to relocate to Paris with the kids all off to college. Behind closed doors there were worries, of course, although they had many contacts in Paris it wasn’t like New York where they knew everybody, also the kids, for Lauren especially she thought it a bit early to leave them all alone. Though they would hardly be slinging coffee in late night diners trying to pay their college fees or dancing tables. No they were fine – but not easy for a family to be apart such a distance. I suspect when they left NYC the very last thing on her mind would have been what would then be reality a year and a half later. Private planes and a large yacht on the Mediterranean at Cannes were a sweetener from her husband in return for the move, but she was not that interested and in the end he would use them far more than she ever did. Strange though she had never been that materialistic. She had not married for money, she had had enough when growing up. Her father had been in clothing and they had always been well off New Yorkers. Never in the high echelons but part of her family’s charm was that unlike most others they did not really care too much about their society status. Her father worked hard and loved his family dearly and for that they were well respected. How had she come to jump so much higher up the social scale? Well in all honesty because she was blissfully unaware of it. The sixties were a rebellious time and that was more at the forefront than social climbing for those in their twenties and she was in her early 20s when that decade began. She had been, and still was extraordinarily beautiful, like a black and white film goddess. A serene face with a naïve quality to it, even now, almost Audrey Hepburn, but slightly stronger and a wonderfully natural nature to her. There was no question why Mr Yves Soivier-Day had chosen her over other society girls who may have proved a better financial merger than with her. His early interest was not particularly well received either, by a very innocent and down to earth girl who had no plans for a place in high society. This fuelled his heart even more and he went into over drive. A few months later she had been taken to almost every party or event in the whole of the North East of the country and when faced with a man she didn’t really know with a sparkler of a diamond the size of a large nut, she did what she expected everyone wanted her to do and accepted. The wedding was huge and intimidating, but she got through it with her beautiful simplistic style. The happy couple were the new A-list for dinner parties etc. She rolled with it with an aloofness that made her all the more endearing, for those that appear to have it all and are not that bothered about it take on an even higher position than they already have.

She was however, after all, a down to earth girl and she knew that her acceptance of marriage was not to be considered a mere trifle. She fell deeply in love with her husband and even though she respected his qualities as a business man, was far more taken by his idiosyncrasies which she relished. His nose would sometimes curl when he was cross – which she loved. He would fall asleep sometimes in mid sentence when really exhausted. She fell pregnant for the first time in the summer of 1968. After a difficult pregnancy she gave birth to a boy, Carl. The labour went on for 28 hours and she was exhausted and delirious at the end, but ecstatic when she saw her first baby. The next years she fell into the role of ‘mom’ with ease and was pregnant again soon after. The society parties welcomed her and the new heir to her husband’s fortune with open arms. The perfect couple had created a perfect son straight off the bat. Everyone wanted a piece as if their good fortune would rub off on them. As the new children arrived, a girl and another boy, she went into full maternal – which was slightly unusual for folk of her stature that usually left all that to nurse maids. Even so her vigour in raising her kids leant her even more respect and maybe a little embarrassment to those that had farmed their children out early to avoid clashes with their social calendar. Lauren never even questioned others about why they did not care to look after their own children. She was never curious in that way nor blamed others for their tastes or opinions.

They took the flight to Paris and were met by sycophants who wanted them to become what they had been in New York. Paris is good like that, well not exactly good, but they know when there are people of substance that can change their world and make a shed load of money and power for them, bit like all capital cities.

Lauren was happy. Her demeanour was typically optimistic and again she was not a social climber, which meant that the Parisian aristocracy felt unimpeded, until they realised that her open heart and mind were irresistible to new contacts and friends. The Parisian scene, that has caused so many, especially women, to suffer was not the reason that her life took a strong downturn.

It was him.

Paris is a beautiful city if you are within the ‘Peripherique’ the wide circular road that cuts the rich from the poor – yes the one that Princess Diana died in..

Within Paris central it is a beautiful but an often unpleasant world – the bourgeoisie, materialistic middle classes, hold forth and keenly protect their arena.

What dear Lauren did not know was that the rich under belly of Paris was not like the slightly puritan establishment of New York. What her husband Yves knew, that she did not, was that in Paris it was totally acceptable for him to have an affair – in fact it was widely promoted. Mr Yves the billionaire who had fathered three children and was busy sorting business was now allowed to randomly screw younger girls with their eyes full of money and stars – while Lauren was expected to accept the feeble lies thrown to her whenever he chose to throw them.

This was supposed to be the way that life went for her. She had chosen to marry a rich man and therefore she had to play the part when he headed off to pastures greener or at least newer. Though the understanding was that that was all temporary and that she was still top dog and could be seen in his wake at all high end functions.

Well

Not her

Oh no

She was not of that unpleasant breed that puts status beyond person. He should maybe have known, but then again there is that awful ownership thing for those that come from the seriously rich that they have seen over again amongst their own and believe that that is the way it is and always will be. Money means everything and a man can do what he wants if he has it.

Not for Lauren Soivier-Day.  For her morals were why she had been there in the first place. Her friends in New York, and supposed new friends in Paris, were concerned. Why did she feel so strongly about this? It was just what rich men did – did she not know? Well actually no. Her father had strived his whole life but had done it entirely with the belief that his supportive wife would be there with him to the end – it was never in question. His success was a by-product of providing for his wife and family not for some spurious ladder gain that would render him higher up or untouchable. Maybe they never understood the American dream correctly – though they thought they did.

Well I suppose that this long story is coming to the part that I came in, though in essence I was just part of what I think was the best time of Lauren Soiver-Day’s existence and likely mine too.

So you have heard enough about this wonderful human being. Well what about me? No so glamorous I am afraid but there you go.

It was 1992

The world would soon be getting used to a new democrat government in the US, grunge was in and at the forefront of music generally. It was a no mans land. The recession was entrenched. We never knew that these were actually the good times. Dance music was still rising with a force and the early rave days were now becoming part of the mainstay. The corporate world had grasped that there was a buck to be made in that and the likes of Ibiza were flourishing. Time ticked but feelings were optimistic. Many of my generation were struggling to find their first ‘proper job’ after university. I hadn’t been to University.

My pat answer was that I had played too much sport. The truth was I had not worked hard enough to warrant a place there. In the idyll that had been the new nineties I had shrugged it off. Soon though that chip was weighing heavier upon my strong-ish shoulders. There was not much money being a good, not brilliant sports player in those days. Blue collar jobs were not hard to find – even the unemployment office would get you them. Pressing machine parts in hot plastic – heading home after a shift with burnt fingers that were your fault for timing things wrong on the conveyor belt – even when that belt broke over and over again. Lying in bed with the disapproval of parents spoken loudly downstairs. Only one way to go, find a way out.

Always easier with a