I think I’ll go shopping

I’m quite a frugal person. I re-use tea bags. And, after washing them, plastic bags and glad wrap. And apart from some underwear and my wedding dress, I haven’t bought any clothes since 1992. But with money from mum to buy a dress in Paris, and every clothes shop discounted, from the Marais to Montmartre, I made an exception. I was in Paris after all.

For a reluctant shopper like me, it’s important to have boundaries to contain such an expedition. I had boundaries in time and space: I left at twelve and planned to be back at five, and circled five areas to focus my searches in, drawn from guidebook tips and recommendations from a friend and my sister-in-law. I psyched myself up and had a budget to spend. I told myself it would be OK.

First stop, rue d’Alésia, 14th arrondissement. I walked down one side, heading for shops recommended at no. 64 (closed, it was Monday), 112 (also closed) and 114 (open). I window-shopped in between, went inside some outlets, avoiding over-attentive sales assistants, and tried on a few dresses for around $A 230 each. But I didn’t love them, so I made notes in case I had second thoughts and continued on.

I stepped in to a shop called Sinéquanone somewhere near no. 125. There was a white top there, and some white cotton trousers. The trousers were lined only up to the knees, which I thought looked strange. The top was silk, with polyester lining, a square-cut neck and puffy sleeves, and I bought it. Good value I thought on sale for 39 Euros ($A68).

It was hot. I had already stopped for a lunch break: I brought a baguette with cheese, and ate it on a bench on the street. But it was one street down, four to go, and I had a purchase. I was feeling good. I went on.

No luck in the second area, rue du Four, until some white trousers in a shop called ‘Paul Mendes’ caught my eye. I peered through, decided it was worth investigating further, and ventured in. I wasn’t browsing long before a sales assistant approached me and took charge.

– ‘You’re looking for trousers? [their dresses didn’t appeal.] That’s good. Try these for size, then I’ll show you the styles.’

I tried them on, but they too were lined only up to the knees, were rather tight, and even on sale they were expensive.  I complained of their tightness. The assistant disagreed. They were my size, they were feminine, they looked good. She was motherly, and her heavily-made up eyes look at me with complete concentration.

– ‘Are you from London?’

– ‘No, Australia’, I said.

– ‘Oh, that’s why. Australians prefer looser and more sporty clothes, don’t they. This is French elegance, a bit more fitted. Here, I’ll show you.’

She disappeared into the store room and returned with some red trousers. After I had objected to the colour, she came back with some khaki-brown ones, which I tried on, but I thought that at three-quarter length they were too short. With a few more pointed questions she established that I preferred a classical style and this time she brought over some long brown trousers, cotton/linen, and light for summer. When I was admiring them in the mirror, she brought a matching brown jacket to see how it looked.

The trousers were not what I would have sought: they were fitted around the hips, with a tie around the waist, dropping slightly flared to the ground. But she was right, they did look good. And so did the jacket, which reminded me of the clothes my French teachers wore in Australia, casual but well cut.

– ‘You’d wear heels with these trousers, then they wouldn’t be too long. You never wear heels? Then you might need to have the trousers taken up a little bit. We can do it, but it would take a few days.’

When she found out that would be no problem as I was in Paris for three months for my honeymoon, she looked approvingly.

– ‘Well, we might be able to do you a honeymoon price on the outfit.’

But I wasn’t ready to conclude the sale just yet. Her interest in fashion was infectious. She had brought me all the trousers they had. Maybe I should see if they had any suits.

I glanced at another shopper, apparently from Hong Kong, who was being served by the other assistant beside me with the same attentiveness. My  ‘vendeuse’ showed me the suit rack, one style plain grey and one black with threads of horizontal and vertical white.

– ‘Do you have anything more interesting? I can buy suits like this in Australia.’

– ‘What do you mean by ‘interesting’?’

– ‘In mauve, perhaps, or pink.’

She wrinkled her face as if catching a whiff of decomposing meat.

– ‘Oh but that’s cheap.’

(She used the English word, and said it slowly, stringing it out.)

– ‘A suit should be classic, and then you can wear any colours with it. This grey one is timeless, and the colour suits you. Here, try it on.’

She was right. It fitted well across my back as well as along the arms, and the length was good. It was made out of very fine wool, like cotton. There were buttons at the wrists, which could be undone to roll up the sleeves slightly for a more casual look, and the jacket was lined in white with tasteful thin grey parallel lines. The pants were sleek, bellybutton high but the waistband wide, de-emphasising my bottom, with a wide decorative belt sewn low over the hips. I wasn’t convinced though.

– ‘The material is too thin. It gets cold in Australia.’

– ‘But it’s wool. You can wear it in summer or winter. It’s warm.’

She went on to describe the attention to detail and fine craftsmanship of French clothing. It would last for a long time and I’d want to wear it. Poor quality clothes look crumpled and shabby even before they are worn, and don’t feel good. This was on sale, their clothes were not usually available for such a price. If I had one good suit, and the trousers with matching jacket, I could look proudly at my wardrobe. Not made in Taiwan. (She almost spat, glancing at the customer from Hong Kong, now trying on a shirt). ‘Tac tac tac. All French.’ She smiled with satisfaction.

I slept on it, but the sales assistant had done her job well, and I went back the next day to part with A$500 for the suit, in addition to A$210 that I had invested in the trousers that day (not the jacket though – to which her mournful response was ‘no? Oh, how sad!’). Though I had ended up shopping for seven hours, overspent, and only reached two of the five neighbourhoods on my itinerary, it was a successful day.

Were the clothes in this shop so much better than those I had tried on in the others? Perhaps not. Perhaps the difference was not the clothes, but rather the sales assistant, who had such a personable approach.

And my purchases? I have worn the white top and brown trousers and feel very elegant and comfortable in them.

Here I am, on our last evening in Paris, wearing the top.

But more than a year later, I have never worn the suit. I was pregnant, then left work. So do I regret buying it?

Ask me in another year.