Flist I need to know if this story is ok?
Paris, they say, is the city of love. To me it was my home, a place with secrets, vibrant culture and wonderful cuisine. Certainly you fell in love but it was the city where flings started and ended, where men became more romantic. I’d never imagined I would find myself in love.
In my profession, gorgeous women would arrive to get photographed and leave satisfied with how they looked. Other photographers would arrive to admire my work before stealing my subjects for other uses. Then there was Andre Dupuis, a pornographer who love nothing more than to appreciate the male genitalia. I always left his house with a smirk on my face.
“Pierre Meserve, you should move to another area of photography,” Andre always told me before dragging me to the bedroom.
I never listened to him though since I loved what I did for a living, which was mostly taking portraits for engagements, birthdays, family etc. It didn’t really pay well but I certainly made a living from it. For me it was more the enjoyment of photography than the money.
In 1925 my life changed when I was invited to the house of Damien-Jacques Garnier, a legend in his field, a man I looked up to. It surprised me since I never saw myself in quite the same league. I wasn’t really well known enough as a professional photographer, a nobody who somehow made a living.
For awhile I checked myself in the mirror to see if my black hair was in place, that my outfit was ok and not creased in anyway. For someone in their mid twenties it consisted of a navy blue blazer over a waistcoat, blue long sleeved shirt and black trousers. I looked fine but there was a thought niggling at tha back of my head, a negative thought that would strike just before I went to a party. Anxiety that was impossible to shake. I wanted to break down and cry.
“Oh I was expecting someone quite different.”
I jumped and looked over to see a man leaning on the doorway. He seemed to smile, showing impossibly white teeth. I couldn’t help but smile back or even notice that he was incredibly handsome. His brown hair was combed back and was wearing trousers with braces over a navy blue shirt. I shook my head.
“Sorry who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?” I asked in my accented English since he was probably American.
“Jack Harkness,” He replied still smiling, “You must be Pierre Meserve?” He didn’t wait for me to answer before adding, “Monsieur Garnier sent me over to pick you up.”
Doesn’t explain why you’re in my bedroom. I nodded and turned towards the bed where my Leica 35mm camera sat. It had been a gift from my father with the explanation that it was the camera of choice in New York where he now lived.