If you lived on Paris’s Left Bank you were a regular at the Cafe de Flore or the Cafe Deux Magots.
And Sandra had nailed her colours firmly to the mast of the Cafe de Flore. Not because she was a writer, a philosopher or an Existentialist (she always considered Sartre over at his table in the corner to be scruffy and badly dressed). She went there for the fashion elite: Yves Saint Laurent, Patou, Guy Laroche- her gods, her idols! Yes, they were all there. It was a privilege just to breathe the same air as them for an hour, and overhear little snippets of their conversation. And she’d never forget the time Yves himself had actually approached her- her heart had actually skipped a beat!
OK, so he’d only asked to borrow a pencil. But she still dined out on the story nevertheless, and the pencil hung in a little gilded frame in her salon…
For a virtual or real hit of newly listed patterns, you know where to go :)