LUXOMANIA, Confessions of a salesgirl in the secret world of luxury.

My job interview experience

"Hi. Do you have any experience in sales?" asks the temp agency.

"Yes, I worked for a young designer on rue de Grenelle in Paris for a while.

"And with luxury goods?"

"Not really."

"Your profile is interesting, but unfortunately we don't have anything to offer you for the moment ... wait a minute ... maybe there's something at Galeries Lafayette, but we'll have to see. Do you like perfume?"

"Yes... A lot!"

"The new Dior fragrance is being launched next week and John Galliano will be there. It's a very prestigious event and we're looking for someone for the inauguration."

The offer is unexpected and exactly what I'm looking for. I can hardly contain myself.

"Oh that would be perfect!" I say with a huge smile.

"We need someone, stationed at a fragrance counter under the cupola, who can spray clients throughout the evening."

"Are you interested?"

-...

"Are you interested?" (repeated)

-...

************************************

Having been laid off, receiving unemployment benefits for two years and finding only little jobs here and there, I finally went knocking on the doors of temp agencies. My bills were piling up and I had no choice. When a recruiter contacted me two days later for a sales position on rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, I began to see light at the end of the tunnel. After all, there are worse things than working as salesperson in luxury goods, right?

The temperature this morning is about zero degrees, so I'm walking briskly towards rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré*. It rivals avenue Montaigne and looks like a movie set: immaculate sidewalks, where boutiques are lined up one after the other and seem to go on forever. A real myth. I step out of the metro at Place de la Madeleine and head to the store with trepidation. My heart is beating as fast as if I were on my way to a job interview. Bundled up in my black coat, I'm walking towards the designated address with my shoulders standing at attention. It's still early, so Paris is waking up. I can see Place de la Concorde in the distance and it's deserted. It's like I'm in a scale model or a postcard where time stands still. I glance quickly in the shop windows along the Faubourg, until I lay my eyes on the eight gold letters: MONTEZZO. A sign with the magical name which makes millions of followers tremble with excitement. I'm petrified by the cold and I can hardly feel my toes in my shoes, but I enter the pantheon of Italian luxury.

The huge, high-ceilinged foyer is completely empty. I feel like I've just walked into a fancy hotel, airlifted into an unbelievable place, reserved for the privileged few. Everything is oversized: the space, the stairs, the vases and the bouquets of hydrangeas. You can barely hear a murmur from the cleaning ladies working away. They are dressed in uniforms and move along the thick taupe carpet, like tiny ants, as they carefully polish the furniture with white rags. Silence. Each shelf is in order, the distance is exactly the same between each article of clothing. The atmosphere is cold and intimidating, large mirrors, glass showcases, counters wood edged in chrome and huge rugs with the printed initials of the maison: the famous MM monogram. The boutique is as calm as a monastery. Everything is in its place, and spotless. The temple will soon open its doors to its disciples. The ceremony will begin. It's the first time for me and I am nervous.

*French Fifth Avenue

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