Petra stood in the very plain, very provincial apartment owned by her boyfriend’s mother. Mrs. Longbottom was the type of woman who grew plants in jars from seed, first by incubating them in damp paper towels that she placed by the window to bask in sunshine. Petra found this all to be quite… charming.
She herself could not imagine living in this varietal of comparative squalor. The cracked porcelain tea cups, the threadbare blankets, the breads and cakes purchased from a farm down the road. Petra grew up in an elegant household with elegant parents, who cared not for gardening and other such shades of manual labor, but for hosting costume parties and dinners for their celebrity friends passing through the South of France. At 16, Petra could already see herself falling easily into their footsteps. That was, of course, if her boyfriend, Henry Longbottom II, failed in his silent mission to turn her back into a real human being whose expectations in live did not includ wearing $8,000 mini dresses to Sunday brunch.
Petra listened to the clanging pipes from the radiator propelling warmth from the basement to Mrs. Longbottom’s apartment on the second floor. She looked out the window at the chicken coop filled with feathers and bird shit. It was enough to put her off of egg white omelettes forever… and her parent’s chef made an excellent omelette.
[All conversations are imaginary and in no way a reflection of the brand, model, or photographer involved in the actual shoot. Photo courtesy of Balmain.]