valentine ; t.chalamet

DEUX

"Merci!" Valentine said to the flower seller as she piled her loose change into one of the pockets of her coat. She laced quickly through the busy streets of Paris' city centre with the bunch of yellow roses she'd just bought under her arm. She swore under her breath as she noticed the row of missed calls from her sister on her phone. Hopefully the flowers would soften the blow of her lateness.

"Merde!" she yelped as she suddenly collided with someone just outside her family's Trocadero penthouse. Her flowers flopped to the floor weakly, their petals wrinkled. "My flowers!" she exclaimed, looking up with a frown poised on her face as she readied herself for an argument.

But it dropped off her face as quickly as it had formed as she noticed the stranger, who was now picking up her flowers off the street, wasn't exactly a stranger at all. It was Timothée Chalamet, the star of her father's latest movie. She gulped, taking in his face, as she attempted to mask her complete awe.

"I'm so sorry, are you alright?" he apologised in French nervously. Their fathers were old friends, and for a moment Valentine wondered if he might recognise her from that one holiday they'd spent as kids in her grandparents' house in Corrèze.

"I'm fine, but my flowers aren't," she said, snatching them out of his hands. She was too late and stressed to even process what was happening. "I have to go," she said quickly, and rushed past him into the lobby of her building. When she was out of sight, Valentine opened her mouth in a silent scream.

Timothée watched her disappear into the building he'd just came from, and suddenly remembered who she was. Valentine, Louis' youngest daughter, was significantly taller than when he'd last seen her, and lacked the endearing chipped front tooth that had been her identifier when they were kids.

"I could wring your neck!" Valentine's sister Romilly said as she came through the apartment's front door.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Valentine replied, kicking off her shoes. She hurriedly kissed her father, who was working on a script at the kitchen table, on the side of the head before rushing over to her sister with the flowers. "I lost track of time and some... guy pushed me on the street – I bought you flowers!"

Romilly crossed her arms in the beautiful wedding dress she wore as various assistants flitted around her taking measurements. Valentine passed her the squashed flowers, and she raised an eyebrow.

"You're late to the most important day of my year and this is my consolation?" her sister said. "You know I'm paying extra for this time."

"I thought your wedding day was the most important day of your life," Valentine smiled, testing the thin ice she was already on.

"Oh, shut up and go and try on your dresses, will you?" Romilly waved her sister away with a small smile. "And hurry up or I might start charging you by the minute."

One of the minions ushered her through the large open plan space of the apartment towards the dining room, where her father was scribbling away in his notebook.

"Valé," he looked up as she passed him. "Please don't be difficult today. Whatever shit she has you try on just say you love it, alright?"

"When am I ever difficult, Papa?" Valentine grinned innocently. Her father smiled defeatedly and looked back down at his notebook, surrounded by copies of scripts.

The first dress was a garish pink turtleneck with an abundance of chiffon frills spilling out of the front that reminded Valentine of the plates of cold deli meats her father often snacked on. It was also inhumanely tight, and Valentine could almost feel her organs bunching together whenever she tried to breathe.

"Are you ready?" Romilly called.

Valentine grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. "Yes!" she responded with feigned enthusiasm.

"Come on then, we're on borrowed time!"

Valentine shuffled out of the makeshift dressing room, past her unimpressed looking father, and forced a smile at her sister.

"I love it," she lied.

"It's hideous," Romilly said bluntly. "You look... hammy. Try on something else."

Valentine breathed a sigh of relief – as much as the suffocating dress would allow – and headed back to the dressing room.

"Please give me your honest opinion next time!" Romilly called after her.

After the ordeal that was peeling the first dress off, Valentine gave herself some time to breath before she attempted the next one. It was a ridiculous canary yellow with ruffled sleeves. She wasn't sure whether she looked more like a Victorian child or some tropical bird.

This time when she stepped out, Romilly burst into a fit of laughter.

"It's not funny," Valentine huffed, looking to her father for support, only to find him chuckling as he took a picture of her on his phone. "Get back to work, Papa," she glared, fighting a smile.

"I should never have let Lilou surprise me, she's always been fore to experimental with colours," Romilly said cackled.

Just as Valentine was ready to stomp back to her dressing room, the front door opened, and none other than Timothée Chalamet walked through holding two cups of coffee. Valentine felt her cheeks grow red snapping away from his gaze as she noticed a smile on his lips.

"Oh, Timothée, you're an angel," Louis gushed, getting up from the table and taking one of the coffees. "I hope you don't mind my girls; they're trying dresses for Romilly's wedding. If it's distracting, we can go somewhere more private?"

"Oh no, not at all, I don't mind," he grinned nervously, sitting down in the seat Louis gestured towards.

Valentine gulped, fighting the embarrassment. "Can I try the next one, please?"

Once she was in the privacy of her own dressing room, Valentine let out another silent scream. She hadn't seen Timothée for years and she wasn't exactly making the best impression.

Valentine thanked God the next dress was nice. In fact, it was rather beautiful, especially in contrast to the last two atrocities. It was long and pale pink silk and clung to her body in a loose but fitting way. There were small, embroidered flowers dotted around the pink fabric, and the Bardot neckline was trimmed with pale yellow lace that matched the hem. She liked the way left her shoulders and her defined collarbone bare, and that the delicate silk was then and felt cold against her skin. It was perfect.

"Oh Valé!" her sister gasped when she stepped out into the open space. "Come here!"

Valentine avoided looking in Timothée's direction as she padded across the cold floor barefoot.

"I knew this one would be good," she said, practically welling up as she ushered Valentine over to the mirror that had been set up in their living room. "Papa what do you think? It's elegant with the hair up, no?" Romilly lifted up her sister's wavy brown hair and twisted it back so that her shoulders were bare.

Louis looked up from his script. "It's very pretty," he said. Valentine looked into the mirror as her sister held up her hair and caught Timothée's eye in the reflection. His gaze lingered for a little too long, and Valentine gulped, turning around quickly, and letting her hair fall back down.

"So can I go now?" she asked, still feeling Timothée's eyes on her.

"Fine, you can go," Romilly smiled warmly, kissing her sister on the head.

Valentine headed hastily back to the dressing room and sighed. For some reason, she had goosebumps across her arms and a nervous fluttering in her stomach. Once she had changed back into her jeans and t-shirt, Valentine headed back out. Her sister was having her hemline adjusted while on facetime to her mother who was currently in London, while Timothée and her father attempted to talk over all the noise of Val's mother cooing and clapping.

"Aren't you going to say hi to Mammie?" Romilly asked as Valentine slipped her feet into her boots.

Valentine poked her head into the frame and smiled. "Bonjour Maman," she said, blowing a kiss.

"Oh, ma Chérie! I wish I could have seen your dress," her mother fawned embarrassingly. "I suppose I'll have to wait until the big day."

"How is everyone?" Valentine asked.

"Lilou is doing great, the pregnancy is going smoothly," her mother said. "Is your father there? Bernadette wants to speak to him."

"Yes, Mammie but I have to go," she said handing her sister's phone back and kissing her on the cheek. "See you later!"

Valentine swung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, waving goodbye to her father. If she'd let herself get roped into a conversation with her aunt there was no telling when she'd manage to slip away. She'd much prefer to slip out for a cigarette and then return when her living room wasn't being invaded by her father's meetings or swarmed with dressmakers.

She spent the rest of the afternoon in a café not too far from her family's penthouse, where she idly flicked through magazines for a few hours. Just as she was about to head back home, a notification popped up on her phone.

tchalamet requested to follow you.

Valentine gulped, refreshing her phone to see if it was a mistake, but it didn't disappear. Her finger hovered over the confirm button, but a sense of panic rose in her throat. Her father's professional life was something she politely kept her distance from. As much as she loved her father's art and was grateful for the life he'd given them, Valentine had briefly experienced the painful exposure of fame and it was enough for her to want to protect her privacy.

Swallowing back the lump in her throat, she quickly pressed decline, and shoved her phone back into her pocket.

Later, when Valentine had arrived back home, her father, sister and younger brother were sitting at the table laughing over dinner.

"Are you hungry?" Louis asked as Valentine hung up her coat.

"Not really," Valentine said, heading towards the stairs.

"Oh, Valé," Romilly called after her with her mouth full. "Timothée left something for you, I put it in your room."

Valentine raised an eyebrow, to which Romilly smirked. "Go, have a look," her older sister said, shooing her off.

The girl gulped as she turned off, climbing the short flight of stairs to her room, which had a view from the balcony that faced out over all the nearby rooftops. She switched on the light, casting an orange glow over her bed, where a bunch of fresh yellow roses from Madame Lucille's lay on her bedspread. Valentine felt herself inhale a little as she picked up the bouquet. There was a small card embedded within one of the flowers, with a note scrawled in nervous handwriting.

Sorry for squashing your flowers,
T.

Valentine flopped backwards onto her bed and stared up at the ceiling, holding the flowers to her chest.