We'll Always Have Paris - A Harry Styles Fanfiction

Gabrielle Moreau is a 19-year old French girl living in Paris, the “capital of love”. To most people she looks ordinary, but behind her high-built façade hides a girl that suffers. She tries to shut the inferior sides of her life out by doing the things she loves and letting her thoughts circle around something elsewhere—and she succeeds in focusing on the good things in life flawlessly.
When Gabrielle an early morning gets a call from One Direction’s manager, who offers her the opportunity of working with them on their summer tour in Paris, she immediately replies him with a yes. She doesn’t know it just yet, but within the next few months she will get to grow a close bond to each of the boys in the band—and particularly one of them. Before she knows it, Gabrielle has been thrown into something she this time won’t be able to pull herself out of … Will she finally start opening herself up to someone and let them in without any conditions? **Check out the trailer in the right sidebar**


2. Early morning calls




My eyes flutter open in the moment my clock strikes seven and sets off the alarm. I try to shut the high-pitched tone out by hitting the power-off button, but the alarm keeps going and again I try to shut it off, this time with a lot more feverish gesticulations. After a moment or two of failed attempts, I shut the irritating tone out by pulling out the plug from the wall.

What a great start of the morning.

I yawn as I rise up in my fluffy bed, rubbing the sleep out of my morning-tired eyes. I kick off my quilt and roll over the red sheets, before jumping out of bed onto my shaky feet. As I open my dresser’s drawer, I look for something light but not too flashy to wear; summers in Paris are always hotter than a sauna. At least, that’s how I feel about them.

When I detect a mid-thigh white lace dress, I grab it from the drawer and quickly pull it over my head. I turn to take a look in the mirror on the wall behind me: My chestnut brown locks are an honest mess. I decide to carefully brush the knots out of my hair before pulling it into a messy bun. I don’t worry too much about my freely uncovered face. Unlike so many other girls, I somehow feel good when I'm not wearing any makeup. It's a waste of time putting it on, and I am contended with my long, black eyelashes anyway.

Before heading downstairs, I jump into a pair of gold sandals and grab my beloved Marc Jacobs leather bag from the small shelve above my bed.

When I get downstairs in the kitchen, my father is already sitting by the dining table—though there isn’t a plate with breakfast in front of him. Today, he had replaced it with the daily newspaper.

“Good morning,” I greet him and plant a light kiss on his smooth, bald head.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he replies with a smile.

“Aren’t you going to get some breakfast? You need it, right? A day full of meetings will be though work when you aren’t fed well.”

My father is a hard-working man positioned within the business industry of Paris, La Défense. He is somehow always successful in his businesses and is very focused on doing his job the best way possible. This of course requires a lot of him: He isn’t home very often because he has to leave for his early morning meetings and even when he’s off work, he has telephone conferences with his employees. It’s a tough working life for him, but he loves his job and makes really good money on it as a brilliant bonus.

“If you’re not going to cook breakfast, I am,” I chuckle and open up the refrigerator, pulling out a box of eggs. I crack the eggs out on a burning hot pan and wait for them to start cooking. As I see the eggs starting to fry on the heated surface of the pan, I hear him take a new phone call.

“Yes, Chevailer. Drop the deal, it’s not important to us anymore…”

When the eggs finish cooking, I carefully pick them up from the pan with a fork and place one on each of the two plates I have grabbed from the drawer a second earlier. Carrying the hot and freshly made breakfast in my hands, I warily tiptoe to my dad, where I place each of the plates on the table in front of us. Whilst still talking, my dad flashes me a smile and give me the thumbs-up.

“You’re welcome,” I say and sit down beside him, already taking in the delicious aroma of the egg. I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall; and end up shoving the egg into my mouth without really enjoying it, when I realize that I’m running out of time.

I get up from my chair and place my dishes in the dishwasher in a swift movement. “Oh no,” I complain. “I’ll be late.”

I determinedly rummage through the tall pile of papers on the kitchen table, searching for my notes. I look at my dad for help and mouth a, “have you seen my papers?” but he only shrugs his shoulders. Whilst hunting on through the stack for my notes, I grab my jean jacket from the coat stand and put it on, letting it cover my bare, slightly tanned skin.

“Got it!” I squeal as I find the music notes I had been looking for in the pile of the many letters and bills. I put them in my secured bag and yell a short, “I love you!” to my dad before exiting the house and stepping out onto the wide sidewalk of Avenue de New York.

It was 7:30 in the morning, but the sunlight was already streaming down on the street and through the treetops, making the light flicker into nice, pretty shadows on the pavement. When I look behind the trees, I could just on the other side of the Seine River skim the Eiffel tower bathed in the beautiful morning light.  

I remind myself of where I’m going and walk down the sidewalk towards the nearest metro stop.

When I enter the underground station, I pull out my ticket from my bag. I'm just about to put it in the counting machine when I almost loose grip of it in cause of the cellphone that has started ringing in my jacket. Whilst grabbing the phone from my pocket and slamming it against my ear, I put the ticket into the machine and walk through the gates into the tube when it allows me to enter.

“Hello!” I say into the speaker.

“Am I talking with Miss Moreau?” I can’t help but smirk at the sound of my name: The man had called me Miss, not Mademoiselle, which meant that he—also according to his accent—was Irish. I liked Irish people; they were always so kind and happy to be around.

“Yes, you are.”

“Great! I have an offer to make you.”

Suddenly I feel like hanging up on the foreign guy. I couldn’t possibly hate anything more than phone sellers. “Sorry, I don’t want to buy a new car insurance. I have one all ready, thank you.”

“No, no, no!” The man on the other end laughs cheerfully. “My name is Paul Higgins and I'm the manager of One Direction. I swear to you that I won’t do anything else but ask you a simple question.”

I stop walking as my body freeze in place. The people walking past me push me around like I’m some kind of ragdoll, but I really don’t mind.

Did I just hear what I thought I did?

Startled as I am, I manage to get two words out: "I'm listening."

“This whole summer the band is doing a tour in Paris, but unfortunately our pianist has gotten ill and now has to stay back home in England. When I was looking for a new pianist I made some calls around, and then accidentally heard about you. So that’s my offer: Spend your summer on playing in One Direction’s band as the piano player? I can promise you that you won’t regret it—and I have to say that the payment’s extremely high, too.”

The shock overwhelms me like a tsunami. Why me? I had been playing the piano since I was just a little girl, but never had I ever thought that my dream of becoming a famous pianist would come true. This is my chance.

“Yes, I would love to!”

“Amazing! We will all be landing in Paris tomorrow, so you can expect a mail from me later on meeting times and other schedules.” And just like that, the call ended. I couldn’t get myself to believe the fact that I had just gotten hired as a musician for a whole summer. I was going to be stinking rich by the end of August.

Is this reality or an illusion? To be honest I’m not sure which one of them I’m in. This could just as well be a dream as it could be real life.

One Direction is a big thing. And I am going to collaborate with them.




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