It is January 8. President Nicolas Sarkozy of France has just delivered his New Year’s address, and Paris is agape about his relationship with Carla Bruni. But as for Bruni, she has this to say: “For us it is good. She is very glamour. She can fit in the clothes.
“We are very happy.”
She is upset about the smoking ban, which went into effect on the first of the year—she does not smoke, but Christian does. And she likes the smell.
Today, Roitfeld is wearing a narrow leather skirt and a double-breasted black blazer with sharp shoulders and lapels. She is also wearing black stockings and, of course, extremely tall, extremely narrow high heels. Her hands are wrapped around a steaming silver mug out of which a label dangles: Yogi Tea. Roitfeld is 48 hours off a ten-day vacation in Thailand during which she worked a great deal on meditation.
How was this trip?
“You think this will be so glamorous,” she sighs. “You have the idea in your mind and then you get there and the people in the hotel …” She grimaces and gestures hugely in the hip area. “There were lots of people who were so fat and like that.”
Kate Moss did come to visit, which helped with the glamour, and Roitfeld did, she is pleased to report, manage to unwind, somewhat. But still, Roitfeld struggles daily with a certain agita.
“I love pills. I cannot sleep, so I love pills.”
Every day she takes a combination of anti-anxiety drugs to help keep her calm and to help her sleep, but still, she practically vibrates with energy. “My doctor, he tells me that I begin to lose my vision because of the pills.”
Roitfeld shrugs. In the movie of her life, what happens, happens. Just a feeling. She will leave the next day for Testino’s studio in London, but first she will go home. Her daily commute leads through the Place de la Concorde, past the Grand and Petit Palais, and deposits her on her doorstep just off the Place des Invalides. “So you see,” she says, “every day I see the most beautiful place in the world. It is not too bad.”