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THE FABULOUS STORY OF THE MURRAY
When we opened our shop on rue Beaurepaire nearly seven years ago, we didn't have a penny to our name, and in fact it was I who finished the renovations./p>
I even made my own paint, my own red, to make sure I'd be the only one to have it, but also because I couldn't afford a decent one. After repeatedly postponing the opening of the shop, due to manufacturer failures, on April 1st, and this is no joke, we were finally able to welcome you in a joyous and good-humoured atmosphere. As we didn't have the means to hire anyone else either, I had no alternative but to start selling, much to my delight. So I sold my own creations for nearly three years, a privilege because I could see for myself what was going well, what was not, what needed to be improved or corrected. It was a luxury, an incredible opportunity that enabled me to improve rapidly by listening to all of you. The boutique became a boudoir, a café for girls and often a psychoanalysis room. I was able to see for myself that I had real talent as a shrink and/or confidante, a friend for life. There were often artists, people in the shadows, little known or very well known, who pushed open the door of the shop. Writers, sculptors, stylists, journalists, lawyers, mothers, unemployed women, dreamers, there was something for everyone. I was also often visited by boys who came to please their girlfriends because they felt connected to the brand and wanted to introduce them to it.
And one day, in March 2015, when there wasn't a soul in Paris because it was the ski holidays and it was hailing stuff the size of geisha balls that you couldn't see two metres in front of you, a tall guy came in, dressed as if he was on his way to the golf club restaurant: bottle green jacket, white trousers, large pink knitted fabric. Part of his face was swollen from having been hit by so much hail. He was full of water, as if he'd had a bath in his underwear, and he disgorged quietly onto the shop's polished concrete, looking me straight in the eye, a small smile on his lips, pleased with himself. He asked me, in Old West English, for a roll of tissues, then two, then three, with which he dried his clothes, before placing them one by one on the radiator in the office at the back of the shop. He then found himself in a wife-beater and tighty-whities among the shoes, which didn't bother me. He asked me if I had anything to drink. e. I offered him some water but he replied that he'd already had enough on his face. I returned with a Japanese whisky, purchased to have at a friend's birthday party that evening. I saw his eyes sparkle and spin around. He started yelping and hopping around, clapping his hands. And it was when he took off his bob that I finally recognised him. It was Bill Murray, Bill 'fucking' Murray who was in my shop, half-naked, quietly sipping my whisky. I melted into his arms, happy to have the idol of my adolescence right here with me. I started to mention Ghostbusters and Wes Andersons, but he put his index finger to my lips and told me he wasn't here to talk about that. He'd just got lost in Paris, as he liked to do everywhere else, and walked into the first shop he could find, mine.
Around five o'clock the deluge finally stopped and the customers began to push open the shop door. Bill stayed and, faced with the influx, he began to help me, becoming a salesman. He was all over the place, inverting sizes and colours, but it was all done with such gaiety that I crossed the street to buy a few bottles from the wine shop to keep the party going. A little before midnight, when we were all drunk, I drew the curtain and went home, delighted with the day, with Bill following me, asking if I could let him stay with me. He hated hotels, and could pay me if I wanted. He also told me that I was too old for him, that I had nothing to fear. I couldn't help but welcome him home. And because I trusted him completely, I put him to bed in my own bed (my husband wasn't there) and came back with a bowl of popcorn, which we devoured while watching Louis de Funès complete filmography before falling heavily asleep just before sunrise. When I woke up, he was gone, and in fact he hadn't left a single note or trace of his visit. As best I could, I set off for the shop and put myself on automatic pilot to get through the day without a hitch. In the early afternoon, once again, gigantic hailstones began to fall, making the same noise and causing the same damage as the day before. And just as I was nodding off, the door to the shop opened with a tall guy standing behind it, full of water, dressed as if he was on his way to a golf club restaurant. It was Bill 'fucking' Murray entering the shop again. The whole thing had the air of déjà vu and Groundhog Day, which I'm sure you'll agree explains why, a few years later, I wanted to name this superb boot Murray.
