France brought back bad memories for Mark. It had been 4 years since he'd left university, time well spent catching up on his now intimiate knowledge of the bottom of empty Dorito packets and directly financing the lifestyle of indistinct unassorted russian special interest actresses. Sometimes both at once. In the spare time he managed to scrape for himself between all his taxing creative pursuits, he'd (under duress from his mother) been looking around for jobs, albeit half-heartedly. One of the many conversations he had went exactly like this:
"-but I've worked it out! If I cut down on the money I take out of my ISA every week to about £20, then I can completely support myself as I am right now just on jobseeker's! It doesn-"
"And can you tell me what happens when you've used up all that money we put aside for you, hm? Mark? What happens then? You sell your xBox? Your clothes? Bloody...pebbles from the beach!? For god's sake Mark, you need to sort yourself out! Think about the long term!"
"It'll be fine! I've got it all sorted out. I'll go to a bunch of boot sales, get some collectables that they underprice and sell them high! That's how they do it on Wall street, also another thing I

And so on. These kind of arguments were the three-a-day kind that you get by living with someone for so long at so advanced an age. The kind of argument where plates get smashed and deep personal grievances aired. More significantly perhaps; this argument that Mark immediately regretted afterwards, for the first time. Two of the new conditions of Mark's inheritance which arose after this particularly vicious altercation was that he a) move out of the house within the month and b) he get a stable career working quote unquote "in the civil service or something just anything to get you living your life you lazy fuck".
And so it was that Mark found himself hauling an oversized suitcase through Gare du Nord, clutching a small piece of paper in his one free hand as he fantastised about sleeping in beds not owned by a TravelTavern.
He checked the name and address scrawled on the paper for about the tenth time that day. "Felix Kuryakin" it read. "Rm 204, Les Bureaux des Syndicats Européens, 22 rue de la viande, Paris, 75001". He crumpled it up again and stuffed it in his pocket. It was all an excersise in futility anyway for him. Short on ability to network or intuition to search for jobs beyond sales assistants, Mark was forced to get in contact with a friend of a friend who knew a guy who'd just moved to Paris and was in need of a PA working in one of the interpreting departments of the European Union. Mark thought that a PA was a woman's job but he'd been left with very few options. He'd be all alone in France. He knew no-one, barely spoke any of the language and would have a starting salary of only £300 a week which would barely be enough to afford rent, even when living in a partially subsidised house. It definitely wouldn't be enough for him to be able to afford paying his iPhone bill.
He hailed a taxi and told the driver where to go in very broken French. He then told his mum where she could go under his breath as he struggled to fit his suitcase into the back of the car.
The journey was long, hot and boring. Mark was sure the taxi driver was taking him the long way round, but he was too tired to force out one of the heated pigin-french holiday debates that he so knew and hated. Instead, he paid the man his €16, tripped out of the cab and barely managed to get his stuff out of the trunk before the taxi driver sped off, clipping the edge of his case.
Frustrated and sweltering; Mark worked his way towards the EU offices. The driver had dropped him off two blocks away from where he was supposed to have dropped him off. Go figure.
Dropping his case to the floor, Mark hit the buzzer next to the brass plate embossed with the name of the guy he guessed was going to be working for for the next few months. He leant his head against the cool metallic plate as he caught his breath and waited for a response from the intercom. There wasn't one immediately which prompted Mark to hit the buzzer very loudly. The buzzer responded by breaking. Mark swore silently and sat down on top of his luggage away from the scene of the crime. A couple of minutes later a porter opened the door and looked around.
"Excusez-moi, êtes-vous l'homme qu'ils ont envoyé d'Ang-" He noticed the expression on Mark's face. "Oh, Anglais." He mulled on this for a moment. "Are you here for Monsieur Kuryakin?"
"Oui- I mean, yes. Yes I am. I'm Mark."
The porter turned towards the door without missing a beat.
"Follow me." So Mark did.
The porter led him up a series of very steep flight of stairs for what seemed like just a bit too long to be the normal route before reaching the 11th floor. The porter gestured vaguely towards the end of a long corridor and walked off into a lift which closed immediately and took him down to the ground floor. Mark dragged his suitcase to room 204 and knocked on the door.
"If that's anyone other than Henning than you can fuck off!" Came the voice from inside the door. Mark, startled, paused to collect his thoughts and knocked again.
"Uh, Mr Kuryakin? My mother sent me t-"
The noise of books being pushed off desks interrupted Mark. The door flung open, revealing a very well-dressed man.
"Ah! It's the kid! How are you? Julian told me all about you. What was your name again?"