There was a distinct lack of glamour in travel nowadays, Francis thought. The miracle of flight used to be heralded by men in sharply tailored suits and flawlessly polished leather shoes and ladies in their finest Chanel with their perfectly coiffed hair hidden beneath scarves and sunhats. Travelling used to call for finery and decorum to celebrate the miracle of flight. Now people dressed in veritable rags. Francis made a point of donning his best before catching a plane on the off chance that if they did go down in a blaze of glory, he would've at least left an excellent impression.
Bien sûr.
Francis sighed in despair for his fellow man as he adjusted his sunglasses (Bvlgari) and tipped his dead cigarette butt into the bin. It was cold today. Not as cold as it could have been, for certain, but...
He pointedly resisted the urge to reach into the inner pocket of his duster coat (Yves Saint Laurent) to take his phone in hand and instead examined his watch. Twenty minutes until the required check-in time, which meant more like an hour, if he knew French airlines. (By this point, he'd consider himself rather familiar.) And in all honesty, he wasn't particularly bothered by the thought of missing his flight, save for the idea that the airport staff might see fit to steal his luggage.
The Frenchman eschewed the thought of deigning to grab so much as a cup of tea from any of the airport's various eateries. Fine though Roissy may be…non. He toyed with the idea of hailing a cab back into Paris and going back to the little café he'd found the other day, the one with the pretty brunette serving girl. Just as he pushed away from the wall to brush himself off and tug the creases from his clothing and signal for a cab, his phone trilled quietly in his pocket with its tinny orchestral rendition of "Aux marches du palais", meaning a text message had arrived.
Francis pressed his lips together firmly and adjusted his sunglasses once again, brushing a stray lock of long blonde hair away from his face a bit too forcefully. Perhaps, he thought, he'd suffer through the Roissy salon de thé's interpretation of Lady Grey au lait and a croque gagnet. It was the occupation of a gentleman to be well-rounded, was it not? One should try everything at least once, if possible.
Satisfied, he pulled the phone from his pocket to glance down at the screen.
"Francis. Where are you?"
Face expressionless, he sent a swift text message to his assistant to have his personal phone number changed and that he would expect an email with all the pertinent information regarding the next project by the time he landed in Hartsbridge in the morning.
With that, he turned his phone off and promptly threw it into the rubbish bin as well. So irritating.
As he strode through the doors and lit upon the tunnel stairs, he reminded himself that guilt was an unbecoming emotion and that he was only doing what was necessary.