Maison Barrière Vendôme

It does not do, in Paris, to arrive in a crumpled state — particularly in the centre of everything chic and sparkly that is Place Vendôme. And yet it’s in a state of complete crumpledness that I pull up at Maison Barrière Vendôme, sweaty of brow and weary of soul, my crisp cotton dress balled up like a draft discarded by a grumpy writer. Froissée, we call my state in French: scrunched on the outside, cranky on the inside, and entirely frazzled by a mad taxi ride.

Thankfully, Maison Barrière’s staff swoops to the rescue with natural ease. It’s a swelteringly hot September afternoon, and the doorman quickly presses a cold carton of spring water into my clammy hands. Before I’m even able to fully rehydrate, I’m checked in, gracefully (and gratefully) upgraded, and ushered to my suite.

Every room at Maison Barrière is named after a woman who broke new ground in science or the arts. I send mental thanks to Alice Guy, the pioneering filmmaker whose name adorns my temporary door and whose spirit, I reason, must have guided my steps here. I take in a chaise longue and French doors, at the far end of my spacious lounge, that open onto a small balcony. I pop my head out: to the right, I spy Place Vendôme and its bracelet of upscale jewellery houses; to the left, the Tuileries garden, with its shaded parterres and metal chairs angled just so for catching the rays. I feel like Sophie Fontanel, the French fashion critic and writer whose airy Tuileries-view garden, somewhere nearby, I’ve often admired on Instagram. This suite, if anything, feels more indulgent, with its enormous bed (the upholstered headboard reaches practically to the ceiling), jewelled art deco wardrobe handles and gold-flecked shower door. Flopping back onto the feather duvet, idly noting the charming motifs painted on the ancient timber beams for my fantasy-house moodboard, I feel an irresistible urge to cocoon myself here for the rest of my stay. After all, there are stacks of intriguing photography books to leaf through, single-variety Alain Milliat juices to sip on, and even cooling masks for the puffy-faced in the minibar.

But Paris beckons. With a heavy sigh, I spring into action, wielding the room’s handy clothes steamer to smooth out my dress’s most egregious folds. Whoever designed this suite knew a thing or two about what women want: there are plugs and mirrors everywhere, should you need to plug in a hairdryer, lie detector or LED mask — or simply admire your own reflection. On my way out, the doorman stops me to fetch more water; Paris is still unseasonally hot and sticky. I set off along Rue de Rivoli to meet a friend at Bourse de Commerce, François Pinault’s temple to arts patronage. We’ve booked tickets for the last day of Fujiko Nakaya’s ethereal cloud installation beneath the glass dome of the rotunda. We watch, mesmerised, as mist springs from the floor, enveloping us in voluptuous wisps, while influencers vie for the best spot for their shots. Then it’s on to Bältis for Lebanese ice-cream; achta, a fragrant mix of orchid root, pistachio sap and orange flower, is the signature flavour, but the deep, smoky salted caramel gets my vote. When I get home — yes, I live at Maison Barrière now — someone’s pulled the curtains, dimmed the light, and placed a floor pillow by my bed for a cushioned landing the next morning. Another must-have for the moodboard.

The next day, after a wholesome breakfast in a leafy courtyard, I head down to the divinely scented subterranean spa. I’m in town for a glitzy event that evening, so I’m in the market for something to iron out the froissé from my face. The aptly named Miracle Sculpt is just the ticket: 25 minutes of facial massage that leaves my skin taut, snatched and plumped. It’s tempting to stop at the Frida restaurant for lunch (Homer Lobster is in residence with its fluffy, buttery crustacean rolls), but I have other plans. After all, Rue Saint-Honoré is just around the corner. I buy a cashmere and silk jumper, chocolate-covered guimauve teddy bears and delicate hand-painted trinket trays. At the nearby outpost of the Merci concept store, I have a stern word with myself and put candles shaped like saucissons, baguettes and croissants back down on the shelf. By now the heat is bordering on indecent, so I retreat to the Palais-Royal gardens with a thirst-quenching sorbet by Alain Ducasse. Fashion Week is about to start, and there’s a buzz about this fashionista haunt.

Somewhere between the cashmere and the sorbet, I've made a decision. That evening’s event can do without me. Instead, I arrange to meet an old school friend at Trâm 130. Our waiter appears genuinely baffled by the concept of us wanting to place an order, but the Vietnamese-inflected food, when it eventually arrives, is delicious, a succession of fresh, fragrant, piquant plates that make the kitchen's talents abundantly clear. More importantly, we're in Paris, we haven’t seen each other in years, and we have a decade of old dramas to catch up on.

Back at Maison Barrière, I slip into bed like a replete serpent, safe in the certitude of a good night’s sleep. Come morning, I’ll be sad to leave my Parisian pied-à-terre, but leave I will: restored, refreshed and very much défroissée.