TRAVEL - Feb/Mar 2004 - Paris Match

PARIS MATCH

TO SHOP LIKE A DEMON IN PARIS, YOU NEED KNOWLEDGE, PLANNING AND CONFIDENCE. ALL OF WHICH, AMANDA HYDE DISCOVERS, YOU CAN BUY

I'm the sort of girl who gets up extra early to wash, blow-dry and straighten her hair before visiting the hairdressers, so deciding what to wear to meet Paris's most knowledgeable personal shopper is daunting to say the least. In a determined effort to impress her, I've spent two hours (a record even for me) putting together an outfit - I might be here so that she can sort out my wardrobe and let me in on the secrets of Parisienne power-shopping, but I don't want to look too badly in need of help.

But, when I catch sight of the Prada-clad, perfectly accessorised woman waiting for me at the enterance to the Ritz, it's clear that Susan Tabak is Trinny; Susannah and Sarah Jessica Parker all rolled into one. I could have worn a bin liner, and I wouldn't have looked any less elegant in comparison. Responsible for the a la mode looks of countless rich American women, Susan is 'Paris Personal Shopper', a woman with a well-deservied super hero job title, a Filofax full of lesser-known French boutiques and a life dedicated to helping hapless shoppers in the home of pret-a-porter. If anyone can transform me, she can. (And if you fancy making a girlie weekend of it, Susan will shop for up to five people.)

We sit down over coffee to discuss our day and she pulls out a colour-coded schedule - it's then that I find out we have seven shops to visit in seven hours, as well as a stop for lunch.

First port of call is Mina Poe on the rue Duphot. It's an accessories store, jammed full of quirkey scarves, hats and things that serve absolutely no purpose but look very pretty. Susan yelps excitedly and kisses the assistant on the cheek, but I am feeling intimidated. This is the kind of shop I'd be afraid even to enter at home, with its own doorbell to keep the riffraff out. "People want me to come shopping with them because I'm not scared," says Susan. "And everyone in these stores knows me." She encourages me to be decked out in various scarves and bits and pieces by draping them over herself, but it doesn't help. Her clothes sit lightly on her, and I feel, well, a bit lumpy in comparison. Cautiously, I pick up a green and orange woollen scarf. "Oh, it's just your colours!" coo the surprisingly friendly assistants. I check the price tag and it's a cool £150. In hastily trying to remove the thing I get caught up, and everyone looks away. It's clear there's an amateur in the building.

Despite my error at Mina Poe, Susan decides I'm ready for a more serious retail experience, and we head for Maria Luisa on rue Cambon. It's the sort of place you'd never find on your own, tucked away on a side street behind a nondescript exterior. Inside, we're greeted by a tiny Japanese woman and a mannequin dressed in a gimp mask and leather, thigh-high leg-warmers. It's all rather avant-garde. Despite initial appearances though, Maria Luisa has a great selection. Susan picks out a pleated Alexander McQueen skirt and shows me how to match it with a fitted shirt, or a boxy jacket. The result is amazing, and I would never have thought to put the two together. She's not always been this eclectic, though. "Before Gianni died I wore Versace exclusively," she continues. "And then the clothes just weren't me anymore, so I was almost set free."

Buoyed by a bit of female bonding, and a newly discovered mutual love of Dior (she's got a coat, I've got a key ring), we conquer the rest of the Maria Luisa empire on the rue du Mont-Thabor. There are gorgeous Manolos at the accessories store and pricey T-shirts at the diffusion shop, and I find myself rhapsodising over a silk clutch, printed with brightly coloured feathers. Susan begins to get a feel for what I like. "Once I understand someone's style, I can adjust my days accordingly," she explains.

So then it's plain sailing to Colette, the original Paris concept store, with books and collectable art pieces downstairs and a trendy, young range of clothes upstairs. Susan introduces me to the rather beautiful Guillame who works here, and we scout the store together. "Eeet's ze kind of store where everyone finds something, - even ze paintings are for sayel," he rasps. Reluctant as I am to leave, we still have Jar perfumes, Stephane Marais make-up and Johanne Riss gowns to take in before lunch. And we're walking. I bid au revoir to beautiful Guillame and his beautiful store and we do a whirlwind tour on the hunt for accessories.

By Lunchtinme, I'm starving and still shopping-less. Apparently, Susan can go right through but I feel I'm entitled to a few carbs. We head for L'Avenue, Paris's hippest haunt and the restaurant Eva Herzigova chose for her Fashion Week party. We sit down and Susan requests a green bean and tomato salad, but the menu gets the better of me and I'm soon staring guiltily at a club sandwich. Susan visibly baulks and, after one bean and a half-hour rest, it becomes apparent that she has no intention of eating another bite. She's not here for the food anyway. "I love watching the French women. They all look great - glossy hair, perfect skin, gorgeous clothes." I look round, and see lots of beautiful women staring at untouched bean and tomato salads.

Checking out the price tags on the big shopping streets has been fun, but I'm anxious to see something a little more quirky (you don't say "cheap" around Susan), so we head to the understated rue de Grenelles, which has recently become home to several stores in the Sonia Rykiel empire. We haven't spent long at Sonia Rykiel Woman, when I learn that something other than retail therapy gives Susan her joie de vivre. She points animatedly at a sign which says "Mineurs interdit" and motions me into the basement. Downstairs an array of sex toys are displayed on velvet cushions. The whole thing is strangely reminiscent of the crown jewel's. Susan picks up a lipstick, turns the bottom and points it at me as it starts to whir alarmingly. "I bought one of these last time I was in Paris," she says naughtily. I laugh politely, but my British reserve has surfaced, and I'm blushing furiously.

Our last stop of the day requires a taxi ride to the bohemian Marais district. My feet are ready to fall off and I'm quite happy to skip this part and head for bed, but Susan is convinced I'll find something perfect in this one. At the very least, she's determined to conquer my fear of intimidating Parisian stores. And she's picked the scariest of the bunch. Behind frosted doors, a receptionist announces that we've arrived at Armand Hadida. Even Susan's feeling a little shy. "Is it alright to go through?" she asks, pointing to a screen. The receptionist motions for us to move along, and with a touch to the doors, we're in a hidden shop, accessorised with assorted beautiful people. I "umm" and "ash" politely at the tribal-influenced jewellery Susan points out. But, though I'm still infected with her enthusiasm, I'm simply exhausted. I had a taxi and bid Susan goodbye - only to see her head straight into another boutique. I guess there's just no stopping a dedicated follower of fashion.

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