Christmas at Tiffany's

by Karen Swan

  Anouk took a deep breath and looked at her colleague. ‘So I would say, Florence, that you need to give my dear friend here a job for the coming season. Because your chances of getting me to sign are going to be very much higher if you can get Cassie on your side.’

  ‘I didn’t know you felt like that,’ Cassie said as they walked back over Pont Saint-Louis, the bridge that connected the two islands in the middle of the Seine – the kernels from which Paris itself had grown.

  ‘I didn’t know you felt like that,’ Anouk smiled, squeezing her arm.

  Cassie shrugged. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. It wasn’t my intention.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I guess I’ve just always felt out of step with you, as if I could never catch up. You seemed grown up even when we were children. I never thought for a minute you got anything back from me.’

  ‘Apart from compassion, humour, loyalty, steadfastness . . . apart from that, no, you’re right . . . nothing at all.’

  They stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked downriver. Two swans were gliding on the brown water beneath them.

  ‘They mate for life, you know,’ Anouk said, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘Lucky things,’ Cassie murmured.

  Anouk blew out a trail of white smoke. It disappeared instantly into the cloudy sky. ‘Are you missing him?’

  ‘Who – Gil?’ Cassie turned round and leaned against the bridge. A passing gleam of sunlight washed over her like a breath of wind. ‘Yes. And no. I’ve got used to being without him, at least. That’s where Edinburgh came in useful, I suppose. It wasn’t as if we lived in each other’s pockets. But –’ she inhaled deeply. ‘It’s the little things that catch me out. Little boys just kill me. And there was a man on the plane who was wearing Gil’s favourite tie. And on his birthday – well, I was that close to ringing, I tell you.’

  ‘You haven’t spoken to him at all?’

  ‘Uh-uh. What’s the point? We couldn’t go back even if we wanted to. Everything was built on a lie. Out of ten years of marriage, Rory was there for three of them, and I still don’t know when it actually began with Wiz. Was it two years before that? Before we even married?’ Her voice faltered and she shut her eyes quickly.

  ‘Well, I’m sure it won’t be long before he does to her what he did to you.’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘No. No, he won’t. They’re right together. I can see it now.’

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ Anouk said quietly. ‘You were the perfect wife; now you’re the perfect ex-wife.’ She looked at Cassie. ‘And Luke? Have you spoken to him yet?’

  Cassie shook her head. ‘That’s almost the harder thing. He won’t take my calls. I don’t understand why he’s so all-or-nothing. It’s just . . . over.’

  ‘Keep trying. He’ll come round. Didn’t you say he’ll be over for the shows?’

  ‘Yes, mid-Feb.’

  ‘Well, that’s only six weeks away.’

  Cassie looked at her friend. ‘It’s funny. I’d have thought you’d have said it was undignified chasing after a man like that.’

  Anouk shrugged. ‘It’s not always so easy to find someone. Sometimes, you have to break out of your comfort zone.’

  ‘I bet you’ve never begged anyone to pick up the phone.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she shrugged. ‘But maybe I should have.’ She stared blankly at a bateau-mouche chugging past, most of the orange plastic seats flipped up and empty. She finished her cigarette and stamped it out beneath her velvet ballet pumps. ‘Come. We must head over to the studio. I want to get everything set up before Katrina arrives.’

  They started walking again.

  ‘So who’s Katrina?’

  ‘Katrina Holland. Currently married to Bertie Holland, the CEO at Index Bank. She’s one of my best clients.’

  An image of a willowy blonde with plumped-up lips floated through Cassie’s mind, along with an anecdote about her preference for handsome young ‘walkers’. Had Bas known her? He was her usual source of outrageous gossip.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Manhattan and Geneva mainly, but she’s over for the couture shows next week. Dior passed her over to me, what, eight seasons ago? I’ve been designing collections for her twice yearly ever since. We go through what she orders at the shows and I come up with pieces unique to her.’

  ‘How the other half live, eh?’ They passed down the quiet streets of the Ile Saint-Louis, so much more tranquil than Ile de la Cité, where the tourists buzzed; she felt more like she was in a tiny provincial village, not one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. The island, in years gone by, had been mainly given over to fields for grazing sheep and cows, which was why there were so few houses there, and even now, Anouk had told her, when residents crossed the bridges back to the Left and Right Banks, they said they were ‘going to Paris’.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here. You could almost forget you’re in a city.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I love it so.’ They stopped outside a glossy aubergine-painted door and Anouk fished around in her bag for the key. ‘Of course, Katrina gets annoyed because there’s nowhere to land her helicopter,’ she smiled, rolling her eyes.

  They walked into a tiny hallway with black and white marble tiles on the floor and three doors flanking off it. A narrow staircase clung precariously to the right-hand wall.

  ‘Up we go again,’ Anouk said, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. She was wearing a faded red toile-print chiffon blouse with waterfall ruffles peeking through her red tweed jacket – apparently the sleeves had been spiral-cut to make them so skinny – and cropped navy trousers. Cassie caught sight of herself in the reflection of a window on the way up and was surprised – again – by her own reflection. Anouk had been right. The new colour did suit her (and, moreover, it suited Paris), but being a brunette was going to take some getting used to. And she was going to have to break it to Bas gently. He’d have a fit.

  Anouk unlocked a small door – painted the same glossy aubergine as the front door – and they stepped into a long, thin room that seemed to have hoarded every light particle that hung over Paris. They were on the top floor, and the roof section here, set back from the dormers of the neighbouring buildings, was made of glass. Crittall straps bound it together so that it looked like a miniaturized version of the famous Musée d’Orsay.

  At the far end of the room, next to the window that looked down on the courtyards at the back, was a workbench and a panoply of tools that for the life of her Cassie just couldn’t imagine Anouk using. Handling and designing diamonds, sapphires, rose quartz and coral? Yes. Bosch power tools? No.

  Anouk unlocked a safe and brought out several tobacco-coloured suede roll-bags filled with goodies. She started laying out pieces on a long box padded with black velvet – a coral lariat, a stack of turquoise cuffs, tiny rubies laced on to a delicate waist chain, a necklace made of huge rough chunks of amber and wound with rope.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Just in time,’ said Anouk, raising her eyebrows at Cassie as she passed as if to say ‘Brace yourself’. She opened the door to let the woman enter – the woman Cassie had correctly remembered as Katrina Holland. Anouk greeted her warmly but formally, and a very tall, lean man in a suit followed her in. He was incredibly handsome – almost model-like – with short nearly black hair, wide cheekbones and a narrow chin.

  ‘Eduardo Escaliente. Enchanté, madame,’ he said, kissing her hand lightly, his gaze hovering over Anouk a fraction longer than was polite.

  Cassie stood waiting by the table, suddenly wondering if she shouldn’t leave. No doubt Katrina Holland would expect this to be a private appointment.

  ‘And who is this?’ Katrina asked, staring at her. Eduardo looked over too and Cassie felt herself blush under their combined scrutiny.

  ‘May I introduce Cassie Fraser from the marketing department at Dior. We were just going over a few things for the upcoming shows. Cassie, this is Mrs Holland and Señor Escaliente.’
>
  Cassie shook hands politely.

  Katrina kept her hand in her grasp. She was staring at her intently. ‘So you work at Dior? Tell me, how are they in the atelier?’

  Cassie picked up a flinty note in her voice. ‘Uh, well, busy,’ Cassie bluffed. She wasn’t starting her new job till tomorrow, so she had nothing to go on but her recollections of the mania surrounding the run-up to Bebe’s show. ‘Will you be going to the show, madame?’

  ‘No. I only do Valentino and Chanel,’ Katrina sniffed.

  ‘Oh? But I thought Anouk said she was introduced to you—’

  ‘Through Dior, yes,’ Anouk said, interrupting quickly. ‘But then, ah . . . there was an unfortunate coincidence at the Elysée Palace.’

  ‘They had assured me I was the only person to have placed an order for that dress,’ Katrina said tightly, her nose in the air. ‘And so I was. But Madame Sarkozy had borrowed the show sample.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I haven’t bought from them since.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ Cassie said solemnly, taking her cue from the discreet widening of Anouk’s eyes (like she’d always done at school when they’d been caught passing notes in class) to close the subject down. ‘They must regret their mistake very much.’

  ‘I’m surprised you don’t know,’ Katrina said. ‘I would have thought all Dior employees would know who its most valuable former clients were.’

  ‘Ah, well, Cassie is new to Paris,’ Anouk smiled. ‘She arrived from New York only yesterday.’

  Katrina looked back at Cassie. ‘New York? Really?’

  ‘Yes. But if you will excuse me, I’ll give you some privacy,’ Cassie said, eager to make her escape. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Holland, Señor Escaliente. À bientôt, Anouk.’

  Anouk took her to the door, passing the keys to her as they kissed goodbye.

  Cassie wandered down the stairs and back out into the street. A bicycle was chained up against a drainpipe opposite, a stray dog cocking its leg on the back wheel. She took her phone out of her pocket and tried Luke’s number again.

  ‘This number is no longer in service . . . This number is . . .’

  She turned it off, getting the message loud and clear.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dropping her bag into the basket at the front, Cassie looked all around her before setting off. The first time she’d done this she’d nearly been run over by a Fiat 500 with a 92-year-old man at the wheel, but now it was that heavenly time of day – five-thirty in the afternoon – when the city-dwellers were attending to ‘matters of love’ and the roads were quiet. It wasn’t as if she had far to go – the flower market was just over the other side of the bridge – and she was enjoying cycling here. The basket would come in handy, for she certainly wouldn’t be able to carry all the flowers back and see where she was going.

  She’d been here for two weeks now, and amongst the other things she’d learnt – that matching your bra and knickers does make you feel more together; that red wine reduces heartache (or was that heart disease?); that weekly facials are more important than weekly blow-dries; that running is bad for you, but hammams are not – was that opulent flower arrangements are the absolute cornerstone of civilization. And tonight needed to be very civilized. Tonight was her official ‘coming out’ party when she’d meet Anouk’s friends.

  Up till now, the two of them had been closeted away, enjoying quiet suppers at Anouk’s apartment. Cassie hadn’t felt up to socializing and meeting more new people so soon after leaving a dear bunch of others, to say nothing of the effect Luke’s new voicemail message had had on her. It had propelled her straight back to all the feelings of insecurity that had plagued her in the wake of Gil’s rejection.

  Anouk’s defence had been immediate and comprehensive, as she imparted all her most closely guarded beauty secrets to help her rebuild her self-esteem. It turned out that going brunette had only been the start of it, and most of the time Cassie felt like Eliza Doolittle being dragged from urchin flower-seller to society lady as she had to relearn – in direct defiance of Kelly’s advice – never to wear lipstick before eight p.m. but always to have coloured nails; to choose a statement scarf or necklace over a trophy bag; and to wear coloured, matching lingerie rather than T-shirt bras and seamless pants.

  And it seemed to be working. As she began to look better, so she began to feel better. Her skin glowed because she wasn’t getting up at dawn to run, and although Anouk wouldn’t admit outright that carbs were banned, the ‘pure protein’ Dukan diet they were following meant she wasn’t permanently hungry any more, so she didn’t care, and her hair shone because it was nourished like a child and wasn’t being permanently touched up (sorry, Bas). In fact the difference in her appearance was so radical that she was too nervous to Skype Kelly or Suzy. She was pretending that Anouk’s connection was down and she could only phone instead.

  She pedalled over the isles’ connecting bridge, wondering what to buy. In the lobby at the LVMH headquarters, she was almost ambushed by the overflowing bowls of peonies in pinks, lilacs and reds. But they weren’t seasonal. No doubt they were shipped in by private jet, and she’d have to make do with some early daffodils.

  She glided down the Quai aux Fleurs, on the opposite side of the isle to Notre Dame, until she came to the encampment of flower stalls, all hooded with blue polythene covers, where the ground was permanently awash with water from overturned buckets. She turned into the aisles and swung her leg over the saddle, wheeling along with just one foot on the pedal as she scanned the profusion of roses, lilies, tulips and early narcissi, which all bent forward provocatively, displaying their lush beauty with all the shamelessness of the burlesque dancers in the Pigalle.

  A rack of densely bunched lemon-cream roses with long stems caught her eye. She scanned the rest of the stall for something to contrast them with and found an untouched bucket of lilacs nestling between some double-headed tulips. She bought two dozen of the roses and the same again of the lilacs, and rested them in the panier, having to secure the roses – which were so tall they nearly toppled out again – with a carefully positioned baguette between the handlebars.

  She pedalled slowly, in no rush to get back, just enjoying being out and about in this new city, absorbing the smells, taking in the noises. The biggest adjustment was getting used to having the sky just above her again. The Manhattan skyscrapers always seemed to push it up and away, but here it was within touching distance, as much a part of the city as the buildings and river that ran through it.

  The lights on the Pont d’Arcole turned red and she eased to a stop beside the other bikes at the front, her head full of the seating plan and trying to remember who was ‘with’ whom, so the bus was almost past her before she realized what she was seeing.

  She looked on, astonished, as it heaved on to the bridge, that strip of dazzling sunshine along its side, the flash of red silk as shocking now as it had been on that grey November day in Luke’s apartment. She looked around and saw some of the other cyclists and pedestrians follow the image with their eyes. None of them noticed that the model herself was standing next to them. Why would they? She was brunette now, an entirely different creature, the new, updated European version. Only her eyes – with their hesitancy, their caution, that sense of wanting to let go but not being able to – gave her away as a girl on the run.

  ‘It’s for you,’ Anouk said, popping her head around the door. Cassie was standing in front of the mirror, anxiously scrutinizing her reflection for the hundredth time. She was wearing black narrow trousers, a tuxedo jacket and an Isabel Marant bronze sequinned vest that scooped at the front and swung at the hem. Her jacket sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and Anouk had lent her a couple of huge copper bangles.

  Anouk dropped her head against the door frame and smiled proudly. ‘If I had known what a difference a fortnight could make, I’d have snatched you off Gil years ago. Such a waste.’ She disappeared again. ‘Come along,’ she called.

&nbs
p; ‘Who is it?’ Cassie asked, skittering after her, fiddling anxiously with the bangles. One on each wrist? Or both on one arm? She felt ridiculously nervous. ‘I didn’t hear the phone ring.’

  ‘That’s because it didn’t!’ said a voice from the console.

  Oh no, not again. Cassie looked over at the laptop. Suzy was beaming out from it – at least she was till her jaw hit the floor.

  ‘You have got to be kidding!’

  A long, long silence drew a line between the two of them as Suzy tried to believe her eyes.

  ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she gasped. ‘You look like an entirely different person. I mean . . . New York was a stretch. All the black and the ultra-blonde. But it was still you. I can’t believe you’ve crossed over to the other side.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Going dark. Blonde was you, Cass. It suited you – your nature.’

  ‘You think this doesn’t?’ Cassie asked, her customary feeling of panic creeping up on her.

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ she sighed. ‘You look amazing! Totally amazing! It’s just everything. The way you’re dressed, your make-up. You’re even moving differently again. What has she done – put you on wheels? . . . Nooks!’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen. We’re having a dinner party.’

  ‘Not sitting on the floor, I take it?’ she joked. Then her eyes widened at the accompanying thought. ‘Ooooh, has Kelly seen you?’

  Cassie grimaced. ‘No. I’ve been—’

  ‘Hiding? Yeah, and now I know why. I knew something was up. I just thought it was because you were pining for Luke.’

  ‘Tch, not much point doing that,’ Cassie said, shifting her weight. ‘He’s made his position perfectly clear.’

  ‘Sorry, babe.’

  Cassie shrugged, coming over as much more blasé than she actually felt. ‘It’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me recently. I’ll get over it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have to,’ Suzy muttered darkly.