A Crime of Fashion

by Carina Axelsson

  But before my aunt and Ellie had any hope of getting into our screened-off corner, Victor took the situation in hand: “I’ll take the clothes,” he said as he sprang out to stop them from looking. “No one is to see my latest creation until I say she is ready!”

  He returned with what seemed like half of the Paris shop windows in bags. Bags from Chloé, A.P.C., H&M, and Isabel Marant left barely enough space for us behind the screen.

  “This is just like Christmas!” Victor said excitedly as he looked through the bags, pulling out a jacket and a pair of trousers.

  I was just unpacking a navy pea coat when I realized Victor was trying to undress me!

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I asked as he tried to pull my trousers down.

  “Ma chérie, we must get you dressed and out of here. You are expected at Chanel in twenty minutes.”

  “That may be, but I can undress myself, thank you!”

  “From now on you are a model. And models, while on the job rarely dress themselves.”

  “What?” I mumbled as he pulled my lucky jumper up over my head.

  “Get used to it, because as a model you will be helped into and out of everything by a stylist.”

  “But why? I can dress myself.” We were now getting me into the pair of Lagerfeld jeans.

  “Well, trust me,” Victor said, as he helped me into the H&M jacket, “half the things you’ll be asked to dress in you absolutely will not be able to get in and out of alone. Plus the clothes will all be ironed and steamed just before you wear them and you’ll wrinkle them beyond recognition if you twist and turn half as much as you did just now. So unless you want to sabotage your new career,” he continued as he tugged and adjusted the jacket at my shoulders, “I suggest you get used to being helped… Ah! Et voilà!”

  Smiling, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. He pushed his enormous vintage Yves Saint Laurent glasses up his nose and peered at me from every angle. Finally, he spoke. “You look amazing – éclatant – that’s glowing, I think, in English. Now let’s go and surprise your Aunt Venetia.”

  We did. Big time. Keeping her eyes glued on me (at least, I imagined they were glued on me – as usual, she was wearing her sunglasses), she looked me over top to toe. Then I watched as she reached one arm out to the dainty cup filled with sugared almonds that lay on the reception table and her long fingers uncurled to delicately pick one up.

  “My goodness, Axelle, you certainly do wash up well,” she said, before popping the pink sweet into her mouth.

  Ellie was more forthright. “You look fantastic!” she squealed. “Your hair – and, oh my gosh – your glasses are gone too…wow! A good haircut and contacts can make such a difference.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Truth be told, I’d been frightened I’d be given a horribly short haircut. The result – thank goodness! – was a dark jagged mop that brushed my shoulders.

  As far as the clothes went, Aunt V was right – style is in the details. I mean, basically, I was wearing what I always wear – jeans and jumper and jacket with flat shoes. But the cut and fabric of the jacket, shape of the jeans, and colour of the jumper made it all so much more. And my dainty new ballerinas and the rock-star-ragged long skinny scarf Ellie had wound around my neck tied everything together nicely.

  The entire salon was now standing around staring at me. At that moment Hervé burst through the door and made his way to Aunt V. “Where is Axelle?” he asked her, standing right in front of me. “She has to sign her contract – and I have a new appointment for her.”

  All eyes turned to me as silence descended. Hervé’s eyes followed suit and slowly a look of disbelief spread across his features. “Non!” he exclaimed as he stepped back with shock. For a moment or two he stood gulping for air like a big carp out of water. “Mon Dieu!” he finally said. “Quelle différence!”

  “I’ve read through the contract, Axelle, you can sign it,” Aunt V said as I was handed a pen.

  “And word travels fast,” Hervé said excitedly. “Thanks to Ellie, everyone wants to meet you – Lanvin has already called. They’d like to see you this afternoon, and if they like you they’ll book you for their show. You’ll go straight there from Chanel. And after Lanvin, you have another new appointment at La Lune with Claude La Lune. Ellie can go with you. She has fittings at both,” he said with a smile (yes, a real smile) as he handed me my copy of the contract and slipped his copy into his folder. “I think you’ll be pretty busy this week, Axelle.”

  There was no time to celebrate my new look, though. Hervé quickly ushered me out into the courtyard and asked me to stand against one of the cream-coloured walls so that he could take my picture. “I’ll make you a temporary zed card which you can use until we get you some nice pictures,” he explained as he tried various angles. (As I knew from Aunt V, a zed card is a large card made of thick paper with a picture of the model, the name of the agency representing her, and personal information such as height and hair and eye colour.)

  “It’s a bit dark here,” he said as he snapped the first shot. “Hmm…more to the right… Ah! Yes, that’s it! Good.” He continued to click away. “Chin down a bit. More to the left. No, your left. Hmm. Okay. Now don’t smile. Good. Now a smile. Great! Take a look,” he said, as he came to me holding out his camera so I could look at the little screen on the back. Excitedly he scrolled through the photos he’d just taken. “Not bad for a first shoot.”

  “Right! Axelle, time to go.” Aunt V had just stepped out of Victor’s. She took a quick look at the new photos, then kissed me goodbye and wished me luck. “I’ll tell you about all I hear later tonight,” she said with a knowing look.

  While Hervé had been taking my picture, Victor had been busy emptying the contents of my old, worn tote bag into my new Prada shoulder bag – a gift from Aunt V. Slouchy and big enough to hold the “book” I would eventually be lugging around, it would be a necessary accessory to my new career. “You’ll see, by the end of the week it’ll be holding your entire life,” Ellie said as she untwisted the bag straps on my shoulder.

  I was now officially a model. Or, more precisely, a model under cover. The secret thrill of it coursed through me as I said it silently to myself. I was on my way to solving this case!

  Located on the Rue Cambon, directly opposite the back entrance of the Ritz Hotel, the Chanel boutique and showroom are housed in the building Coco Chanel herself chose. And upstairs, so they say, her grand apartment is still exactly as she left it.

  If I’d thought I’d be able to quietly follow Ellie in, I was mistaken. She waltzed into the boutique like an urban glamazon, commander of all she surveyed. As she exchanged hellos, she introduced me to everyone as her new friend and as a new model with Miriam’s. Finally, Ellie and I climbed Coco Chanel’s famous mirrored staircase and turned down a corridor that led us to the showroom.

  “Are you ready for your first casting?” she asked, pushing open a pair of tall double doors. “I have a good feeling about this, Axelle. I think he’s going to like you and that you and I will go down the runway together on Wednesday.” As long as it brings me closer to finding Belle, then I hope so too, I thought, as I followed her into the showroom.

  The atmosphere was buzzing with energy, models were in various states of undress, and long racks of tulle, lace and tweed dresses stood at the end of the room. The head designer and various assistants and stylists stood near a large trestle table. At least three different languages were being spoken at the same time, as rapid-fire commands and ringing telephones punctuated the frenzied air.

  “Fashion can never move too quickly.” Ellie smiled as she saw me staring.

  At that moment one of the stylists came to lead me away and Ellie moved off to say hi to the rest of the team. Ellie had briefed me on what to expect on the way over, so I knew that I was here to try a few outfits on from the new Autumn/Winter prêt-à-porter collection. The fashion calendar is always far ahead of the rest of the world so, for instance, even thou
gh spring had only just begun, it was the Autumn/Winter collection that would be shown at Fashion Week, as usual a good six months before the clothes would hit the stores. Anyway, if the outfits I tried suited me (or, rather, as the designer would phrase it, if I suited the clothes), and if I managed to walk without falling, I just might get booked to walk down the runway.

  The first thing I put on was a deceptively simple-looking dress made of cream-coloured tulle overlaid with delicate strips of cream silk. As I slipped it on over my head, Ellie came to join me. She crinkled her nose as she eyed me.

  “We forgot to get you some new underwear. I’m afraid white cotton just won’t do, Axelle – it shows through everything. Remind me to take you to Le Bon Marché for some flesh-coloured undies, would you? But first,” she whispered as the stylist walked away to find some ornament that was missing from the dress, “I’d better give you a few pointers on how to walk.”

  We both looked down at the eight-inch heels I was perched on. Even with their thick platform soles they didn’t exactly fill me with confidence.

  “I get vertigo just looking at them,” I said.

  Ellie rolled her eyes. “Don’t exaggerate. And don’t worry – it’s easy,” she said reassuringly. “What you have to do is feel the shoe. Trust yourself and you won’t fall. And, look, hold your head high, like this.” Imperceptibly she lifted her neck. I can’t tell you what she did exactly, but I could note the results: her torso was immediately elongated and her legs looked longer. “Yeah, like that. Good. Now, to walk, just do as you’d normally do. No, relax, Axelle, like normal.”

  She watched as I walked in little circles behind the clothing racks. “Don’t try to prance or exaggerate anything, just relax and let your arms swing. Feel your legs, hold your head high and trust yourself to keep your balance. Yeah, yeah, like that. Don’t think about what you look like – remember: they asked you to come here for a fitting. They want you to walk well. They want to book you. So just relax and don’t think too much about it.”

  By the time I’d taken that information in and done a few turns behind the racks, the stylist had returned with a large enamelled camellia that she pinned on my dress. “You can go out now, Axelle. They’re waiting,” she said.

  Right. Move, Axelle, move, I told myself, because the longer they wait, the more they’ll be focused on you when you step out. Gathering my courage, I took a big breath and stepped out from behind the clothing rack.

  I stepped forward with a bit of a start, but, remembering what Ellie had instructed me to do, I concentrated on advancing one step at a time until I’d carefully walked to the end of the long room, stood for a few seconds before the scorching scrutiny of the design team, and then, before fear got the better of me, I turned and walked back to the safety of the clothing rack – which I quickly ducked behind. “Well done!” Ellie whispered. “You did great!”

  With a huge sigh of relief, I fell onto a pile of discarded dresses and lay there with my face buried deep in lace. I stayed like that until I heard a crisp cough from just above me. I turned my face and pushed a velvet ribbon out of my eyes.

  “Axelle, you’d better get back up.” The stylist smiled as she offered me her hand. “They want to see you in another dress.”

  “What? In another dress?”

  “Oui. It seems they may want to book you for Wednesday’s show.”

  Ten minutes later, Ellie stifled a squeal as she high-fived me behind the dress rack. The fitting was over, Chanel wanted to confirm me. “I told you I had a good feeling about this! And watch – I bet you they’ll have us walk down the runway together – maybe we’ll even get to open the show together!”

  I wish I could have matched Ellie’s elation, but, honestly, I was exhausted after the stress of being scrutinized (how did models go through that day in and day out?) and, while I was thankful that I’d been booked, I was also feeling a good deal of anxiety at the thought of walking down Wednesday’s runway under the collective gaze of fashion’s elite. Then again, maybe now that Chanel had booked me the La Lunes would too (Aunt V always says fashionistas are like sheep). In which case jittery nerves were a small price to pay for the chance to get close to the La Lunes – and the possibility of picking up Belle’s trail.

  Ellie and I changed back into our own clothes and left. As we stepped out of the building my phone began to ring.

  “Bravo, little Axelle! Amazing! Amazing! Amazing! You are zee hot zing in Paris this week!”

  It was Hervé. After hanging up, all I could think was that fashion really was a fickle world. This very same morning, Hervé would have gladly banished me from Paris for ever, and now, six hours later, frizz-free and spectacle-less, I was “zee hot zing”.

  While Ellie didn’t find anything strange in this turn around, she did find my imitation of his accent hilarious. “Don’t worry,” she said through her laughter, “the bookers are always stressed and often insecure. But once they like you, they fight like lions to keep you happy. I admit that Hervé was not showing his prettier side this morning, but in fashion a model is only as good as her latest booking.”

  “No wonder modelling careers are so short,” I said.

  Ellie shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the same in football: a player is only as good as his last goal. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying it’s right – I’m only saying that it is what it is and the quicker you approach it with that attitude, the better you’ll be able to protect yourself.”

  She had a point – but this wasn’t the moment to discuss it.

  Then, speaking of people changing their opinions of me, my phone rang. It was Mum calling.

  “Axelle, darling, I always knew you were a star!” A frenzied stream of words gushed over the long-distance line. “I’m so proud of you, my darling! Dad is too. I’m so sorry, but I can’t come out to see you do the Chanel show or be with you at the launch of the new La Lune handbag on Wednesday night because a very important client will be flying in from Brazil to see my plans for their new pied-à-terre. But Hervé says there is a good chance you’ll be booked for the La Lune fashion show on Friday – and that one I definitely plan on making it out for. I’ve already reserved a ticket, leaving Friday morning. Then I’ll stay the weekend and we’ll go home together – that is, if you can come home. Who knows what other jobs you’ll have booked by then! Maybe Lancôme or a new perfume or Vogue! Oh, darling, it’s too exciting. Anyway, I have to go. We’ll talk later – and don’t worry, Hervé is keeping me posted on absolutely everything!”

  Thanks, Hervé.

  “Oh, and Axelle…?”

  “Yeah, Mum?”

  “Dom La Lune is so handsome. And I’ve always thought he seems like such a nice young man…”

  After that cheeseball comment about Dom, I pretended I’d lost the signal and hung up.

  “Was that your mum?” Ellie asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is she coming out? And does she know that you’re trying to find Belle?”

  “Yes, she’s coming out. And, no, she doesn’t know that I’m trying to find Belle – and I have to keep it that way. She’d be furious if she knew what I’m up to…”

  “Well, obviously I won’t give anything away. But then we’d better get cracking on the clue-gathering because, basically, you won’t be able to do any investigating once your mum gets here.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Feelings of frustration and impatience rose to the surface as I thought of Belle. Would I find her? And would I be able to get to her before it was too late?

  The Lanvin offices were a short walk from Chanel along the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. But with so much on my mind – my new booking with Chanel and impending casting with La Lune – my appointment at Lanvin went by in a blur. But, despite being distracted, the casting went well. Ellie said as much as soon as we were outside. “I’m sure you’ll get booked for Lanvin, too.” Then she put her arm through mine and led me towards the Champs élysées and Avenue Montaigne. Ellie and I decided to walk
to La Lune from Lanvin, as we had a little time before my appointment and Ellie’s fitting.

  We arrived just as the sky darkened and the first raindrops fell. The security man sitting at reception recognized Ellie and, after asking us to sign in, he waved us through. I followed Ellie up a vast stone stairwell with a delicate balustrade of gilded bronze. A plush dark green runner muffled our footsteps. Soaring above us was a cupola, its ceiling painted to look like the inside of an aviary. Jewel-toned birds flitted across the blue sky or sat silently twittering on the branches of exotic flora. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the cupola, its soft light reflected in the gold mosaic tiles embedded in the walls of the stairwell.

  We stopped on the second floor and Ellie pushed open the first pair of double doors that gave onto the landing. The scent of lilies and tuberose wafted out. The room ran the entire length of the back of the building. One side of the ballroom-like space was lined with windows overlooking a small garden. Fantastic silk curtains in a cool shade of lilac/blue (La Lune lilac) echoed the colours of the clouds outside, while the gilded panelling throughout the room glowed as it caught the last of the day’s light. Overhead, four large crystal chandeliers were ablaze with real candles. Music played loudly although there were no speakers to be seen. I did notice about six iPods lying on the large table, though.

  Ellie quickly said hi to the two other models in the room, then, taking me by the hand, made her way to Claude La Lune, Belle’s oldest brother. I recognized him from the television last night. His dark eyes were as intense as they had been on screen, but, in contrast to yesterday’s televised announcement, today he seemed completely absorbed by the work at hand. In fact, if I hadn’t known, I would never have guessed that his sister was missing. Brotherly and sad were not words that could have easily described him now. Furthermore, I learned, as Ellie whispered to me while we waited for him to finish speaking to one of the designers, “Claude’s never normally here for the castings – Belle is. He just does the company PR – although to watch him now you’d think he’s the one who always runs the shows! I’ve heard it said he’s jealous of Belle – perhaps that’s true after all.”