“Okay, I’ll sign up for the job.”
Really cute. Why hadn’t I…never mind. Case to solve, remember, Axelle? “Great! I’ll ask my aunt to have a ticket for you at the door.”
“And what about Dom? Aren’t you seeing him?”
Oops. I’d completely forgotten I’d said yes to some time with he of the gorgeous green eyes. He’d called this morning while I’d been backstage at Lanvin. I wasn’t even sure what I’d said, but I did remember it was something in the affirmative. “I believe we’re on for later.”
Sebastian didn’t say anything although I did see his eyebrows go up a fraction. Then he quickly shrugged his shoulders and got on his scooter. I climbed on behind him, my model bag between us, and we zoomed off to the Grand Palais, site of the Chanel show. On the way, I spotted a bookshop and got Sebastian to pull over so I could buy a book on the architect Le Vau. I was sure Darius must have stumbled across something and Le Vau was the only clue I had to his disappearance.
Five minutes later and I was at the grand exhibition hall. Sebastian slowed down just in front of the steps leading to the main entrance. Everything was cordoned off and there was security standing all over the place. The Chanel show was one of the most prestigious – lots of people tried to crash it, hence the heavy security. Sebastian waited for me to push my way to the entrance. At the top I showed the guard my ID and was whisked behind the red rope. I quickly turned to give Sebastian a last wave, and saw him speed away, before I followed the signs to hair and make-up.
It was just as loud and chaotic backstage at Chanel as it had been in the morning at Lanvin. Ellie was getting her hair done. “Oh my gosh, Axelle – look, you have to see my new website!” She whipped out her phone and I strained my eyes to look at her image on the tiny screen. Even when only a centimetre tall, she looked amazing.
“What do you think?”
“I think that if you stayed that size and we attached tiny butterfly wings to your back, you’d make a beautiful fairy.”
“That’s what I like about you, Axelle,” she said, laughing, “you have such a funny way of looking at things! I’m going to have a link connecting my site to Alejandro’s site,” she said, with a nod to the hairdresser bent over her in full concentration. “Alejandro’s Spanish and he’s the best. You wouldn’t know it from looking at his hair, but he is.”
She was right: his hair was wild. He looked like a lion with an electrified mane. He also wore more silver jewellery than anyone I’d ever seen. Silver earrings, rings and bracelets covered whatever patches of skin his clothing left bare. It was a testament to his strength that even with all that silver weighing him down, he still managed to wield a heavy professional hairdryer all day long.
“By the way, Rose is here somewhere,” Ellie said.
“She is? Where did you see her?” I asked.
“Hmm…she was over by the buffet table, wasn’t she, Alejandro?” Ellie directed her gaze at the hairdresser’s image in the mirror.
“Yes, and she’s probably still there,” he answered through a mouthful of hairpins.
She was. I made a beeline for her as soon as I spotted her. Or rather, as soon as I had assured myself that it was indeed her, because she looked like a totally new Rose; in fact, she looked fantastic. And it was her hair that made me say that. In place of the overgrown, tumbleweed-like growth I’d seen attached to her head before, an elegantly shaped mass of slinky, swishy femme-fatale hair swung provocatively. Dom had been right: she’d gone from one extreme to the other. Why?
I went up to her. “Hi, Axelle!” she said. Not only did she remember me from the photo shoot yesterday, she also seemed genuinely delighted to see me – almost desperately so – which I found odd considering this was her world, not mine. But one thing I’d noticed was that even fashion people were intimidated by fashion, so I could imagine that for someone like Rose, who was naturally shy and dealt primarily with the office side of things, fashion was terrifying. “I usually never go to the shows – except our own, of course – but Claude has too much to do, what with the launch of the Juno bag tonight, so he gave me his ticket.” She was nervous, and as she twisted and shifted her weight from leg to leg she kept hitting people with the enormous bag hanging from her shoulder. “My computer,” she said by way of explanation.
“Dom told me you’re taking Spanish lessons. That sounds like fun,” I said.
“Spanish?” she blushed. “Ah…yes. Es muy divertido, gracias. I’m thinking of starting German next.”
“You must really like languages. But why Spanish? Have you spent much time in Spain?”
Again she blushed. “Why, yes,” she said as she started searching through her enormous bag, “I’m interested in languages. But, no, I’ve never been to Spain – ah, maybe just once or twice.” She found her phone and brought it up to her face to peer at the screen. An assortment of bracelets – including one in leather with a tiny silver heart that looked like one I’d seen somewhere before – slid down her wrist and caught on her sleeve. “Axelle, I’m sorry, but I have to make a call now. Business. But it was really nice talking to you. See you on Friday at our show,” she said as she began punching in numbers.
I watched her curiously as she turned her back to me and walked away, but before I could give it more thought, Ellie came to tell me that Thierry was looking for me. It was make-up time.
Chanel turned out a collection of tweed suits perfect for an English country house mystery – although the sky-high heels and ultra-short skirts would definitely have made the local villagers raise their eyebrows.
I was prepared this time for the dozens of flashbulbs that would be waiting for me at the end of the runway. Hips thrust forward as I’d seen Ellie do, I bounded along, pearls swaying and eyes narrowed, as I looked at the crowd without noticing it (if you know what I mean). This time, when I reached the end of the runway, I heard my name called out – the photographers were beginning to recognize me. I stopped in front of them, placed my hands on my hips and shifted my weight from leg to leg. I held my head high and let my gaze settle far beyond and above their heads.
After a few moments of that I turned around and headed back towards the curtain. Fleetingly I saw my aunt out of the corner of my eye – not that she made any effort to notice me. On the contrary, she ignored me completely – just as she had at the show this morning – although I had no doubt she was scrutinizing everything I was wearing and doing. Nothing gets in the way of Aunt V’s professionalism. On the runway I was just another model – nothing more.
The show went well. Or, as Ellie put it: “You went well, Axelle. No one could have guessed that you just did your first show this morning.”
A few days ago I would have said, “Yeah, yeah, how difficult can it be to walk back and forth on a runway?” But the last forty-eight hours had taught me that modelling was tough work, and making the clothes look striking for the fashionistas sitting in the front rows was no easy task. And while I was under no illusion that I was the next big name, I was ready to admit that my long, gangly legs were better suited to this job than I’d ever thought.
Not that I’d EVER repeat that to my mum.
As soon as Chanel’s head designer had walked his turn on the runway and we returned backstage, I changed into my own clothes. As I swung my bag over my shoulder, I saw Rose talking to Alejandro and a couple of the other hairdressers. She must have stayed backstage all along…and yet earlier she’d told me that Claude had given her his ticket so that she could see the show. So what had she been doing all this time? And why had she come if it wasn’t to see the show?
My phone suddenly rang. Please let it be Aunt V, I thought as I fished it out of my bag. It was.
“I thought you did very well,” she purred. She was in her car. “I would have gone backstage to say so but I have to be at the Jean-Paul Gaultier show in five minutes. That long powdery pink evening dress you wore really suited you. In fact, Axelle, if I were you, I’d work a bit more colour into my wardrobe –
although, as I’m sure you’re learning this week, black is best. Those schoolgirl colours you’ve always insisted on wearing do absolutely nothing for you. However, even an all-black wardrobe can use a bit of perking up. A scarf or a pair of shoes or something in a shot of colour—”
“Aunt Venetia,” I said cutting her off, “have you had any feedback yet from our search?”
“Yes, I have. I was just about to get to that. Unfortunately, we haven’t found a trace of anyone called Violette Roux. Blossom was very thorough and applied a lot of pressure – but nothing came up anywhere. It was too long ago. I’m sorry. For you and me. What’ll you do now?”
“I don’t know…”
“Well, let’s talk more about it later. By the way, if you’re on your way home would you please be careful with the boxes in the hall? They’re some new paintings I’ve bought at auction. Don’t touch them.”
“No problem – I won’t. But…”
“But what, Axelle?”
“Well, not to be nosy, but…what do you do with all the stuff – all the art you buy?”
“Haven’t you noticed my walls, Axelle?”
“Your walls?”
“Yes, my walls. They’re covered with art.”
“Exactly. So where are you going to hang all the new stuff coming in…?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make space,” she said crisply. That was obviously the end of that conversation. There was a beat of silence while she geared up for the question I knew was coming next. “Oh, and, Axelle?”
“Yes?”
“What will you be wearing tonight?”
Some things, at least, never change…
I was happy to go home. Apart from Carmen, Aunt V’s housekeeper, who was in the kitchen, the apartment was empty. I quickly said hello to her, then walked to my bedroom, slipped out of my jacket and lay on the bed. The muffled sound of the evening traffic on the Boulevard St. Germain wafted in through the gaps around the old windows. Outside, the last of the bright blue afternoon sky had faded into soft shades of purple and orange, tingeing the edges of the neighbouring rooftops with light. As I contemplated the pretty colours, a heavy, hairy weight flung itself on me and then proceeded to sprawl across my belly. It was Miu Miu. She’d decided to forgo the possibility of a tidbit from Carmen in order to say hello to me. For that she deserved a good scratch behind her ears – which I promptly gave her.
What bad luck not to have found a fresh trace of Violette… As I lay looking up at the ceiling, the various bits of information that I’d gathered weaved in and out of my thoughts. My gut told me that the clue Darius had left – his note of four words: Belle, Le Vau, passages – was still the strongest, even if I wasn’t close to figuring it out.
Added to that were Belle’s missing velvet platform shoe, the letters CAT in Claude’s agenda, Rose’s suddenly uncharacteristic (according to Dom and my aunt – and they should know) behaviour and hairstyle, and Fiona’s cryptic allusion to family rifts. What had she said as I’d listened at the chimney flue on Monday evening? “Everything else must wait…we can sort things out later…between ourselves…” What did she mean by that?
Plus, of course, there was also the mysterious David le Néanar, whose tracks we seemed to be following – and there was still the issue of how Belle and Darius had disappeared. And the timing of the disappearances… I let my mind wander a bit more, happy to be on my bed, to just think quietly.
After some minutes, the image of the fine leather-and-silver bracelet Rose had been wearing came to mind. I sat up, surprised, chewing over my new idea. Could it really be that? I thought. It certainly explained a lot of things. The Spanish lessons, the slinky hair and flushed cheeks. What was it she’d said Monday night? “We’re all greedy – and our greed is waking the curse!” Yes, she’d definitely sounded guilty – and I thought I knew why. I stretched out on my bed and baited Miu Miu with my foot. Yes, I thought, if what I think is right, despite what her family think, Rose’s behaviour isn’t erratic or strange. On the contrary, it makes perfect sense…
Content with my theory, I leaned back against my pillows and opened the book on Le Vau. I got as far as the table of contents before the need for a nap overcame me.
I awoke to the smell of the roast chicken Carmen had made me for dinner. She beamed with pleasure as she watched me devour half of the chicken without pausing for breath. It was served with rice and vegetables and for dessert she’d made me my favourite – île flottante: mountains of fluffy, sweetened egg whites floating in a bowl full of the palest, creamiest vanilla sauce. It may sound strange but, trust me, it tastes amazing. I wolfed down enough for two.
“Now we have to fit you into your dress – if we can!” Carmen smiled.
Aunt Venetia had obviously been worried after we’d spoken earlier, as she’d asked her office to send me a dress from the editorial racks at Chic: Paris to borrow for the evening. They usually had several that had either just been, or were going to be, photographed for a Chic magazine spread.
Carmen had already taken it out of its garment bag. It hung, freshly steamed, on a hook in Aunt V’s dressing room. I quickly slipped out of my jeans and jumper, stepped into the dress, and then stood still as Carmen hovered around me, adjusting the dress so that it hung correctly in all the right places.
Aunt V’s dressing room is amazing. Just standing in it made me feel glamorous. The closets are highly polished maple, while the walls are painted in subtle shades of cream and beige. In the middle of the room stands an art deco table bearing an ever-present vase of white calla lilies. A crystal chandelier sparkles above it. The room’s muted luxury never fails to absorb whatever stress you walk in with. I remember my mum (who decorated it) being delighted when an interiors magazine likened it to an urban butterfly’s sleek cocoon.
I stood near my aunt’s dressing table, my arms held out from my sides, as Carmen made her adjustments. I was looking at a pair of large black-and-white photographs hanging on either side of the door on the opposite wall. They depicted Aunt Venetia’s all-time favourite fashionista, Diana Vreeland, the famous fashion editor. In one her hawklike profile was captured for posterity, looking like a Japanese kabuki mask. There was absolutely nothing natural-looking about her heavily powdered skin or dark lacquered hair. It’s style, she seemed to say, that’s immortal – not skin and hair.
She had a point.
Carmen was now checking that no impudent bits of dust, thread or lint were still clinging to my dress. Meanwhile I was looking at the other print of Ms Vreeland; this one showed her posing next to an enormous silk and silver dress, obviously in a museum somewhere. And, as in the other photograph, she was dressed in chic, graphic separates, her kabuki-style hair and make-up perfectly in place. For as long as I can remember these two photographs have accompanied my aunt from flat to flat.
Finally Carmen turned me around to face the three-sided mirror she had just unfolded. The dress was lovely: a one-shouldered, emerald green, bias-cut, satin show-stealer. Nothing detracted from its fluid line; there was no ruffling, pattern, trim, or contrast to distract from its clean cut and vivid colour.
It was elegant and sophisticated. It exuded glamour and urban cool…it was many things…except me.
I stood looking at myself the way Halley does at home when she thinks I’m hiding a biscuit in my hand: she cocks her head from one side to the other, furrowing her brows, until I open my hand and give her what she knows is there.
Now I stood, cocking my head from side to side, waiting for the dress to look like me. Carmen was getting fidgety.
“Don’t worry, Carmen,” I said, “I like it…it’s just that it’s not quite me enough yet.” Then I remembered something Ellie had told me the other day: that style is all about contrast.
I went to my room and yanked my beaten-up leather jacket out of the closet. Ha! Now there was contrast! Next I kicked off the beautiful but painful heels I was wearing and instead donned my well-worn combat boots. More contrast!
I went back to my aunt’s dressing room to have a good look. Hmm… Better…but something was still missing… Ah! That was it!
But could I?
Should I?
Yes and no were the answers to both questions. And yes won out. I walked to my aunt’s dressing table, opened the top drawer and found what I was looking for. I took them out and went back to the mirror. Carmen watched in horror as I used the scissors to make a cut in the hem of the dress. Then, holding the material between my hands, I tore the silk satin to a more suitable length. The new, ragged hemline hung midway between my thighs and my knees. I liked it!
Mission accomplished – I felt like me! I had dressed it down, roughed it up, and – importantly – thanks to my boots, I was now also ready for action. In those heels there was no way I could have run after anyone should the need arise.
Carmen stood, mouth agape, holding the ripped-off length of the dress. Hopefully she’d find her voice by morning. Quickly I thanked her, and told her the dress now looked almost as good as her chicken had tasted. Then I looked at my watch and flew down the stairs. I could hear Ellie beeping outside – she’d offered to pick me up along with Victor the hairdresser.
The Juno bag was to be launched at the enormous La Lune flagship store on the Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré. Traffic was terrible and when we arrived I understood why: not only had all of the crème de la crème of the fashion, music and cinema worlds been invited, but hundreds of people had turned out to watch the long parade of movie stars, pop stars and supermodels. Banners with the blackbird logo lined the entire block and behind the long red ropes set up along the sidewalks security were kept busy checking invitation cards and guest lists. The paparazzi were relegated to their own area behind a red rope to the right of the entrance.
As we approached the red carpet, the paparazzi began calling out Ellie’s name. I went on ahead while she and Victor answered questions and obliged the photographers. Sebastian was waiting just inside – as promised, my aunt had organized him a ticket. I was surprised to see him dressed in a shirt and jacket – although, if everyone else was dressed up, why wouldn’t he be? Besides, it suited him. And it contrasted nicely – there was that word again! – with his scooter-boy hair and sardonic smile.
A Crime of Fashion Page 16