by Carrie Duffy
‘Thanks, Aidan,’ Alyson grinned shyly, as she grabbed her bag and slipped out of the door, stepping into the bustle of the busy street.
It was a beautiful day and she decided to walk, eager to see as much of the city as she could. She took a left and followed the curve of the river. Heavy sycamore trees swayed gently in the light breeze as the traffic rumbled incessantly on the other side of the Seine.
A group of young Parisians, not much older than herself, whizzed by on rollerblades, their bronzed limbs sleek and toned as they yelled to each other. Their French was rapid and full of slang, but Alyson was learning fast, the colloquial phrases quickly becoming familiar to her. Yeah, she was really making progress, she thought happily, as she strolled along enjoying the warm spring sunshine.
‘Mademoiselle?’
Alyson felt a hand on her arm and turned sharply. A man stood in front of her, nervously clearing his throat. He was in his forties, a touch overweight and beginning to go bald. There were sweat patches under the armpits of his shirt, and the top of his head barely came up to her chin. ‘Vous avez l’heure?’ he asked.
Alyson checked her watch. ‘Oui. Quinze heures trente.’ She went to move on, but the man stopped her.
‘Vous êtes très belle, mademoiselle. Vous voulez prendre un café avec moi?’
Alyson reddened, looking away sharply. ‘Non, merci.’ She began to walk off. The guy watched her go for a moment, as though considering whether or not to pursue her. He decided not to. He didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.
The incident had unsettled Alyson. She hated the way men came on to her like that. It had happened ever since she’d arrived in Paris. They would follow her down the street, hit on her when she was sitting in the park reading a book – even chat her up when she was in the launderette, trying to wash her clothes She knew that the French reputation was legendary when it came to romance, but so far all she’d encountered were a bunch of sleazeballs with appalling chat-up lines. Besides, she’d lost her trust in men when her father had walked out on them …
Angrily, Alyson stomped up the stone steps of the American Church, trying to banish the unhappy memories. Away from the road it was quiet, and the cloisters were cool after the heat of the street. Shading her eyes from the sun reflecting off the windows, Alyson skimmed the ‘To Let’ adverts. There was very little that was suitable – too small, too expensive, too far out of the city. But then her eye landed on one that sounded exactly what she was looking for. She took her new mobile out of her bag and dialled the number.
‘Oh yeah, baby, that’s right …’
‘Fuck,’ swore Dionne, as her cell phone began to ring, completely distracting her from the job in hand.
‘Laisse tomber!’ David shouted to her. ‘Leave it, Dionne.’
‘It could be important,’ she protested, climbing off him. ‘A job or something.’
David Mouret, dark and gorgeous with a body to die for, lay back heavily on the black satin sheets, his unsated cock rock-hard and throbbing in frustration.
‘Come on, Dionne,’ he pleaded, in heavily accented English. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Just shut up for a moment,’ she snapped, rummaging through her purse. ‘Shit,’ she swore again as the phone stopped ringing.
‘Thank Christ for that. Perhaps now we go back to fucking, yes?’
‘Wait! Maybe they’ll leave a message.’
David sighed as Dionne tapped her nails impatiently. Her phone beeped and she pounced on it.
‘Hello? Hi, this is … well, my name’s Alyson,’ stammered the girl at the other end. ‘I’m phoning about the flat-share you’re advertising.’
Dionne groaned, feeling something inside her sink. She had hoped it would be from her modelling agent, but it was just some girl with a weird voice calling about the apartment.
‘If the room’s still available, I’d be interested in viewing it. You can call me on my mobile …’ – A mobile? She must be British. And check that accent! – ‘… and just leave a message if I’m at work. My name’s Alyson Wakefield and I look forward to speaking with you soon. Thank you.’
Dionne hung up. She could phone the girl later; right now, she had David to attend to. CeCe had been right when she said that he adored her, but Dionne knew she had to keep him sweet. She was counting on him to take her out for dinner later, then onto the hot new club, Bijou, so she could get another look at the luscious guy who owned the place.
Moving across the bed, Dionne placed one manicured fingernail firmly on the dark, wiry hairs on David’s chest and gently pushed him backwards. He let out a groan as Dionne began to kiss his stomach, teasing the soft hair on his belly, until her lips gradually worked lower, and David Mouret remembered exactly why he bought her all those expensive presents …
5
‘Is that it?’ Dionne asked incredulously, as Alyson came into the apartment carrying a single suitcase.
‘Yeah,’ Alyson nodded self-consciously, wondering what all the fuss was about.
‘Honey, I take more than that for a weekend in Cannes.’
‘I don’t have … I don’t need a lot of stuff,’ Alyson explained. It was true – she carried the bare minimum of clothes, only the essential cosmetics. She had a couple of books, including the French dictionary she’d used at school, three pairs of shoes and one handbag. No photos, no keepsakes. She’d taken very little when she left home.
‘Maybe I could take over some of your closet space …,’ Dionne wondered, but broke off as a bedroom door opened and another girl staggered out. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her eyes were barely open, narrowed into tiny slits. One side of her head was shaved, but the hair on the other side was sticking out at crazy angles. It looked as though she’d just woken up.
‘Hey, I’m CeCe,’ she said warmly, kissing Alyson on both cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Dionne apologized. ‘We had a big night last night, and poor CeCe’s still feelin’ it.’
‘It was wild,’ CeCe added, by way of explanation.
‘Sounds like fun …’
‘Oh, it was,’ Dionne assured her. ‘Nobody parties harder than me and CeCe. We’re legends in this city. Anyway,’ she chattered on. ‘Your room’s through here – but you already know that …’
Alyson followed them along the corridor, looking around her as she took in her new home. She’d seen the apartment before, when she came to view it, but that had been brief and Dionne hadn’t stopped talking. Although the whole place was beautifully decorated, it was also incredibly cluttered – half-finished garments, rolls of material and fashion magazines dominated the communal areas. Alyson began to think it was a good thing she hadn’t brought much with her: space was clearly at a premium.
She dumped her suitcase on the single bed, padding across to the window to look out at the view. It was far from spectacular. Instead of a skyline vista over the rooftops of Paris, Alyson’s room looked out on a small courtyard where the refuse bins were stored, a couple of long-forgotten pot plants wilting in the corner. It was hardly the Parisian dream.
She turned round to find Dionne and CeCe standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly.
‘Shall we help you unpack?’ Dionne asked brightly. ‘Not that it’ll take long …’
Alyson thought about it, a sudden embarrassing vision of them going through her secondhand clothes and greying underwear. ‘It’s fine,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll do it later.’
‘Sure. Come through, sit down, let’s get to know each other,’ grinned Dionne, grabbing her hand and pulling her back through to the lounge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Yeah, that’d be great.’
‘Oh my God, I love your accent,’ Dionne squealed. ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ she repeated, trying, and failing, to imitate Alyson’s flat Lancashire vowels. ‘It’s just too cute! So what would you like? We have champagne, wine, gin, vodka, brandy … There’s probably some other stuff lying aroun
d, but I wouldn’t recommend the absinthe.’ She pulled a face.
Alyson smiled, assuming she was joking. But Dionne was staring at her, waiting for a response.
Alyson checked the clock on the wall – just gone eleven a.m. ‘Um … do you have anything nonalcoholic?’ she ventured, wondering if she was making some kind of terrible faux pas.
‘Oh, sure. Will coffee do ya? CeCe looks like she could do with some.’
CeCe, curled up in a chair with her eyes closed, merely grunted.
‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ Alyson said politely.
‘You got it.’
As Dionne left the room, Alyson turned to CeCe, who was dragging herself upright, wincing at the light as she tried to open her eyes. She reached out to the coffee table, fumbling for a pair of Ray-Bans.
‘Sorry for being shit,’ she apologized as she pulled on the sunglasses, the phrase sounding odd in her strong French accent. ‘We go out a lot. Last night was a killer.’
‘That’s okay,’ Alyson said easily. ‘Hopefully the coffee will help.’
‘I think I need a triple shot,’ she groaned. ‘I’ve developed an immunity.’
Alyson smiled, unsure of what to say next. ‘Dionne said you’re a fashion designer,’ she commented, trying to start a conversation.
‘Yes. Undiscovered, but hopeful,’ CeCe grinned. She seemed to sit up straighter, her face becoming animated as she talked about her work. ‘I love it so much – the creative process, making something beautiful, something totally original and unique. It’s my life,’ she finished, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Alyson. Alyson shook her head. ‘And you? Are you interested in fashion?’
‘Um … not really,’ she admitted.
‘Ah, that will change,’ CeCe asserted confidently. ‘When you live here, in this apartment, you cannot help but be consumed by it. You will become a true, chic, Parisian woman.’ She smiled at the look of doubt on Alyson’s face. ‘So, Alyson, tell me about you. You do not love fashion, so what do you do?’
‘Well, at the moment I work in a bar,’ she explained, her tone apologetic.
‘No problem,’ CeCe shook her head. ‘Do not ever apologize for yourself. After all, that is not where you are going to finish, yes? All of us, we are starting at the bottom, but we have our dreams, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Right,’ Alyson agreed, feeling a huge surge of relief and unexpected kinship towards this girl. Finally, someone who understood that she wanted something more out of life!
‘So what is your plan?’ asked CeCe, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette in a long stream. ‘What is the grand ambition of Alyson?’
‘I’m interested in business, actually – the corporate world,’ Alyson confessed. ‘I think it seems really fast-moving and exciting.’
‘Perhaps not the words I would use to describe it, but … as you wish,’ CeCe remarked, a smile playing on her lips. ‘So you are intelligent, yes? It will be good to have someone in the apartment who has a brain.’
‘What’s that?’ Dionne walked back through, balancing three cups of coffee. She’d changed while she was out of the room, into the tightest pair of jeans Alyson had ever seen, and a very thin, form-fitting sweater.
‘I was saying to Alyson, it will be nice to have someone of intelligence living here.’
‘Speak for yourself honey,’ Dionne told her, as she handed round the drinks. ‘I’m borderline genius.’
CeCe looked amused. ‘What is it they say? A fine line between genius and bullshit, I think.’
‘Fuck off, darling,’ Dionne shot back good-naturedly, as she plucked the dying cigarette from CeCe’s fingers, took a drag and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
Alyson watched the banter between the two women with interest. They were obviously close, and had a great relationship.
‘I think this calls for a toast,’ Dionne announced, rising to her feet and raising her coffee cup. ‘To our new recruit – officially the third most fabulous girl in Paris. CeCe, you’re second,’ she grinned, as the three of them clinked mugs.
‘But of course,’ CeCe shrugged, resignedly.
‘We’ll celebrate with champagne later, I promise,’ Dionne insisted, turning to Alyson. ‘Hey, we should all go out tonight! I’ll call David – he can take us to dinner, then on to a club …’
‘I have to work tonight, I’m afraid,’ Alyson cut in, before Dionne got too carried away.
‘Man, that’s lame. Another night then?’
‘Sure,’ Alyson replied uncertainly.
‘Oh, we are gonna have so much fun!’ Dionne squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement. ‘Seriously, doll, CeCe and I know everybody. And I mean, like, everybody in Paris. We know all the club owners, all the door staff, so we never have to pay for anything. We can introduce you to so many people – all the guys are gonna love you. You’re gorgeous, isn’t she CeCe?’
‘Beautiful,’ CeCe nodded seriously.
‘And I’ve got the most amazing wardrobe, so if you ever need to borrow anything, feel free. Although ask me first, in case it’s something I’m planning on wearing …’
Dionne chattered on and Alyson began to feel overwhelmed; it was like being slapped round the face repeatedly. Dionne was sweet, but she was also incredibly full on.
‘Shit, is that the time?’ Dionne swore, gulping down the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve got a casting to get to. Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck!’ Alyson exclaimed; it seemed churlish not to.
‘We have to go out one night this week – let us know when you have an evening off and we’ll arrange something,’ Dionne insisted, picking up her mobile and throwing it into her bag. She wedged a pair of sunglasses on top of her head and threw Alyson a dazzling smile. ‘I’ve gotta head. Ciao, ladies.’
The door slammed shut behind her and she was gone. Alyson felt as if she’d just survived being caught in a tornado. ‘She has a lot of energy,’ she managed to say.
‘Yeah, she’s incredible,’ CeCe agreed, staring wistfully at the door where Dionne had just left. ‘So beautiful, with such passion for living, such joie de vivre …’
Alyson nodded, looking thoughtfully at CeCe. Whatever her reservations about living here, one thing was for certain: with those two around, life would never be dull.
Dionne turned her hand over to examine her nail extensions – they were long and square-tipped, painted a deep purple and decorated with a small piercing at the end of each thumb – then stared listlessly round the room, all thoughts of her new flatmate long gone.
She was at a casting for Pierre Gavroche, some new designer fresh out of Esmod, and around her sat a dozen other models clutching their black leather portfolios, each wearing the identical model ‘uniform’ of skinny jeans and a cotton tank. They all carried an oversized bag, which only served to make them look even thinner and more fragile by comparison, and in which they carted their whole lives around – mobile, diary, modelling cards, high heels, nude underwear and a bikini. You never knew what the client would request and the girls had it drilled into them that – like a good boy scout – they should always be prepared.
Models really were a different race, Dionne reflected, as she stared round at the others. They were almost alien-like with their long, racehorse limbs, angular features and striking faces scrubbed bare of make-up. One or two were clearly anorexic – their hair lank, skin flaky, bones protruding just that little too much. There was a girl sitting across from her who Dionne was certain couldn’t have had her period for months.
Looking round, she was the only black girl at the casting. The others were a mixture – mostly white, mostly French, with a scattering of mixed-race women in a nod to the country’s colonial heritage – fourth generation Moroccan or Algerian. In spite of what anyone said, the fashion industry was still overwhelmingly racist. Of course, there was the occasional girl that broke through – Naomi, Tyra, Iman. The stats didn’t faze Dionne. They simply made her more determined.
Rather than
trying to fit in, to become a clone of one of the aloof-looking, effortlessly groomed French girls, Dionne embraced her differences. If she couldn’t compete with the others, she had to set herself apart, make her diversity her advantage. She didn’t intend to compromise who she was for anyone, and she knew that every job she got was because the designer really bought into her whole style and vibe.
Not that many people had been booking her. The easy acceptance she’d hoped for when she’d moved from Detroit hadn’t exactly happened. Dionne had imagined that she’d be feted by the whole of Paris, instantly proclaimed the Next Big Thing and snapped up by a world-renowned name such as IMG or Elite. Instead, she’d signed with a bog-standard agency that no one outside the industry had heard of and become a jobbing model, spending her life at go-sees and castings in the hope that the next one would turn out to be her big break.
She was constantly aware that she had only a finite amount of time to break out and make a name for herself before she became just another has-been, an also-ran, doing the rounds on low-grade jobs without a hope in hell of making it to the next level. Dionne was a child of the nineties, the era of the supermodel – of Cindy, Linda, Claudia, Naomi, Kate. Her goal was to become a household name, referred to by her first name alone. Nothing less would do. But she was nineteen years old and time was running out.
‘Salomé Valentin?’
A woman emerged from the casting room, clipboard in hand, as she called out the name of the next model. Salomé stood up – she was ultra-thin, white, with mousy-brown hair – and tottered through on legs that looked too frail to carry her. Then the door banged shut, and the others resumed their habitual bored expressions. It wasn’t done to look too enthusiastic about anything. Designers still overwhelmingly went for the dead-eyed, spaced-out look, particularly for runway work, lest any personality should detract from the clothes. Commercial was a little better – there at least you could inject some individuality, play a character. And it was where the big money was.