by Carrie Duffy
Like most girls who dreamed of being a model, Dionne’s ambition was to do high fashion: edgy, editorial work. The pay was shit – an embarrassment almost – but it was a stepping stone to higher things. Having a Vogue cover or an Elle editorial gave you kudos and meant your face was seen by top designers, who in turn might use you in their big money ad campaigns – the holy grail of the modelling world, and one which was increasingly being muscled in on by celebrities.
Yet in spite of everything, all the schlepping around and the kicks in the teeth from the jobs you never got, Dionne still loved it. The thrill of being in the French capital hadn’t dimmed; every time she turned a corner and saw the Eiffel Tower rearing up over the city, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t believe that little Dionne Summers from downtown Detroit was running around Paris, working as a model and partying with some of the richest and most glamorous people on the planet.
She wondered what Dash Ramón would think if he could see her now. It made her laugh to think how she’d revered him. He might have been a big shot in her neighbourhood, but he was nothing to the people she hung around with now. They were players on an international stage, part of the exclusive jet set. And Dionne intended to be one of them.
The door opened again and Dionne looked up. Salomé Valentin sloped out without speaking to anyone, her face impassive as she walked out of the door. The woman checked her list. ‘Dionne Summers?’
Showtime!
Dionne got up and went in, where she was introduced to the designer himself, Pierre Gavroche. Obviously gay, he was a short, wiry man dressed all in black and wearing black-rimmed glasses.
The clothes were a little boring for Dionne’s tastes – a muted palate of greys, taupes and creams. Yet she had to admit that they were well made, and the fabric was high quality.
‘I want her in the pencil skirt and the ruffle blouse,’ Pierre muttered to his assistant. Addressing the models directly was not his thing, apparently.
There was no separate changing area, so Dionne dropped her clothes without batting an eyelid and slid on a camel-coloured pencil skirt, beautifully cut and lined. This was paired with a dramatic white blouse, slit in a deep V-neck to below the breasts, then wrapped around bandage-style to create a cinched-in waist. Dionne was bra-less, the edge of the fabric skirting her nipples, her collarbone standing out prominently.
‘Wear these,’ the woman told her, throwing her a pair of dark-brown Charles Jourdan heels. They were a size too small, but Dionne squeezed them on without complaint.
She looked good and she knew it. The pale colours contrasted beautifully with her dark, glistening skin, and the whole look was fierce.
The female assistant raised a camera to take a Polaroid. When it had developed, she scribbled Dionne’s name underneath and attached it to her modelling card.
‘Can we see you walk?’
Dionne obliged. The shoes were pinching her feet, but she kept her face set, moving with sass and attitude. Dionne had an excellent walk – she was always amazed by the amount of girls that couldn’t put one foot in front of another.
Pierre and his assistant watched her in silence.
‘And again please,’ they said when she’d finished.
As Dionne set off, they began to confer amongst themselves in fast, low French, perhaps thinking Dionne couldn’t understand. Her French wasn’t the greatest, but she understood enough.
‘Is she a little on the heavy side?’ asked Pierre.
‘We could make her drop a few pounds,’ the woman assured him.
Dionne pursed her lips. She turned at the end of the imaginary runway and began to walk back.
‘I’m not sure …’ she heard Pierre Gavroche deliberate. ‘Maybe we should go with a white girl. Are ethnics in this season?’
Dionne nearly fell off her heels. She was so fucking furious, she couldn’t even speak.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ the woman called out.
Damn right, that was all, thought Dionne, humiliation burning through her as she pulled off the skirt. The white shirt was a little tight as she tried to drag it over her head. Perhaps they were right; perhaps she did need to lose a few pounds. She heard the tiniest rip as she pulled it a little bit too hard. That gave her an idea. Glancing over, she saw that Pierre and his assistant were deep in conversation, scanning over the list to see who was next. Dionne took hold of the sleeve and yanked it. The fabric fell away sharply with a satisfying tearing sound.
Pierre Gavroche looked up sharply. ‘What the hell are you doing? Putain!’ he swore, rushing over to find several hundred euros’ worth of ruined shirt. The rip was small, but it was in the fabric, not along the seam where it could be easily repaired.
Dionne slipped on her own clothes, giving him the most innocent look. ‘I’m so sorry. You know us ethnics,’ she smiled, emphasizing the word. ‘We’re just so clumsy.’
Then she swung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, leaving Pierre Gavroche and his flunky gaping after her.
She knew that was one job she wasn’t getting, but she didn’t care. No one treated Dionne Summers like that and got away with it. The world would just have to learn.
6
Alyson was having a bad day.
‘Oui, j’arrive …’ she called over her shoulder, as she raced past the crammed tables in Chez Paddy. They were already short-staffed, and a sudden downpour meant everyone had abandoned their usual lunchtime terrace tables at the nearby cafés and headed for the cosy interior of the Irish pub.
It didn’t help that Alyson had slept badly the night before. Her new flatmates, Dionne and CeCe, didn’t appear to need sleep. Ever. Oh, they were sweet girls, and the apartment was gorgeous, but the way they lived their lives was crazy. Alyson had been there almost two weeks now and discovered that most nights the pair stayed out until dawn, finally rolling in with a large group of ‘friends’ they’d acquired over the course of the evening, before cranking the music up loud, breaking out the champagne and partying until they passed out.
She didn’t understand how they managed to hold down their jobs in the boutique. If Alyson turned up late, exhausted and hungover every day, she’d be fired for sure. She guessed they were just those kinds of people – the beautiful ones, who breezed easily through life with everyone smoothing their path. Life had never been like that for Alyson. She’d always had to work damned hard for everything.
But no, that wasn’t fair, she told herself. It was the lack of sleep making her irritable. CeCe and Dionne had been nothing but kind to her ever since she’d moved in, always inviting her out with them even though she declined every time. Clubbing just wasn’t her scene. She had no interest in going out, getting drunk and making a fool of herself. She saw enough people doing that while she was at work. Perhaps it made her uptight, but she didn’t like that loss of control.
‘You okay?’ Aidan asked, in that lilting Irish accent.
Alyson forced a smile as she rushed past him. The bar was a bomb site, the tables piled high with dirty plates and empty glasses.
‘Alyson,’ Aidan called. He caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to stand still for a moment. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said easily. ‘It’s quietening down now. We’ll have this place sorted in no time.’
‘Thanks, Aidan.’ Alyson gazed up at him, her blue eyes meeting his. Her skin was flushed from the exertion, wisps of fine, blonde hair snaking loose from her ponytail. She looked incredible.
Quickly, Aidan let go of her shoulders and dropped his gaze, not wanting her to see the look in his eyes. He’d worked hard to win her trust, and Alyson had never given him any indication that she thought of him as anything other than a friend. He valued that too much to spoil it with some clumsy come-on.
‘I’ll head down to the kitchen, help finish up there.’ He cleared his throat, eager to get away.
‘No problem.’ Alyson was oblivious to his odd behaviour.
As she turned round, she realized Aidan was right – the pub was
emptying out, and there was no longer a queue at the bar. Only a few customers were left now – a couple of English girls, giggling as they studied the happy hour cocktail menu; an old Irish guy, one of the Chez Paddy regulars, watching RTÉ on a wall-mounted flat screen; a smart-looking man in an expensive suit, taking his time over a whiskey and soda on the rocks.
‘Busy day?’
Alyson was collecting empty glasses, and didn’t hear the man speak.
‘Busy day?’ he tried again.
She turned, startled, breaking into a self-conscious smile. ‘You could say that.’
It was the guy in the suit who had spoken to her. He was tall, well built and Gallic-looking, with handsome features and penetrating brown eyes. His hair was dark, flecked with grey; Alyson aged him at late thirties.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ he asked, spreading his hands in an open gesture.
Alyson took in his expensive clothes and immaculate appearance. He didn’t look as though he’d ever done a menial job in his life.
‘Have you worked in a bar before?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
His lips twitched, aware he was being teased. ‘No, but I … I know a lot of people who do,’ he finished with a smile, aware of how ridiculous that sounded. When he laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkled into fine lines.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Alyson assured him, feeling caught off-guard somehow. She continued to clear away the leftover plates, aware that he was watching her.
As she carried them over to the bar, he got up from his seat and joined her, settling his empty glass on the counter.
‘Would you like another?’ Alyson asked.
He nodded. ‘Please. Whiskey soda, with ice.’ He had a French accent, and Alyson was surprised. They didn’t get many natives in Chez Paddy, especially not ones who looked like him – executives, in hand-tailored suits.
‘Your accent is very unusual,’ he commented. ‘Where are you from?’
Alyson hesitated. She didn’t like talking about her background. ‘I’m from Manchester,’ she replied eventually, answering with only the bare facts. ‘The north of England.’
‘Ah,’ he explained passionately. ‘Yes, I know it! You have a wonderful football team, of course.’
Alyson smiled in amusement. ‘So I’m told.’
‘But it is a beautiful part of the country,’ he added quickly, sensing her lack of interest in the subject. ‘There is the Peak District, no?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Alyson replied in surprise, not expecting him to know the area so well.
‘I have been to the north, two, perhaps three times. Manchester, the countryside, the Lake District … so beautiful,’ he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as though to re-live the memory.
‘Were you there on holiday?’ Alyson asked, slipping into the easy rhythm she’d learned at Chez Paddy – if the customer wanted to talk, ask them lots of questions about themselves.
‘No, I visited for work. I am very lucky with my job – it allows me to travel often.’
Alyson pushed the whiskey and soda across the counter towards him. ‘What do you do?’
There was a slight pause and she glanced up at him, worried that she’d overstepped the boundaries. ‘I’m in business,’ he told her, taking a slug from his glass. ‘And you?’ He changed the subject. ‘Have you travelled much?’
Alyson looked down at the counter and shook her head. ‘This is the first time I’ve left England.’
‘Yes?’ The man raised his dark eyebrows, seeming surprised. ‘And now you are living here? That is a big decision – when you have never travelled overseas before, to move somewhere completely different … You have friends here?’
‘No,’ Alyson confessed, her voice growing quieter. ‘I didn’t know anyone before I came.’
The man seemed to sense that something was wrong, smoothly changing the subject. ‘And now you are here, what do you think of Paris?’
‘Oh, I love it!’ Alyson exclaimed, her face lighting up. ‘I knew I would. I love the language, the architecture, the sense of freedom. It just seems like the most beautiful, romantic place in the world.’
‘It is,’ the man agreed, enjoying her enthusiasm. ‘It is very beautiful. And very romantic.’
He stared hard at her, and Alyson suddenly found that she couldn’t meet his gaze. There was something about the way he was looking at her with those intense brown eyes. It made her heart beat faster and she suddenly had the overwhelming urge to run away in terror, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in—
‘Philippe.’ He reached out across the counter, offering his hand.
It took Alyson a second to realize what he meant. ‘Oh! Alyson,’ she burst out, feeling stupid.
‘Enchanté de faire votre connaissance.’
‘Et vous aussi.’
‘You speak excellent French,’ Philippe complimented her.
‘Thank you,’ Alyson managed to stammer. He still hadn’t let go of her hand.
‘Man, this place is a mess!’ Aidan exclaimed as he emerged from the back. He stopped short as he took in the scene before him – Alyson, flushed and breathless, shaking the hand of some sleazy-looking guy almost twice her age.
His eyes narrowed and Alyson instinctively pulled back, as though caught doing something she shouldn’t. She didn’t know why she felt so guilty – Aidan never minded her talking to the customers.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized quickly. ‘I started tidying up but then …’ She stopped, unsure of what to say next.
Philippe stood up and turned to Aidan. ‘It is all my fault,’ he said easily. ‘I have been distracting your staff, and I apologize.’
Aidan stared at him coolly for a moment, taking an instant dislike to this arrogant prick. ‘No problem,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Alyson watched the two men nervously, sensing the animosity that crackled between them.
Philippe knocked back his drink then threw a twenty-euro note on the counter. ‘Keep the change. Nice to speak with you, Alyson.’
He walked out of the door without looking back.
Music pounded from the stereo speakers, a David Guetta track that was storming the charts all over Europe. The volume was turned up to max and the tiny apartment began to vibrate like a nightclub.
Alyson was sitting at the dining table eating her dinner, surrounded by piles of CeCe’s sketches and half-finished garments.
Dionne and CeCe were getting ready for yet another night out in their usual flamboyant fashion. As Alyson ate, Dionne let out a whoop and grabbed a deodorant can from where it had been flung on the coffee table before mounting the sofa, her legs wide apart in an attempt to keep her balance on the squashy cushions. She was fresh out of the shower and naked apart from a black lace thong that left nothing to the imagination. Using the can as a microphone she posed like a rock star, waving her arms in the air and thrusting out her crotch as she sang along with the music, her breasts swaying as she danced.
Alyson looked down at her plate. She tried to avoid seeing her own body naked, and had no desire to see anyone else’s grinding in front of her.
‘Why don’t you come out with us tonight?’ Dionne suggested, as she jumped down from the sofa and poured herself a glass of champagne. The question was becoming a constant refrain. Dionne always asked, and Alyson always said no.
‘I have to work.’
‘So call in sick,’ CeCe shrugged. She was lying on the floor, smoking a cigarette and watching Dionne.
‘I can’t,’ Alyson insisted.
‘Come on, live a little!’ Dionne chided, as Alyson flushed. Then Dionne changed tactics. ‘Please,’ she begged, her lips obscenely large as she pouted. ‘I’m celebrating! I got me a modelling job and I want you to come celebrate with me.’
‘Congratulations, Dionne,’ Alyson smiled, genuinely pleased for her.
‘Thank you.’ Dionne made a sweeping bow, a movement that sent her bare breasts swinging.
Alyson averted her eyes
. ‘What is it for?’
‘Catalogue work.’ Dionne made a face. ‘Not exactly high fashion, but the pay’s pretty awesome.’ Of course, she hadn’t got the job for Pierre Gavroche. They’d even rung up her agency to complain about her – yeah, like she was the one with the attitude problem. But a day spent hauling her ass around town from one casting to the next had finally paid off. ‘So are you gonna come?’
‘I’d love to,’ Alyson lied, ‘but I really can’t let Aidan down. Friday nights are always so busy, and we’re short-staffed as it is.’
‘Oooh, who’s Aidan?’ Dionne squealed. ‘He sounds hot.’
‘He’s my boss.’
‘And is he hot?’ Dionne pressed.
‘I …’ Alyson faltered, unsure of what to say. She hated it when Dionne put her on the spot like that. ‘… He’s a really nice guy.’
Dionne burst into peals of laughter. ‘Come out with us, honey – we’ll introduce you to some hot guys. We know all the cutest men in Paris. We’d find you someone, no problem.’
Alyson looked away uncomfortably as CeCe watched her curiously, blowing smoke up to the ceiling. ‘Have you ever had a boyfriend, Alyson?’ she asked casually.
Alyson glanced up sharply, feeling as if she’d been caught out. ‘No,’ she admitted, feeling hot with embarrassment as she saw the surreptitious glance that passed between Dionne and CeCe. She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to fit in, to confide in someone about the man she’d met at work today, and the feelings he’d evoked. ‘There is someone I like though …’
Dionne let out a whoop. ‘Yeah, go, Alyson!’ she cried. ‘So come on, who is he?’
‘He’s … I met him at work …’ she began hesitantly.
‘I knew it!’ Dionne exclaimed triumphantly. ‘I knew this Aidan guy sounded cute! So you have a little crush on your boss, huh?’
Alyson opened her mouth to correct her, but Dionne was in full flow. ‘Hell, go for it, girl. You’ve got to have a little fun while you’re at work. Makes the day go faster. Hey, we’re both gonna be on missions tonight!’
Alyson looked at her in confusion as Dionne carried on. ‘While you’re working your charms on the delectable Aidan, I also have my sights set on a guy and tonight’s the night he’s gonna be mine,’ she growled. ‘He’s handsome, charming – and rich as fuck. Everything I want in a man. I am gonna go for him, and I am gonna get him!’