by Carrie Duffy
There were long-limbed bohemian girls browsing the vintage stalls in flippy summer dresses and quirky headwear; skinny North African guys in jeans and T-shirts, barefoot in sandals with chequered scarves slung round their necks. The smell of food permeated the air, drifting out from the cramped cafés that bordered the streets and mixing with the pungent aromas from the road-side vendors.
CeCe took a left down a narrow, graffiti-covered alleyway that looked as though it led nowhere, and emerged in the heart of Malik market, the ultimate treasure-trove for secondhand clothing. CeCe kept an open mind, never looking for anything in particular, but she always left with something fabulous.
She loved this time by herself. Usually CeCe hated to be alone, surrounding herself with people and noise. But whenever she sat down to work she needed the solitude, the lack of any sort of distraction, while she immersed herself completely in her designs. The Sunday visits to St-Ouen were all part of that. It was the one morning when she dragged herself out of bed, regardless of what she’d been doing the night before, and caught the métro out to the north of the city, all the way outside the périphérique.
Dionne would still be asleep at this time of day, nursing a hangover or a broken heart – or both, if she was feeling particularly melodramatic, CeCe thought uncharitably, then immediately felt bad. Last night had been awful – the things that guy had said … It broke CeCe’s heart to see Dionne spoken to like that. Why did she always have to go for the bad guys, leaving CeCe behind to pick up the pieces?
But she could never stay mad at Dionne for long. That was the whole problem. The balance of power in their relationship was completely unbalanced – fucked up, some might say. She hated the way Dionne used her to pull men, to put on a little girl-on-girl floor show to entertain the guys and lure them home. Oh, it had been fun at first – a game to play to tease the guys, to get attention … and CeCe certainly wasn’t averse to getting up close and personal with Dionne. But recently it had started to matter more. Not to Dionne, she was sure of that. But to her.
CeCe’s problem was that she was in love with being in love. It inspired her, made her happy, helped her to create. She firmly believed that her designs were better when she had a fantastic muse, a beautiful, glamorous creature – male or female – whom she could adore. It didn’t have to be a sexual thing. She simply needed someone to idolize. And right now she was hopelessly, utterly, devoted to Dionne.
CeCe sighed. It was hard being in love with your best friend.
Distractedly, CeCe browsed the stalls, her hands trailing over a tantalizing mix of fabrics as she raked through the rails, picking discarded garments out of cardboard boxes and holding them up to the light. She found a stunning Eighties cocktail dress by Ungaro in dazzling sunburned orange, replete with shoulder pads and the designer’s trademark draping, and haggled it down to fifty euros. CeCe didn’t intend to wear it, just keep it for her inspiration rail, the collection of beautiful garments she’d built up to get her creative juices flowing.
Gradually she made her way through the market, heading towards the one stall where she always found something incredible.
‘Cécile!’
The stallholder, Claude Legrand, greeted her like a long-lost granddaughter. ‘Tu vas bien?’ he asked delightedly, standing up to kiss her on both cheeks, before settling back down on his stool. He smiled broadly, showing the gaps in his teeth.
Claude was in his sixties, and had been working as a garment trader all his life. He wore a tattered old polo shirt and his face was covered with white bristles. ‘Alors, mon chou, when are you going to be putting on your first collection?’
CeCe smiled ruefully. Claude asked her the same question every time, and she always gave him the same reply. ‘Soon, I hope.’
‘But you will show at Fashion Week this time, non?’
‘I don’t know,’ CeCe shrugged. ‘It’s so expensive – I need to get the financing together, have my application approved. I really need to find a business partner so that I can concentrate on the designing. My brain wasn’t made to deal with money.’
Claude raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. ‘You waste too much time on things that do not matter. Always, you are in the clubs or at a party.’
‘I’m networking,’ CeCe replied sullenly.
‘Ah bon! And how many orders has it got you? How many dresses have you produced because of this networking?’
CeCe didn’t reply. Claude knew he’d made his point and decided not to press her any further. Instead he shuffled round in his seat, reaching for a carrier bag buried beneath a pile of clothes. ‘I saved this for you. Voilà! Tenez …’
‘Claude, it’s magnificent!’ CeCe gasped, as she unravelled the package and let the material slip through her fingers, holding it out so she could see it fully. It was a beautiful piece of silk in a rich petrol-blue, approximately three metres long and hand-painted with a design of peacock feathers.
‘You like it?’
‘I love it!’ CeCe twisted it in the light so that the colours shimmered. She could visualize the finished design already – a beautiful halterneck evening dress with a daringly low-cut back and a full-length skirt that fell from the waist, tapering off into a small train.
‘Good. It’s yours,’ Claude told her, as he began to fold it back up.
‘How much?’
Claude passed her the bag, his large, gnarled hands closing over her own. ‘For you, it is free.’
‘Claude, I can’t—’
‘Yes, you can.’ His eyes were twinkling. ‘And you must make something incredible with it.’
‘Oh, I will,’ CeCe breathed. ‘I can imagine it already.’
‘Good.’ Claude seemed pleased. ‘And then you must show it at Fashion Week.’
‘Eventually …’
Claude shrugged, trying to imply that he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘As you wish.’ He stared hard at her, his watery blue eyes holding her own until she dropped her gaze uncomfortably. ‘You are so talented, Cécile, but you must prove that you have the dedication. You are the only one who can make this happen, you understand?’
CeCe nodded, her fingers closing over the bag in her hands. It felt as though she carried something precious, something that she alone could bring to life.
‘The most important thing for you should be your work – not the parties or the nightclubs. Once you prioritize that, then everything else will fall into place.’
‘Thanks Claude.’ CeCe flushed, knowing that what he said was right.
‘Bon,’ he muttered, settling back in his chair once more. ‘Now, go home and start work. Next time you see me, I want to hear that you are the toast of Paris, and that Carine Roitfeld herself has commissioned a gown from you.’
His positivity was infectious, and CeCe couldn’t help laughing. ‘Watch this space,’ she promised him.
‘Oh my God, you have a date!’ Dionne squealed. ‘I knew this Aidan guy sounded hot.’
‘It’s not a date,’ Alyson protested, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. ‘It’s just worked out that we have the same night off so we’re going to explore the city together.’
Dionne shook her head, looking pityingly at Alyson. ‘It’s a date, honey,’ she said firmly. ‘Does he treat any of the other staff like this? Exactly,’ she rushed on, before Alyson had a chance to respond. ‘You’re a girl, he’s a guy and he knows that damn well. Do you like him?’
‘I … He’s a lovely guy but—’
‘Are you planning on sleeping with him?’
‘Dionne!’ Alyson exclaimed in shock, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow her.
‘Okay, okay,’ Dionne grinned, finding Alyson’s discomfort hilarious. ‘Look, what are you gonna wear?’
‘Um …’ Alyson shrugged helplessly. ‘This?’ She was wearing the same black trousers she wore for work and a shapeless blue top with a floral design.
Dionne raised an eyebrow, looking distinctly unimpressed.
‘It’
s not a date so it doesn’t matter!’ Alyson burst out.
‘Girl, there is no way you’re leaving this apartment looking like you stole your outfit from some retirement home. Dionne’s gonna help you out, loan you some clothes.’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Alyson replied, a little too quickly.
But instead of being pissed off, Dionne looked amused. ‘Nothing too outrageous, I promise. Maybe just some tight jeans to show off your figure, a cute little top …’ Her gaze swept over Alyson, gauging her body type and planning what to put her in. They were roughly the same height – Alyson had similar proportions to Dionne, the only difference being that Alyson’s figure came naturally, whereas Dionne had to watch every morsel she put in her mouth.
‘Here, come with me.’ Dionne held out her hand and dragged Alyson through to her bedroom. ‘Don’t mind the mess,’ she apologized distractedly, throwing open the nearest wardrobe and riffling through.
Dionne’s room looked like an explosion in a department store. It was pretty much impossible to keep tidy, as there were just too many things for the tiny space. Bags were spilling out of the closet, with clothes hung on the back of the door, the mirror, and from the curtain rail. At least two dozen perfume bottles fought for space on top of the chest of drawers, surrounded by a mountain of discarded jewellery boxes, their contents strewn across the surface. Shoes were hastily shoved in boxes and crammed under the bed, on top of the wardrobe – anywhere Dionne could find space – and the floor was carpeted with discarded underwear.
‘Right …’ Dionne began pulling items out. ‘Try these.’ She threw a pair of light denim skinny jeans at Alyson.
‘They’ll never fit me, they’re tiny.’
‘You’re tiny,’ Dionne assured her. ‘Just try them, they stretch.’
Self-consciously Alyson unzipped her trousers, trying to hide her body as she did so. God, this was awful, like getting changed for gym class at school. She dragged the jeans over her ankles, feeling them clamp around her calves.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea, Dionne. I’ll never get them off again.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ Dionne’s voice was muffled, her head buried deep in the wardrobe. ‘Just pull them.’
Sucking in her stomach, Alyson pulled, surprised to find that they slid easily over her thighs and buttoned up without a problem.
‘Oh my God, your legs look amazing!’ Dionne screeched as she emerged. ‘Like a baby giraffe or something! Seriously, go look.’
She steered Alyson in the direction of the mirror. Alyson stared at her reflection and cringed. The jeans left nothing to the imagination, clinging like a second skin to show the sinewy shape of her legs, the gentle curve of her butt.
‘They’re so tight!’ she exclaimed in horror. ‘Dionne, I—’
‘Now try this,’ Dionne cut her off, throwing her a Breton-striped top.
‘But—’
‘No buts. Just do it.’
Resignedly, Alyson did as she was told.
‘See? It looks fantastic on you!’ Dionne enthused. ‘Blue is totally your colour. It goes with your eyes.’ She stood back to assess Alyson. ‘Do you have another bra? Maybe white lace, or … You know what, you don’t really need a bra, do you?’
‘I don’t?’
‘No. Take it off.’
Feeling like she was in the hands of some particularly merciless bully, Alyson unhooked her functional T-shirt bra and slid it off.
‘Perfect!’ Dionne squealed. ‘Hon, you are looking sexy as hell!’
Alyson turned back to the mirror. ‘You can see my nipples!’ she exclaimed, horrified.
‘Oh trust me. He’ll like that,’ Dionne smirked. ‘And if you add these,’ she scrabbled around the floor, pulling a pair of vertiginous heels out from behind a bucket chair, ‘your legs will look insane.’
‘No chance,’ Alyson shook her head. ‘There’s no way I can walk in those. I’ll break my neck.’ She’d gone along with Dionne so far, but she drew the line at stilettos. Resolutely, she stepped back into her thong sandals.
Dionne shrugged. ‘Your call, I guess. Now, make-up! Just a little, I promise,’ Dionne pleaded, as Alyson opened her mouth to protest. ‘I’ve been dying to do this since you moved in! Honestly, with a touch of mascara to bring out your eyes, maybe some smoky eyeliner, a dab of lip gloss … Come on, don’t you want to look nice for a change?’
Alyson raised an eyebrow, noting the implicit criticism of her appearance, but said nothing.
Dionne took her silence for acquiescence and dragged her over to the window, seating her beside the vanity table where the light was better.
‘Now, we’ll have to use your own base, as I don’t have any that’s gonna suit your skin tone,’ Dionne explained.
Alyson looked blank.
‘Foundation. Oh, shit, do you have a different word for it in Britain? Erm …’ Dionne picked up a bottle of Bobbi Brown foundation and waved it in front of her.
‘I don’t have any of that,’ Alyson explained apologetically. ‘I don’t really wear make-up …’ Dionne’s expression made her want to giggle.
‘You don’t … But I thought …? Your skin is flawless, I thought you at least wore a base. What do you do when you get a break-out?’ Dionne asked suspiciously.
‘I never … well, I don’t really get spots.’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one,’ Dionne said, somewhat tartly. ‘So, no base … I guess we’ll just start on the eyes then,’ she shrugged, reaching for a chocolate-brown eye pencil.
The process went on for fifteen tortuous minutes, with Alyson banned from looking in the mirror and her imagination running increasingly wild. She remembered the girls back home in Manchester, dressed up for a night out with some of them resembling circus performers – all sweeping fake eyelashes, brightly painted lips and glow-in-the-dark blusher. If Dionne made her look like that, she would cry.
‘Okay, I’m done,’ Dionne announced, as she carefully dabbed underneath Alyson’s eyelashes with a cotton bud and stepped back, satisfied.
Hesitantly, Alyson stood up and approached the mirror. As her reflection came into focus, she inhaled sharply. ‘Oh wow,’ she exclaimed. ‘I look … I look so different! Like me, but—’
‘But better,’ Dionne said firmly. ‘Hotter. Sexier. You like?’
‘Yeah, I … I think so,’ Alyson admitted. She reached up and gently touched her cheek, as though afraid it might disintegrate beneath her fingertips. It was stained with a pink colour – not in a harsh, brash way, but subtly, to bring out her cheekbones and give her a healthy, attractive glow. Her eyes looked huge – wide and fresh – and her lips had grown, giving her an unmistakeable pout. She looked like a polished, glossier version of herself, as though all the best parts of her had somehow been brought to the fore.
‘Stand up straight,’ Dionne instructed her, as she brushed Alyson’s hair out over her shoulders and spritzed her with Chanel Allure. ‘Let’s get the full effect. Oh, and wear this,’ she added, handing Alyson a chic, white blazer. ‘It’ll draw the whole outfit together – and keep you warm if it gets chilly later.’
Alyson stared at herself in the mirror once more. No doubt about it, Dionne had done a fantastic job. She looked like someone from a magazine – a fashionista, or one of the chic young Parisian women she saw on the Avenue Montaigne.
‘What if people laugh at me?’ Alyson asked nervously, looking up at Dionne with huge, luminous eyes that had been made even bigger with the help of Shu Uemera curlers and lashings of Lancôme mascara.
‘Why the hell they gonna laugh at you, baby girl?’ Dionne asked. ‘You look beautiful. The men are gonna fall at your feet.’
Alyson bit her lip. Dionne didn’t understand – her raison d’être was to have people look at her, but Alyson preferred to blend into the background. This new look made her feel like a fraud, a child dressing up in her mother’s clothes.
Dionne reached over to hug her, struck by the sudden display of vulnerability. With an
ache she remembered the younger sisters she’d left back in Detroit, all the moments she’d missed out on since she’d left – helping them get ready for their first date or choose a dress for junior prom.
‘Honey, you see that girl in the mirror?’ she began softly. ‘Now she is beautiful, she is smart, but she gotta start believing in herself. She can do anything she wants, you know what I’m saying?’
Alyson nodded dumbly.
‘Now this Aidan guy ain’t gonna know what’s hit him. So you get out there and you work it, and you go knock his socks off,’ she finished, mimicking Alyson’s Lancashire accent.
In spite of herself, Alyson smiled, knowing deep down that Dionne was right. It was time to stop hiding behind the little-girl-lost act, and show the world exactly what Alyson Wakefield was capable of.
11
‘Wow,’ Aidan said before he could stop himself, as Alyson emerged from the métro at Pigalle and walked towards him. She was early – Alyson hated to be late for anything – but Aidan was already there waiting for her.
‘You look … incredible,’ he told her honestly, feeling a knot of desire and frustration start to build in his stomach. She was easily the most beautiful sight on the street, completely out of place amongst the sex shops and the seedy bars. She looked as though she should be boarding a private jet to some exotic island.
Alyson smiled shyly, her cheeks flushing pink. ‘Thanks,’ she replied, biting her lip nervously. But she was learning; Dionne had told her to accept any compliments she was offered with a simple thank you, and to never apologize for herself.
‘I mean it – you look amazing,’ Aidan repeated, unable to keep his eyes off her.
‘Thank you,’ Alyson said again, wondering why everyone seemed fixated with her appearance at the moment. She sneaked a sideways glance at Aidan; he was freshly shaved, his skin pale and smooth. His thick, dark hair was cropped close, and he wore jeans and a casual short-sleeved shirt. He looked good, Alyson realized. Different, somehow, to the way he looked at work.