by Carrie Duffy
Finally he released her and she stood up, wiping her mouth. Philippe opened his eyes and the illusion shattered. The girl in front of him was nothing like Alyson: her tits were fake and her face was hard, unattractive. Philippe pulled on his trousers, feeling disgusted with himself.
‘Mind if I take a shower?’ she asked.
Philippe’s lip curled. He just wanted rid of her. ‘Quickly, yes?’ he snapped.
The girl trotted obediently towards the bathroom as Philippe reached for his wallet and tossed a $500 tip on the coffee table.
Guilt money.
He strode across to the dining room and shut the double doors. By the time he emerged, the girl would be gone. The pages of the contract were spread over the enormous mahogany table and he glanced over them to keep himself occupied. Tomorrow he would conclude his business with Joel Steinberg, then fly home, where he would shower, nap, then go back to that shoddy bar to find Alyson.
He wanted her, badly. And Philippe Rochefort always got what he wanted.
David Mouret studied the leather-bound menu, his eyes scanning over the delectable choices. He was a strikingly good-looking man: black skin, chocolate-brown eyes and closely cropped dark hair. He wore a black Armani shirt with platinum-and-diamond cufflinks, and a chunky platinum Rolex adorned his wrist. He was not a man who believed in being discreet about his wealth.
‘I missed you, Dionne.’ He put down his menu and took Dionne’s hand across the table. They were in Les Champs on the Avenue George V, an opulently decorated, ultra-exclusive restaurant with a ridiculously long waiting list. Unless, of course, you were David Mouret. Aged only twenty-nine, he was the phenomenally successful MD of a company that specialized in providing high-class, luxury cars to a discerning clientele. A self-made entrepreneur, his company had established branches throughout the country, and David had discovered that being handsome, charming and filthy rich opened a lot of doors – doors that would usually have been firmly closed to a young black kid from the suburb of Saint-Denis.
‘Did you?’ Dionne shifted uncomfortably. He was a great guy, but she didn’t want him getting too attached. After all, it wasn’t as if they were dating. She enjoyed his company, and his ready desire to spend large amounts of money on her. And he was dynamite in bed, she thought, unable to hide a wicked grin.
‘Yes, I did,’ he repeated. ‘And I brought you a present.’
David reached into his jacket pocket and handed across a small Cartier bag. Dionne looked up at him in excitement, her eyes shining. She reached inside the bag and took out a chunky box with the distinctive script across the top, catching her breath as she opened it. Inside was a stunning Cartier Tank watch in white gold, the strap set with diamonds.
‘David …’ she breathed, mentally calculating how much it must have cost. Ten thousand euros at least. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She was stunned. She’d received presents from lovers before but nothing as extravagant as this.
David shrugged, as though it was nothing. ‘I saw it at the airport. I thought you might like it.’
‘I love it,’ she assured him.
‘Perhaps it will help you keep the time better,’ he smiled wryly. Dionne was notorious for being late.
‘Perhaps …’
‘Put it on,’ David encouraged her.
Feeling like a child at Christmas, she unclasped the bracelet and slid it onto her wrist. David watched her. As Dionne felt the cool metal clamp onto her arm, she realized that no one had ever bought her anything quite so incredible before. And certainly no one had ever bought her anything quite this special just for the hell of it, just because they were missing her. Sure, her momma always scrimped and saved to get her something nice for her birthday, but she could never have afforded anything like this. It probably cost more than Natalie Summers earned in a year.
Thoughtfully, Dionne fingered the gold chain she still wore round her neck, the gift from her parents when she turned sixteen. At the time Dionne had thought it was so classy, so elegant. Now it looked cheap and insignificant, the colour clashing with the white gold of the watch. Almost without thinking, Dionne unhooked the chain from around her neck and placed it in the empty box.
‘It doesn’t match,’ she explained casually to David, not wanting him to know the significance of what she had just done. It seemed symbolic almost – the end of her old life, where she had battled just to achieve mediocrity, and the beginning of a new era where she was beautiful, successful and spoiled by a rich man. Just like she had dreamed, back in Luis Fernandez’s studio …
Dionne snapped the box shut and sat upright, pushing out the memories. She was a different girl now, and the watch was proof of that.
‘I had some good news today,’ she announced brightly, keen to change the subject.
‘Yes?’
‘I got a new contract – a big one. I’m the face – or should I say the legs – of DIM,’ she giggled, naming the French hosiery company.
‘That’s wonderful,’ David beamed. He looked genuinely pleased for her.
‘It’s a six-month contract,’ Dionne rushed on excitedly. Her dark eyes were dancing, her face radiant with happiness. ‘Although they can renew, of course, if they love me. I’m gonna be everywhere! Billboards, the métro, even bus stops … and my legs’ll be on the packaging!’
David grinned, unable to help himself. It was no secret that he had dated a lot of girls, but they rarely held his interest for as long as Dionne had. She was a fireball of energy, and her zest for life was infectious. She was always out – doing things, seeing people, living life to the full. It was hard not to be swept away by her natural charm and enthusiasm, however frustrating she could be at times. And, on top of all that, she had a killer body that she wasn’t afraid to use. David loved her tiny waist with the full, heavy breasts and a black girl’s ass that could make him come within seconds when he rode her from behind and felt the firm, smooth skin of her butt rubbing against his balls …
‘We need a bottle of champagne over here,’ David summoned a passing waiter.
‘Tout de suite, monsieur.’ Seconds later, he was back with a perfectly chilled bottle of vintage Krug, set in an ice bucket. ‘Are you ready to order now?’
‘Dionne?’ David looked across at her.
‘I’ll have the salmon. No potatoes, just a little salad. And no dressing.’
‘You’re sure?’ David asked, as Dionne nodded reluctantly. Raising an eyebrow, David ordered his food and the waiter discreetly disappeared.
‘I shouldn’t even be eating at all,’ Dionne sighed. ‘I’ve got a shoot in five days and I’ve got to look perfect.’
David looked amused. ‘Dionne,’ he told her gently. ‘Your figure is already perfect.’
‘Yeah, well, you would say that,’ Dionne responded testily, although his compliment had the desired effect. ‘You’re a man – and a straight one.’
David held his hands up. ‘It’s true. I cannot deny it.’
‘What I mean,’ Dionne explained in exasperation, ‘is that you want different things in a woman to the designers. For a man, the more T&A the better. But then clothes don’t hang right, see? Not if you’ve got too much booty going on.’
‘Ah, but champagne, it has no calories so it is allowed, yes?’
‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ Dionne pouted, but she didn’t protest as he refilled her glass.
Dionne took a sip and watched as David tucked into the bread basket, spreading the warm rolls with fresh, salty butter and devouring three without a break. When her food came, she picked at it delicately, trying to make it last as David ate his way through a full three courses. But the thought of what her new employers or her agent would say if she looked too big for the photoshoot steeled her willpower, so she even refused a mouthful of David’s divine-looking mousse au chocolat.
When he had finished, David sat back in his chair and sighed contently. ‘That was delicious,’ he smiled. ‘A meal fit for the gods.’
‘I will punch you if yo
u order the cheese plate,’ Dionne threatened. She felt light-headed, having drunk three glasses of champagne and eaten very little. She didn’t think she could stand to see him plough his way through another divine-looking course.
‘Okay then. No cheese,’ David agreed. ‘Just a coffee.’
Dionne narrowed her eyes. It was all right for him, he would work it off in the gym later, she thought, admiring his superb body. He was in great shape, with a powerfully built chest and shoulders and strong, toned thighs. He looked amazing naked, Dionne recalled, feeling the first stirrings in her groin as she watched him wipe his mouth roughly on the white linen napkin and throw it down on the table.
‘So, what shall we do with the rest of the evening?’ he asked, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you would like to go out to celebrate your new contract? Perhaps to Bijou?’
Dionne’s head snapped up. ‘No,’ she said, a little too quickly. ‘No, I don’t want to go there.’
‘No?’ David feigned surprise. ‘I thought it was your favourite club?’
‘Not any more.’ She stared right at him, her gaze defiant, as though daring him to say what he was thinking.
David called her bluff. ‘Is it because you have been sleeping with Philippe Rochefort?’ His tone was casual but his eyes never left her face.
‘Screw you!’ Dionne retorted hotly. ‘That’s bullshit.’
‘That’s not what I have heard. I heard that you were flirting outrageously with him. That half the club was watching and that you left Bijou with him.’
‘Had your spies keeping an eye on me, did you?’ she spat accusingly. She was backed into a corner and she would fight.
David kept his voice carefully controlled. ‘People talk, Dionne. When you draw so much attention to yourself, you cannot expect it to go unnoticed.’
‘I didn’t sleep with him,’ she repeated, the humiliation of what had happened that night rushing back to her. She wondered what other rumours had been going round. ‘Yes, he came home with us. CeCe was flirting with him and—’
David snorted. ‘CeCe’s not interested in him.’
‘Well, what does it matter anyway?’ Dionne challenged him. ‘I’m not your girlfriend. I can do whatever I want.’
‘That is true,’ he admitted.
‘I didn’t think we were exclusive. And I bet you weren’t a saint while you were away.’
The look on David’s face told her all she needed to know, and for a second she felt triumphant. But the feeling didn’t last. After all David’s kind words and the beautiful watch that now sat on her wrist, she didn’t mean any more to him than she did to Saeed or any of the other men who took her out and paid for her drinks, simply because they liked to be seen with a gorgeous girl on their arm.
‘So you think that makes us even? Like some kind of tit for tat?’ David said angrily, the phrase sounding odd in his accent.
‘Believe what you want, I don’t give a shit. Like you said, we’re not exclusive.’
‘I didn’t say that. You did,’ David responded quietly.
Dionne didn’t reply, and the silence hung heavily between them. Around them they could hear low conversation, silver clinking against china and the discreet sound of piano music.
‘Look, I’m not interested in him,’ Dionne repeated, feeling the anger rise as she remembered how he had treated her, the things he had said. ‘He’s too old, too sleazy. He’s been with a million girls, everyone knows that, and I don’t want to be another. I don’t even know what they see in him,’ she ranted, her tone venomous. ‘He’s pretty gross when you think about it.’
‘I hear you were very drunk,’ David stated.
She didn’t know if he was giving her a get-out or criticizing her lifestyle choice. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Yeah, well, you’d have to be drunk to go home with that dirty old bastard.’
David smiled, and Dionne felt the tension start to ease. She began to play with her watch, twisting it anxiously round her wrist. ‘Thanks for my present,’ she began awkwardly. ‘It’s amazing, I love it, and …’ Dionne swallowed hard. ‘I missed you too, David.’
13
It was a quiet day in Chez Paddy. Outside it was drizzling lightly, and the streets lacked their usual bustle.
Aidan was taking advantage of the downtime to catch up on some paperwork. He was upstairs in the office, while Alyson was alone at the bar, keeping herself busy to pass the time. She’d already removed all the optics to soak them in soda water, and was contemplating scrubbing the back bar when she heard the door clang.
She turned round, expecting to see a group of weary tourists tramp in demanding lunch. But what she saw made her heart skip a beat.
‘Philippe!’ she exclaimed, calling out his name before she could stop herself. Her eyes lit up as she saw him, her pulse beginning to race.
He was less put-together than she remembered. His tie was loose and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked as if he’d been rushing.
‘Alyson.’ He smiled and his eyes crinkled at the corners, his face taking on a softness. ‘Ça va?’
‘Oui, ça va très bien, merci,’ she replied shyly, unable to stop smiling. ‘Et vous?’
‘Yes.’ He looked calmer. ‘Now, I am very well. I have been away, for work,’ he explained. ‘In the States. That is why I have not come here.’
‘Right,’ Alyson nodded. She was embarrassed to admit it, but she’d been thinking about him. When he hadn’t returned to the bar, she’d dismissed their meeting as something insignificant, telling herself not to be so ridiculous. She’d buried her feelings and got on with her life, the way she always did. Now she knew he’d been thinking about her too.
They stood in silence. Alyson realized she was staring at him. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked quickly, trying to cover her nerves.
Philippe hesitated. ‘No. No, thank you. When …’ He paused, rubbing his brow. ‘When do you next have time off from here?’
Confusion flickered across Alyson’s face, unsure of where he was leading. ‘I have Saturday daytime free, but I have to work in the evening. Then I have Monday night off …’
Philippe thought for a moment. ‘Saturday. Would you like to come out with me? We could have lunch …?’
‘Yes,’ Alyson said quickly, surprising herself. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’
‘Good.’ Relief flooded across his face. ‘Good. I’ll be in touch.’ He threw her that smile once again, and dashed out of the door.
Alyson watched as he left, staring after him for the longest time. She bit her lip to stop herself from grinning like an idiot, a knot of excitement building in her stomach. She felt as though she had a secret; something exhilarating that made her light up inside.
She’d never really been interested in men before – never even had a boyfriend – but there was something about this guy that was different. He was handsome, naturally, but it was more than that. He had a self-assured quality that was unlike anyone she’d ever met. They way he moved, spoke, behaved – he seemed utterly confident and in control. He was a different nationality, clearly older than her, and yet … he’d asked her out. Alyson exhaled, a long, shaky breath, as her heart began to race once more. It was terrifying, but thrilling.
With a pang, she thought of Aidan. She wondered what he would say if he knew – he hadn’t seemed to like Philippe the last time he came in. Alyson shrugged off the thought, telling herself that it was nothing to do with him. Aidan was her boss and they were friends – that was all. Sure, she’d had a good time the other night, but that was what friends did, wasn’t it?
Picking up a dishcloth she turned back to the bar, pushing the feelings of guilt to the back of her mind. Aidan was her manager, and what she did in her private life was none of his business.
‘Man, it’s beautiful,’ Dionne breathed, as she pushed open the wrought-iron gate and stepped into the overgrown garden. It was like entering a secret world.
‘C’est parfait!’ CeCe
exclaimed in delight.
Her friend, François, followed them in through the gate, his camera equipment slung casually over his shoulder. He was typically French looking, with striking cheekbones that hinted at aristocratic roots, dark-blond hair growing past his shoulders, and a sexy covering of stubble. He was tall and slim, dressed in skinny jeans and a grey shirt. The whole look was deliberately laid-back, but the clothes were designer – a rich kid playing at dressing down.
Like most of CeCe’s friends, he was from the moneyed, Eurotrash set; society kids who were drifting through life trying out whichever career they felt like. Photography was François’ latest fad, but he knew if it didn’t work out, he wouldn’t be on the breadline. His parents would bail him out, and he would simply drift into whatever next took his fancy.
‘Very impressive.’ He whistled under his breath. ‘The pictures will be incroyable.’
CeCe put a hand to her eyes to shade them from the early morning sun as she stared up at the house in front of them. It was glorious – a three-storey mansion in the 16th arrondissement, built from the distinctive cream-coloured Parisian stone and wreathed in climbing ivy. It had high-arched windows, ornately carved balconies and tall pillars either side of the cast-iron studded wooden door. The whole property was surrounded by a high stone wall; tall trees and unruly bushes had sprung up around it, making it almost impossible to see in from the street outside. You could walk past and not even notice the house was there.
A property developer friend of CeCe’s had let them borrow it for the day. A former embassy for an Eastern European country that no longer existed, it had been on his books for some time and had fallen into a state of disrepair. Part of the stone wall was crumbling, a couple of windows had been smashed, and what had once been a formal, well-ordered garden had been left to grow wild.
CeCe fell in love with it instantly. It had a timeless quality and a wild beauty – the perfect place to shoot her lookbook. Inspired by Claude’s advice, she had seized the moment and kicked her career up a gear. It was all very well sitting in her bedroom designing, running up samples of the clothes on the sewing machine in the lounge, but it was hardly going to turn her into the next Coco Chanel. She needed to take the leap – try and sell her designs, drum up interest in her label.