Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  So she’d called in some favours. Dionne modelling and François taking photos were just the beginning. She hadn’t lied when she’d told Claude she was well connected. She knew bloggers, writers, editors of hip, underground magazines, girls-about-town who would wear her dresses and create some buzz around her – make sure everyone knew CeCe was the up-and-coming designer to wear. After all, everyone loved to be first with a trend.

  She’d even christened her new label – Capucine. It was the name of a flower, and also the stage name of a beautiful French model and actress from the 1960s who tragically took her own life. Capucine’s story fascinated CeCe, and she felt that the name was the perfect tribute – glamorous and elegant, with an air of mystery.

  ‘Okay.’ She clapped her hands together in excitement. ‘Let’s get started.’

  They made their way over the cracked flagstones towards the imposing entrance. CeCe fished the key out of her handbag. It stuck a little in the lock, then gradually turned, the door creaking as it swung open.

  Dionne’s jaw dropped. CeCe broke into a wide grin as François stared round, taking everything in. The entrance hall was enormous, tiled in black-and-white flagstones with a dramatic vaulted ceiling. A wide, sweeping staircase curled away to the left, with an intricately carved wrought-iron banister.

  ‘Does this place have any electricity?’ Dionne wondered.

  CeCe flicked the switch beside her, and the place was flooded with a dingy light from the colossal crystal chandelier above. Not all of the bulbs worked; the glass was dusty and covered in cobwebs. It looked like something from a gothic horror novel, but CeCe knew it would look fantastic on camera.

  ‘Come on, let’s explore,’ Dionne squealed, dumping the bag she was carrying. The three of them were like children as they raced from room to room, exclaiming over what they saw. At an upstairs window they found heavy damask curtains in rich burgundy shot through with gold, damp and stained with mildew. A moth-eaten flag drooped sadly beside a solid mahogany desk. Mounted near the entrance was an enormous bust of some long-forgotten leader, and what had once been the ballroom shimmered with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, edged in gilt and tarnished with black speckles. It was the ultimate in faded grandeur, and it was fabulous.

  They based themselves in the ballroom and began to set up. CeCe found a dubious-looking power point, the plug socket hanging from the wall and the wires sprawling out from behind. She crossed her fingers and plugged in the iron. The clothes needed to look perfect, and she was willing to risk a little electrocution to ensure they did.

  Dionne plopped down on the floor in front of one of the huge mirrors, and began unrolling her make-up kit. She was styling herself for the shoot – she did it so regularly she was practically a professional. She’d even spent last night putting in a new weave, sewing in extensions so that her hair was long and glossy, with infinite possibilities.

  Outside in the hallway, François began to set up for the first shot. He’d found a dramatic recessed arch with sweeping lines and intricate carving. Even with the overhead lights on, the building was dark; the high windows let in little daylight, obstructed by the thick bushes and tall trees. Quickly, he rigged up two powerful soft-box lights and set the camera on a tripod. He was using an old-fashioned camera with 35mm film, preferring the effect to digital. François knew exactly what CeCe wanted, and he planned for the shots to be glossy yet timeless, an old-school elegance with a hint of smouldering sex appeal.

  Back in the ballroom, CeCe was helping Dionne into the first dress – a form-fitting creation in nude satin overlaid with black silk Chantilly lace. High-necked, with an Elizabeth I-inspired ruff to emphasize an elegant neck, it followed the line of Dionne’s curves like a persistent stalker, blossoming out at the bottom to a wide fishtail in layers of ruffled lace.

  ‘Dionne, you look amazing,’ CeCe marvelled, as she hooked the dress and stepped back to admire her work. The clothes were perfectly tailored to fit Dionne’s body, and she wore her hair up to give full effect to the dramatic neckline, a few strands hanging loose and curled. Her eyes were made up in shimmering emerald, her lips smudged with berry.

  She saw that CeCe was staring critically at her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It needs something,’ she frowned. ‘I don’t know what …’

  ‘You want accessories?’ asked Dionne, grinning as she tipped out the bag she had brought with her. Dozens of scarves, jewellery and shoes clattered onto the parquet floor.

  ‘Holy shit, Dionne. Where did you get all this stuff from?’

  ‘Rivoli Couture.’ Dionne was smiling like the Cheshire cat. ‘I borrowed it.’

  ‘Khalid is going to kill you,’ CeCe exclaimed. ‘You can get away with the odd item, but he’ll notice if this much stock is missing. Although these are pretty spectacular,’ CeCe marvelled, holding up a pair of hand-painted Erdem wedges.

  Dionne shrugged. ‘I couldn’t give a fuck if he fires me. I’m planning on leaving anyway. I just haven’t got around to telling him.’

  ‘Really?’ CeCe wondered if Dionne was serious. Every time she had a bad day she threatened to walk out. But this time there was something different in her tone.

  ‘Totally. I’ve got enough money from modelling to cover me for a few months so I’m gonna go for it and hope the work keeps flowing in. Just be grateful you’ve got me today – you won’t be able to afford me in a few weeks,’ Dionne teased.

  ‘Then I feel very lucky,’ CeCe laughed, as she rummaged through her jewellery box and picked out an elegant pair of pearl earrings. She tried to keep her tone light, but inside she felt unsettled. So Dionne had made enough money to leave her job and model full time? The news only increased CeCe’s determination to get her own career underway. She didn’t know how she’d cope at Rivoli Couture without Dionne. She was the one who made it bearable, and now she was leaving. CeCe had the uncomfortable sensation of being left behind.

  She pushed the negative thoughts to the back of her mind and handed the earrings to Dionne. The sight of her in the beautiful dress made CeCe swell with pride. She was talented, she insisted to herself; the rack of incredible dresses waiting to be photographed was proof of that. And she was going to succeed.

  François stalked into the room, brushing his long hair away from his face. He looked perfectly handsome, perfectly put together. ‘Ready?’ he asked, as CeCe nodded. ‘My God, Dionne, you look magnificent,’ he said genuinely, his eyes roaming over her body.

  Dionne smiled, pleased with his reaction. She twirled in front of the mirror, taking in her appearance. The dress was cut perfectly for her hour-glass figure, the high neck emphasizing her jaw line and giving her an almost regal air. She looked like a dark princess, a gothic queen.

  ‘Allez, viens,’ François said, taking her by the hand. ‘Together, you and I are going to create something wonderful for CeCe.’

  Dionne giggled, following him out of the room. CeCe came behind, ensuring the fishtail train didn’t snag on anything. As they reached the alcove, François made final adjustments to the light while CeCe fussed around, making sure the lace draped as it was supposed to, that the ruff stood up stiff and even. Then she stepped back and left them to get on with what they did best.

  Dionne shone. There was no other word for it. She came alive in front of the camera, dazzling with energy. She flirted with François and he lapped it up, the two of them sparking off each other’s creativity. CeCe knew that a lot of designers didn’t like such overt sexuality, but for her it worked. She loved the way Dionne gave her clothes a real sense of personality, bringing them to life in front of the camera.

  They worked without stopping. As soon as one outfit was shot, François would set down and move the equipment to the next location while Dionne rapidly changed her hair and make-up. One moment she was a painted courtesan, the next a bare-faced ingénue. She could transform in minutes from old-school Hollywood glamour to innocent schoolgirl.

  CeCe ran around being general dogsb
ody: pressing the clothes, doing last-minute stitching, helping François lug his gear and pampering Dionne’s ego. At lunchtime she ran out and grabbed food for them all. Dionne barely ate, existing on black coffee and a banana, which she ate in small bites throughout the day.

  In spite of everything, CeCe was excited. She raced through the day on adrenaline, and she could feel in her bones that the photos would be fantastic.

  Dionne was a fire-cracker, never switching off. They shot her reclining on the dark mahogany desk, her skirt hitched up and a look of sexual promise in her eyes. Then alone in the garden, vulnerable amongst the undergrowth, as though captured off guard in a private moment. There was a dramatic pose in the ballroom, the mirrored wall being used to show Dionne’s front and rear simultaneously; the back of the dress was cut strikingly low, with criss-cross lacing like a reverse corset, and the picture captured it perfectly.

  The whole shoot had the vibe of a glossy magazine editorial, a deliberate decision by CeCe. She wasn’t just selling the clothes – she was selling the lifestyle. The Capucine woman was aspirational, sexually confident and in control, and the photos needed to reflect that.

  The sun had set by the time François finally called time. They had shot for eighteen hours straight and were all exhausted, but CeCe was elated. She cracked open a bottle of champagne and they sank down on the dusty floor of the ballroom, toasting each other with plastic cups in the dingy light.

  ‘To CeCe,’ said François, raising his cup.

  ‘CeCe,’ Dionne echoed.

  CeCe grinned at the pair of them, so grateful for everything they’d done. She had a good feeling about today and this was just the start, she was sure of it. CeCe Bouvier was on her way.

  14

  Alyson was seated in the back of a sleek black chauffeur-driven Mercedes that purred like a kitten as it made its way through the Parisian traffic.

  She crossed her long, slim legs – since the weather had turned warmer, she’d been living in shorts, and her pale northern skin was now lightly tanned – and looked over her outfit. She couldn’t help it. Everyone else was taking such an interest in what she was wearing and it was starting to rub off on her. Besides, she wanted to look nice for Philippe, to feel confident in her appearance instead of being shy, inhibited Alyson who longed to blend into the background.

  She’d told the girls she had another date and they’d squealed with excitement, fussing round as if she was making her debut at the Crillon Ball. They assumed it was a second date with Aidan and Alyson hadn’t bothered to correct them. It just seemed easier that way.

  She’d declined Dionne’s enthusiastic offer of help, fearing another excruciating makeover session. Instead, Alyson had been shopping. She’d found a cute floral-print dress that flattered her body shape without being overtly sexy, and teamed it with her old denim jacket and strappy sandals, a small tan bag slung across her body. She looked both cute and effortlessly stylish.

  She’d even bought a little make-up. Nothing too over the top – just brown mascara and a pale-pink lip gloss that tasted of marzipan. She took it out of her handbag and reapplied it, using the window to see her reflection. She hadn’t thought to bring a mirror.

  They were travelling along the Champs-Élysées and the tourists were out in force, browsing in the chain stores or paying extortionate prices to eat at the pavement cafés. Alyson could hardly believe that she was there at all – the whole experience was surreal. She’d arranged to meet Philippe in the Luxembourg Gardens and he’d offered to send a car for her. She’d almost fallen over when the Mercedes had shown up, the uniformed chauffeur alighting and smoothly opening the door for her. Monsieur Rochefort would meet her there, he’d informed her. She assumed they were going for a picnic. The idea was sweet, romantic.

  They crossed the Seine at Pont de la Concorde and the magnificent Assemblée Nationale rose up ahead. Alyson stared at it longingly. She would have loved to work there – perhaps as a translator in one of the government departments or, as an intern, learning about French politics at the very heart of the system. She couldn’t stay at Chez Paddy for ever. Aidan was great, but the need to move on was becoming ever more pressing.

  Aidan. Alyson felt a fresh swathe of guilt at the thought of him. She hadn’t told him where she was going. She didn’t think he’d approve.

  But there was no time to think about that now as they pulled up to the gates of the Jardin du Luxembourg and the driver came round to open her door.

  ‘Please follow me, Mademoiselle.’

  Alyson climbed out elegantly, trying to disguise the way her heart was pounding, and walked beside him through the ornate iron gates. The gardens were beautiful, immaculately kept lawns stretching as far as the eye could see, bordered by brilliantly coloured flowers. Stone statues kept guard over wide, sweeping walkways, and the whole park was dominated by the magnificent Luxembourg Palace.

  Then she saw Philippe walking towards her. Alyson caught her breath, shocked at how handsome he looked. He was dressed, off-duty, in a dark-blue polo shirt and Ralph Lauren chinos, his skin tanned and his expression relaxed.

  ‘Alyson!’ Philippe exclaimed, breaking into a warm smile. As he bent down to kiss her on both cheeks, Alyson closed her eyes, inhaling the delicious scent of him, feeling the light graze of his stubble against her cheek. The chauffeur discreetly disappeared, leaving them alone. Philippe let his gaze run casually over her and Alyson felt glad she’d made an effort. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

  ‘Shall we go?’ he asked, resting his hand on her lower back as he steered her further into the park. Alyson could feel the warmth of him through her thin cotton dress and she shivered, her skin breaking out in goose bumps. She willed herself to stay calm – she didn’t want a repeat of the incident with Aidan, where she’d taken fright and run.

  They strolled together down one of the wide avenues. Alyson watched the couples walk towards them, arms wrapped around one another, and wondered if she and Philippe looked like that – just another couple enjoying the beauty of the gardens.

  Suddenly there was a loud whirring noise from above, a deafening thwack-thwack-thwack of rotors. Alyson’s head snapped up, shading her eyes as she tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. Other people were doing the same, gaping upwards as a gleaming black helicopter descended from the cloudless sky, the rotating blades making the chestnut trees tremble. People stood back, giving it room as it came in to land. Alyson watched in disbelief as it touched down and the rotor blades were switched off, shuddering to a halt.

  ‘Come on,’ Philippe told her, heading towards it.

  Alyson followed him in confusion, watching uncertainly as he opened the door and greeted the pilot. He turned back to Alyson, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘Are you coming?’

  ‘It’s … for us?’ Alyson managed to stammer. A small crowd had gathered and the onlookers were watching her curiously. She felt self-conscious under their gaze, suddenly wishing she was anywhere but there. The idea of getting in a helicopter was terrifying – she’d never flown in a plane, let alone a chopper. And how well did she even know this guy?

  She looked up and saw Philippe smiling encouragingly.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, stunned.

  ‘As I promised you – for lunch.’

  Alyson wanted to burst out laughing, the situation was so absurd. She wondered what Dionne would do if she was here. It wasn’t even a question – she would climb in without a second thought.

  Steeling her nerve, Alyson stepped towards the helicopter. Philippe held out his hand to help her, then climbed in beside her, showing her how to adjust her seatbelt and headset.

  ‘You can speak to me through the mouthpiece,’ he explained. ‘But Guy can hear everything you say,’ he added, indicating the pilot. ‘Ready?’

  Alyson nodded, dumbstruck.

  Guy started up the helicopter and the blades began to rotate once more, the grass beneath them flattened by the rushing air. They lifted up and swung heavily t
o the left. Alyson let out a cry, and clung on to Philippe’s arm. He smiled reassuringly, covering her hand with his own as the chopper righted itself and they ascended directly upwards, leaving the gardens far below. The people looked tiny, the Palais du Luxembourg like a doll’s house.

  She stared, mesmerized, out of the window as Paris shrank and fell away beneath them. Heading east, they flew over the distinctive rooftops, the streets laid out in a jumble of curving streets and sweeping avenues, the boulevards running like arteries through the city. Alyson twisted in her seat, craning her neck to see the Eiffel Tower jutting proudly into the sky behind her. To her left was Sacré Cœur, where she’d been with Aidan …

  ‘It’s beautiful, no?’ Philippe’s voice crackled over the headset. Alyson could only nod, too self-conscious to speak in case she unwittingly said something stupid that the pilot heard.

  Gradually they left the city behind, the smart houses giving way to the sprawling suburbs and finally petering out into the rural landscape of the Champagne-Ardenne. A rich carpet of fields spread out below them, green and yellow, bisected by river tributaries and patches of forest.

  They flew for around forty-five minutes before they began to descend, passing over vineyards where thousands of grape vines were planted row upon row along the banks of the Marne River. In the distance, Alyson could see a huge property rising up out of the fields, more like a château than an ordinary house. It was built in grey stone, turreted and imposing, and as the chopper moved lower, she realized they were heading straight for it.

  They flew directly overhead, so close she felt sure they would land on the roof, but at the back of property was a flagstone courtyard where Guy expertly brought the chopper down to land. Just beyond was a large, rectangular lake, a statue of Poseidon reclining in the centre. The whirring blades of the helicopter created deep ripples on the surface of the water, shallow waves lapping at the weather-beaten stone.