Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  There was also a tiny part of her that felt as if she had to prove herself. She had no idea whether or not the others knew about her relationship with Philippe. She suspected they did. The managing director, Richard Duval, was certainly aware, and information like this had a habit of being filtered down via the gossip network.

  It didn’t bother Alyson unnecessarily. She felt confident that her standard of work would speak for itself, without needing to make reference to who she was dating. Besides, Philippe was rarely in the office. Alyson had discovered that he had a number of other business interests – mainly bars and clubs – and Rochefort Champagne was only one of them. In fact, he’d confessed to owning a slew of unsavoury sounding properties, including a chain of strip joints. High class, he’d assured her.

  Alyson had snorted in derision. If you were naked, you were naked, she thought sourly. It didn’t matter how much men were paying to see it.

  She’d been furious when she’d found out – in fact, they’d had their first and only row on the subject. Okay, so he hadn’t exactly lied, but surely keeping it from her deliberately was just as bad? Philippe had insisted that the clubs were an old part of his portfolio, that he planned to sell them as soon as the market came right. Alyson wanted to believe him. After all, she had her own secrets. The things she’d told Aidan – about her mother’s illness, her father walking out – there still didn’t seem to be a right time to tell Philippe.

  He was a busy guy, obviously. He had the American expansion to oversee, and Alyson was slowly coming to realize just how important he was. She’d read a profile of him in Les Échos, the financial daily, and he’d been named as one of France’s most eligible bachelors in Point de Vue. A quick Google search brought up thousands of entries – and not all work related. He’d had a pretty prolific dating life before meeting Alyson.

  One evening he’d taken her to a benefit gala, a black-tie event at the Palais Garnier, and she’d been shocked to find that the photographers outside wanted pictures of the pair of them. They’d posed together on the red carpet; Alyson had been mortified. Yes, Philippe was obviously very powerful, very well connected, and extremely good at what he did.

  And he adored her.

  He’d already asked her to move in with him, and she was sorely tempted. His apartment in Faubourg Saint-Germain was stunning, and she spent a lot of time there after work. Dionne was rarely in their shared apartment these days, but CeCe was working like a demon on some new project and the flat was constantly overrun with her designs; dresses draped everywhere that she got mad if you even touched. It was impossible to relax there, and Philippe’s place had become a sanctuary, a refuge from the rest of the world. Even if he was working late, Alyson would stay over, curled up in his study reading, or watching old French films in the screening room. But she’d declined his offer to make it permanent. It was too soon, and Alyson wanted to retain some of her independence.

  Her heart still raced when she saw Philippe, but more than anything she admired his confidence, his charisma. She loved being around him, loved watching the stylish way he lived his life. She’d learned so much from him over the past few months. He’d taught her about business, about people, about sex … Their relationship was almost one of mentor and student, as she soaked up everything he had to offer. Uncomfortably, Alyson recalled what Aidan had said about Philippe being a father figure. But that wasn’t true, was it?

  No, she thought firmly, pushing the doubts to the back of her mind. If their sex life was anything to go by, his relationship with her definitely wasn’t paternal. It made her blush to even think of it. The things they did together … The way he touched her … Alyson bit her lip, trying to stop herself from smiling. She felt sure that everyone in the office must be able to tell what she was thinking, to see the way she was squirming in her seat at just the thought of him.

  She was glad she’d waited to have sex – that she hadn’t just given it up to some guy during a quick fumble in the back of a car, or in a stranger’s bedroom at a party, the way most of her classmates at school had done. And she was proud that she didn’t sleep around with any man that crossed her path, like Dionne. Alyson had bided her time waiting for someone special, someone who knew how to treat her, and it had been the right decision. She loved the closeness and the affection of making love, the way she would curl up on Philippe’s warm chest afterwards and listen to his heartbeat, while he held her close and stroked her hair. He would cover her with kisses, whispering in her ear as he told her how beautiful she was, how perfect …

  Focus! she reprimanded herself, as her inbox popped up and she began to scroll through her emails. She needed to concentrate – she couldn’t spend all day dreaming like some love-struck schoolgirl. Other than Philippe, her job was the most important thing in her life right now, the one area where she knew she had the potential to really make a difference.

  When she’d started, she’d known nothing about the business, but she was learning quickly – where the main markets were, who were the key players and rivals. Every day there was something new to learn, a fresh challenge that she had to overcome. Since starting work three months ago, Alyson lived and breathed Rochefort Champagne. Richard hadn’t tried to box her into any one area; instead, he’d let her find her own way, developing her strengths and focusing on the areas that really interested her. Alyson could feel that she was growing in confidence, trusting her instincts and not being afraid to speak up. She believed that the points she made were valid, that she wouldn’t simply be laughed at and dismissed.

  ‘Good morning, Alyson. How are you today?’ Richard Duval had left his private office and passed by her desk, stopping briefly to speak with her as he did most mornings. He was a short, grey-haired man in his early sixties, balding and a little paunchy, the executive lifestyle finally catching up with him.

  ‘Good morning, Monsieur Duval. I’m very well, thank you. And yourself?’

  ‘Excellent, yes. Listen, I’d like you to come and take minutes at the senior management meeting today. It’ll be held in the boardroom at ten. Are you free? No other projects on the go?’

  ‘No, that’s fine. No problem,’ Alyson assured him.

  ‘Very good.’ He turned to go, and then thought better of it. ‘You really are doing an excellent job, Alyson. I’m very pleased with your progress.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ As he walked away, Alyson found that she was beaming with delight.

  A few hours later, and Alyson had stopped smiling.

  The meeting had droned on into the early afternoon and everyone was flagging. Alyson was doing her best not to stare out of the window. She’d practically given up taking minutes; it felt as if everyone was repeating the same points over and over.

  ‘… if we can incentivize the consumer in some way …’

  ‘… yes, but with these revenue constraints …’

  ‘… need to manage the expectations of our client base …’

  As far as Alyson could see, it was less of a meeting and more an exercise in self-aggrandizement by a group of people who loved the sound of their own voices.

  Her immediate manager was one of the worst – Bernadette Sauvage, a dragon-faced woman who seemed to have taken a strong dislike to Alyson and never said anything positive to her.

  They were discussing the new marketing strategy, and reviewing the effectiveness of their six-month plan. Sales had been down recently, and most of the middle-aged men and women around the table were convinced that youth was the answer. Like every other brand, they were obsessed with seeming young and hip, and capturing the lucrative under-thirty market.

  To Alyson, the solution seemed perfectly obvious. She knew from her research that Rochefort Champagne was a classic, well-respected brand, known for its sophistication and elegance. They needed to rediscover that image, to make it the luxury brand of choice for the connoisseur, not an expensive fizzy drink to be thrown down the necks of rap artists, or the likes of Dionne and CeCe on a night out; those who were mo
re concerned with style over substance.

  ‘… and as our sales remain static in the over-fifties sector—’

  ‘Actually they’re not.’

  A dozen pairs of eyes swivelled to look at Alyson. Shit, had she really just spoken out loud? Yes, she had, and she’d just contradicted her boss.

  Bernadette Sauvage was looking at her like she wanted to insert her Mont Blanc roller-ball pen somewhere rather unpleasant.

  ‘What did you say?’ she demanded, her face turning puce.

  ‘Nothing.’ Alyson looked mortified. ‘Sorry, forget I spoke.’

  Richard Duval, seated at the head of the table, smiled at her kindly. ‘No, Alyson. What did you want to say?’

  Alyson hesitated for a second, wondering what to do for the best. But she’d already opened her mouth. She took a deep breath, deciding to go for it. ‘The sales figures might be the same for the over-fifties, but that’s not in real terms. There’s an ageing population, so if the figures remain static, in actual fact our market share is declining.’

  A deafening silence greeted her statement. Everyone was staring at her, a mixture of bemusement and outright hostility on their faces. Alyson caught the eye of Richard Duval. He nodded encouragingly. The sight gave her confidence to carry on speaking.

  ‘In fact, I don’t believe the strategy should be to focus on the younger market – it’s what everyone does and there’s already too much competition in that sector. We’re not Cristal or Moët. We don’t want Scarlett Johansson advertising our product. I believe that would be doing a real disservice to Rochefort Champagne’s heritage.’

  Alyson cleared her throat. ‘The age group with the most disposable income is the over-fifties – once their children have left home they are time and cash rich. We should focus on this core client base, with a new campaign emphasizing the quality and tradition of our product. Above all, Rochefort Champagne should be very luxurious, very classic and very French.’

  No one spoke. Alyson sat back in her chair, feeling her cheeks flush bright red. She wondered if she was about to get sacked.

  ‘Thank you, Alyson,’ Duval said finally. He was scribbling notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Very interesting. Now, the next item on the agenda …’

  18

  Dionne lay back on the pristine white beach, digging her heels into the sand as she extended one leg and arched her back. Above her the sky was a dazzling azure blue, cloudless and perfect, the scorching sun beating down on her body. A few metres away she could hear the gentle lap of waves as the crystal-clear waters of the Indian Ocean kissed the shoreline. It was like heaven.

  Distantly, Dionne registered the click of a camera. She moved again, elongating her neck as she clawed at the sand. This time, she looked right down the lens of the camera.

  ‘Beautiful, Dionne. Bellissima!’

  She was the new face of Etam Swimwear, and this was her first shoot for them. They had flown out to Bali and Dionne felt like the luckiest girl alive. The weather was perfect, the five-star hotel was stunning, and – the best part – she had a whole crew dedicated to her every need. Hair, make-up, stylist, photographer, a runner to get her a cold drink when she needed to cool down, or a slice of fruit if she felt hungry. The whole thing revolved around Dionne, and she revelled in it.

  Right now she was wearing a fuchsia-pink bandeau bikini with a cute little ruffle around the top. The colour combination looked incredible – white sand, blue sky and the hot-pink bikini against her black skin, which she knew would just pop on camera. Her hair was long and wavy, sprayed liberally with Bumble and bumble surf spray to give it that perfect sun-kissed look.

  ‘Yes, Dionne, you are like a tiger! A gorgeous, sensual animal! And again …’

  Dionne played up to the camera, pouting and fixing the lens with a provocative stare. She twisted her body a little – tiny movements, ensuring every shot gave something different. She knew just how to angle her arm so it looked slim and taut, how to stretch out her legs to make them toned and long.

  Marco, the photographer, was hilarious. An arrogant, womanizing Italian, he knew how to get the best out of the women he worked with. Playful teasing kept the shoot light, while an endless stream of compliments made the girls feel sexy.

  Now he was up close to Dionne, kneeling in the sand beside her as he continued to shoot. He was gorgeous, with olive skin and dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Okay, so his nose was a little on the large sign, but in Dionne’s book that was a good sign.

  ‘Make looove to the camera, Dionne,’ he instructed in that flowing Italian accent.

  Their bodies were so close they were almost touching, the whisper of skin on skin. Dionne was starting to feel horny as she rolled around in the sand, her breasts crushed beneath her, her face smouldering as she stared straight down the lens.

  ‘Okay, we’ve got it,’ Marco announced as he stood up and winked at Dionne. She smiled back, her eyes full of promise as he reached out a hand to help her up. She took it gratefully, throwing her arms around him and pressing her body against his.

  ‘Thanks, Marco, that was awesome,’ she purred.

  ‘And you were divine, darling …’

  They held the embrace for just a little too long, Marco’s hands roaming over the bare skin of Dionne’s lower back before his assistant ran over to take the camera from him and they broke apart.

  Dionne grinned to herself as she walked off across the beach. They would probably sleep together later – definitely, if Dionne had her way. Okay, so he was a total player and unbelievably arrogant. But hey, he was hot, with a great reputation in the sack, and neither of them was looking for a relationship.

  It was the transitory nature of the lifestyle, and it suited Dionne perfectly. There you were, trapped in paradise with a small team of beautiful, narcissistic people, all working closely together … it was like a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Casual sex was everywhere and no-strings hook-ups were inevitable. Photographers and models was the obvious stereotype – but stereotypes existed for a reason, Dionne had realized.

  Besides, she was hardly ever home these days. Her career had taken off and she spent her days crossing the oceans, flying from one continent to the next. She was still seeing David off and on, but hell, a girl had needs, and Skype sex could only get you so far.

  The past few weeks had been even more manic due to the shows: New York and then London. It had been Dionne’s first time in the UK capital and she’d loved it. Of course the weather was awful, but the vibe was so fashionable and the nightlife was awesome. She wished she’d had more time to soak up the city, but her schedule had been intense, a never-ending merry-go-round of fittings, castings, walking. No sleeping, no eating.

  Next was Milan, but Dionne had blown it off in order to do this photo shoot. Everyone knew the Italians never took black girls anyway. Being out in Bali was a much better proposition, and gave her time for a little R&R. She’d be back in Paris soon enough. CeCe was working like a demon in preparation for Fashion Week, and Dionne had promised to give her all the help she could.

  But for now she was here, beneath the blazing sun and the sweeping palm trees. She strutted across the beach, making sure that everyone got an eyeful of her high, round booty. She knew Marco would be watching, as well as the holiday-makers who couldn’t take their eyes off her. The Sands was a high-end, luxury resort, and she’d noticed some hot, loaded guys hanging around. Maybe Marco might have some competition after all …

  Dionne flopped down in a director’s chair beneath a large parasol. A young guy handed her a bottle of iced water, and she took a sip. Then she relaxed back into her chair as the hair and make-up team got to work, ready to transform her look for the next outfit. Jeanne, the hair stylist, began adding a cute little braid to her tangled locks.

  Dionne picked up a copy of Paris Match magazine that was lying around, gratified to find her own face staring back at her from the inside cover. It was her Diadermine commercial. She was practically unrecognizable from
her current beach-goddess look with her hair scraped back, skin supposedly free of make-up, healthy and glowing. Any pores or flaws had been airbrushed away, and her eyes were brown and liquid, her lips enormous. She stared at herself for a moment, then turned the page, coming to rest on la vie parisienne – the weekly column of who had been spotted out and about in Paris that week.

  Skimming over the pictures of celebrities and society names, Dionne saw something that nearly made her fall off her seat.

  ‘Holy shit!’ she swore, as Jeanne looked over in concern.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. But Dionne didn’t answer. She was staring intently at the page, wondering if she’d made a mistake. But no. There was definitely no mistake.

  Dionne hesitated for just a second, then picked up her phone to call CeCe.

  Philippe lay in his king-size bed with Alyson, their bodies twined together in post-coital bliss. The Egyptian cotton sheets were dishevelled, their skin lightly matted with sweat.

  Philippe was propped up on the pillows, his arms spread wide as Alyson curled up to him, her head resting against his chest as he breathed in the fresh, clean scent of her hair. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head and she stirred, moving against him. He loved the way she was so responsive, so utterly adoring. It made him feel like a god.

  Philippe gazed in satisfaction around his bedroom – at the soft lighting, the top-of-the-range technology, the smattering of antiques that the interior designer had sourced. He had what he considered to be one of the best apartments money could buy, and a stunning girl in his arms who was willing to do anything to please him. Yes, life was working out pretty well for Philippe Rochefort.

  ‘I spoke to Richard Duval earlier,’ he commented casually.

  ‘Oh really?’ Philippe felt Alyson’s body tense beside him, and he smiled in amusement. He knew she’d be worried about what Richard had said.

  ‘Yes.’ Philippe waited a beat before putting her out of her misery. ‘He’s very impressed with you. He thinks you’re doing an excellent job.’