Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  ‘Oh,’ Alyson sighed in relief. ‘I was worried … I might have spoken out of line,’ she finished, not wanting to go into details.

  ‘Not at all. He’s very pleased with how you’re doing. In fact, it’s been suggested that you accompany the management team to Zurich next week, to present to the money men. The board are getting a little anxious about the direction the company is taking, and we need to explain our strategy, calm any nerves. Richard tells me he thinks it would be an excellent experience for you to attend.’

  ‘Really?’ Alyson turned over, sitting up and looking straight at Philippe to see if he was joking. ‘He wants me to be part of that?’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t know the details of what Richard expects, how much of a role you will play …’

  ‘That’s incredible!’ Alyson couldn’t keep the smile from her face. ‘Thank you so much, Philippe.’

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘Not at all. It was all down to you.’

  ‘But you gave me the break,’ Alyson insisted. ‘You believed in me enough to give me that opportunity, and now …’ She broke off, her eyes shining.

  Philippe smiled indulgently as Alyson leaned over to kiss him. He drew her closer, feeling those small, sharp nipples press against him. She parted her legs willingly, and Philippe’s erection stirred. But no, he wanted to keep control of himself. Pulling away, he glanced at his watch. Eight p.m.

  ‘How about we go out for dinner, hmm?’ he suggested. ‘To celebrate.’

  ‘Okay,’ she agreed easily. ‘I’ll go and grab a shower.’ She kissed him once more, then climbed out of bed.

  Philippe watched in appreciation as she walked away. Those long, toned legs that went on forever, right up to that tight bottom. Her precision-cut blonde hair shimmered down her back, stopping just below her shoulder blades. Before she’d started work with Rochefort Champagne, Philippe had taken her to a discreet, exclusive salon where they’d taught her the basics – good haircut, a few subtle highlights, leg wax and a mani-pedi. She was quick to learn, eager to appear groomed and professional.

  Shopping had been the next thing. They’d hit the Avenue Montaigne for work clothes, and a handful of evening dresses that she’d left at Philippe’s apartment.

  He got out of bed and headed to the closet. For himself, he selected an Yves St Laurent suit in dark grey, with a bespoke Charvet shirt. Next, he moved to the end of the rail, to the few dresses that belonged to Alyson. Philippe always liked her to look sophisticated; nothing too slutty or obvious. He picked out a rather plain, black silk Lanvin dress and hung it on the front of the wardrobe, pleased with his choice. She would wear that tonight.

  It was essential that she looked good at all times, and didn’t do anything to embarrass him. She didn’t know it yet, but Alyson was auditioning for the role of Madame Philippe Rochefort, and so far she was giving a stellar performance. He wasn’t getting any younger, Philippe reflected, and he needed someone like her. Alyson was gorgeous – cool and elegant, like a Hitchcock blonde – and she was pliable too. In her eyes, Philippe could do no wrong.

  Of course, he’d had to tell her about the other side to his business. The nightclubs and the strip joints – gentleman’s clubs, as he preferred to think of them. He’d kept it from her as long as was feasible. She was his little innocent and he wanted to protect her, didn’t want her to know that seedy world existed, or that he was such an integral part of it.

  Alyson had been mad as hell when she’d first found out, but Philippe had soon won her round. Unlike most women, Alyson wasn’t particularly materialistic. If he’d offered her expensive presents, she’d have taken it as an insult. No, he’d had to play it smarter than that. A little grovelling, a few apologies delivered with a sad face and puppy-dog eyes, the reassurance he really was a man of high morals and would get shot of them as soon as he could – she was soon eating out of his hand again.

  He’d managed to lure her away from that grotty little pub, and once she moved in with him his mastery over her really would be complete. Of course, she spent most of her time at his apartment, but she still insisted on keeping her rental place. A hankering for independence, or some such bullshit.

  Which reminded him, he really had to speak to Richard Duval about her. Sure, working at Rochefort Champagne was a nice diversion for her, a pleasant way for her to pass the time somewhere he could keep an eye on her. But it couldn’t be for ever. He needed to keep her expectations realistic – that way, she wouldn’t be too disappointed when being a wife and mother to the Rochefort heir became her new vocation.

  Yes, he would call Richard very soon. It was sweet of him to encourage her, but Philippe didn’t want it to get out of hand. There was no way he could allow Alyson to get too serious about her work. That simply wasn’t the plan.

  Alyson was soaping her body in Philippe’s spectacular shower. Made from Carrara marble, the walk-in wet room was easily large enough for two people and boasted a carved seat running the length of the wall. Water fell like rain from a huge circular panel in the ceiling, while tiny jets spurted out from the walls. Alyson turned slowly through three hundred and sixty degrees, feeling the water gently massaging her whole body. It was pure luxury.

  As she washed, her mind turned to Zurich, excitement coursing through her at the very thought of it. She was really doing this! Climbing the corporate ladder, making a name for herself. And Philippe was behind it all, driving her on, forcing her to believe in herself and do better. There’d been nothing but good ever since he came into her life. Every time she was around him, another dream came true.

  Of course, it was a little odd working for Philippe’s company. Maybe in the future she would work elsewhere, gain experience with Rochefort Champagne and move on. But for now she owed Philippe everything. She was well aware of that.

  She’d come so far since working at Chez Paddy. Everything had happened so fast, and her stint at the pub seemed like a lifetime ago. She’d always meant to go back when a little time had passed, to see Aidan and make things right between them. Maybe even take him out for dinner now that she was earning a decent salary, to pay him back for their evening in Montmartre. But life these days was a whirlwind, and somehow Alyson just hadn’t found the time.

  She turned off the shower and stepped out, wrapping herself in a thick white towel. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, kept clear due to the anti-fog system, and briefly studied her reflection. Her face was bare of make-up, her cheeks lightly flushed from the steam. She looked young, fresh and beautiful.

  She padded through to Philippe’s bedroom, where he looked up from checking his phone. ‘I thought you could wear this,’ he said, indicating the dress hanging from the wardrobe.

  ‘Sure,’ Alyson agreed, happy to defer to Philippe in these matters. She had little interest in fashion, and even less awareness of what looks suited her body shape. She wanted to look good for him, but that was the extent of her involvement. Besides, he was a worldly, cultured man, and she trusted his judgement implicitly.

  She slipped into the exquisitely lined dress, the material sliding over her body like water, and turned around, allowing Philippe to zip her up. He took his time, drawing it out, planting little kisses on the flawless skin of her back as he went. Alyson shuddered. Even the lightest touch of his fingers on her body made her skin tingle.

  As Philippe headed for the shower, Alyson sat down at the low desk she’d commandeered as a vanity table, quickly blow-drying her hair, then applying a little make-up. If it had been up to her, she would have gone au naturel, but Philippe had insisted on buying her the quality basics – Chanel foundation and blush, Lancôme mascara, a choice of lipsticks in subtle colours. She spritzed herself with the Coco Mademoiselle he’d bought her, and added discreet diamond earrings – a present for their three-month anniversary.

  She turned as Philippe strode into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was wet and dripping, his naked stomach tanned and taut, the dark hair on his chest matted with water
.

  Alyson stood up, presenting herself to him. ‘How do I look?’ she asked shyly.

  She watched as Philippe’s practised gaze ran over her, his eyes moving from the smooth, shiny curtain of hair, all the way down her body to her Carven court shoes. They were black, mid-height – Philippe didn’t like her in anything too suggestive.

  His face creased into an expression of approval. She was sophisticated, elegant and beautiful – everything the future Madame Rochefort should be.

  ‘Perfect,’ he replied, breaking into a wide smile. ‘Just perfect.’

  19

  ‘Do you really think it’s her?’

  ‘Just look at her! She’s the total spit of Alyson.’

  ‘But why the hell would she be with Philippe Rochefort?’

  Dionne shook her head at CeCe’s question. ‘Damned if I know. I mean, in what universe does that timid, mousy little British girl run into someone like Philippe Rochefort? She’s hardly gonna be getting her groove on at Bijou, is she? It totally blows my mind to even think about it.’

  Dionne and CeCe stared at the photo once more. A well-thumbed copy of Paris Match was open on the kitchen counter in front of them. It was the only surface in the flat that wasn’t covered in fabric or sketches or any of CeCe’s other paraphernalia.

  ‘And you really think it’s her?’ CeCe mused.

  ‘Of course it is. If not, then she’s got some doppelgänger walking round the city.’

  ‘So you think it was a one-off, or are they dating?’

  ‘They couldn’t be dating,’ Dionne scoffed. ‘He wants someone with money and class, remember? And she ain’t from no high-society background.’

  ‘Fucking, then?’

  ‘What, Lil’ Miss Virgin? No way.’

  ‘So what do you think it was all about?’

  Dionne paused. ‘Maybe he’s working his way round the city. Hell, he’s fucked every other girl in Paris.’ Except me … The thought came unbidden to Dionne as she remembered that horrible night, remembered Philippe Rochefort calling her every name under the sun before walking out on her. She’d offered herself to him on a plate and he’d rejected her.

  CeCe shifted uncomfortably, realizing exactly what Dionne must be thinking.

  ‘Maybe we should forget about it. Just pretend we never saw it,’ she suggested.

  But Dionne’s dark eyes were glittering with excitement, her beautiful face animated, as though something had just occurred to her. ‘No, I don’t think I’m gonna do that,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I mean, something like this is hard to forget, don’tcha think?’

  ‘Dionne—’ CeCe began, but broke off as the front door slammed. She shot a warning look at her as the kitchen door opened and Alyson bounced in.

  ‘Hey,’ she smiled at the pair of them, dumping her Prada work bag – another present from Philippe – on the tiny breakfast bar.

  ‘Hey, Alyson, what’s up?’ Dionne greeted her brightly. Beside her, CeCe discreetly closed the copy of Paris Match, angling her body to try and hide it.

  ‘Ooh, hot bag,’ cooed Dionne, with a pointed glance at CeCe. It was the kind of thing Alyson would never buy for herself.

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ She looked faintly embarrassed. ‘It was a present.’

  ‘Wow, who from?’ Dionne asked instantly.

  ‘I … Just a friend …’

  ‘Man, I wish I had friends like that,’ Dionne said deliberately. There was a touch of malice in her tone, a bitterness in her response that Alyson couldn’t understand.

  ‘So, how’s things?’ Dionne tried a new tack. ‘Are you still seeing that cute bar manager?’

  ‘Aidan?’ Alyson flushed, startled that his name should have come up. ‘No, I’m not … We were never really—’

  ‘Shame. He sounded sweet,’ Dionne cut her off abruptly. ‘And what about work? How’s that new job workin’ out for ya?’

  ‘It’s great,’ Alyson nodded, thinking that Dionne was behaving extremely oddly. She was probably still wired from the night before – that was usually the case. ‘Really great, actually. They’re sending me on a business trip to Zurich tomorrow so … that’s exciting …’ she trailed off awkwardly as Dionne stared at her.

  ‘Sounds amazing,’ Dionne replied sarcastically. ‘You must be impressing somebody. Where is it you’re working again? A drinks company, you said. What, like Coca-Cola?’

  ‘Not exactly …’ Alyson hesitated. She’d avoided telling them exactly where she worked. Dionne and CeCe went through champagne like most people went through water, and she couldn’t take the constant demand for her to bring home ‘freebies’ and ‘samples’. She’d simply told them she’d started work for a drinks company and let them make their own assumptions. ‘It’s a champagne house, actually,’ she admitted. ‘Rochefort Champagne.’

  ‘Really?’ Dionne arched her eyebrows so high they nearly reached her hairline. ‘Well … Doesn’t that sound like fun? I guess you need to go pack for your trip tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to hold you up …’

  ‘Yeah, I’d better go. See you guys later.’ Alyson seized the opportunity to leave, grabbing her bag and scuttling out of the room, grateful to be away from Dionne’s inquisition.

  ‘Have an awesome time,’ Dionne called after her, before turning to CeCe in triumph. ‘I told you! She’s fucking dating him,’ she hissed.

  ‘She didn’t say that,’ CeCe protested. ‘Maybe they’re just colleagues.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Who else is gonna be buying her Prada bags and Armani suits?’

  ‘Perhaps the job is well paid?’ CeCe offered.

  But it did little to dampen the fury in Dionne’s eyes. ‘I can’t believe he’s dating her,’ she raged. ‘Like, taking her out in public, letting them be photographed together.’ She picked up the copy of Paris Match and shook it at CeCe. ‘What has she got that I haven’t, huh? Apart from a flat chest and a whiny little Brit voice?’

  CeCe could only shrug her shoulders while Dionne ranted.

  ‘You remember what he said to me, CeCe? He spoke to me like I was nothing. Like I was a piece of shit.’ Her voice sounded choked. ‘Why the fuck is she so special?’

  ‘Do you think she knows?’ CeCe asked gently. ‘About his reputation, I mean.’

  Dionne shrugged. Her eyes were blazing, her chest rising and falling in anger. ‘Who knows? Who cares?’

  ‘But shouldn’t we tell her? We need to warn her or something.’

  ‘I’m not her mom. She can learn her own lessons.’ Dionne snatched up an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, her teeth crunching down fiercely on the tangy flesh. She chewed silently for a moment, thinking back to how Philippe Rochefort had treated her that night. Humiliation flooded through her at the memory, a sick feeling in her guts as she remembered what he’d said to her. Black trash. Worse than a whore. No guy spoke to Dionne Summers like that. She wouldn’t let him get away with it.

  But if he was dating Alyson … Dionne smiled suddenly, flinging the apple aside as the first stirrings of an idea began to form. The information could be useful – she just wasn’t sure how. Not yet.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ CeCe asked suspiciously, recognizing Dionne’s expression.

  ‘Maybe we should tell her,’ Dionne mused thoughtfully. ‘Just not right away. I mean, we wouldn’t want to ruin her little business trip, would we? Don’t worry,’ she added, seeing CeCe’s sceptical expression. ‘I’ll tell her soon. I just need to find the right moment.’

  Zurich was exhilarating.

  Even though the day was grey and overcast, the Swiss city was beautiful, with its quaint old buildings standing on the edge of Lake Zurich. For Alyson, it was overwhelming. She felt as though she’d finally arrived.

  The people in the streets were smart; there was the scent of money in the air. A small fleet of private cars had delivered them from the airport, driving to their hotel in the heart of the financial district. Alyson had shared a car with two of her colleagues – Tobias Venn and Marc Lasalle – as we
ll as Richard Duval. She’d been nervous at first, but they’d soon made her feel at ease. Richard had shown a particular interest in her, chatting about her background and asking her opinions, without ever getting too personal. Alyson was flattered.

  And now she was in the hotel, preparing for the big meeting. When she’d first seen her room at the Park Hyatt she’d wanted to dance around and jump up and down on the bed with excitement. It was superb – simple and modern, neutrally decorated in browns and creams. There were fresh flowers on the table, and gorgeous little Blaise Mautin toiletries in the bathroom. Her window looked out over the city itself; she could see the suited workers hurrying past below.

  On the glass-topped desk, Alyson’s company laptop stood open, the first page of today’s presentation displayed on the screen. Alyson wasn’t going to be presenting – she was merely there as part of the team, to support and learn – but it would be a great opportunity, Richard had assured her. There would be the chance to network, to meet investors and to get to know the senior managers a little better. Alyson was nervous; she knew they’d be watching her to see how she conducted herself and determine whether or not she had what it took to progress. She intended to grab this chance with both hands.

  She smoothed down her skirt, checking her appearance in the full-length mirror. Yes, she was definitely learning, she thought with satisfaction, staring at the beautifully cut designer suit that Philippe had bought her. Alyson had purchased a lot of new work clothes with her first pay check, but Philippe had insisted on buying her this for Zurich and she’d acquiesced. The last thing she wanted was to let the team down by turning up in some cheap, high-street outfit.

  Usually, Alyson favoured shift dresses with matching jackets; the shape flattered her long, lean body, emphasizing the slight swell of her small breasts, skimming over the gentle curve of her bottom. She teamed them with a skinny belt, creating the illusion of a waist on her boyish figure. But today she’d gone old school: a simple grey pencil skirt that fell just below the knee, paired with a crisp white Michael Kors blouse and the exquisitely tailored jacket. No modern dresses or ball-busting trouser suits. Her hair was pulled back, just a light dusting of powder and a slick of pale lip colour by way of make-up. She wanted to look unobtrusive and unthreatening – nothing to alarm the staid money men.