by Carrie Duffy
There was a sharp knock at the door and she quickly smoothed down her hair, unplugging her laptop and tucking it under her arm. She was ready.
Alyson opened the door to find Bernadette Sauvage standing there. She looked uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit that might once have been the right size but was now pulled taut with strain. Her dyed mahogany hair was trying to escape from the French pleat she’d attempted to pin it in, and her face was red from too much blusher.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked shortly. Her gaze ran over Alyson with a flicker of distaste.
‘Yes,’ Alyson smiled brightly, stepping towards her. But something in Bernadette’s face stopped her.
‘Oh dear, then perhaps I should have told you earlier. I’m afraid we’ve decided that you won’t be needed after all. Sorry about that.’ Bernadette didn’t sound at all sorry.
‘But I thought—’
‘Yes. There’s been a change of plan. It’s been agreed that it should be senior management only.’
‘Okay.’ Alyson’s heart was thumping, and she was struggling to take it all in. She knew her face must be betraying how she felt, and she fought to keep herself composed. Stay cool. Be professional. Don’t let this old battleaxe know she’s rattled you. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No,’ Bernadette said shortly. ‘You should make the most of it while you’re here. Perhaps go for a walk. Or ride on a tram.’ Pointedly, she checked her watch. ‘I’d better go. I don’t want to be late.’
She marched off down the corridor, swaying with self-importance. Alyson let the door swing shut and sat down on her bed, her body crumpling in despair.
I haven’t come all the way to Zurich to go for a bloody walk!
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror – spots of colour had appeared high on her cheeks; her lips were tightly pursed. It was rare for her to get this angry, but she felt as though she’d been set up. Who was Bernadette to tell her that and why hadn’t Richard overruled her? Had Alyson displeased him in some way? Did he even know what had happened?
Alyson picked up her phone and instinctively scrolled to Philippe’s number. She would speak to him, find out what had happened, make sure Bernadette got carpeted for what she had just done, and—
Alyson threw her phone down on the bed in frustration. She couldn’t do that. There was no way she could go running to Philippe – she didn’t want him to think she couldn’t hack it. More than that, she’d be an object of derision amongst the others. Running to her boyfriend, the big boss, at the first sign of trouble. It was pathetic. No, she had to do this herself, otherwise she wouldn’t earn any respect.
She was in this on her own.
It was late evening and Alyson had spent the day in her room, browsing the Internet and trying to read. She hadn’t dared leave the hotel in case she was suddenly needed for something; she didn’t want everyone to think she’d swanned off shopping on company time.
But she’d heard nothing.
She wondered for the thousandth time that day why Richard had changed his mind. It was humiliating, and she was dreading facing everyone again. The team would all know, all be looking at her and laughing behind her back – the girl who wasn’t judged competent enough even to sit quietly in the corner while the big boys got on with the important stuff.
She wished she’d been able to talk things through with Philippe, but she knew it was a bad idea. Besides, he was on a business trip in the States and she didn’t want to disturb him. He’d left yesterday, and wasn’t expected back for over a week. It would be the longest they’d gone without seeing each other. Oh well, she knew he was busy setting up the American side of Rochefort Enterprises and she was proud of him for that. At least it was nightclubs and not strip joints, she thought darkly.
Distractedly, Alyson reached out and picked up the printed itinerary for the day, from where it lay on the coffee table. The plan for this evening was cocktails at seven, followed by a private dinner. It was a dressy affair and she’d brought a beautiful deep-blue Halston Heritage number. She didn’t know if she was still invited, but to be on the safe side she had showered and changed, zipping herself into the dazzling dress. She’d gone stronger on the make-up side, wearing a bold Chanel red lipstick. Philippe had bought it for her, saying that every woman should own one, and now she was glad he had. She didn’t know why she’d brought it with her, but as she slicked it on she realized it was perfect.
Screw them, Alyson thought, in an uncharacteristic display of rebellion.
Her hair was freshly washed, shimmering over her shoulders. The red lipstick brought out the colour in her cheeks, emphasizing her pale skin and making her blue eyes sparkle. Next to her, Bernadette Sauvage would look like a menopausal bag lady, Alyson thought with satisfaction.
For the first time she was realizing the power of her beauty. She’d never been interested in clothes and make-up, but now she was beginning to understand how they could make a difference to your confidence, and to the way people perceived you. In Giambattista Valli heels, with her Miu Miu clutch, Alyson felt like player. She could take on anyone, from Bernadette Sauvage to the most powerful investor.
Alyson checked her watch. Ten minutes to seven. She sat down on the corner of the bed, ready to wait. If she hadn’t heard anything by ten past she would take off the dress, remove every last scrap of make-up and curl up in bed with her pyjamas on, hiding under the duvet. She would order something nice from room service, watch an old movie and feel glad that it was all on Rochefort Champagne’s bill.
The minutes ticked by. At two minutes to seven, there was a knock on the door. Alyson steeled herself and opened it. Richard Duval stood there, looking surprisingly dapper in a black tux. She towered over him in heels and he looked up at her, his expression remorseful.
‘I’m very sorry about earlier,’ he apologized. ‘There was no choice. But I am aware that is no consolation.’ He tried to keep his eyes fixed on her face. She looked incredible – haughty and imperious, yet young and vulnerable. He could see exactly what Philippe saw in her; he’d done very well for himself. Richard was less sure what Alyson saw in Philippe – she didn’t seem to be the gold-digger type. Yes, he was handsome, but a man with Philippe’s reputation needed to be handled by someone with more experience than this naïve young girl.
Richard smiled kindly. ‘Are you coming to dinner?’
‘I didn’t know if I was still invited.’ Alyson wasn’t being petulant, simply honest.
Richard held out his arm for her to take. ‘Well, you are. Come, walk with me.’
Alyson let the door shut behind her, and together they made their way down the corridor.
‘Alyson, I want you to know that you are very talented, and you exhibit a great deal of potential. You are smart, logical and you should have the credit you deserve. If it had been up to me, you would have been in there today.’
Alyson’s forehead creased in confusion and she spoke without thinking. ‘But surely you can overrule what Bernadette says?’
‘Yes, I can.’ Richard hesitated. ‘But it wasn’t her decision.’
‘No? Then whose?’
There was a pause. Richard reached out and pressed the button for the lift. ‘Look, I really shouldn’t say any more. Already, I have said too much.’
Alyson fell silent. She didn’t understand what Richard meant. If neither he nor Bernadette had authorized the decision, then who had? Richard was the MD, for Christ’s sake. Perhaps the others had got together, en masse, to complain at her inclusion. Yeah, maybe the guys who’d worked there for years didn’t appreciate having their thunder stolen by some little upstart who’d barely been there for five minutes. But that didn’t make any sense – they’d never been anything but polite to her face, and it wasn’t as if she was going to do anything more than sit in the corner and observe anyway.
Unexpectedly, Richard began to speak again. ‘Look, Philippe is an old friend of mine – I’ve known him since he was born – but he does have
something of a ruthless reputation. Just be absolutely sure you know what you’re getting yourself into, d’accord?’
Alyson turned to look at him, but Richard wouldn’t meet her gaze. In front of them, the elevator doors pinged open. ‘Shall we?’ he asked neutrally, indicating that she should go ahead.
In a daze, Alyson walked into the lift. Her mind was whirling. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was he implying that Philippe was behind the decision? But that was ludicrous. Why would he stop her going to the meeting when he knew she wanted it so badly? And he’d seemed so supportive. He’d bought her the suit, the dress – he’d even taken her out for dinner to celebrate …
She caught sight of her reflection in the lift mirror and realized how shocked she looked. Oh God, the last thing she wanted to do now was to walk out there and face all of her colleagues – especially Bernadette. They would all be laughing at her, knowing she hadn’t made the cut. Did they know that Philippe was behind the decision? It was just too awful. She began to wish she’d just locked her door and gone for the pyjamas and room-service option.
The numbers counted down swiftly and the lift doors opened. Once again, Richard offered her his arm. He seemed to understand what she was feeling. As they approached the bar, he spoke to her in low tones. ‘Keep your chin up; don’t let them see what you’re thinking. You know the key to this game? Bravado. Always brazen it out. You have ability, yes, but that’s only half the battle. You need the confidence too, perhaps even a little arrogance. Once you have that, you’ll be a more dangerous prospect than any of those fat cats out there.’
‘Thanks, Richard.’ Alyson gave him a half-smile, then composed her face. She lifted her chin, a steely glint appearing in her blue eyes. She looked beautiful, confident, more than a match for any of them.
Alyson stepped into the lion’s den.
20
It was the beginning of Paris Fashion Week and CeCe’s flat was in chaos. She had lost ten pounds, was mainlining black coffee and cigarettes, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. She looked like a vampire. She was living in her pyjamas and her only source of fresh air was the sash window, open a crack in the living room.
All her energy, all her creativity, was being driven into making sure this venture was a success. Real life could be dealt with afterwards. Right now, everything was on hold as she threw herself into securing Capucine’s future.
Girls had been traipsing in and out of the flat all week for fittings and last-minute adjustments. CeCe had been calling in favours all over town, trying to find thirty-two women with model proportions who were willing to work for nothing more than free coffee, a credit on their résumé and the potential for some fabulous exposure. It wasn’t the easiest task CeCe had ever undertaken.
Anyone who was any good had already been snapped up for Fashion Week, or was keeping their options open for the slew of last-minute castings. Working for no pay on some no-name show was simply not an option. The girls who were willing to do it were largely unusable – too short, too chunky, too unreliable, or simply unable to put one foot in front of the other without looking like a carthorse. It had been a fucking nightmare, but after weeks of arm-twisting and unashamed begging, CeCe had finally managed to find a full complement of models to show off her stunning designs.
Dionne had turned down the prestigious YSL show in order to model for Capucine, and CeCe was immeasurably grateful, but in return, Dionne had demanded that she close the show – to walk last and be the very final thing the crowds saw, the grand climax to the whole daring shebang.
She’d also insisted on wearing a divine white silk-organza dress. Most designers these days didn’t bother with the traditional wedding dress finale, and CeCe hadn’t intended to either. But she had a gorgeous white creation, a full-length column dress with a soft boat neckline and an audacious plunging back, shimmering with crystals. It looked stunning against Dionne’s dark skin, and CeCe knew it would make a huge impact. So, in homage to the old tradition, she’d agreed to put this dress right at the end.
Now all she needed to confirm was the styling for the show; she’d roped in a couple of make-up student friends of hers, and her regular hairdresser, Laurent, had agreed to swing by with his team. François had been commandeered to take photos on the day, and—
CeCe’s phone began to ring, for probably the hundredth time that day, and she snatched it up. ‘Allo? Oh, hi, Natalia, ça va? What? Shit, tell me that’s not true … Well, is she going to be okay? Yeah … Yeah, I understand … Okay, well, give her my best.’ CeCe hung up. ‘Fuck,’ she swore. ‘Fuck fuck fuck!’
‘CeCe?’ Alyson asked hesitantly as she walked into the room. She was eating a bowl of Caesar salad, and she looked nervously at her flatmate. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘No, actually. One of my models just dropped out.’
‘Oh no!’ Alyson looked genuinely devastated. She’d seen how hard CeCe had worked over the past few months, bringing this whole project together. ‘That’s such a shame.’
‘Tell me about it. She’s had a nervous breakdown or something, gone to rehab. Usual story. Her flatmate just called to let me know.’
‘Oh, the poor girl. Is she going to be all right?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ CeCe managed, through pursed lips. ‘She just needs to get off the drugs and start eating something. Fuck!’ she swore once again, as she began riffling through the mounds of paper and sketches on the dining-room table, trying to find her list of potential models. She finally located it crumpled beneath a swatch of fabric samples and quickly scanned the names, grabbing her phone.
Alyson, apparently forgotten, sat down on the sofa as CeCe began making calls, each one more frustrating than the last. Not interested, not available, deported due to visa expiry.
Jesus, this was like Mission: Impossible.
CeCe stabbed angrily at her phone, hanging up on the last girl she’d tried. The silence was deafening, the only sound coming from Alyson quietly crunching her salad. Even that almost caused CeCe to explode; her nerves were jangling, taut and pushed to breaking point. The slightest thing could push her over the edge. She span round in her seat, about to ask Alyson as pleasantly as she could to shut the hell up, when suddenly she stopped dead.
Alyson’s head was bowed as she leafed through some papers for work, her long legs tucked beneath her. Even though she was sitting down, dressed casually in jogging pants and a sweater, CeCe could clearly make out her slender shape. She must have been five ten or five eleven easily, all long, slim limbs, her body lean and healthy. And she was beautiful – ethereal almost – yet quirky enough for high fashion with that amazing bone structure and fine, blonde hair.
CeCe continued to stare as Alyson, oblivious, speared a forkful of her food. CeCe cleared her throat.
‘Alyson …’
‘Yeah?’
‘Have you ever thought of modelling?’
Alyson stopped mid-chew. She looked at CeCe as if she was crazy. ‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’ Alyson shook her head vehemently. ‘No, that’s not for me at all. I’m not … I mean, I couldn’t do … That’s more Dionne’s thing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but you’d be great at it too.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The idea sounded crazy to Alyson. ‘I’m happy doing what I’m doing.’
‘Well you wouldn’t have to change career …’
Alyson frowned, and CeCe decided to lay her cards on the table. ‘Look, I’m one model down and I’m desperate. I think you’d be perfect, and, really, you’d be doing me such an enormous favour, I cannot say how grateful I would be …’
‘I’m so sorry, CeCe.’ Alyson looked stricken. ‘There’s no way I could do it. It sounds terrifying. All those people looking at you. What if I slipped, or fell over? I’m sure you’ll find someone, and I honestly think you’re better off not having me in the show – I’d probably just do something to ruin it …’
CeCe remained silent, her
disappointment evident.
‘If there’s anything else I can do to help … Maybe behind the scenes, you know – organization or something?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ CeCe said shortly. ‘I’d better get on with this.’
‘Okay.’
Alyson looked upset, and CeCe felt bad about the way she was behaving. ‘Thanks anyway, and … let me know if you change your mind.’
Alyson smiled ruefully, confident that wasn’t going to happen. There was more chance of Dionne taking a vow of abstinence than there was of Alyson agreeing to model.
Philippe was in New York, looking out through floor-to-ceiling windows at the vastness of Central Park far below. The city skyline was astonishing, his view stretching past the enormous skyscrapers as far as the Hudson River. A sense of exhilaration rushed through him, a heady feeling of power. Yes, New York was the place to be. Europe felt like small fry – the States was where the big boys came to play. Like the song said, if you could make it here …
Philippe turned around, his back to the window. Come to think of it, the view in here was pretty incredible too, he thought smugly. Mindy Lieberman, the wife of one of Rochefort Enterprises’ US investors, stood in front of him wearing nothing more than a scrap of La Perla lace – black, sheer and slutty. Philippe thought of Alyson, with her sensible T-shirt bras in white or nude, her plain white cotton panties. At first it had been a turn-on – coupled with her youth, it made Philippe think of some naughty schoolgirl – but lately he’d begun to wish she would spice it up now and again.
That was why Philippe was here. To get himself a little excitement. This woman had about twenty years on Alyson and from the way she was looking at him now, she’d picked up a trick or two along the way. Hell, she looked as if she’d been right the way through the Kama Sutra and back again.