Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  Sex with Alyson was fine – she was eager, responsive, never turned him down. But she was kind of, well, vanilla for his tastes. They rarely got out of missionary; Alyson had a tendency to lie back and let him get on with it. That was fine in its own way – Philippe made sure he always got his rocks off, and besides, he was judging Alyson on her potential as a wife and mother, not on her skill between the sheets. There were plenty of other ways Philippe could get what he was looking for. His father had always had mistresses, he remembered. It was just the way things were.

  And Mindy seemed more than happy to oblige. He’d met her at dinner last night and she’d flirted heavily with him, inviting him round to her apartment today with the assurance that her husband would be working. As a general rule, Philippe didn’t like screwing around on another man’s territory, but on this trip he was feeling reckless. The new club was coming along nicely, and he had the fragrant Alyson covering his needs back home.

  Philippe stared at Mindy, feeling his cock stir and harden. She looked good, in that generic New York way: blonde hair perfectly highlighted; body kept unnaturally thin through strict dieting and a punishing exercise regime; age impossible to determine thanks to a subtle yet skilful surgeon. As Philippe unbuckled his belt, he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. Irritably he pulled it out. Alyson. Philippe grinned slyly, pulling off his trousers as he answered the call.

  ‘Alyson, darling! Comment ça va?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Alyson told him. She sounded a little down.

  ‘That’s good,’ Philippe replied distractedly. He crooked his finger, beckoning Mindy over. She strutted across the room towards him, discarding her bra and parties on the way. She was freshly waxed, Philippe noted with amusement. New York women and their obsession with grooming. ‘Listen, chérie, I cannot talk for long. I am very busy right now.’

  ‘Oh, right. I can call back later if you like?’

  In front of Philippe, Mindy turned round so her back was to him. Then she bent straight over, hands flat on the floor in front of her feet. Man, that was some party trick. All those hours of yoga must have really paid off.

  ‘Actually,’ Philippe smiled, ‘now’s a perfect time.’

  That skinny little bottom was staring up at him, her hairless pussy beautifully inviting. Philippe moved towards her, inching himself inside of her. Shit, that felt good. She was wet and tight – so tight, he wondered if she’d had surgery. Either that, or she was religious about her Kegels. ‘So how was Zurich?’ Philippe tried hard to control his breathing, hoping Alyson couldn’t hear the way he was practically panting down the phone.

  ‘Not great.’

  ‘No?’ Philippe feigned surprise.

  ‘No. I wasn’t allowed to take part in the end. I had to stay in my room.’

  ‘What? Why not?’ Philippe turned his head, seeing himself in the full-length mirrors that lined the far wall. He pulled his belly in, watching as he thrust in and out, his cock sliding smoothly between those splayed legs. Mindy’s hair was messed up and hanging in her face, her tits swaying freely.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Darling, don’t worry about it. You are only young and your time will come.’ Experimentally, he slipped a finger inside Mindy’s ass.

  But Alyson wouldn’t let the subject drop. ‘It was very odd. I spoke to Richard about it, and he implied the decision was out of his hands. But I thought he was the MD, so how could that happen?’

  There was a pause. Philippe continued to thrust, but his mind wasn’t on the job. When he spoke again, his voice was tight with anger. ‘He said that, did he? I can’t think what he meant.’

  ‘Can’t you?’ It was a challenge and they both knew it.

  In front of him, Mindy began to cry out, pushing herself back against his balls. Philippe covered the speaker with his palm, worried that Alyson would hear. He could feel the pressure of his own orgasm building.

  ‘Darling, look, I’m very busy right now,’ he told her shortly, glancing down at Mindy bucking and writhing beneath him. ‘We’ll talk more when I get back, okay?’

  Philippe hung up, not giving Alyson the chance to respond. He threw his phone to the floor, removing his finger and reaching round to grab Mindy’s breasts. She spread her legs wider and he reached down between them, sliding his fingers over the slick nub of her clitoris, stroking her relentlessly until her cries grew louder and he felt her clench around him, her body shuddering to climax.

  Distantly, Philippe thought back to what Alyson had said. He wouldn’t be spoken to in that way; wouldn’t have his authority challenged like that. Everything she had, she had because of him – the job, the clothes, the lifestyle. He had made her, and he could break her.

  In front of him, Mindy tried to stand up, but Philippe held her down. She would stay where she was until he was good and ready. He began to move faster, harder until the blinding light overtook him and he exploded in release. He stayed inside her, continuing to move until his cock stopped twitching and he’d squeezed out every last drop. Finally, the sensations faded and he pulled out with a groan, his dick limp and sated.

  Now he’d finished, he just wanted to get out of the apartment. Mindy was gushing, telling him what a fantastic lay he was, but Philippe wasn’t listening. The conversation with Alyson had disturbed him. She was getting a little headstrong – that damn independent streak coming out again. Well she would just have to learn. They did things his way, or she would suffer the consequences.

  At the other end of the phone, Alyson was furious. Had Philippe really just hung up on her? Something was going on, and she didn’t like it.

  He seemed to be brushing her off, disregarding her feelings. She thought back to that day at Château de Marne, all the effort he’d gone to, how charming and solicitous he’d been. She guessed that meant the honeymoon period was over.

  Alyson stared at the blank screen of her mobile, feeling the anger rise in her chest. Well, she wasn’t going to call him back – there was no way she’d give him the satisfaction.

  Instead, she stomped through to the kitchen, slamming cupboards and banging her mug down on the counter. She needed a cup of tea, the quick-fix solution for every Brit abroad.

  ‘Are you okay, Alyson?’ It was CeCe.

  Embarrassed about the noise she was making, Alyson walked through to the living room to apologize. CeCe was kneeling on the floor, pinning a dress on a beautiful girl. She was tall and slim, her expression bored. She looked Slavic, with cheekbones you could slalom down and sultry, hooded eyes.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Alyson was caught off guard.

  ‘No problem.’ But CeCe looked stressed. ‘You sounded angry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alyson took a deep breath, forcing herself to smile. ‘I’m fine now. Thanks.’

  ‘Are you a model too?’ It was the girl that had spoken to her, her accent strong and Eastern European.

  ‘No,’ Alyson flushed. ‘I just live here.’

  ‘You look like a model,’ she said, studying Alyson so intently it was disconcerting.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling her,’ CeCe agreed eagerly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind about the show? I’m still looking for someone …’

  Alyson shook her head, but stayed where she was. CeCe sensed an opportunity. She got up from where she was kneeling and unhooked the peacock dress from the picture rail, holding it up so Alyson could get the full effect. ‘This is the dress I need someone to wear. It will be such a shame if it doesn’t go in the show …’

  In spite of herself, Alyson moved across to look at it. ‘CeCe, it’s gorgeous.’ Her voice sounded awestruck. She’d never really paid much attention to CeCe’s designs before – besides, CeCe shouted if you got too near. But now Alyson saw how much work had gone into it; the fine stitching, the exquisite material. It was full length and backless, with real peacock feathers that had been used to create a dramatic train.

  ‘You should wear it,’ the girl told her bluntly. ‘You will look spectacu
lar.’

  Alyson bit her lip. She reached out to touch it, letting her fingers trail over the silk, feeling the way it slipped like water through her hands. Even though Philippe had bought her some nice clothes, she didn’t think she’d ever seen anything this stunning. Everything he chose for her was dark and old-fashioned, in sludgy browns or dull greys. This was young, bright, vibrant. Alyson’s heart began to race.

  ‘Please,’ CeCe asked beseechingly. ‘I’ve called everyone. You would be doing me such a huge favour, you can’t imagine how grateful I would be.’

  Alyson thought about it. She was still mad with Philippe over the way he’d treated her, feeling that, in some twisted way, this would be payback. He wouldn’t want her to do it, she was sure of that. But he was away. He would never know. Besides, why shouldn’t she do a favour for a friend?

  In a moment of clarity, Alyson suddenly saw how much control Philippe had over her life. He dictated almost every aspect, she realized, flushing with embarrassment – where she worked, how she dressed, even what she ate. In restaurants he always ordered for her, a gesture she used to think of as romantic but which now seemed more disturbing, a blatant statement of the power he wielded. Since the beginning of their relationship she’d always deferred to him, respecting his knowledge and experience, but maybe she’d let it go too far. She was her own person, not some rich man’s puppet.

  With a rush of excitement Alyson stared at the peacock dress, imagining herself wearing it. She could almost feel the rich material clinging to her body, the cool, slippery sensation of the silk on her bare skin. She felt giddy, light-headed almost.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’ The words were out of her mouth before she even knew what she’d said.

  ‘Vraiment?’ CeCe looked stunned.

  Alyson nodded quickly before she changed her mind.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much!’ CeCe exclaimed, throwing her arms around Alyson. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am, I’m so happy, Alyson!’

  Alyson smiled in bemusement, wondering what on earth she’d just agreed to. ‘When’s the show?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ CeCe informed her. ‘Can you get time off work?’

  Alyson shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll just call in sick.’ She was starting to feel rebellious, and she liked it.

  21

  The Tuileries gardens in central Paris were beautiful. It was the end of summer, just creeping into autumn, and the leaves on the trees were beginning to turn. The first winter chill was evident in the cool breeze, an unmistakeable change after the long, summer days.

  Outside the espace ephémère, the vast temporary marquee erected in the heart of the gardens, the fashionistas were waiting. It was the last day of the Paris shows – the final day of the season – and everyone was getting a little antsy. The atmosphere felt like the last day of school, with the fashion hacks exhausted from four weeks of shows, partying and champagne, and everyone rather looking forward to the whole thing being over.

  The YSL show was due to begin at three p.m., and the invitees were growing impatient. The hierarchy was strict, with the celebrities ushered inside and seated first on the all-important front row – Emma Watson, Clémence Poésy, Alexa Chung and Kristin Scott Thomas had all been snapped arriving. Outside, the press and bloggers were left in the holding pen, huddling self-importantly behind enormous black sunglasses, latte in one hand, cigarette in the other.

  Outfits were judged and reviewed, praised or condemned. For the fash pack, the first chill in the air was an excuse to throw on the most covetable items from their new winter wardrobe; despite the mild temperatures, skinny bodies were poured into knee-high boots and cashmere knits, oversized yeti coats and the occasional fur for those who dared to brave the animal rights protesters.

  Gossip was swapped, and points were scored over who’d blagged the best seats, or who’d skipped the waiting list for this season’s ‘it’ bag. Designer watches were anxiously checked. An over-running show had a knock-on effect, meaning you might be late for Dior on the other side of town, and the traffic was bound to be murder.

  But the overriding sensation was one of boredom, killing time until the action started. A photographer snapped a few shots for atmosphere, knowing they would never get used. Curious members of the public loitered nearby, drinking in the excitement, then drifting away when they realized no one famous was in the crowd. Pigeons pecked at the ground while, high overhead, aeroplanes crisscrossed the sky.

  Everything was calm and quiet, with no sense that anything out of the ordinary was about to happen.

  Alyson was seated in the back of a huge, black, seven-seater Range Rover, trying not to be sick. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so nervous in her life.

  But she looked incredible, there was no denying that. She’d been literally sewn into the peacock dress and it fitted her to perfection. Looking in the mirror, she was almost unrecognizable. Her hair was slicked back and piled on top of her head, her eyes painted silver and her lips rubbed with a berry shade. The make-up artist had used black blusher, applied in thick streaks along the line of her cheekbones. Alyson thought she looked like a corpse, but hey, that was fashion for you.

  They turned onto the rue de Rivoli, and Alyson’s heart lurched. She leaned against the window, feeling the cool glass on her forehead. Could she even do this?

  CeCe had wanted the peacock dress to lead the collection, but Alyson had begged her to change her mind. There was no way she could go first. She wanted to be somewhere in the middle, in the safety of the pack.

  She’d barely slept last night. She’d lain awake, thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Her number one fear was falling over. The heels she was wearing were higher than anything she’d worn in her life, and she hadn’t even been able to walk in them at first. Dionne had given her an aptly named crash course yesterday in the apartment, her feet sliding all over the polished wooden floor as she struggled to keep her balance. It was like learning to walk all over again, trying to capture the distinctive model strut; long strides, upright posture, chin tilted slightly down, one foot almost crossing the other. There was so much to remember, and surely it would be almost impossible on the uneven ground of the Tuileries? Alyson swallowed. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  She turned to look at the other girls, wondering if they were as terrified as she was. There were four models in the back with her, another one riding up front with the driver. They all stared straight ahead impassively, their faces blank. None of them spoke to each other. Alyson got the impression they weren’t very friendly. Dionne was in a different car. They’d been put in the order they were going to walk, and as Dionne was last she was in the final vehicle.

  Alyson knew it must be an impressive sight. Six brand-new gleaming Range Rovers, all in black, travelling in convoy through the centre of Paris. Pedestrians were stopping to stare, trying to peer in when the cars slowed down. They must think we’re the President or something, Alyson realized.

  The cars had been provided by David Mouret, one of Dionne’s friends. Alyson wasn’t sure if Dionne and David were dating, and didn’t like to ask. He’d been round to the apartment enough times, but Dionne often had guys round. David ran a car-hire company, and had provided the vehicles free of charge. She knew CeCe was immeasurably grateful, and they certainly looked pretty cool, with gleaming chrome alloys and tinted windows.

  They pulled alongside the cast-iron railings on the north-facing side of the Tuileries, and Alyson felt her stomach lurch. She had to fight an overwhelming urge to scramble out of the car, pull off those ridiculous shoes, and run at full pelt along the street, never to be seen again. Or maybe she would just open the door and be sick straight into the gutter. Either way, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  Alyson closed her eyes, taking a few calming breaths. She was doing this for CeCe, she reminded herself. It wasn’t about her; it was about doing a favour for a friend. In less than an hour it would all be over, and then she could go back to her ordinary life and be plain, uninterestin
g Alyson Wakefield. Just the way she liked it.

  CeCe was standing behind the trunk of a large chestnut tree, trying to look unobtrusive in a vintage velvet wide-brimmed hat and oversized sunglasses. Her heart was pounding as she waited for the fleet of cars to arrive, hoping no one would recognize her and blow the whole thing.

  This was make-or-break time. In just a few minutes she would find out whether all her hard work had paid off, whether it had been worth taking the gamble and – most terrifying of all – whether she really was good enough.

  Dionne thought she should drum up publicity – ring round the news agencies, maybe get a PR company involved – but CeCe didn’t want to. She wanted it to be a complete shock, a bolt from the blue, like a flash mob. She just hoped she could pull it off.

  The event had been an utter nightmare to organize. From six a.m. this morning she’d had girls arriving at the shared apartment – thirty-two of them all together, all stroppy and long-limbed, bitchy and competitive. She’d tried in vain to organize some kind of production line, where they had their make-up applied in her bedroom, their hair styled in Dionne’s, with the rest waiting in the living room. It had been carnage. The girls had done exactly what they wanted to, floating round the flat and out into the corridor in different states of readiness, and constantly seeking out CeCe with an endless barrage of complaints that, quite frankly, she just didn’t have the time to care about. Soothing thirty-two outrageous egos was not at the top of her to-do list for the day. Well, thirty-one egos. Alyson just sat quietly in the corner, looking as if she was about to throw up.

  CeCe had ordered in some food – nothing too heavy, just small sandwiches, salad and a fruit platter. She didn’t want any of the girls fainting on her. But they only seemed interested in the champagne and coffee. The food remained largely untouched, with the hair and make-up team wolfing the majority when they had a spare second.