Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  One girl, Irène, was even thinner than she had been when they’d done the final fitting two days ago, and CeCe had had to make emergency last-minute alterations with a needle and thread. Irène was so thin that you could count her ribs in the revealing dress, her stomach concave and the muscle mass on her upper arms eaten away. Rumour had it she was existing on B12 shots and little else but, callous as it sounded, that wasn’t CeCe’s concern right now. The girl was obviously sick, but as long as she could make it down the runway and show off the dress, then that was all CeCe needed.

  She stared round the magnificent gardens, taking in the lovers ambling along the chalky white paths, small children sailing boats in the pond as their parents looked on. It felt like a good omen that she was making her debut here, right in the heart of the city and just across from the rue de Rivoli. They were only a few hundred metres down the road from where Dionne and CeCe had worked together in Rivoli Couture, but the hideous clothing and incessant demands of Khalid Hossein felt like a lifetime ago. She’d come so far since then, CeCe thought proudly, daring to take risks and chase her dreams. She was minutes away from a career-defining moment, one that had the potential to launch her into the big time.

  And right around the corner was where she wanted to be – the designer boutiques of the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where the beau monde of Paris went to shop, and where anyone who was anyone had a store. Past, present and future were represented right here, CeCe reflected, feeling the significance of the moment.

  Out of nowhere, the line of black SUVs suddenly pulled up alongside the railings near CeCe’s hiding place and she felt her stomach leap, seeming to jump right up into her throat. This was it. She tried to gauge the impact from the reactions of passers-by. People were staring curiously, some even stopping to watch. It was a good sign.

  CeCe pressed closer to the tree, hoping to blend in as she watched. In sync, the six drivers got out of their vehicles and walked round to the passenger side. They wore identical black suits and dark glasses, lined up along the pavement like Secret Service agents. Then, at exactly the same time, they moved forward to open the doors.

  Suddenly there were beautiful girls everywhere, flooding the sidewalk. They were tall and stunning, other-worldly almost, as they towered over the tourists, dressed in the most incredible clothes. It was a dazzling sea of colour – gold, silver, magenta, topaz, ruby, indigo, white. People took photos as the girls swarmed onto the pavement, a few onlookers even filming on their camera phones. Passing cars honked their horns, tourists spontaneously applauding at the extraordinary sight. It was like a flash mob – exactly what CeCe had intended.

  The models paid no attention to the stir they were creating, keeping their gaze fixed firmly ahead. Then one by one they began to walk, up the short flight of steps and into the gardens. Katerina, the Latvian model CeCe had met on her first night in Bijou, was in the lead, loving every minute. She wore an astonishing aquamarine gown, with layers of diaphanous chiffon and a plunging, jewelled bodice. Behind her, the other girls followed in perfect formation, like a flock of arrogant swans who knew just how beautiful they were.

  CeCe watched as they walked the prearranged route, first heading towards Place de la Concorde, then circling round to come back right past the espace ephémère. She could see Dionne at the back, looking amazing in the white evening gown as she strode confidently through the park.

  It was so different to an ordinary fashion show, with all its razzamatazz. Usually there would be music pumping and lights flashing, all manner of special effects. Out here, CeCe had nothing – no props and no distractions. It was all about the clothes, and she would be judged purely on her designs. She didn’t think she could stand the tension. Would this work? Would anyone even pay attention?

  CeCe watched anxiously, singling out each girl in turn. Irène was still managing to stay upright, and the heavy make-up hid the fact that she looked like death. A few of the girls had been on the coke already this morning, and CeCe had heard every excuse under the sun – It calms me down, It wakes me up, As long as I’m on the jazz I don’t need to eat … CeCe had shrugged and turned a blind eye. She wasn’t there to mother them; she was there to ensure her clothes looked immaculate and the show kick-started her career.

  The girls were approaching the fashion tent area now, where everyone was waiting. CeCe could almost see the buzz, like it was a physical thing. One by one, the hacks turned to look, the excited chatter growing louder. Katerina walked towards them, almost to the very edge of the enclosure, then turned sharply, moving along the side of the press pen and back the way she had come from.

  Gradually the journalists realized what was happening. The Tuileries were being treated like one giant runway.

  ‘Bite, damn you,’ CeCe whispered under her breath. All they were doing was watching, their eyes hidden behind dark glasses. None of them spoke – they just stared, silently. It was impossible to tell what anyone was thinking.

  Then – bang – a flashbulb went off. It was followed by another, and then another, and the next minute there was a surge as the photographers ran forward, each one trying to get the money shot. Television cameras followed, and within seconds it was chaos. Everyone wanted to see what was happening, to know what was going on.

  One of the reporters thrust a microphone towards the girls. ‘Whose designs are these?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s behind this?’

  None of them responded, or even reacted. They simply kept walking, looking straight ahead as they’d been instructed to do.

  The press went wild, shouting questions and chasing them through the park as they headed towards the exit. Reporters got on their phones to their editors, trying to work out if anyone knew what was going on. It was mayhem.

  Quickly, CeCe left the gardens. She’d seen enough. Heart thumping, she slipped into the final car, grateful for the blacked-out windows, and waited for the girls to return.

  Katerina had reached the steps and filed out of the park, the others following behind her. A camera crew were filming everything, the models pursued by a mob of photographers and fashion hacks.

  Dionne was the last to get into the car, the scrum around her separating to let her through. The reporters shouted after her, sounding desperate. ‘Who organized this show? Who’s the designer behind it?’

  Dionne hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though she was going to give them an answer. Then she slammed the door shut and the car drove off into the Paris traffic, leaving the bedlam behind.

  22

  Dionne settled back into the luxurious buttercream leather seat of the Gulfstream 200, running her hands over the soft fabric and enjoying the vast amount of space. She stretched her endless legs out in front of her, admiring how slim and sleek they looked in the denim cut-offs she was wearing.

  A young stewardess, immaculately presented in a custom-made navy blue suit, approached the party. ‘Would you like a drink, madam?’

  ‘Yes. Champagne,’ Dionne requested.

  Moments later, the woman came back with a bubbling flute and a deferential smile. Yeah, she could definitely get used to this lifestyle, Dionne reflected. There was no tedious check-in or humiliating security procedures when you were flying private. No crying babies or screaming children to ruin the flight. Just straight out to the airport at Le Bourget and directly onto the plane.

  Twisting round in her seat, Dionne raised her glass at Saeed. He’d been so generous, lending them his jet like this. A couple of days in St Tropez, partying hard to let her hair down, was exactly what Dionne needed. She’d been working nonstop for weeks – New York, London, Bali, Paris – and now that the season was over she was looking forward to getting a little crazy.

  She and CeCe had been planning this trip for weeks, and Saeed had kindly offered to facilitate their escape. They’d arranged to leave directly after the show, the thinking being that, whatever happened, triumph or disaster, they would escape the chaos of Paris for a hedonistic couple of days in the South of Franc
e. If the show was a success, what better way to celebrate than a night of partying in St Tropez? And if it went badly … Well, they could hit the clubs and drown their sorrows.

  But the early indications were good and Dionne was on a high. She’d been the star, as she’d known she would be, and a high-profile gig like this could only boost her career.

  She’d been the final girl to walk, the grand finale to the whole extravaganza. She’d been the last one to step into the car – she could barely reach it due to the crush of photographers surrounding her. They’d worked themselves into a frenzy, snapping her as she struggled to close the door on them, even trying to scramble into the car after her. They yelled incessantly, demanding to know who the girls were, who’d designed the clothes … Dionne had been beside herself with excitement, but said nothing, just as CeCe had instructed. She’d stared out through the tinted windows as the cars pulled away in convoy, the crush of tourists on the pavement watching them leave as the paps raced down the road after them, still snapping furiously. The film cameras continued to roll, reporters frantically texting, making phone calls, in an effort to discover who lay behind it all …

  ‘Have you found anything yet?’ Dionne leaned across to CeCe, who was tapping away on her laptop.

  CeCe’s hazel eyes were shining with excitement. ‘We’re everywhere! The bloggers are on it; it’s all over the Internet. We’ve featured in some of the early press round-ups. Every time I hit refresh there’s something new. Listen,’ she continued, quoting:

  ‘The Yves Saint Laurent collection was today upstaged by an impromptu show that took place outside the venue itself …

  ‘Using the Tuileries as one giant runway, the fashion world looks set to be shaken up by the arrival of this exciting new talent …

  ‘The designs were subversive and daring, the show itself unquestionably a coup. Whoever the designer is, with such boldness and genius, they’re undoubtedly set for a great future …’

  CeCe clutched Dionne’s arm in excitement. ‘Oh my God, we’ve even got a mention on Style.com!’ It was scrolling across the top of the page, breaking news. ‘Look, there you are,’ she squealed, thrusting the laptop across to Dionne.

  It was open on the ‘Slave to Fashion’ blogspot, the huge picture showing Dionne stalking across the gardens with the beautiful white dress billowing around her. Her bearing was haughty, regal almost, her shoulders square, her back tall and upright. And the setting was stunning, the photo capturing the clipped chestnut trees and bubbling fountains in the background.

  CeCe leaned over and clicked a couple of buttons. ‘These are the shots François emailed to me. He’s planning to release them to the press, to try and sell them. I hope he does well out of it – he’s helped me so much.’

  ‘They’re awesome,’ Dionne agreed, scrolling through to find pictures of herself.

  ‘Hey, Alyson,’ yelled CeCe. ‘Come and look at these.’

  Across the aisle, Alyson was staring out of the plane window, watching the changing French landscape below her. The further south they flew, the more unfamiliar it became.

  No one was more surprised than Alyson to find herself on a private jet heading to La Môle airport, but when CeCe and Dionne had asked her along at the last minute, she’d decided to go for it, throwing a few essentials into a suitcase and jumping into the car that Saeed had sent, along with her flatmates. She was still exhilarated following her modelling debut and suddenly anything seemed possible. Sure, the show had been terrifying, but the buzz afterwards was like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  Yeah, she was definitely learning, Alyson reflected: daring to say yes to the new opportunities that came her way and following her instincts. So far it was working out pretty well.

  Besides, she still hadn’t heard from Philippe.

  ‘Won’t your boyfriend mind?’ Dionne had asked, when she’d agreed to go with them. She had a strange expression on her face that Alyson couldn’t quite read.

  ‘He’s out of the country,’ Alyson had explained. ‘Working overseas.’

  Why not go for a couple of days away with her friends? She’d called the office, crossing her fingers as she explained she was still sick and unlikely to be back in the office before Monday. Philippe would never know – she’d be back before him anyway, Alyson thought, with a growing feeling of defiance.

  She unclipped her seatbelt and padded over to CeCe. The Arab guys – friends of Saeed’s – watched her as she went, muttering to each other then laughing. Alyson tried to ignore them, not wanting to speculate on what they might be saying. She was very grateful to Saeed for letting her tag along on their little getaway, but she didn’t want any of his friends to get the wrong idea.

  ‘What?’ she asked, plopping down beside CeCe.

  CeCe swivelled the laptop round so they could both see: an image of Alyson filled the screen. ‘Oh, wow!’ she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks flush.

  It was embarrassing to see herself like that, all done up and strutting through the park as though she thought she was someone special. But there was part of her that was excited too, a fierce sensation of pride that refused to be smothered. She didn’t pay a lot of attention to fashion – that was Dionne and CeCe’s world – but she knew enough to know that she looked good.

  CeCe clicked on the photo and a close-up shot of Alyson filled the screen. The photographer had caught her at the perfect moment, appearing to look right into the camera. Her gaze was confident, with something intriguing in her expression that invited the viewer in. Her lips were partly open, her head tilted just slightly to emphasize that superb bone structure.

  ‘Not bad,’ Dionne said coolly. ‘Is that one of the shots François took?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ CeCe replied. She had so many windows open on her desktop that she was getting confused. ‘Oh, wait a minute. No, actually, they’re from the Stylista website.’ She checked again to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake.

  ‘Stylista?’ Dionne asked in surprise. It was one of the most influential blogs in the fashion world. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Alyson asked innocently, not noticing as Dionne pursed her lips in annoyance.

  ‘Am I on there?’ Dionne asked tightly, ignoring what Alyson had said.

  ‘I don’t think so …’ CeCe sounded distracted as she tapped on the keyboard. ‘Oh my God, they’re calling you l’Inconnue!’

  ‘Who?’ Dionne demanded.

  ‘Alyson! Look here …’ CeCe pointed to the screen as she read the text out loud. ‘But perhaps the biggest discovery of this show, even more than the clearly talented designer, is this unknown model. Stunning, youthful, and with a look that’s both timeless and bang on trend. We’ve made some enquiries, and none of the major agencies represents her. Do you know who she is? The search is on. Qui est l’Inconnue?’

  Philippe stepped out onto the balcony of his villa, nestled high in the hills above St Tropez. The view from the property was incredible – out over the glorious blue Mediterranean Sea, the gleaming white boats bobbing on the water. It was early morning, but already it was shaping up to be a sizzling end-of-summer day, the warm breeze blowing gently through the cypress trees.

  Philippe lit a cigarette, squinting in the light. He’d just showered and was wrapped in a Ralph Lauren robe, his dark hair slicked back from his face. His skin was tanned, his feet bare.

  A pair of nut-brown arms wrapped themselves around his waist and Philippe smiled. ‘Good morning, Luciana.’

  She reached for his cigarette, took a drag, then stubbed it out beneath her Gucci heels. Philippe didn’t think he’d ever seen her without heels, not even now, first thing in the morning when she was wearing nothing more than a wisp of silk and lace.

  Luciana was his latest recruit at La Boîte, his St Tropez nightclub. He’d poached her from a casino in Monte Carlo where she was working as a croupier and made her assistant manager. She was good, and she knew the most important thing of all – how to keep her boss happy.r />
  Hailing from Brazil, Luciana was dark-haired and petite, with a hard, compact body and ridiculous curves. Her butt was high and round; her boobs were fake, but they’d been well done. She was the complete opposite of Alyson, in every way.

  Alyson. Hmm, she’d been pissed at him when they’d last spoken, Philippe remembered. Richard Duval had said more than he was supposed to. He would deal with him when he got back. For now, he had to keep Alyson sweet. Maybe he would propose very soon. Just to seal the deal.

  Of course, she still thought he was in New York. He hadn’t lied to her, exactly. He’d just changed his mind and decided to stop off in St Tropez on the way back, to see how Luciana was settling into La Boîte. It seemed she was working out very well indeed.

  There was a discreet knock on the balcony door, then it slid open. Georges, a member of Philippe’s housekeeping staff, wheeled in a breakfast tray.

  ‘Would you like to eat out here, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Georges began setting down the plates on the cast-iron table – fresh fruit, pastries, orange juice and a pot of freshly ground coffee. On the corner of the table, he laid out Philippe’s newspapers – Les Échos, Le Figaro and the Wall Street Journal.

  Luciana sat down coquettishly, making eyes at him across the table and picking delicately at a piece of grapefruit.

  Philippe ignored her. He would take her back to bed a little later. Right now, he had his morning routine to attend to, and he didn’t like to be disturbed. He picked up Les Échos to scan the financial news, but the front of Le Figaro caught his attention.

  He opened it out fully, gasping in shock.

  ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ Luciana demanded, in heavily accented French.

  Philippe didn’t reply. Dominating the front page was a huge picture of a woman. She was stunningly beautiful, dressed in a dazzling emerald peacock-print dress that fitted her slender body to perfection. She could have been a movie star or a supermodel. She looked like a goddess.