Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  Across the top ran the bold, black headline: Qui est l’Inconnue?

  Philippe knew exactly who it was. It was Alyson.

  Only a few miles away, in the heart of St Tropez itself, Alyson was stretched out on a sun lounger beside the pool at the Hotel Byblos. She didn’t think she’d ever been somewhere so luxurious, and it was making her head swim.

  She was wearing her ancient swimming costume – plain black and classic – and felt a little self-conscious with so much flesh on show, but comforted herself with the fact that no one would be looking at her. Beside her, Dionne was posing in a tiny gold bikini, the top half fighting to restrain her ample breasts, the bottom half little more than a glorified thong. The waiter had almost fallen in the pool when he brought over their drinks; he’d been so busy gawping at Dionne’s body.

  Spread around them on the sun loungers were today’s papers. It made Alyson feel ill to look at them. Her face was everywhere, staring out from the papers beneath gigantic headlines. Qui est l’Inconnue? That was all the fashion world seemed to be asking right now. It was insane. She was pretty sure Richard Duval would have realized she wasn’t really off sick, given that her photo was plastered all over the front of Le Figaro.

  CeCe sat next to her, her phone permanently clamped to her ear. She looked cute, in a retro Fifties polka-dot swimsuit, but right now tanning was the last thing on her mind. Her BlackBerry had been ringing nonstop all morning. Word of her identity had begun to leak out, with reports of who was the designer behind the collection appearing on numerous websites. CeCe didn’t mind – after all, the whole point of the Tuileries stunt was to put her on the radar. She’d established a profile and made the impact she wanted. Right now, she needed to capitalize on that.

  Katerina had already done a gushing interview with online Vogue, praising CeCe’s ‘awesome talent and unsurpassable genius’. Even more surprising was a quote from Danièle Marceau at Galeries Lafayette, saying she’d already been in talks with the young designer about producing an exclusive line for the store, and adding that she’d always been a huge admirer of CeCe’s talent.

  CeCe had nearly choked on her mimosa when she’d read that. It seemed that when you were hot, everybody wanted to jump on the bandwagon.

  Alyson shaded her eyes as she watched her friend, the phone glued to her ear while she gabbled away in French so fast that Alyson struggled to understand. She was so glad it was all working out for CeCe, thrilled that she’d been a part of it. She just didn’t know if she was prepared for all the attention it seemed to have brought to her.

  Suddenly Alyson’s phone began to ring. She pulled it out from beneath her towel and saw Philippe’s number flashing up. Her stomach lurched, a feeling of nerves sweeping through her. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Alyson?’ Philippe sounded mad. In spite of herself, Alyson felt a surge of excitement, adrenaline pulsing through her as her body geared up for a fight.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘What?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘You – all over the front of every newspaper in France.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was every one,’ she answered insolently. There was a shocked silence. This was not the way Philippe imagined she would respond; he expected her to be apologetic and contrite. ‘Philippe? Are you still there?’ she asked in mock concern.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here. And I’m waiting for an explanation. You’ve made me look like a fool, Alyson.’

  ‘I don’t see how—’ she began. But Philippe cut her off.

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this? Since when have you spent your time strutting half naked through the Tuileries, pretending you’re a model? Is this what you do when I’m not there, hmm?’

  Stretching languorously on the sun lounger, Alyson smiled. She’d never heard Philippe like this before, and she was kind of enjoying it. She remembered Richard Duval’s warning, about Philippe’s ruthless reputation. Well, two could play at that game.

  ‘Darling, I’m very busy right now,’ she said sweetly, trying not to laugh as she parodied the way he’d brushed her off during their last phone call. ‘We’ll talk more when you get back, okay?’ Then she hung up on him, feeling the sweetness of revenge. Perhaps she had a ruthless side after all.

  Almost immediately, the phone rang again. She looked at it nervously, expecting it to be Philippe calling back to give her a dressing down. It was a number she didn’t recognize, a Parisian dialling code. Alyson answered it cautiously. ‘Allo?’

  She listened in astonishment to the voice on the other end, her face changing from confusion to joy to fear. After a few minutes she hung up, looking shell-shocked. She turned to Dionne beside her.

  ‘Was that your boyfriend again?’ Dionne asked smugly.

  ‘No.’ Alyson was too stunned to notice anything strange about the question. ‘Dionne, have you ever heard of a modelling agency called IMG?’

  ‘IMG?’ Dionne sat bolt upright, her dark skin seeming to pale. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘That was them on the phone – a lady called Fabienne. I’m meeting with her when I get back to Paris. They want to represent me.’

  Beside her, CeCe was hanging up her call. ‘Alyson, that’s incredible,’ she burst out. ‘They’re one of the biggest agencies in the world. They’ve got offices in New York and London too, haven’t they, Dionne?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Dionne replied, through clenched teeth. Her body was tense, her jaw line tight. The upper half of her face was hidden by her huge Oliver Peoples sunglasses, but that was good. It meant Alyson couldn’t see the way Dionne’s eyes were burning with fury.

  23

  Dionne was applying her make-up in the sumptuous hotel room, looking out over the curving swimming pool. It was night now and the pool lights had been switched on, the water still and empty.

  Saeed really was a darling for bringing them here, Dionne reflected, as she clamped the eyelash curler down onto her lashes. She’d have to make sure she was very appreciative later.

  Although he and his friends seemed more interested in Alyson, Dionne thought resentfully. Everyone did. What was it about her? Dionne just didn’t get the fascination. Alyson was mousy, boring, yet everyone was going crazy for her. Her phone had been ringing off the hook, and what did she do? Rather than making the most of it, Alyson had panicked and switched it off. Both IMG and Elite had rung. She’d arranged appointments with both of them, but then looked as if she was about to cry, talking some nonsense about how she didn’t want to be a model, she wanted to be a businesswoman.

  Puh-lease. Dionne wanted to slap her. These were opportunities she would have killed for, and yet Alyson was turning them away. She kept saying how she wanted a ‘real’ job, as though modelling wasn’t. Surely every girl wanted to travel the world, to be photographed and be beautiful? Why the hell would you want to sit in an office all day every day, slaving away for the rest of your life in the hope that one day you might get promoted to some petty managerial position with a half-decent salary?

  Angrily, Dionne swept blusher over her cheeks. Fashion Week had taken it out of her and her skin was suffering. As soon as she got back to Paris, she would go to the Plaza Athénée for a facial. Maybe even head to a spa for a few days. One of the fun ones, with delicious food and to-die-for massages – not one of those that put you on some spartan regime, with a piece of spelt bread, a cup of hot water and a beating with a birch stick before dawn.

  Alyson would probably enjoy that, Dionne thought nastily. She seemed determined to do life the hard way, rather than having fun and making every second count, the way Dionne did. She’d already been onto her agent, telling her to capitalize on the publicity from the Capucine show. CeCe was doing well, and Dionne needed to be associated with that success.

  Everyone thought modelling was easy, but it wasn’t. The constant travelling was hard, the pressure to lose weight, the frequent rejection. Dionne had seen extreme things – models swallowing cotton balls to fill up their stoma
ch without taking in calories. Girls who got through the day on little more than a few lines of coke and some vitamin shots. If you weren’t strong, the industry would break you in a season.

  Yeah, even if Alyson went for it, she would soon find out that she couldn’t hack it. Dionne contented herself with that thought and selected a pair of earrings – large chandelier-style drops. Then she stepped in front of the mirror and checked her appearance. She was wearing a short, tight, citrus-yellow Hervé Léger dress that left nothing to the imagination. Her long hair was loose and wild, her skin glistening with cocoa butter. The whole look was sexy as hell, and perfect for St Tropez.

  She picked up her purse and went to knock on CeCe’s door. ‘Hey, babe, you look cute.’

  CeCe was wearing a striped playsuit with bright-red Mary Janes and a matching red flower in her hair.

  They kissed on both cheeks. ‘And you look like a streetwalker,’ CeCe grinned.

  ‘That’s exactly the look I was going for.’

  Dionne felt the first stirrings of amusement as she tottered along the corridor on vertiginous Louboutins, the pair making their way to Alyson’s room. Earlier that day, Dionne had insisted on looking through Alyson’s suitcase and declared all her clothes completely unsuitable. Cheap, flowery dresses that looked as though they came from Tati, prim cotton shorts more suited to a Girl Scout leader. Didn’t she know this was St Tropez, darling? You couldn’t dress as if it was a family barbecue in Nowheresville, Ohio.

  So Dionne had invited Alyson to look through the clothes she’d brought: naturally, there was a huge selection. Flying private meant no weight restriction, and Dionne had had taken full advantage of that.

  ‘Just don’t touch the Hervé,’ she warned, indicating the tiny, bandage dress she’d picked out.

  Alyson couldn’t imagine in what universe she might ever choose to wear the minuscule neon dress, and assured Dionne she’d stay well away. Almost reverentially, she worked her way through the beautiful collection, eventually settling on a white, full-length Valentino gown that Dionne had stolen from a shoot.

  ‘Sure, wear that if you want,’ Dionne said airily, as though it was no big deal.

  Alyson had been so appreciative, and yet she’d look awful in it, thought Dionne smugly, feeling a delicious pang of Schadenfreude. St Trop was all about being young and hip, but the Valentino was more suited to a red-carpet premiere or a formal dinner. Alyson would look ridiculous. Plus the long gown would drown her, the light colour totally washing out her complexion.

  They arrived outside Alyson’s room and CeCe knocked on the door. She answered immediately and Dionne gasped in shock, a wave of fury washing over her. Alyson looked incredible. The one-shoulder, Grecian-style robe fitted her perfectly, gathering under the bust then falling to the floor in folds of fabric. Her slim figure and pale skin gave her an ethereal quality, like an angel or a classical goddess, while her blonde hair was swept back and secured in a simple bun.

  ‘Do you like the accessories?’ CeCe asked Dionne breathlessly, indicating the simple jewellery and silver clutch. ‘I lent them to her. They really set off the dress, don’t you think?’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ Dionne said tonelessly. She was still in a state of shock. She felt totally outclassed, like a hooker standing there in her little dress. Alyson possessed an innate sense of elegance and chic that Dionne never would. She looked like Grace Kelly.

  ‘Do I look okay?’ Alyson asked nervously. Dionne could have slapped her. She hated that breathy, little-girl tone that Alyson used. Why couldn’t she just grow up? She wasn’t a kid any more.

  With a flash of clarity, Dionne realized that Alyson was the epitome of everything she hated, all the traits she’d fought so hard against and would never be – white, pretty, princessy. Life fell into place so easily for girls like that. She looked like one of those aristocratic Brits that Dionne had encountered on her modelling shoots, the ones who brought out every feeling of insecurity and inferiority that she’d tried so hard to bury.

  ‘You look fine,’ Dionne said shortly. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  The party on the boat was in full swing. The DJ was on top of his game, pumping out a hot selection of tracks as the beautiful people mingled. The backdrop was the picture-perfect harbour of St Tropez where the yacht was moored, the charming painted houses lit by soft yellow lights.

  Dionne didn’t notice any of that. She was dancing, drinking and flirting, her voice getting louder as the night wore on. She was high too, helping herself to a little of whatever was being passed around. Her inhibitions had gone, and she felt on top of the world. She snuggled up to Saeed, sitting in his lap as she told him repeatedly what a perfect host he was, then the next moment she was gone, whirling from one group to the next.

  She was holding court with a group of guys – rich, Eurotrash playboys vying for her attention – when she spotted something that stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘I have to go find my friend,’ she told the men, as she staggered into the tightly packed crowd in search of CeCe.

  She found her chatting to a cool-looking group, and urgently grabbed her arm. ‘Come with me,’ she hissed, dragging CeCe off.

  ‘Dionne, what—’

  ‘There,’ Dionne hissed, as she pointed across the crowd. ‘Isn’t that—’

  ‘Philippe Rochefort,’ CeCe finished, her mouth dropping open.

  He was standing with his arm wrapped casually around the waist of a woman that wasn’t Alyson. He looked very attentive, leaning down to speak to her, his hand straying over her butt.

  ‘I thought he was in New York,’ CeCe managed to say.

  ‘So did I. So did Alyson.’

  ‘Where is she?’ CeCe looked round in alarm. ‘Should we tell her?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Dionne grinned.

  CeCe glanced at her suspiciously. She didn’t like her expression.

  Dionne’s mind was working quickly through the drunken fog, a knot of anxiety tearing through her gut as she stared at Philippe. She remembered the humiliation he’d put her through, the way she’d vowed to get back at him one day. Well, now was the perfect opportunity, and it looked as if she could bring Little Miss Priss down a peg or two into the bargain as well.

  She gazed out across the crowd, seeing Alyson at the back of the boat talking to some guy she didn’t recognize. Look at her, Dionne thought hazily, feeling an intense wave of dislike. With her perfect looks, her perfect life and her rich, powerful boyfriend. Dionne was the one who’d taught her everything. Months ago, when she’d been heading out on her first date, it had been Dionne that she’d turned to for advice, and Dionne had given it in good faith. Now look how Alyson repaid her – by stealing the limelight from her; taking all the attention from CeCe’s show that should rightfully have been hers …

  Dionne swiped a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downed it in one. ‘Yeah,’ she grinned slyly. ‘I think we should tell her.’

  She made a move, but CeCe grabbed her arm to stop her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be nice,’ Dionne assured her, crossing her fingers behind her back. Then she disappeared into the crowd, heading directly for Alyson.

  Alyson was standing against the railings at the far end of the boat, looking out over the dark water. It was such a beautiful, balmy night, she could hardly believe she was here. At first, she’d felt a little out of place, but the champagne had soon helped with that. She’d become something of a connoisseur during her time working for Rochefort Champagne, and appreciated a fine vintage. Tonight, after a couple of delicious glasses, she’d switched to orange juice, conscious of the fact that she didn’t know these people. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself in front of them, however outrageously some of them might be acting.

  She’d started off talking to a small group – all of them clearly very rich and very important, with jet-set lifestyles and awe-inspiring careers. But gradually they’d drifted away, leaving Alyson alone with a gorgeous German guy. He was tall and blond, strappi
ngly built and breathtakingly handsome in a black suit and crisp white shirt that was unbuttoned a little too low.

  They spoke English together, and he’d introduced himself as Count Wilhelm von Niedersachsen-Holstein. Alyson wasn’t sure whether to believe him. Did German counts with crazy names really exist, or were they just something out of fairytales?

  ‘All my friends call me Willy,’ he’d smiled lazily, showing dazzling white teeth. Alyson wanted to giggle.

  But Willy didn’t seem to notice as he talked incessantly about himself. He told her about his interests – racing cars, racing boats, racing horses. Alyson smiled politely and tried to look interested. As he talked he relaxed, draping one arm along the side of the railing and around her waist. Alyson flinched at the intimacy but, she reasoned, the party was loud and it was hard to hear. That was the reason he was leaning in so close, she told herself.

  ‘Alyson!’

  She glanced up to see Dionne tottering towards her. For once, she was relieved to see her. Willy was getting a little too friendly and a little too boring. Alyson didn’t know much about cars or boats or horses and they were running out of conversation.

  ‘I brought you a drink,’ Dionne told her brightly, holding out a champagne flute.

  Alyson took it, not wanting to be rude. ‘Thanks,’ she smiled, thinking that Dionne seemed very drunk. Her eyes were glittering brightly, the pupils large and dark, and she didn’t appear to be able to focus.

  ‘Hi, I’m Dionne Summers,’ she purred, leaning in to kiss Willy on the cheek. She pressed herself up against him, her breasts pushing into his chest.

  ‘Wilhelm,’ he said politely, looking a little bemused.

  Alyson watched her friend in embarrassment, but she figured Dionne had been to more of these events than she had. Maybe that was just how everyone behaved.

  ‘Would your boyfriend mind you talking to him?’ Dionne practically yelled, apparently oblivious to the fact that Willy was still standing beside them.

  ‘I—’

  ‘But he seems like a nice guy,’ Dionne cut her off. ‘So many guys these days are total assholes, y’know what I’m saying? There’s this one guy here tonight – I know him from Paris. CeCe and I took him home one night. We were planning to … well, you know. The three of us,’ she giggled, in a loud stage whisper.