by Carrie Duffy
Alyson flushed. Willy looked amused.
‘But, honey, it was sooo embarrassing. He was the most terrible lay, with the tiniest cock I have ever seen in my life. And he couldn’t get it up! The impotent fucking jerk,’ she spat venomously. ‘But then he’s dipped his dick in every girl in Paris. He’s probably got something nasty.’
Alyson began to wonder why Dionne was telling her this.
‘And he’s got the worst reputation,’ she continued relentlessly. ‘Such a player. A total womanizer. Everyone knows it.’
‘Who is this guy?’ Willy asked curiously.
Dionne looked delighted, grinning like the cat that got the cream. ‘Who is he?’ she crowed triumphantly. ‘He’s over there. Look!’ She extended one long, painted fingernail, pointing right across the crowd at Philippe Rochefort. He was standing side-on to them, his profile clearly visible and his arm around another woman as he held her tightly, his fingers splayed over her bottom.
‘He’s fucking disgusting. He makes me wanna hurl,’ Dionne hissed gleefully as she melted away into the throng.
Alyson felt her blood run cold. Time seemed to stop. As though he could feel her gaze on him, Philippe turned round, the crowd seeming to part at that exact moment. They locked eyes and a cry escaped from Alyson’s lips, a choking, strangled sound.
It’s not possible, she thought in horror. Philippe wasn’t even supposed to be in the country; he was in New York. Wasn’t he? And he had his arm round some other woman, their bodies close together in a way that suggested a prior intimacy … Oh God, it was him and he was walking towards her.
‘What the hell are you doing? And who the fuck is this?’ Philippe immediately went on the offensive. He yanked Wilhelm’s arm away from her, squaring up to him. Willy was taller and broader, but Philippe was furious, acting instinctively. Alyson looked on in horror as Willy’s friends intervened, pulling him away and placing themselves in front of Philippe.
‘What are you doing here?’ Alyson pleaded. ‘You’re not even supposed to be here.’
‘And this is what you do, is it? When you think I’m not around. Flaunting yourself at every man in sight?’
‘Philippe, please—’
‘Who is this girl? I don’t even know you. I wake up this morning to find you staring out at me from the front of the newspaper, and now you are here, cavorting at some party.’
‘You were supposed to be in America,’ Alyson repeated.
‘And you were supposed to be in Paris. I flew here on the way back from New York as I had business to attend to.’
‘Oh right. With her?’ Alyson jerked her chin at the girl beside him. She was dark-haired, Latina, with a smug expression and outrageous curves poured into a dress so small that even Dionne would have thought twice about wearing it. Immediately, all of Alyson’s insecurities resurfaced. Of course she wasn’t good enough for Philippe. She looked like a boy, lanky and flat-chested. Who on earth would find her attractive?
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘She works for me.’
‘What, like I work for you?’ Alyson shot back, her voice threatening to break. ‘How many more of us are there, hmm? Tucked away in little jobs, where you can keep an eye on us and no one else can touch us?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alyson. Stop being so childish.’ But he looked rattled. ‘Let’s leave, now.’
‘No.’ Going anywhere with him was the last thing on her mind.
Philippe looked stunned, outraged that Alyson dared defy him like that in public. He lashed out, determined to hurt her. ‘Is this how you are when you think I am away? Just another low-rent, euro-trash girl? Is that why you were parading yourself all over the media? L’Inconnue,’ he scoffed.
‘I – that wasn’t supposed to happen …’ Alyson shook her head, stunned by the way Philippe was behaving. What had happened to the kind, loving, charming guy she knew?
By now people were noticing the commotion, breaking off from their conversations and turning to stare. Saeed came over, his ever-present entourage behind him. ‘Alyson, who is this man? Is he bothering you?’
‘She’s with me, my friend, so back off,’ Philippe threatened.
‘Alyson is a guest of mine.’ Saeed’s tone was calm, but menacing. ‘If someone upsets her, that upsets me.’
Philippe turned round to look at him properly. Saeed was wearing traditional Arab dress, a long white dishdasha and headscarf. Philippe’s lip curled.
‘A guest of his.’ The implication was clear. ‘You’re just like the rest, fucking anyone you can if you think you’ll get something out of it. You little whore.’
Alyson slapped him. The crack was loud, audible above the music. ‘How dare you? How dare you call me that?’
Philippe shook his head, unrepentant. ‘You’re not the girl I thought you were, Alyson.’
‘No.’ Alyson was furious now. ‘I’m not the girl you wanted me to be. That’s the difference. You tried so hard to keep me under your control, and all the time you were running round with every slut in Paris. All the late nights when you told me you were working. God, I was such an idiot!’
‘Alyson …’ Philippe reached out to her, his tone conciliatory.
‘Get your hands off me,’ Alyson spat, her Lancashire accent suddenly harsh. It made her feel sick to think how she’d trusted him. How she’d let him touch her, make love to her, when really she was just the latest in a long line. He’d even been with Dionne, for Christ’s sake. CeCe too.
Alyson looked up, horrified, to see the group of people surrounding them. She caught sight of Dionne’s face in the crowd, her expression ecstatic.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Alyson whispered accusingly. Somehow Dionne had found out about her and Philippe, and used it to cause maximum humiliation.
‘Alyson, don’t be ridiculous,’ Philippe said sharply, grabbing her arm. ‘Come with me. We can talk about it and—’
‘Don’t touch me,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t ever come near me again. You tried to make me into something I’m not – into what you wanted. But I’m my own person. And from now on I do what I want, not what anyone else tells me to.’
Her breath was coming fast, her eyes burning with fury. A feeling of utter shame swept over her as she saw the scandalized faces of the guests, all staring in fascination at the pair of them. She felt an overwhelming sensation of being trapped, the crowd seeming to press in on her, mocking faces everywhere she looked.
With a strangled cry she turned and ran, pushing her way blindly through the crowd as she sprinted off the boat and back down the wooden pier to the dock. Her white gown billowed out behind her; she looked like a ghost against the night sky. Then the darkness swallowed her up, and she was gone.
PART THREE
24
Eighteen months later
Aidan Kennedy was sweltering in the simmering Dubai sun. For an Irish boy like him, such heat was unfamiliar.
He strolled along the waterfront at the Madinat Jumeirah, enjoying the laid-back vibe. It was incredibly peaceful, only a handful of tourists passing him as he walked, and the view was amazing – right across to the Burj al Arab, the instantly recognizable symbol of Dubai. A hotel shaped like an enormous sail, built on a man-made island – an incredible feat of engineering. It boasted a seven-star rating, an interior decorated in gold leaf.
Aidan smiled wryly at the thought of it. He was doing well for himself, but he wasn’t quite in that league yet.
He checked his watch and wandered back along the waterway, a water taxi steadily chugging past him. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun showed no signs of cooling yet. He stuck close to the buildings, taking advantage of the shade. The Madinat complex was built around a traditional souk, the heart of the community, to reflect its heritage, although like almost everything else in Dubai, it was thoroughly modern.
When Aidan had almost reached his destination, he stopped, looking from a distance at the property he had come to view. It was empty at the moment, but
there were no metal shutters, no boarded-up windows with graffiti and fly-posters like you’d find in Paris or London. Just wooden shutters, which blended in beautifully with the surrounding buildings.
A man approached him. He was European looking, dressed in a suit. Aidan strode forward to meet him. ‘Justin Fox?’
‘Yes,’ the man smiled, offering his hand.
‘Aidan Kennedy.’ He shook it firmly – Aidan had learned the importance of a good handshake.
‘Well, it’s great to finally meet you, Aidan.’ They’d spoken on the phone already. ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we? As you can see, it’s a superb property, in an unbeatable location …’ The realtor launched into his speech as he unlocked the wooden shutters, pulling them aside and opening the door. Aidan wasn’t listening to him. He blocked out the sound of the sales patter, making his own judgements as he looked around. Over the past couple of years, he’d learned to trust his gut.
His first instincts were that the place was perfect. Justin turned on the light and the room was brought to life. It was a little dusty, an old desk and some rubbish left over from the previous occupants. There was a bar in the corner, very Eighties with mirrors and neon. Aidan didn’t care about that. He planned to gut the interior and put his own stamp on it. But it would match his other properties – corporate branding was key.
Yes, Aidan thought as he looked round, examining the kitchens out the back, the cellar downstairs. This was exactly what he wanted. He felt a growing sense of excitement at the thought of expanding out of Europe. This would make the perfect site for his third Kennedy’s – his rapidly growing bar and restaurant chain.
Not long after Alyson had left Chez Paddy, Aidan had resigned. He’d been there long enough, coasting with his life. But he had no plan of what to do next; all he knew was that he wanted to get out of Paris, so he’d retreated across the Channel to London, crashing on a friend’s sofa.
He’d spent a while not working, growing a beard, getting drunk and sleeping with as many women as possible. He would head to the tackiest bars in Leicester Square, where the alcohol was flowing and the women were easy – students, hen parties, all seduced by his alluring Irish accent and up for a good time.
When he woke up one morning in a poky hotel room near King’s Cross, lying beside some girl he’d rather have chewed his own arm off than gone home with sober, he knew it was time to change his lifestyle.
Somewhere, at the back of his mind, a thought kept niggling away. The business plan he’d drawn up in Paris. His long-held dream of owning a bar and restaurant.
He found his rough scribbles, faded and creased, and drew it up properly. Thirty-five pages of well-researched charts and tables, goals and projections. It was clear, concise and ambitious. Aidan printed it off and dragged himself around all the major banks in London, trying to get a loan. It wasn’t a good time. The markets were unstable and the banks were cautious, wary of investing such a large amount on such a risky project.
The friend he was staying with – Niall Hamilton, an old mate from uni – had a great job as a commodities broker and owned a beautiful apartment in South Kensington. He offered to put it up as collateral. Aidan said no, but Niall insisted – he had a lot of spare cash floating around and had been thinking of speculating, investing in property. This was his first punt. They negotiated a rate of interest – high enough so that Aidan felt he was being fair to his friend, low enough that he stood a hope in hell of paying it back if it all went pear-shaped. Combined with a small bank loan and Aidan’s own meagre savings, his long-held dreams were about to become a reality.
Aidan worked like a dog to get Kennedy’s London off the ground. He hired the best people he could afford and project-managed the whole venture himself. He hardly slept, rarely went home and frequently crashed out in the office. But Aidan was proud of himself and the way Kennedy’s was shaping up. He worked with a great designer to get exactly the look he wanted – classic with a modern twist, all cream walls and soft lighting, Irish linen and Waterford crystal on the tables. None of the dark, faux-rustic look he’d grown to hate at Chez Paddy.
Five months later, the first Kennedy’s officially opened, on Charlotte Street in central London. It had taken time to find the perfect location – Mayfair was deemed too pretentious, Islington too passé, Covent Garden too touristy. Aidan wanted Kennedy’s to be a cut above the usual tourist traps, a destination venue for locals as well as visitors. The food was European, combining the best of British, French and Irish. The drinks list was extensive – but he made sure they didn’t stock Rochefort Champagne.
After a high-profile launch, business was slow and Aidan was worried. But word got around. The restaurant was regularly reviewed, always favourably. The bloggers praised it; foodie websites couldn’t get enough of it. It became a firm favourite with the media set, who drifted up from Soho and, thanks to Niall’s influence, it hosted its fair share of City folk. Kennedy’s also began to acquire something of a celebrity following, especially amongst those performing in the nearby West End theatres. And where celebs went, rubbernecking fans inevitably followed, hoping to catch a glimpse of a famous face.
Within six months they’d begun to break even, a feat practically unheard of. By the eighth month, they were turning a small profit. Aidan didn’t rest on his laurels and began searching for a second site, this time in Dublin. Ireland was in economic turmoil, but Aidan had confidence in his brand and was filled with an almost sentimental desire to return to his home town – the local boy made good. Niall suggested a partnership but, grateful though Aidan was for his support, he didn’t want to be beholden to anyone. This time when he went knocking, with a positive balance sheet and some impressive figures, the banks were far more accommodating.
A few months later, Kennedy’s Dublin opened, just off Harcourt Street in a fashionable part of the city. It could have been completed sooner, but Aidan was eager to do everything himself and commuted between the two locations, insisting that no major decisions could be made without him. He found the ideal venue almost immediately but held out, certain he could make the vendor drop his price. He was right.
In just over a year, Aidan had gone from sleeping on Niall’s sofa, waking up hungover and uninspired, to owning two successful restaurants in two capital cities.
And he didn’t intend to stop there. Like his customers, his appetite was insatiable. He planned to open a third Kennedy’s as soon as possible, and considered numerous locations. He knew that this one would be outside of Europe – he wanted to begin his world domination as soon as possible. The US was in the running, as was the Far East. But Dubai was up and coming, thrusting and precocious, just like himself. Full of ex-pats, he had a ready-made clientele, and Aidan believed the sophisticated yet unpretentious atmosphere of Kennedy’s would go down just as well there as it had in London and Dublin.
It wasn’t just Kennedy’s that was on the rise – the man behind it was too. The Financial Times had profiled him. Forbes mentioned him as one to watch, and he gave interviews to GQ and Irish Tatler. Aidan was young, stylish and rich. And he was single. Of course, there were women now and again. More regularly than that, if he was being honest. But when interviewers asked if he was looking to settle down, he simply smiled enigmatically and said he was too busy for that, or that he just hadn’t met that someone special.
It was a lie. Aidan had met that someone special. He saw her every day, staring out at him from the cover of glossy magazines, on billboards, even in TV ads. Alyson. He couldn’t get her out of his head. But she’d chosen Philippe Rochefort over him. Oh, he knew they’d split up ages ago, but it still hurt like hell. He remembered the way the guy had looked at him – like he was nothing. Lower than nothing. Well, no one was ever going to look at him like that again, Aidan vowed, balling up his fists so tightly that the veins on his arms stood out.
He walked out of the Dubai property as Justin Fox locked up behind him. He’d seen everything he needed to see. Aidan felt the hot sun be
aming down, burning his skin after the shade of the interior.
‘Send the details over to my lawyer,’ Aidan instructed him. ‘I’d like him to look through the papers.’
The two men shook hands and parted.
Aidan stood for a moment feeling the full force of the late afternoon heat, almost revelling in the discomfort. He’d just found his third Kennedy’s, and a sense of invincibility pulsed through his blood. He was building an empire to rival Philippe Rochefort’s. He wanted to ensure no one could ever look at him like that again.
Dionne walked into the studio, flung herself into the make-up chair and pulled off her dark sunglasses.
‘You’re late,’ said a voice. It was Alexa Palmer, brand director of Armani Exchange, who Dionne was supposed to be shooting a campaign for today.
‘And?’ Dionne shot back. ‘It’s not like you can start without me.’
She shook her hair out behind her, closing her eyes as the make-up artist, Elise, got to work. She was the star and she knew it. After all, if it wasn’t for her, they would never even sell their ridiculous little perfume or lipstick or whatever the hell it was she was supposed to be advertising today. She’d only flown into NY from Paris a couple of hours ago; they should be fucking grateful she was there at all, Dionne thought irritably.
‘Nicolo’s been here for hours,’ said Alexa. Nicolo was the male model.
‘So what. Nobody cares about him,’ Dionne quipped. It was all the more infuriating because it was true. ‘Let me go check him out,’ Dionne announced. She got up out of the chair and walked off as Elise stared after her in exasperation. ‘If he’s a moose or a dork I’m not working with him.’
‘She’s a total fucking nightmare,’ Elise hissed as Dionne flounced off.