by Carrie Duffy
Mayumi came out of the bedroom. She was fully dressed, her bag slung over her shoulder.
‘Do you have to go?’ CeCe asked. She walked over and wrapped her arms around Mayumi, pressing her body close.
‘Yes,’ Mayumi said firmly, disentangling herself. ‘But I’ll be back later, okay? Okay?’ she repeated, as she briefly kissed CeCe.
CeCe tried to quell the rising sense of panic that always threatened to engulf her at the thought of being left on her own. ‘Call me when you have a break, yes? Or I can come up and meet you, if you like. I don’t mind.’
Mayumi stroked her cheek reassuringly. ‘I’ll see you later, baby.’ She turned to walk out of the apartment.
‘I love you,’ CeCe called after her.
Mayumi didn’t turn round. ‘You too.’
The door slammed shut. CeCe stood for a moment, not knowing what to do. She felt utterly lost. Her gaze landed on the pictures of her and Mayumi and she walked over to the nearest one, studying Mayumi’s face before reaching out to run her hands over the image, her fingers tracing Mayumi’s eyes, her cheeks, her lips.
She knew she should get dressed. She needed to go to work, but any movement felt like too much effort. She dragged herself back to the bedroom and collapsed onto the still-warm mattress, the imprint of her and Mayumi’s bodies almost visible in the tangled sheets. CeCe pulled the duvet over her head and lay absolutely still. She inhaled deeply, breathing out reluctantly. She could still smell Mayumi, her fresh scent all over the bedclothes.
Suddenly she sat up and reached for her phone, calling Mayumi’s number. It took a few seconds to connect then went straight to voicemail. She was probably on the métro, CeCe reasoned, flinging her phone down in disappointment.
Her heart was thumping, the loudest noise in the apartment. Everything else was silent. Jesus, it was quiet. So damn quiet. CeCe had the overwhelming urge to scream at the top of her lungs, the noise threatening to bubble up in her throat. It was all she could do not to open her mouth and let it out, anything to break that horrible, oppressive silence.
Her breath was coming fast, the palms of her hands growing clammy. She reached out, gripping tightly onto the headboard to stop the world from spinning. She couldn’t be here, she realized hazily. She couldn’t stay by herself – she needed to be around people.
Quickly, she threw on some clothes, finding a denim shirtdress with a chunky-knit cardigan, knee-high socks and men’s brogues. She tied a scarf round her head then walked into the lounge, snatching up the sketches from the dining-room table. She’d done them last night while Mayumi worked beside her, quietly composing an essay on her laptop. CeCe glanced over them. They were good. She was pleased.
She stashed them in her bag, and looked round the silent apartment. No, there was no way she could stay here alone. She would go into the studio and call Mayumi from there.
Alyson dropped her travel bag in the hallway of Aidan’s apartment. He followed behind her, carrying a small suitcase and closing the door quickly. It was dark outside; Alyson had taken an evening flight and arrived late in London. She was relieved to finally be there, but still unsure whether she was doing the right thing.
She looked around her, taking in her surroundings. Aidan was clearly doing well for himself: duplex apartments in the heart of Fulham didn’t come cheap, and it was immaculately decorated.
‘Your place is beautiful,’ she told him.
‘Thank you.’
They were still circling each other uncertainly, aware that there was so much that hadn’t been said. On the ride from the airport they’d made small talk, careful to avoid anything controversial.
At least no one seemed to have followed them, Alyson thought gratefully. The press obviously weren’t expecting her to fly to London – and why would she? She had no base there, no family. She’d called her agency in New York and told Donna she was taking a few days off, then hung up and switched off her phone. She was going off radar and it felt fantastic.
‘Did you decorate it yourself?’ Alyson asked, staring at the ornate mirrors and enormous vase of silk flowers. The apartment had some feminine touches. She wondered if he had a girlfriend.
‘No,’ Aidan admitted. ‘I got someone in. I’ve met a lot of good people, so I thought … why not?’
‘Right.’ Alyson looked round thoughtfully.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Aidan asked, and then checked himself. ‘Oh, I mean, do you still not drink? I have juice, coke …’
‘I’ll have a wine, thank you,’ Alyson smiled. ‘I’m not a lush, but I do like the occasional glass.’
‘Red?’
‘Perfect.’ She recalled the first time she’d drunk red wine – Aidan had made her try some of his that night in Montmartre. She wondered if he remembered it too. It felt like a lifetime ago. When she looked back, she barely recognized the shy, naïve girl she’d been.
She followed Aidan as he led her through to the lounge. He was dressed casually in a simple grey T-shirt and J Brand jeans. He’d always been good looking, but money had brought out the best in him. He obviously took care of himself – but not in a vain way. She remembered the hours Philippe put in at the gym, the way his bathroom cabinet contained more cosmetics than she owned. She couldn’t imagine Aidan being like that.
He headed through to the kitchen and emerged with a bottle of Merlot and two glasses, his muscles flexing under his T-shirt as he pulled out the cork and poured, every gesture confident and controlled.
‘Cheers,’ Alyson said, raising her glass.
‘What are we celebrating?’
Alyson thought about it. ‘Getting away from it all,’ she declared finally.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
They clinked glasses, and Alyson took a sip of her wine. It was strong – rich and fruity. ‘Thanks so much for letting me stay here,’ she said, sitting down on the sofa and curling her legs underneath her. She was still wearing the comfortable clothes she’d picked out for the flight – skinny jeans and a loose tunic top by Tory Burch. The outfit flattered her body, emphasizing her long legs and slim frame. She looked sensational.
‘Hey, no problem,’ Aidan said lightly.
But Alyson couldn’t let it drop. ‘I mean, after everything that happened …’
‘Maybe I overreacted at the time … What can I say? You were one of my best employees so I took it hard when you left,’ he teased.
Alyson laughed. She felt the tension lift, that same ease that had always been there between them. In spite of everything, he was the same old Aidan – albeit richer and better looking.
Alyson felt an unexpected shiver of excitement as she took in those sparkling blue eyes and that familiar smile. It must be the wine, she told herself. But the feeling wouldn’t go. She daren’t look at Aidan in case he could tell what she was thinking, sure that just one look would give her away.
If truth be told, she was scared. She’d kept that side of herself long buried, and hadn’t dated anyone since Philippe. She didn’t trust men, didn’t trust their intentions, especially not in the industry she was in. Okay, so most of the guys in the modelling world were gay, but there were a lot of men out there who just wanted a gorgeous girl on their arm to feed their ego, look hot and keep quiet. Modelizers, the other girls had called them. Well, Alyson was no one’s arm candy. So she’d shut herself off, thrown herself into her work. Oh, she’d had all the usual clichés thrown at her – Ice Maiden, Virgin Queen. But she’d kept her head down and tried not to care.
‘So how is everything?’ Aidan asked carefully, settling into a chair opposite. Alyson was grateful for the distance. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Yeah, I’m all right …’ she said slowly.
‘And how’s your mum? Is everything good between you two?’
Alyson sighed heavily. ‘We had a talk, sorted some things out. She seems to be doing okay. It’s crazy there, though – you should have seen all the reporters, clustered round her house like vultures. They’v
e offered her insane amounts of money for her side of the story.’
‘She hasn’t talked?’
‘No. At least one of my parents has some loyalty,’ Alyson noted bitterly.
‘Have you heard from your dad?’
Alyson’s face hardened with a steeliness Aidan had never seen before. ‘No. Even if he did try to get in contact, I wouldn’t speak to him. Not now. But you know the worst thing? If he’d tried to get in touch before … I mean, even if he’d come to me and asked for money, I’d have given it to him. He’s my dad, you know? I would have made the effort. But he didn’t even try. He just went behind my back …’
She trailed off, afraid that she might not be able to hold back the tears. Aidan sat forward in his chair, reaching across the space and laying a reassuring hand on her arm. His touch was like fire, her skin white-hot where he held her.
‘You know you can stay here as long as you like,’ he said seriously. She caught a trace of his scent – clean and fresh, like soap and shaving foam. Not expensive aftershave, like Philippe had worn, cloying and overwhelming.
‘Thanks, Aidan.’
‘Stop thanking me. It’s no trouble at all.’
Alyson smiled, in spite of herself. Aidan was still holding her arm, and she didn’t trust herself to say anything more.
‘And what, when this all blows over it’ll be business as usual again?’ Aidan asked. He sat back in his chair, picking up his wine glass and draining the contents.
‘Maybe not,’ Alyson shrugged, meeting his gaze. ‘I’ve been thinking about quitting for some time.’
‘Quitting?’
‘Modelling,’ Alyson clarified.
Aidan said nothing. He poured himself another glass and leaned across to top up Alyson’s, waiting for her to carry on.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ she explained. ‘I know it sounds ungrateful – I’ve had so many opportunities. I’ve seen so many places, had experiences that other girls would kill for, but … It’s not me, Aidan. I feel like a fraud. They dress me up and paint my face and I suppose I pretend pretty well, but I’m dying inside. No one gives a damn about me and everything’s fake. There’s no challenge, nothing to push me …’ She trailed off, willing him to understand.
Aidan cleared his throat. ‘I have to admit, I was surprised when I first heard about your new career. It didn’t seem very … you. You were always so driven, so passionate about business. I remember that night in the Place du Tertre where you told me about your dreams, about what you wanted to do with your life.’
Alyson smiled in delight. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about that.’
Aidan glanced away, refusing to meet her gaze. ‘No … I haven’t forgotten,’ he said quietly.
The tension sat heavy in the air, the awkwardness that Alyson had feared returning. The room was largely dark, lit only by a pair of chrome, overhanging lamps. In spite of the contemporary decoration, the apartment was homely and comfortable. Alyson loved it already.
‘So what are your plans?’ Aidan asked, breaking the silence. ‘Like I said, you can stay here as long as you need to.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be around for ever,’ she joked, although at that moment it was exactly what she felt like. No one knew where she was, and it was such a relief to be away from all the pressures of her real life. Even the thought of going back to modelling made her feel sick. But then, branching out on her own was equally terrifying. Much as she hated her profession, it was all she’d known for the last two years of her life. And, financially, it was extremely rewarding, giving her a badly needed feeling of security. For someone who’d struggled all her life, that was huge.
‘I’ve told my agent to cancel all my appointments for the next couple of weeks and then I’ll get back to them. I just need a bit of time out, you know? But after that …’ Alyson sipped her wine thoughtfully, the alcohol warming her and lowering her guard. ‘What I’m going to do with the rest of my life – I really don’t know.’
30
Unbeknown to both women, Dionne and Alyson were now in the same city, just a few miles between them as Dionne attended a fitting for Vivienne Westwood in London. She was standing in the centre of the studio as Bianca, the stylist, moved around her, tucking and pulling. Dionne was scrolling through her iPhone, paying little attention.
‘Jesus, for fuck’s sake,’ she burst out, as she felt a pin jab her sharply in the ribs.
‘Sorry,’ Bianca said irritably. She was a trendy Hoxton girl, with a bleached blonde Louise Brooks bob and eclectic taste in clothes. ‘Could you keep still please? You keep moving.’
‘Could you not fucking prick me? Incompetent bitch,’ Dionne swore under her breath.
Bianca took a deep breath and considered walking out. She’d dealt with a lot of divas in her time, but Dionne was the worst of the lot.
‘I can’t get this to hang right,’ Bianca complained. Dionne was wearing a rather eccentric lilac shirt, with ruffles and enormous puff sleeves, but it needed to fit flat over her stomach. Bianca tried smoothing it down, but it puckered and rippled. ‘Have you put on a little weight?’ she asked innocently.
‘No I fucking haven’t!’ Dionne swore indignantly. ‘How dare you!’
Inside, she was quietly seething. She’d been thinking the same thing herself. Right, from now on she would cut out milk in her coffee, stop eating fruit – didn’t it have an insane amount of calories, or bloat you, or something? And she would haul her ass down the gym. She hated it, but it had to be done. A little discipline, and she would soon drop the extra couple of pounds.
She continued browsing through her phone, coming to land on Style.com. ‘Breaking News’ was the huge headline at the top, above a picture of Alyson Wakefield’s face. It was the one used in her Shiseido commercial, and she looked cool, elegant and impossibly beautiful – the epitome of the English rose. Dionne’s lip curled in distaste. Goddamn white girl, had everything handed to her on a plate. Life was easy when you looked like that. Well, at least she was having a tough time lately – her own father had sold a story on her, and the things he’d said were brutal. Now Alyson might understand just a fraction of what it was like to struggle, Dionne thought in satisfaction.
She scrolled down curiously, reading the story. Then her mouth fell open in shock and she let out a scream of delight, pulling away from Bianca who swore in frustration. She’d finally got the line to come right, and now Dionne was flitting off somewhere.
‘Holy shit, have you seen this?’
‘What is it?’ Bianca asked irritably, as Dionne continued to whoop, fist-punching the air.
‘Alyson Wakefield’s retiring!’
‘What?’ Bianca burst out in disbelief. ‘Ally?’
‘Uh huh.’ Dionne’s dark eyes were glittering with excitement. ‘British supermodel Alyson Wakefield, known as “Ally”, today announced her retirement from the world of modelling,’ Dionne read. ‘In a brief statement issued by her agent, IMG, she said: “Due to recent events in my personal life, I am announcing my retirement from modelling with immediate effect. I never chose the attention that comes with this lifestyle, but it appears to be unavoidable, and I am no longer willing to risk my private life. I would ask that the media give my family and myself space at this difficult time.”’
‘Poor girl,’ Bianca said sadly, shaking her head.
‘Poor girl? Dumb bitch, more like. What, someone sells a story on her and she runs like a frightened dog with her tail between her legs. Like anyone’s even that interested in her boring private life,’ Dionne scoffed.
Bianca stared at her incredulously. She’d had it with Dionne’s bullshit attitude and opened her mouth to let loose a stinging retort when Dan Markovic, the photographer, walked in.
‘Hey, boo, did you bring the champagne?’ Dionne grinned.
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘The end of Alyson Wakefield’s career,’ she told him, with barely concealed glee.
‘What?’
>
‘She’s left modelling,’ Bianca filled him in. ‘Over all that personal stuff.’
‘Shit, no way.’ Dan looked shocked.
‘Hey, it’s party time, right? The industry’s better off without that pathetic excuse of a model. Leave it to the professionals, huh?’ Dionne pirouetted on the spot, throwing her arms up in the air.
Dan exchanged glances with Bianca. ‘You know what? You’re a real bitch, Dionne.’
‘Oh, fuck you, Dan.’ She waved her hands dismissively.
‘No, fuck you, Dionne. I’ve worked with Ally. She’s a sweet girl and a great model. She doesn’t deserve all this shit she’s going through.’
‘Oh, she’s so sweet and nice,’ Dionne mimicked him, putting on a baby voice. ‘Well, maybe she’s better off out of it then. There ain’t no place in this business for anyone not strong enough to take it.’
‘Yeah?’ Dan was looking at her in disgust. ‘Well, if you need to be a soulless tramp to make it, then you’re on course to go right to the top.’ He turned on his heel and walked out, his expression furious.
‘Screw you, Dan,’ Dionne yelled after him. Lowering her voice, she muttered, ‘Fucking faggot.’
Her breath was coming fast, her chest rising and falling as adrenaline pulsed through her body. She stalked back across the room to Bianca, who was looking at her in horror.
‘Sort this fucking thing out,’ Dionne snapped, tugging the blouse around her midriff then throwing her hands up in exasperation. ‘And don’t go saying I’m goddamn fat.’
Bianca got to her knees, taking a pin out of her mouth as she tacked the fabric together. ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said, her expression unexpectedly smug. ‘You’re not fat, Dionne. You’re pregnant.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Alyson, for about the tenth time that evening.
‘You’ll see,’ Aidan smirked maddeningly. They were driving along Tottenham Court Road in his Audi R8.
Alyson sat back in frustration as Aidan grinned at her. ‘Not long now.’