Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Aidan grinned. ‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But you go where the market is, and there’s a huge expat community here. Most of them are earning generous salaries, they don’t pay tax, they’re away from home and it feels like one long holiday. That’s the lifestyle out here. When they’re not working, they just want to go out and party hard. The way I see it, they might as well spend some of that hard-earned cash in Kennedy’s.’

  Alyson nodded thoughtfully, unable to fault Aidan’s logic. She sat quietly for the rest of the journey, watching the incredible sights as they passed by, trying to get a feel for the place and mentally planning how on earth she was going to do this.

  It was six weeks now since Aidan had first floated the idea of them working together, and Dante Consulting was now official, registered at Companies House in London and with its own logo and freshly designed website. There was no mention, as yet, that Alyson was behind it. She thought that might work against her – that as a young ex-model she wouldn’t be taken seriously in the business world. She wanted to work quietly, under the radar for a while, until she’d built up a portfolio and felt confident putting her name out there again.

  So she’d thrown all her energy into working with Aidan, finding out exactly what he needed from her and planning her strategy for Kennedy’s Dubai. She’d already learned vast amounts about the emirate, its exacting laws and unfamiliar customs, but this was her first trip to see the site itself. The launch was set at eight weeks from today, and Alyson sometimes wondered if she’d taken on the impossible.

  She stared distractedly out of the window, the glittering blue of the Arabian Gulf dominating the view. It looked incredible, shimmering in the sunlight, so flat and calm. They were passing Jumeirah Beach, with the dramatic wave-shaped hotel on their right, and beyond that, the Burj al Arab rearing proudly out of the ocean, its brilliant whiteness gleaming against the cloudless azure sky.

  They arrived at the Madinat shortly after and were shown directly to their respective suites, but Alyson had no time to appreciate the sumptuous view out over the winding waterways, or the opulence of her room with its twenty-four-hour butler who introduced himself as Ahmed. Within minutes, Aidan was knocking on her door, as excited as a child at Christmas, demanding that she come down and see his new property. Alyson protested, saying that she wanted to shower and change after the long flight, but Aidan wouldn’t let her.

  ‘You look great,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, you’re here to work, not holiday.’

  ‘I’m increasing my fee,’ Alyson grumbled. But she accompanied him back through the hotel, out into the relentless sun and the beautiful, peaceful setting of the Madinat Souk. Aidan kept up a brisk pace past the old-fashioned buildings and the interlocking canals, crisscrossed by wooden bridges. It really was out of this world, Alyson marvelled. It would be easy to lose all sense of perspective here, to get swept up in the unreality of it all.

  Aidan stopped in front of a shuttered property right on the waterfront, just a little further along from a row of bars and restaurants. He pulled up the shutters, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt, and unlocked the door, standing aside to let Alyson through. Some work had been done since the last time he was there – the rubbish left by the previous tenant had been cleared, and a wall had been knocked through in preparation for the new layout.

  Aidan was buzzing with excitement as he showed Alyson round. ‘This is where the bar’s going to be, and I plan to put the reception here. Then this pillar is coming down to make the back more open, and I want the kitchen to be like Kennedy’s Dublin – you haven’t seen that, but I’ve shown you photos, right? And then I’m importing the same lights, as well as all the Irish linen and Waterford crystal, to keep a sense of continuity across the branches …’ He turned to Alyson, his enthusiasm impossible to hide. ‘Well?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘What do you think?’

  Aidan’s excitement was infectious, his descriptions so detailed that Alyson could picture everything as it would be. It was a great space, exactly right for Aidan’s needs, and it would look amazing when it was finished.

  ‘Oh, Aidan,’ Alyson breathed. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Dionne was sitting on her couch, eating a huge bag of potato chips. She was just over four months’ pregnant, and her bump was growing steadily. She hadn’t worked for weeks – all of her jobs had dried up or been cancelled. She’d stopped bothering to ring her agent; the constant refrain – that there was nothing for her – wasn’t what she wanted to hear. So she spent her days watching trash TV and eating crap; her body was craving Cheetos, which she had sent over from the States, and chocolate ice cream, which she ate by the bucket-load.

  She’d stopped going out too. If she stepped out of her apartment, there was always some asshole with a camera demanding to know who the father of her baby was. She still didn’t know the answer herself, so how could she be expected to tell anyone else? Instead she stayed in, gave up caring about her appearance and slobbed out in sweats and an old T-shirt. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d exercised or done her hair. Besides, for the first trimester she’d had the worst morning sickness, which seemed to be exacerbated by everything – the smell of food, perfume, car fumes. Just the air on the Parisian streets was enough to make her feel nauseous and her apartment became her refuge.

  Anyone could have told her she was depressed. The problem was, she didn’t have anyone around to tell her that. Sure, her mom had been excited about the news, once she got over the fact that Dionne wasn’t marrying the baby’s father. I don’t know who he is, Momma …

  ‘I don’t want him to be a part of it,’ Dionne told Natalie Summers, which wasn’t entirely the truth.

  ‘Honey, that’s crazy, he gotta face up to his responsibilities,’ her mom argued.

  Dionne’s tone was brittle. ‘I’ve got enough money of my own, I’m going to do this by myself.’

  ‘Come home,’ Natalie said softly. ‘You’ve been off gallivanting round the world for long enough: now it’s time to stop. Come home, where I can look after you and my grandchild.’

  For a second Dionne considered it, tempted by the ease with which she could just hide away from the world and let her mother look after her. But she knew it was a bad idea. After five minutes back home, she’d be climbing the walls, desperate to get out of Detroit, just like she’d been all those years ago.

  ‘I’m fine, Momma,’ she lied. ‘I have people here. How’s Daddy?’ she asked casually, changing the subject.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Natalie said lightly. ‘Same old.’

  Dionne knew exactly what that meant.

  ‘How about if I fly out for a while?’ Natalie suggested. ‘I’d love to see your place, see what kind of life you have out there. I’m proud of you, honey.’

  Dionne swallowed hard, blaming pregnancy hormones for the tears that pricked her eyes. Her momma had never told her she was proud of her before. ‘Maybe nearer the due date,’ she managed to say, her voice thick.

  If Dionne was being honest, she was scared as hell. She didn’t have anyone, and she was embarrassed for her mother to know that; desperate to keep up the appearance of the glamorous, sociable life she’d once led. She even attended her regular check-ups on her own, hiring a driver and wearing big black shades.

  David had called, once or twice, to see how she was doing. He was a good guy, and Dionne believed him when he said he’d always be there for her, but she’d well and truly burned that bridge. There’d been photos in the gossip magazines of him and Esther, speculating on whether an engagement was likely. She knew the media always exaggerated these things, but still, their relationship seemed to be going well. If she tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself she was happy for him.

  Even more surprisingly, CeCe had sent flowers when the news of Dionne’s pregnancy had broken. It was a sweet gesture, the first step in a possible reconciliation. Dionne hadn’t replied yet, uncertain whether she would. Her pride was still as fierce as
ever, but there was part of her that was ashamed, knowing she didn’t deserve CeCe’s kindness after the way she’d treated her. CeCe was blind when she was in love – Dionne knew that better than anybody, and she had taken full advantage of it in the early days. She felt like a bitch just thinking about it.

  And when CeCe had chosen Alyson as the face of Capucine, Dionne had gone ballistic, doing everything in her power to trash the brand in its infancy. She’d said some horrible things to the press and behaved appallingly, but back then she didn’t care. Now she did, her conscience pricking as she looked back on what she’d done.

  The rumours within the industry were that Capucine was struggling, but Dionne took no pleasure in that. It made her sad to think how drastically her relationship with CeCe had changed, from being as close as sisters to little better than enemies. She remembered how tight they’d been back when they were desperate to make it, both poor as dirt but stylish as hell and always able to afford a bottle of champagne even when they couldn’t make the rent. They’d both achieved everything they’d dreamed of, and more, but Dionne wondered if either of them was truly happy with how their lives had turned out.

  Dionne sighed, flicking through the channels on her enormous widescreen TV. She had cable, and liked to watch all the trashy American shows that reminded her of home.

  She turned on to E! News, where they were rounding up some story about Mariah Carey. Then the presenter with the big hair and the tiny body turned to the camera, her expression grave.

  ‘Now, an E! News exclusive. There are fresh rumours doing the rounds about model and mom-to-be, Dionne Summers, and they are not what she wants to hear, are they, Todd?’ She turned to her co-anchor.

  Dionne sat bolt upright, her eyes glued to the screen. What info could they possibly have? Even she didn’t know who the baby’s father was; any story about that had to be pure speculation.

  ‘No, Ashley, they are not,’ Todd said, his voice low and serious, his forehead creasing into a concerned frown.

  Just get on with it, Dionne willed them, hating them for their fake sincerity.

  ‘Within the last few minutes, reports have surfaced that explicit pictures exist of a sixteen-year-old Dionne Summers. It’s claimed they were taken at the start of her career, and show the young model in a number of – let’s say – “compromising” positions,’ Todd smirked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Ashley agreed cheerily. ‘No one knows who’s behind the deal, but the rumour is they’re being shopped around and will be sold to the highest bidder. Several porn companies are said to be interested, including those behind Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian’s infamous sex tapes. Now, onto news of Victoria Beckham’s latest outfit …’

  Dionne sat motionless with shock, staring at the television. The colourful images flashed across the screen, but she couldn’t take in a word. The pictures Luis Fernandez had taken, the ones she’d almost managed to forget about … Almost. She’d always told herself that if they were going to come out, they would have done so by now. But she was wrong, and now they were all over the news.

  She felt sick, and it was nothing to do with the baby. She pushed the bag of chips to one side and tried to breathe.

  Christ, what were people going to say? Sure, she’d done nude before, but it was kind of different when you were being shot by Mario Testino.

  Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, her blood running hot in her veins. Luis Fernandez was a piece of shit, she thought furiously. The photos he’d taken were practically pornographic, right between her legs and leaving nothing to the imagination. And she’d been so young, barely more than a child …

  Dionne choked back a sob. Sure, she’d been naïve, but also so optimistic and excited, eager to start her career and believing that Luis Fernandez could put her on the road to the big time.

  But Dash Ramón had set her up and now everyone was going to see those photos – her parents, her family, her agent … She would be a laughing stock. Her reputation was already on the line – her agency had made it clear recently that her bolshy attitude didn’t endear her to anyone – and now that she was pregnant it could be the kiss of death to her career. She’d planned to start working again as soon as she could after the birth, to plough straight into a full-on fitness regime and drop the excess pounds as fast as she could. But with these revelations, would anyone even want to hire her? And if not, what the hell was she going to do with her life?

  She needed to call someone, to talk things over and get a little sympathy.

  She had no one. The realization hit her like a sledgehammer and her head dropped as the tears began to fall. She’d barely had time to wipe them away when her cell phone began to ring.

  ‘Go away,’ Dionne screamed at it. ‘Fuck off!’ She didn’t even bother to see who was calling; she knew it wouldn’t be good.

  Then her landline began to ring, her laptop beeping as the emails came flooding in. All around, her lights were flashing, electronic noise demanding her attention as the world’s media swamped her, trying to discover if the photos really existed and what she intended to do about them.

  Dionne had no idea. She just wanted it all to go away.

  She flung herself down, burying her head in the sofa cushions, and wept.

  33

  As soon as CeCe turned the key and walked into her apartment, she knew something was wrong. It was quiet. Far too quiet. It didn’t just feel empty – it felt deserted.

  Trying to push down the panic rising in her chest, she dumped her bag and ran into the lounge. All around her, the huge posters of her and Mayumi stared down, their faces glowing and in love. But Mayumi wasn’t there. Nor were her Converse trainers, which she always left beside the sofa, or the stack of photography magazines piled on the coffee table.

  CeCe let out a strangled cry and ran into the bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe. Mayumi’s clothes had gone, the wooden hangers empty and clattering uselessly against each other. Every room told the same story: her toothbrush – gone; her camera equipment – vanished.

  ‘No!’ CeCe yelled. It was a heart-rending, agonizing sound.

  She ran back to the hallway, pulling her phone out of her bag. Mayumi’s was the last number dialled. She pressed it; it didn’t even ring, just went straight to voicemail. She hung up and tried again. Same thing. The third time, CeCe didn’t hang up.

  ‘Mayumi?’ she asked desperately. Her voice sounded shaky, positively unhinged. ‘Mayumi, it’s CeCe. Call me,’ she pleaded, her voice thick with tears. ‘As soon as you get this message. I need to speak to you. I need … Just fucking call me!’ She slammed her finger down on the button, the tears rolling down her face as she began to sob uncontrollably. Her body sank down onto the floor, her legs too weak to hold her any longer.

  Mayumi had gone. She’d left, and taken CeCe’s heart and soul with her; all her hopes for the future. The apartment was completely clear of her presence, as though she’d never really been there at all. She needed Mayumi, CeCe thought desperately. She had to have her there in order to be able to design, to create. How could any designer function without their muse?

  She clamped her hands down hard on top of her skull, pressing her palms into her temples. Her head felt as though it was going to explode. She couldn’t think straight. Her breath was coming fast, and she was beginning to hyperventilate. She didn’t care about anything except Mayumi – not Capucine, not her career, not anything.

  She’d thought Mayumi loved her, but she didn’t. She’d made a fool of her, used her. Jesus, her heart felt as if it had literally split in two, a physical pain slicing through her chest like a knife blade.

  CeCe dragged herself to her feet and staggered towards the living room. Unnatural, guttural sounds were coming out of her; she was whimpering like a wounded animal. She felt primitive, unable to concentrate on anything but the pain. Tears were streaming down her face, her nose running freely. She wiped it on the back of her sleeve – a vintage Ossie Clark blouse that she’d thought looked cute team
ed with a pair of high-waisted shorts. What did it matter if she ruined it? Nothing mattered any more.

  She stood in the doorway to the lounge, swaying unsteadily. Her eyes focused on the huge poster of her and Mayumi. They were happy and smiling, looking directly into the camera.

  ‘Bitch!’ CeCe screamed, anger coursing through her body. She picked up a vase from the coffee table, filled with red roses that she’d bought for her, and flung it with all her strength. It hit the target, then fell to the floor and shattered, leaving the picture streaked with water, flowers scattered across the parquet floor amongst jagged shards of glass.

  ‘Fucking bitch!’ CeCe screeched again, her voice high-pitched like a banshee.

  She stared at the poster for a moment, stained and torn, and felt a wave of determination sweep over her. If Mayumi wanted to be removed from her life, she would make sure it was complete.

  With a loud cry, she launched herself at the picture, tearing it down from the wall and ripping it to shreds. She snatched at another photo of Mayumi, her dark eyes staring innocently at the camera lens, and tore it into a dozen pieces. Then she made her way round the apartment, working herself into a frenzy as she pulled down every image, obliterating any evidence that the two of them had ever been together. With every rip, she let out a loud cry, like a tennis player going for the winning shot. It felt good to exert the energy.

  Finally CeCe stopped and stood back, panting and exhausted. The flat was covered in scraps of black-and-white paper, drifting down from the ceiling like some bizarre snowstorm. If CeCe looked hard enough, she could make out the individual features. Over there was one of Mayumi’s eyes, staring at her accusingly. Not far from that lay her nose; a little closer and she could make out the curve of a breast, a piece of a shoulder blade.

  CeCe fell to her knees amongst the pile, picking up a handful of paper and letting it trickle through her fingers.

  ‘What did I do?’ she moaned helplessly, staring at the mess around her. Every single picture had been destroyed, she realized, with a piercing stab of regret. She scrabbled at the fragments, trying to put them back together, but they were all mixed up, impossible to repair. CeCe pawed helplessly at the pieces of Mayumi’s face. She sifted through the pile and found a pair of lips, raising them to her own in a tender kiss before letting them flutter to the ground.