by Carrie Duffy
Then CeCe lay down on top of the pile, her body exhausted with effort and emotion, and sobbed as though her heart was broken.
Dionne’s car sped down the Avenue Montaigne. It was the most fashionable street in Paris, home to stores such as Christian Dior, Chanel and Louis Vuitton. Dionne watched from behind dark glasses, remembering how she’d been for endless castings and fittings along here, how she’d modelled for most of the names on the Avenue. She let her hand slip to her bump, deep in thought as she cradled it. Well, there would be no more of that now.
The car pulled up at her destination, and Dionne checked over her outfit one last time. Black tailored trousers that she’d had custom made to fit her expanding proportions, a white tank top clinging proudly to her baby bump, with a smart black jacket and six-inch Louboutins, defying the fact that she was almost five months’ pregnant. She’d had Frédéric from Premier Salon come over to her apartment to do her hair in a long, straight weave, and she was beautifully put together, her nails French polished, her make-up immaculate. She was fighting for her career, and she was going to do it looking fabulous.
She stepped out of the car, pleased to note that there were no photographers in sight. Thank God for the French paparazzi laws – it would have been a nightmare if she was in the States or the UK. Then she strode boldly into the offices of Elite.
‘I have a meeting with Lionel Vartan,’ she informed the young girl on the front desk. She didn’t bother to introduce herself – as far as she was concerned, everyone knew who she was.
She was right. ‘Bien sûr, Mademoiselle Summers,’ the girl said, recognizing her immediately. ‘If you’d like to follow me …’
Dionne was gratified; she didn’t like to be kept waiting.
She was shown into a meeting room where four people sat behind a desk, waiting for her. There was Lionel Vartan, the head of the agency, Vice President Antoine Hardy, Sabine Blanc, her agent, and Jacqueline Cresson, her regular booker.
Dionne thrust out her chin defiantly. They were really pulling out the big guns for this. It wasn’t a good sign. She had a fight on her hands and she knew it.
‘Dionne.’ Sabine spoke first. She rose from her seat and kissed Dionne on both cheeks. The others leaned across the table to shake hands formally, refusing to look her in the eye.
‘How are you?’ Sabine asked.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said tightly.
‘And all is well with the baby?’
Instinctively, Dionne’s hand went to her stomach. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She didn’t want to get into pleasantries. They weren’t there for that. Sure enough, Sabine resumed her seat and indicated that Dionne should do the same. She sat down carefully, trying to maintain her dignity as the bump unbalanced her.
‘Dionne,’ Lionel began, sitting forward importantly. He was silver haired and sharp-suited, an air of quiet authority about him. ‘As you know, you’ve been with Elite for a long time now. We’ve always done everything we can to support you. You’ve consistently been one of our most successful models as well as one of the most …’ He paused. ‘… Spirited. And controversial.’
Dionne remained silent. She glared at Lionel, her dark eyes like chips of ice.
‘The issue of the photos,’ Lionel began, a look of fake concern crossing his brow, ‘it’s not a subject we want to speak about, but unfortunately we have to. Have you seen them?’
‘I was there when they were taken,’ Dionne retorted frostily.
‘So you’re admitting they’re you? They’re not faked?’
Dionne hesitated, feeling caught out. ‘I was young,’ she stated bluntly. ‘Sixteen, and at the beginning of my career. I didn’t really know what I was doing, and he talked me into it—’
‘Save the sob story for the Oprah interview,’ Antoine cut in nastily. He was a small, weaselly man, with an overly Botoxed forehead and obvious hair plugs. Everyone knew about his predilection for young boys who were barely legal, and here he was, playing the outraged moral guardian with her. It made her sick.
At that moment, Dionne hated every single one of them behind that desk. All of them, smug and sitting in judgement of her, enjoying every minute of it. She’d had some furious bust-ups with them in the past. In fact, now she thought about it, she’d fought with every single person around the table at some point, believing she was bigger than them. Bigger than the agency itself, even. And they’d had to acquiesce to her demands, placate her when she was throwing a tantrum, feed her ego simply because she’d insisted upon it. Now the tables had turned, and they were revelling in it.
‘What it comes down to is this …’ Sabine put her fingertips together in a triangle shape, her hands moving up and down to emphasize every word. ‘We no longer feel in a position to be able to represent you.’
Dionne opened her mouth to protest. She’d suspected this was coming, and all her fears had been proved right.
‘Please, let me speak, Dionne,’ Sabine interrupted, holding up her hand for silence as though they were in kindergarten and Dionne was misbehaving.
Whatever, bitch, thought Dionne furiously. I’ll get mine soon and you won’t know what’s hit you.
‘We’ve taken the liberty of preparing this statement,’ Sabine said, sliding it across the desk to Dionne. ‘It will be released to the press as soon as this meeting is over. You’ll notice that it’s neutrally worded and doesn’t apportion blame. As we’ve worked together for so long now, I think we’d all prefer it not to get … acrimonious.’
‘You can’t fire me,’ Dionne spat. Screw not getting acrimonious. ‘What, is it because of the pictures? Or because I’m pregnant?’ she challenged them.
‘Dionne, this isn’t just based on the rather unfortunate incident that’s recently come to light. We’ve had a number of complaints about you from some of our biggest clients. They say that you are late, uncooperative and downright rude. There have been reports of verbal abuse and even sexual harassment. Word gets round, and we have our reputation to consider.’
‘Bullshit,’ Dionne burst out. ‘You’ve been wanting to get rid of me for months and this is the perfect excuse. Since when has nudity ever harmed a career? Look at Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, Carla Bruni. Hell, I’ve posed nude for half of the designers out there. Anyone who’s anyone’s had their tits out in Vogue.’
‘With all due respect, Mademoiselle Summers,’ – Oh great, now they’d gone all formal – ‘Those types of photos are rather less graphic. If it was simply a case of a few topless shots, it wouldn’t matter. These, however, are essentially pornographic. You can see less explicit poses in a top-shelf magazine.’
‘They were taken six years ago,’ Dionne said in frustration. ‘I was basically still a kid. All you need to do is put out a supportive statement, and the whole thing will be forgotten in a few weeks.’
‘Don’t think we haven’t considered that. But the problem in this industry is that reputation is everything, and once you’ve endured a scandal like this, it’s very hard to go back. When clients come to us they have a product to sell, and they need to exude a particular image. It has to be beautiful, sexy, aspirational – not slutty streetwalker.’
‘To put it bluntly, Mademoiselle Summers,’ Antoine cut in with relish, ‘you can’t sell lipstick when everyone’s seen your cunt.’
‘Fuck you.’ Dionne got to her feet. ‘You can’t get rid of me like this. I’m pregnant – there are laws about this kind of thing. It’s a breach of my fucking human rights.’
‘Yes, but there are also laws about turning up on time and doing your job properly,’ Antoine said shortly, and his tone was cold. ‘If you fail to do that, which you have, I think you’ll find we are quite within our rights to terminate your contract. I’d be very careful what you say from now on. Our lawyers don’t respond kindly to threats.’
‘No? That’s a shame. ’Cos I’m gonna sue this agency so hard that by the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be lucky to be operating out of a backstreet in Pigalle.’
/> ‘Mademoiselle Summers, this isn’t America. You can’t sue at the drop of a hat, and our judges don’t take kindly to time-wasting cases brought purely out of vanity. Ask your legal representatives to check your contract. I think you’ll find that you … what’s the phrase? Ah, yes. Don’t have a leg to stand on.’
He stood up, indicating the meeting was over. But Dionne was already heading towards the door. She was so angry she was shaking, and she wasn’t hanging around to be spoken to like this. She knew the stress wasn’t good for the baby, but she couldn’t help herself from getting into a fight.
She pulled open the door so her voice could be heard all the way down the corridor. ‘Screw the goddamn lot of you,’ she screeched. ‘You’ll regret the day you ever fucked with Dionne Summers, I promise you that. You will fucking regret it.’
Alyson didn’t think she’d ever been so busy in her life. She was throwing herself into every challenge, working her butt off to make Kennedy’s Dubai a success. At the end of every day she collapsed into bed exhausted, but she was happier than she’d ever been.
Her days were filled with meetings, dealing with architects, lawyers and contractors. She’d engaged a PR firm and an events company for opening night, although she was heavily involved in the arrangements herself. She’d come to realize that she was something of a control freak, eager to be in charge of everything and oversee it all. But this was Aidan’s big night, and he was trusting her. She didn’t want to mess it up.
Aidan himself had to fly back and forth between Europe and the Middle East, but Alyson loved it whenever he was around. It was nice to have someone there to talk things over with at the end of the day. They’d resumed their old tradition of sharing a bottle of red over dinner, and dined out all over Dubai.
‘Research,’ Alyson had joked.
‘Sure. Put it on expenses,’ Aidan grinned, looking impossibly handsome as his smile lit up his face.
It was during one of those dinners that Aidan dropped the bombshell.
‘There’s something I want to discuss with you,’ he said. His voice was serious, his eyes unable to meet hers.
‘Sure,’ Alyson said easily, although her heart began to beat a little faster, an unexpected feeling of nerves sweeping over her. She could tell by his tone that this wasn’t something minor – that he hadn’t simply had a change of heart about the paint colour or the floor plan.
Aidan hesitated, playing uncomfortably with the stem of his wine glass. He gripped it tightly, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger, the pressure turning his fingertips white.
‘Philippe Rochefort,’ he said finally.
Alyson felt winded, as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She didn’t want to think about him ever again, and Aidan was the last person she expected to bring up his name.
‘Whatever he’s done, I don’t care—’ she began fiercely, but Aidan cut her off.
‘Hear me out,’ he pleaded. ‘The word within the industry is that his business is struggling. Not Rochefort Champagne – his own company, Rochefort Enterprises. Apparently he’s overreached himself with these new properties in the States, and the recession has hit him hard.’
Alyson wondered why Aidan was telling her this. She sat quietly as he spoke, trying not to interrupt until he’d finished.
‘There’s a few properties he owns – in Paris, and in the South of France – that would be perfect sites for Kennedy’s. They’re not officially on the market, but I’ve heard whispers he’d sell them and I could get them at a knockdown price. Of course, I doubt he’d sell them to me, so it would all have to be done quietly.’ He looked at Alyson expectantly. ‘What do you think?’
For a moment, Alyson couldn’t speak. She was still in shock that Philippe’s name had come up, even more so that Aidan wanted to do business with him.
If she was being honest, her initial instinct was no – there were too many memories, and she didn’t want either of them anywhere near Philippe Rochefort again. But, on the other hand, it was Aidan’s business and he had to do what was best for him – who was she to interfere, just because she had a personal dislike of the guy? There was no need for Aidan to have even told her – they weren’t partners or anything; he was under no obligation. But he’d consulted her because he respected her opinion and didn’t want to hurt her – something that Philippe would never have done.
Alyson understood now, in a way she hadn’t before, that the two men had a grudge to settle. And if that’s what it came down to, then Alyson knew who she wanted to win.
She looked Aidan straight in the eye, her lips curving upwards in a smile. When she spoke, her voice was steely. ‘I think that sounds like an excellent plan.’
34
Dionne was standing on the street outside CeCe’s apartment, feeling self-conscious. Her face was hidden behind enormous black sunglasses, but her tall, skinny frame and huge bump made her distinctive.
She pressed the buzzer.
‘Hello?’ said a man’s voice. It was early afternoon and it sounded as if a party was in full swing in the background.
‘Is CeCe there?’ Dionne asked, confused.
‘Sure, whatever, come up.’ The door clicked and Dionne pushed it open, ascending the stairs slowly due to her expanding bump.
She wondered if she had the right apartment. She’d tried the last cell-phone number she had for CeCe, struck by a sudden, overwhelming need to speak to her old friend again, but the number didn’t seem to be working. In desperation she’d rung Capucine and was put through to Jacques Perrot. He was pretty frosty when he found out who was calling – Dionne hadn’t exactly endeared herself to CeCe’s colleagues by trashing the label at every opportunity she got – but he knew their history and relented, giving her CeCe’s number and home address.
‘If you speak to her, try and persuade her to come in. Remind her she has a business to take care of.’ He sounded pissed off and exasperated, not overly worried. Dionne got the impression that CeCe went AWOL on a regular basis.
She could hear music way before she even reached the third floor, the whole building pulsing to a throbbing base line. As she drew closer, people were bustling in the corridor, spilling down onto the staircase. Dionne didn’t recognize any of them. She checked the address once more. Yes, this was definitely the right place.
Dionne walked up to the open door, her nostrils assailed by an overpowering smell of weed. She collared the first person she saw, a tall, lanky guy with glasses. He was wearing a velvet jacket and oversized spectacles, holding a cigarette in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other.
‘Do you know where CeCe is?’
‘Who?’
‘Cécile,’ Dionne repeated, leaning away from the curling stream of smoke. She’d battled hard to give up, and didn’t intend to inhale this guy’s secondhand toxins.
The guy shrugged amiably. ‘No idea. Take a look inside.’
Dionne walked into the flat, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. She had a bad feeling about this.
The stench of weed was even stronger inside and there were people everywhere, dancing, smoking, making out. One girl was slumped in a corner, her eyes spaced out, while Dionne stepped carefully over a prostrate body. But there was no mistaking that this was CeCe’s flat. There was a row of framed photos along the corridor, stills from the various Capucine shows. There were a couple of Alyson, of course, but Dionne was shocked to find a picture of herself, resplendent in white at the very first show in the Tuileries gardens. It was completely unexpected, and out of nowhere she felt a lump welling in her throat. Jeez, these pregnancy hormones really messed you up. She’d never been so emotional. Although, considering everything she’d been through in the last few weeks, that was hardly surprising.
The first room she came to was the kitchen. One guy was making a sandwich, another man was going through CeCe’s cupboards – in search of what, Dionne didn’t know – and a couple were pressed up against the counter, making out. It was like a goddamn commune, t
hought Dionne irritably.
‘Has anyone seen CeCe?’ she asked desperately. Sandwich guy shook his head. Everyone else ignored her.
‘Hey, try the lounge,’ he suggested, pointing with a stick of salami.
Dionne pushed through yet more people, the noise growing louder. The stereo system was thumping, some weird French electronic shit. She’d never been into French music.
‘Get the fuck out of my way,’ Dionne swore at a guy who stumbled into her path and nearly fell on her.
‘Okay, lady, calm down.’ The man held his hands up.
‘Holy shit, would you look at how pregnant she is?’ said someone else.
Dionne opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment she caught sight of CeCe. She was slumped against the far wall, curled into a ball beneath the window. Her frame was emaciated, her clothes hanging off her. Her skin looked grey, and there was old eye make-up smudged across her face. It was impossible to tell when she’d last brushed her hair.
‘CeCe,’ Dionne yelled, running towards her.
CeCe didn’t respond.
‘Leave her sleeping,’ a guy said. ‘She’s pretty fucking weird when she’s awake. She just keeps ranting and saying crazy shit.’
Dionne ignored him. She grabbed hold of CeCe’s wrists, pulling her arms and shaking her whole body. Drowsily, CeCe opened her eyes, staring blankly at Dionne.
‘Va te faire foutre,’ she mumbled, before closing them again. Fuck off.
‘Shit, CeCe,’ Dionne swore. ‘Come on.’ She began shaking her again. Nobody around them paid any attention. ‘CeCe, it’s me. It’s Dionne.’
CeCe’s eyes opened. It looked like it was an effort. ‘Dionne?’ she mumbled uncertainly.