Finally, realizing I wouldn’t budge on this, Josh agreed to give me his grandmother’s address. I’d meet him in the lobby of her building.
“Why do I have the feeling that being stubborn is your MO?” Josh asked as our conversation wound down.
“Probably because it is,” I said, laughing.
Mom rapped on my door just as I hung up, and I quickly told her what Josh had said. Although Mom is a major celebrity fan, she was not thrilled about the photos in the paper. In fact, she’d already called our family lawyer and my dad. “Using manipulated photographs is just plain dirty,” she said. “We’ve even got paparazzi outside, Axelle! Anyway, Primrose can help you get past them. You’ll need to disguise yourself a bit today. You’ll get more attention at the La Lune show because of the photo.”
That, I thought, was a good point. “Well, I’ll be ready for it, Mom,” I said as I put my glasses on.
“When are you going to get rid of those, Axelle?”
My mom was just as bad as Jenny. “Um…never. I’ve kept them for situations just like this morning’s. Perfect disguise, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely—I can barely see half of your face. Oh, by the way, I spoke to Charlotte at Thunder. She was as surprised by the photos as we were, and she’s written a statement the agency can give out if anyone calls them for information. She says to ignore messages from enraged fans. She thinks it’ll all calm down in a day or two. If it doesn’t, then you’re to get her to deal with it, okay? Anyway, I can’t wait to see you in the show! Bye, darling! And call me if you need anything, okay?” She kissed me and left.
Before going downstairs I took a look at my list for the day:
10:00 a.m. Meet Jodi Lipton, Portman Square. Ask about Clarissa Vane and Jane Wimple.
La Lune resort collection fashion show at their newly redecorated London flagship store and showroom premises on Mount Street, Mayfair. Hair and makeup at noon, show at 2:00 p.m. Finished by 4:00 p.m. (latest).
Meet Sebastian after the show.
Meet Mr. Rivera in the library at 5:30 p.m.
Go back to look at Dawson Place mansion?
Dinner with Sebastian and Ellie.
As Jazz had said when she’d given me my details, “It’ll be a full day for you, Axelle.” And she’d only been talking about the La Lune show!
Halley’s sharp bark woke me from my thoughts. “You’re right,” I told her as I fluffed my still wet hair with my fingers, “it’s time to go…and I think I need your help this morning.” The paparazzi were probably expecting me to look like a model—not a dog walker, I thought as I adjusted my large black glasses and looked in the mirror. Yes, they really did the trick. Well, the glasses and my hair, which was quickly drying to look like a tumbleweed—the stuff you see rolling across desert canyons in Westerns.
As for the rest of my outfit, because I couldn’t turn up to Belle’s show looking too shabby, I chose a loose-fitting, gauzy cream-beige cashmere pullover (Christmas gift from my parents), some faux black leather jeans (Topshop), and a large, featherlight, La Lune multicolored scarf. I slipped into a pair of hand-painted DIY Converse, and a bright-blue Mulberry shoulder bag completed my look.
But then again, as a dog walker, I couldn’t look too glam. So, instinctively, I reached for the one thing that would add just the right touch of anonymity: my scruffy old trench coat—the one at the very back of my closet (as opposed to the new one up front). I slipped it on and tied the belt. Then, before leaving my bedroom, I remembered to add the classic accessory of any urban disguise: a beanie. Pulling my scruffiest one out from the back of the shelf, I stood in front of the mirror, pulled it down over the top of my tumbleweed, and watched as my hair was squashed into submission. Perfect, I thought, as I dashed down the stairs.
Before heading out of the door, I quickly sent Josh a message asking if I could bring Halley. His answer came back right away:
No problem!
“Halley, it’s time you started doing undercover work too,” I said as I attached her leash to her collar. I had a quick chat with Primrose, and we made an exit plan. I then went out through the garden and walked around to the side of the house and sent Primrose a quick text. After a moment Primrose opened our front door and made her way down the path to the street, diverting any attention away from Halley and me as we slipped out a tiny side gate and into the mews alley that runs along the side of our house.
“Now that,” I told Halley, “is what I call a clean getaway!”
Except it wasn’t.
We’d left the mews behind us and had just stepped onto Westbourne Park Road when a tall girl, her ginger hair tucked into the collar of her bright-blue parka, jumped out in front of me. “Gotcha!” she hissed as she blocked my path. “You think you can get away with everything, don’t you?” Slowly she began to advance on me, every step hitting the ground with a solid thud. I had no idea what she meant, but clearly she had an ax to grind.
She took a loud breath before saying, “I saw you sneaking around last night, trying to cover your tracks…”
Could she be the person—the shadow—who’d followed us from Kensington Gardens to the Thames?
“And I couldn’t believe my eyes…” she continued. Yes, I thought, as she continued her slow advance, her silhouette could match the one I saw running away. “Who do you think you are?” she asked as she continued to block any attempt I made to get around her. “Who?”
I recognized the tall frame, blousy jacket, and athletic build. Last night, however, I’d had the impression we were being followed by a man, maybe because she’d had her hair tucked into her jacket collar, like now. Things aren’t always as they seem. So who was she? And what did she have to do with Johnny Vane? There was only one way to find out—and judging by the truculent look in her eyes, the sooner the better.
“How do you know Johnny Vane?” I asked as calmly as I could.
Her eyes looked confused, and for a second she turned around as if to check whether I’d been talking to someone else. “Johnny Vane? Who’s Johnny Vane?” She continued moving toward me.
“Johnny Vane—the fashion designer. And Jane Wimple. You followed me to her house last night…”
Her eyes widened with anger. “You never stop lying, do you? Well, that’s exactly why I’m here. I’m going to show Josh Locke what a lying cheat you are!” She suddenly lunged at me. I ducked her enormous arms just as they were closing around me and managed to hold Halley back at the same time. “Don’t think I didn’t see you last night. You were at that party with Josh but then you left with another guy. I saw you go down to the beach with him, you nasty little…”
Blah, blah, blah. I listened to her screeching for a moment, but I’d soon heard enough. She may have been following me last night, but she had nothing to do with the case. She was one of Josh’s overzealous—deranged may have been a better description—fans. Trying to explain anything to her would just be a waste of my time.
I took a couple of quick steps backward as Halley started to growl. The girl swung toward me and I sidestepped out of her way, spun on my heels, and hightailed it down Westbourne Park Road. Halley and I didn’t stop running until we reached Portobello Road—and even then we only slowed down after slipping into a little shop I know that has shelves and shelves of tea sets. Halley and I hid behind a shelf of patterned china cups and looked out through the shop window while we caught our breath. I hoped I’d lost the girl for good.
After a few minutes we left the shop and made our way—undisturbed—to Notting Hill Gate Tube station.
When I reached Josh’s grandmother’s building, I stood in front of the grand arch and gazed upward. I definitely had the right address—the enormous numbers carved into the stone arch couldn’t be wrong, I thought. It was just a surprising place for a former supermodel to live. Somehow I’d expected something with more of a downtown kind of vibe, not this in
credibly grand building. In fact, it reminded me of some of the apartment buildings I’d seen in New York City. The ones that lined Fifth Avenue, with liveried footmen and large, dark lobbies.
I turned left after the arch, into the building’s elegant and muted entrance. Josh was waiting for me. To his credit he didn’t mention the bush-like apparition sticking out from under my beanie—although I did notice his eyes widen a touch. He was quiet about the glasses too. Josh was definitely scoring points.
“It’s quite a grand place your grandmother has,” I said as I took in the stone interiors, elegant runners, marble floors, and low lighting.
“I know what you mean,” Josh said. “But don’t worry, my grandmother isn’t at all stuffy or formal. She’s kept her nonconformist approach to life, although”—he continued as he led me and Halley up a short flight of stairs and to the lifts—“as she gets older she seems to keep moving to more upscale neighborhoods.
“Actually, she earned quite a bit in her day—she was one of the first models to have an exclusive cosmetics contract—and then she made a few wise investments. She moved here after my granddad died. Actually, he wasn’t really my granddad. He was her second husband, but he always seemed like a granddad to me. Anyway, she wanted to be near restaurants and shops, somewhere that wouldn’t get too quiet after dark, but that was still safe.”
We got out on the sixth floor and knocked on a mahogany door opposite the lift. Jodi Lipton answered the door, and as soon as I saw her, I knew what Josh meant. The building might be very posh and formal but she wasn’t. She was tall and still slim, her finely honed features topped with a head of thick gray hair. She wore jeans, a black cashmere pullover, and colorful sneakers. She had a large gold cuff on each wrist—they looked almost tribal—and didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup. A pack of small dogs swarmed around her ankles.
“Let yours loose, please,” she insisted as soon as she saw Halley. “We can leave them all in the kitchen together. Tina, my assistant, is in there now. She’ll be able to keep an eye on them and give them a few biscuits.” She was a striking woman, and I suddenly realized that I recognized her. She’d recently done a series of ads for a major British retailer. The campaign had featured English women of all ages and professions. She’d been labeled “The Original British Supermodel.”
Josh introduced us, and Jodi led us to what she called her sitting room, although it seemed more of a library to me. Books lined three of the walls, and the fourth wall had a large window that looked over the green treetops of Portland Square. Colorful paintings hung in the wall spaces that weren’t covered by books. A thick carpet in a muted leopard-print pattern of light beiges and yellows covered the floor. It was a sophisticated room but not pretentious—and as such, I thought, it was the image of its owner.
I’d been wondering if Josh would stay with us or not, but in the end he left us to it. “You didn’t say anything about me joining you, so I’ve made plans to meet a friend around the corner,” Josh said after his grandmother disappeared for a few minutes to make a pot of tea. “But if you need anything, just call me.” He took a step closer and seemed to be examining me. I could see flecks of gold flickering in his eyes. A smile slowly parted his lips. “You’re different, you know, from most girls—it’s as if you have some kind of secret—and I have a feeling it’s a good one…”
Was Josh some kind of psychic when he wasn’t writing songs? I thought.
I didn’t say anything when Josh smiled again and left.
“Josh said you wanted to know about my modeling days in the sixties and seventies,” Jodi said as she motioned for me to sit down. She began carefully pouring out two cups of tea. “You have me for a full hour,” she announced, “so ask away. I’m all yours.” As if to emphasize this, she sat directly opposite me and waited for me to start.
“That’s right,” I said, hesitating for a moment. I’d decided on my way here that it might be better to tell her at least part of the truth about why I’d asked to see her. After all, I only had an hour. I couldn’t waste time talking in circles until I got the chance to turn the conversation to the Vanes. I took a breath and started. “I have a friend who’s been hurt quite badly, and it might be because of something he discovered…something to do with Clarissa Vane.”
“Clarissa Vane? But she died years ago.” Jodi was silent for a moment before adding, “And you say a friend of yours was hurt? Badly?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I can’t imagine how anyone could be hurt on account of Clarissa—let alone after all these years—but I’ll try my best to help you.”
“Thank you. I guess you must have known her.”
“I did,” Jodi answered. “I wasn’t especially close to her—she ran in lofty circles, you know—but I saw her often and I liked her very much. Clarissa was beautiful, radiant even. The fashion designers, magazines, and photographers would trip over themselves in their rush to dress and photograph her.”
“Would you say she was a model or a muse?”
“Both, I suppose—although she didn’t model in the way that I did. Unlike me, Clarissa didn’t need to earn a living from modeling. She did it for fun—probably in much the way all these rock stars’ daughters do it today. Magazines photographed her as much because she was a wealthy socialite with an exciting jet-set existence as for her face and figure. Having said that, she did have an agent and was booked for editorials and a bit of advertising. She even did a few fashion shows when she was very young, before she married. Of course, the shows in those days were very different from today’s.”
“And how did she become a muse?”
“Oh, that’s always an unusual business. Nobody chooses to become a muse—rather they are chosen. Do you understand the difference? Clarissa was an obvious choice in a way that went well beyond her physical beauty—as it must with a muse.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for instance, a muse might have such a strong and personal sense of style that a designer feels inspired just by being around her. The Marchesa Casati was one of the most enduring muses of the last hundred years. There’s even a designer brand, Marchesa, named after her—and collections continue to be inspired by her. Of course, there have been many muses, from Pauline de Rothschild to Kate Moss.”
I thought of the book Charlotte had lent me as Jodi reeled off more names of modern-day muses.
“May I ask what it was you liked about Clarissa Vane?”
“Oh, she was lovely. Very friendly and quite bohemian in her approach to life—despite coming from a more traditional background. She also had a lovely voice, honey-toned and delicious. She wasn’t especially witty, you know, or funny or clever. She was just very lovely all round…and I think slightly naive—at least that’s my impression when I look back now with a bit of hindsight.”
“In what way was she naive?”
Jodi thought carefully before she answered. “I’d say in her dealings with people. Of course, that probably came from her sheltered background. But I can remember that she seemed oblivious to people who in my eyes seemed to be using her for her name and social position, for her connections, if you like. Also, many people around her were very jealous of her. I mean, let’s face it, she really did have it all. And that made some people seethe with envy, although considering how much tragedy there was in her short life, their jealousy seems very misplaced now.”
Jodi got up and went to her desk. She came back to me with a photo. “Here we are at a party for Halston in New York City in about 1974.” The picture was black and white, and if the slick dresses, glossy lips, and dark background were anything to go by, it appeared to have been taken in a nightclub. Clarissa was the radiant middle point of the photo, the sun around which lesser planets orbited.
“There were always lots of people around her. She enjoyed being in the center of everything,” Jodi continued, “but many of the people who were d
rawn to her were incapable, I think, of seeing past Clarissa Vane the celebrity. I’m not sure many of them gave much thought or appreciation to Clarissa Vane the young widow, which—if you could get past that face and the couture clothes—is actually what she was.”
Perfect! I thought. Jodi had unwittingly given me the springboard I needed to turn the conversation around to the case. “I know,” I said. “I’ve been reading about her recently. There was a lot of tragedy in her life, wasn’t there, with the deaths of her husband and Julian, her son? And then her own life came to a tragic end, didn’t it? Do you know anything about all of that?”
Jodi poured us each another cup of tea before continuing. “Her husband’s death I don’t know anything about. That happened just before I came on the fashion scene. I believe he died of a heart attack at his club. White’s, I think it was? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. However, I do remember her death and her son’s because by that time I knew Clarissa quite well. I saw her regularly at shows and parties here and in Paris and New York. And we often sat next to each other on transatlantic flights.
“Boy, did she drink on those flights. I think she had a bit of a problem with alcohol in general, if I’m honest. Not that you ever saw it in her face. She was a bit ditzy sometimes too, maybe because of the drinking, though some say she might have taken drugs as well. Poor Clarissa, being widowed with three young children on top of the pressures of her position in the fashion world. I suppose it wasn’t surprising.”
“And how did Julian die? Do you remember hearing any of the details?”
Jodi took a sip of tea. “I know it was an accident. He drowned in the Thames. Their nanny had taken Johnny and Julian to the river, and the boys went farther along the beach than they should have. They got stranded. Julian tried to swim back to the steps against the current, but he drowned before the nanny could reach him. Clarissa was crushed, of course.
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