VIP

by Carrie Duffy

  There was a girl in the window, posing alongside the dummies. She was extremely tall, with dark skin and skinny limbs. Alyson assumed she must be a model, and that the whole thing was probably a publicity stunt – having a real person alongside the plastic mannequins. The clothes she was wearing were kind of weird, but Alyson guessed that was what was hot at the moment. She had no idea what was fashionable, and even less interest in the subject.

  The woman was blatantly lapping up the attention as she danced outrageously to the music blasting in the background. To Alyson, it seemed like the worst form of torture – to be on display in the window, with everyone staring and taking photos … if it was her, she would simply die of embarrassment.

  The crowd on the street was getting larger, and cars were honking angrily, diverting round oblivious onlookers. Alyson went to move on, but something stopped her. Awkwardly she fingered the trousers she was wearing. They were made from cheap, polyester-mix material, khaki-coloured and faded after endless washes. She’d paired them with a plain, grey jumper that was thinning at the elbows – comfortable, but boring as hell. For the first time, Alyson found herself wishing that she knew how to dress, how to pull an outfit together. Some people understood that kind of thing instinctively, but Alyson wasn’t one of them. Her clothing choices were based on practicality and – most importantly – cost. The cheaper the better, as far as she was concerned.

  But maybe … maybe that wasn’t enough anymore. How could she expect to land a decent job when she walked round looking like a throwback from the grunge era? It wasn’t just the clothes – it was the effect they had on her state of mind, her self-confidence. Alyson wanted to be a player, and unless she looked the part nobody was going to take her seriously.

  Circling the edge of the crowd, she stepped inside the shop. No one paid any attention to her – everyone was focused on the girl in the window. Alyson began to browse – hesitantly at first, but becoming bolder as she let her hands slide over the fabrics, pulling the occasional item from the rail and holding it up against her, agonising over her reflection in the mirror. Some of the clothes were hideous – Alyson didn’t care how fashionable they were, she’d have to be paid a truckload of money before she’d even consider wearing them. But the occasional piece was passable. She found a pair of smart, black trousers with tiny silver studs down the side seam. Then she checked the price tag and recoiled in shock. Wasn’t this supposed to be a discount shop?

  Engrossed in her browsing, Alyson hadn’t noticed that the show had ended. The shop was emptying out, and suddenly the woman was there beside her, the one from the window.

  “Are you going to try that on?” she demanded haughtily. In heels, she was even taller than Alyson, and she carried herself like a queen. She was utterly beautiful and completely intimidating.

  Alyson could feel her cheeks flaming. “I … no …” It came out as a squeak. “No, thank you.”

  The girl from the window didn’t say a word, just watched her from behind those enormous sunglasses, her glossy lips pursed in disapproval. Alyson wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. What had she been thinking, coming in here? Anyone could see immediately that she didn’t belong. The whole situation was mortifying, and this woman was obviously a total bitch – one of those snooty Parisian sales assistants Alyson had heard about. She needed to get out of there as fast as possible.

  Rounding her shoulders in an attempt to make herself invisible, Alyson threw the trousers back on the rail and scurried out of the store.

  ***

  CeCe watched her leave and rounded on Dionne. “Why were you such a bitch to her?”

  Dionne shrugged. Clearly still on an adrenaline high after her little runway show, she whipped off her sunglasses and her eyes were dancing. “It was just a bit of fun.”

  “Dionne …” CeCe began to protest.

  “What? She wasn’t going to buy anything, was she? That was pretty obvious. So get out and stop wasting my time. Actually, those pants aren’t too bad,” Dionne continued, walking over and inspecting them.

  “I feel bad for her. I thought she was beautiful,” CeCe replied dreamily.

  “Trust you to notice the pretty ones,” Dionne retorted. “Forget about her and let’s get me out of these ridiculous clothes. Is it home time yet?”

  4

  “What do you think?” CeCe asked, biting her lip anxiously as she walked into the living room. She and Dionne rented an apartment together in the Eighth arrondissement, along with a third girl, Elise.

  Dionne was lounging on the sofa, carefully applying a pair of false eyelashes with the aid of a hand mirror. A half-drunk glass of champagne sat on the coffee table in front of her, and she looked up when she heard CeCe’s voice, swivelling round to see her holding up what was possibly the most exquisite dress Dionne had ever seen.

  “CeCe, it’s gorgeous! Like, seriously amazing.”

  “Vraiment?”

  “Totally!” Dionne insisted. She jumped up from the sofa and moved closer, bending down and taking the dress gently between her hands. It was made of silk chiffon, light as gossamer, but the bodice was decorated with hundreds of tiny crystals that weighed it down and gave it structure. It caught the light from the mini chandelier overhead, as Dionne let the fabric flow through her fingers. She was dazzled.

  “I can’t believe you made this, honey,” Dionne marvelled. “You are so fucking talented!”

  CeCe grinned, thrilled with her reaction. One thing about Dionne – she didn’t bullshit you. If she’d hated the dress, she would have no hesitation in saying so. The look on Dionne’s face was all the confirmation CeCe needed that the hours she’d spent slaving over her designs had been worth it. Sometimes it was so hard to keep going, to keep the faith that you’d made the right choices in life – especially when she spent day after day working in that shitty clothes shop, just to pay the rent. It was all so far from where she wanted to be.

  CeCe longed to be a designer. She’d never wanted to do anything else – it was hardwired into her DNA, an inescapable part of who she was. As soon as she was old enough, she’d started making clothes for her dolls, begging her parents for a sewing machine for her fifth birthday. She had a unique sense of style, and an inspired way of throwing outfits together.

  In some ways, she was lucky: her parents were rich, and her mother had a closet filled with vintage gowns by Balenciaga, prim Dior suits and classic accessories from Chanel – very expensive and impeccably chic. Although a long way from CeCe’s personal taste, it was undoubtedly an incredible world in which to play dress-up. But with lots of money and a conservative wardrobe came traditional views. No way would her parents countenance CeCe pursuing an artistic career. Her father was outraged by the idea. No, his daughter needed a profession that was stable, respected and lucrative – perhaps the law, or medicine? Better still, how about a nice little secretarial job that would keep her occupied until she found someone suitable to marry?

  CeCe was appalled. Her mother, Inés, was her father’s second wife, and he was much older, from a different generation. He didn’t understand CeCe at all.

  So she did the only thing she could – she rebelled. CeCe was from a small village, where everyone knew everyone else, and she quickly garnered a reputation for being the local wild girl. She was barely into her teens when she lost her virginity, and she would smoke, drink, take drugs, and openly make out with both boys and girls. Anything to provoke a reaction.

  She was eighteen when her parents gave her an ultimatum, and CeCe told them exactly what they could do with it. Packing up her belongings, she moved to the only place she felt she would be accepted – Paris. It was where she needed to be, but she knew she’d have to start from scratch. Her parents cut her off completely, and while starving in a garret might have sounded romantic, the reality was far less enjoyable.

  She fell in with a cool, hip, arty crowd, who accepted her eccentricities and loved to party as hard as she did. A lot of them were rich kids, whose parents
had tons of money, and who were happy to take her along for the ride. It was on one of those nights out that she’d met Dionne. Their first impressions of each other hadn’t been great – the outrageous American versus the crazy French chick – but by the end of the night they were inseparable. Their relationship was perfect: CeCe wanted to design, and Dionne wanted to model. Dionne became CeCe’s muse, and CeCe was crazy about her.

  “Do you want to try it on?” CeCe asked shyly.

  Dionne jumped up like she’d been given an electric shock. “Um … Does the Pope shit in the woods?”

  Seconds later, she was stripping off the casual yoga pants and tank top she wore around the apartment. Taking one look at the deep V of the neckline, she removed her bra too. Unable to stop herself, CeCe brazenly checked out her body. Dionne was forever walking around the flat half-naked, but CeCe couldn’t get enough of those deliciously full breasts with the deep-cherry coloured nipples, the soft curves tapering down to a perfectly flat stomach, and that round, juicy ass. Her bush was waxed, the shape of her pussy clearly visible through the sheer lace material of her panties.

  “Quit staring at me and help me in,” Dionne teased.

  “Fuck you,” CeCe responded sharply, feeling foolish.

  Dionne grinned maddeningly, as she took the dress from CeCe and wriggled her way in. Instinctively, CeCe went to help – more concerned about the dress than anything else. She carefully smoothed it down over Dionne’s body, flattening any ripples or puckers to ensure it looked perfect. Then she took a step back, admiring her own creation. The sight was so magnificent that she gasped.

  “Can I look yet?” Dionne demanded, like an impatient child.

  CeCe gestured for her to go ahead.

  With a squeal of excitement, Dionne tottered over to the full length mirror, her mouth falling open as she took in her reflection. She was glittering more brightly than the window at Tiffany’s. The silver colour looked stunning against her black skin, the low neck highlighting her collarbone and cleavage. The skirt fell to the floor in slashed layers of chiffon, fluttering around Dionne’s endless legs when she moved and offering a tantalising glimpse of bare flesh.

  “This dress,” Dionne declared, “deserves champagne.” She sashayed across the parquet floor and poured a glass for CeCe, topping up her own.

  “To you, and your insane talent,” Dionne grinned, as they clinked glasses.

  “To my adorable muse, my divine inspiration,” CeCe toasted back. She hesitated, as though she was about to say something else, but before she got the chance they were interrupted.

  “Holy shit, Dionne. You look unbelievable!”

  It was their flatmate, Elise.

  “Why, thank you,” Dionne beamed, revelling in the compliment. “All the work of Mademoiselle Cécile Bouvier, naturellement.”

  “It’s wonderful, CeCe,” Elise assured her, unable to take her eyes off Dionne. “Are you two going out tonight?”

  “I think a dress like this needs to be seen, don’t you?” Dionne replied.

  Elise grinned. Dionne and CeCe went out practically every night – she would hear them stumble in, in the early hours of the morning. They weren’t necessarily the easiest people to live with, but they were always entertaining.

  “Well, have a great night. I’m staying over at Pascal’s,” Elise informed them. Pascal was her boyfriend. They’d been dating for almost two years, and it was serious. “I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  “Have fun,” CeCe called after her, as Elise blew them goodbye kisses and left.

  “Poor girl,” Dionne was shaking her head sadly. “Can you think of anything worse than being in a relationship? Having to sleep with the same guy every … single … night …” She dragged the words out to show just how dull she thought it sounded.

  CeCe looked unconvinced. “But eventually, yes? You will settle down …”

  “Maybe one day. A loooong way in the future.”

  “When you find your soulmate.” CeCe was a romantic.

  “Well I won’t find him sitting round here,” Dionne quipped, arching an eyebrow. “And he better be some rich guy hanging out in a hot club – I don’t want my soul mate to be a total loser.” She pulled her face. “What about you, boo? Are you ever going to find love?”

  CeCe’s smile was enigmatic. “Maybe I already have.”

  “Ah, mysterious, huh?” Dionne teased. “Well I vote we get our asses out of here and go show the world this fabulous dress. I’ll make a few calls, find out what’s going down tonight. You good with that?”

  “Whatever you say,” CeCe agreed easily.

  She watched as Dionne downed her glass of champagne, then snatched up her phone and began calling their friends. Her face was animated as she spoke, joking and flirting, gesticulating with her hands. She was so full of life, CeCe thought. She loved being around Dionne – she was always up for a good time, always bringing the party.

  Yeah, CeCe realised, she had a good feeling about tonight. She was heading out on the town in the most beautiful city in the world, with the best friend she’d ever had, and if Dionne and Elise’s reaction to her dress was anything to go by, the future was looking bright for her career too. CeCe drained her champagne, placing the empty glass on the dining table. Tonight was going to be the perfect night. How could anything possibly go wrong?

  5

  “Un café au lait, s’il vous plait.”

  “Tout de suite, mademoiselle.”

  The waiter nodded and walked smartly away, as Alyson settled into the seat she’d chosen beside the window.

  She was unaware of the waiter watching her from behind the bar as he prepared her coffee. The girl was gorgeous – and foreign too. English, he guessed, although her French was good. And she was on her own, which was an added bonus. Yeah, it was definitely worth a shot. British girls were easy, and they were always a sucker for the accent. Jacques, the waiter, glanced up at the clock: 11.30p.m. His shift ended at midnight. If she was still there by then he’d go over and sit with her, see if he could persuade her to come out with him later. After all, it was Friday night and she was completely on her own, sitting self-consciously in a café. It couldn’t be too hard to entice her.

  Alyson, fortunately, was unaware of the waiter’s lascivious thoughts. The café was fairly quiet – that was why she’d chosen it – but there was plenty going on outside, and she was happy to watch the Parisian beau monde on their way home from dinner, or the theatre, or whatever they’d been doing that evening that was clearly far more exciting than her own life. It was getting late, but she planned on staying here for another hour or so before catching the last metro back to her hotel. Anything was better than sitting alone in her room, listening to the Australian couple next door having loud and vigorous sex, or hearing the Bulgarian pair down the corridor rowing at the top of their lungs.

  She turned back to the window, watching the people and the cars pass by in the darkness. She was on the rue Marbeuf, not far from the Arc de Triomphe, and it was one of the city’s wealthiest areas. Alyson hadn’t seen much of Paris yet, but it was easy to recognise the signs – the upscale boutiques, the well-kept buildings, the lack of graffiti.

  Across the road, a queue was beginning to form on the pavement. A heavy-looking man dressed all in black stood beneath a smart, red canopy, and the people waiting were young and beautiful – rich, in that indefinable way. The women all had long, tanned limbs and tumbling glossy hair, the men were handsome and self-possessed, with that sheen of confidence that came from knowing you never had to worry about paying the rent. Everyone was dressed to party, and Alyson realised that the building opposite must be a nightclub – a pretty exclusive one, she guessed, judging by the discreet white writing on the canopy overhead, and the plush red carpet leading to the entrance.

  “Votre café, mademoiselle.”

  The waiter set down the coffee and lingered just a little too long. He looked like he was about to say something more, but Alyson quickly thanked
him and turned away. She’d soon learned that if she was polite to the Parisian men they took it as encouragement, even following her down the street to pursue a conversation. It was hard to be rude, to cut them dead, but Alyson was becoming more streetwise by the day.

  Across the road, the queue had got longer. Some of the girls were barely dressed and shivering, the guys gallantly offering their jackets. Others had made it to the front, as a severe looking woman wearing insanely high heels ticked them off on a clipboard and her black-jacketed sidekick pulled aside the rope. Alyson watched the couples make their way inside, and wondered what it must be like in there. She’d never been to a nightclub before. Even back home in Manchester, that wasn’t really her thing. She never had enough money, or the right clothes; she didn’t drink alcohol, and had no idea about the latest music. Her life was taken up with working and studying – it didn’t leave much time for fun, she thought ruefully.

  “Alyson?”

  It sounded as though someone had called her name, but even as she began to turn around Alyson dismissed the idea. She had no friends here in Paris. Apart from the concierge at the hotel, no one even knew who she was.

  Yet suddenly she was aware of someone standing beside her, and she heard her name again. The voice was deep yet gentle, with a thick, Spanish accent. “Alyson?”

  “Javier!” Alyson breathed. Instantly, she felt her cheeks flush crimson, a wave of emotions sweeping through her. She was thrilled to see him, yet incredibly self-conscious, her whole body tingling with excitement. She could hardly believe he was here, and she had no idea what to do, what to say.

  He moved towards her and she stood up, their cheeks brushing as they kissed in greeting. She wasn’t going to be caught out this time.

  “May I join you?” Javier asked, indicating the empty seat beside her.

  “Of course,” Alyson agreed, trying to recover herself. She didn’t notice the waiter scowling, as Javier sat down.