Читать книгу Diva - Carrie Duffy - Страница 10

‘Is that it?’ Dionne asked incredulously, as Alyson came into the apartment carrying a single suitcase.

‘Yeah,’ Alyson nodded self-consciously, wondering what all the fuss was about.

‘Honey, I take more than that for a weekend in Cannes.’

‘I don’t have … I don’t need a lot of stuff,’ Alyson explained. It was true – she carried the bare minimum of clothes, only the essential cosmetics. She had a couple of books, including the French dictionary she’d used at school, three pairs of shoes and one handbag. No photos, no keepsakes. She’d taken very little when she left home.

‘Maybe I could take over some of your closet space …,’ Dionne wondered, but broke off as a bedroom door opened and another girl staggered out. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her eyes were barely open, narrowed into tiny slits. One side of her head was shaved, but the hair on the other side was sticking out at crazy angles. It looked as though she’d just woken up.

‘Hey, I’m CeCe,’ she said warmly, kissing Alyson on both cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Dionne apologized. ‘We had a big night last night, and poor CeCe’s still feelin’ it.’

‘It was wild,’ CeCe added, by way of explanation.

‘Sounds like fun …’

‘Oh, it was,’ Dionne assured her. ‘Nobody parties harder than me and CeCe. We’re legends in this city. Anyway,’ she chattered on. ‘Your room’s through here – but you already know that …’

Alyson followed them along the corridor, looking around her as she took in her new home. She’d seen the apartment before, when she came to view it, but that had been brief and Dionne hadn’t stopped talking. Although the whole place was beautifully decorated, it was also incredibly cluttered – half-finished garments, rolls of material and fashion magazines dominated the communal areas. Alyson began to think it was a good thing she hadn’t brought much with her: space was clearly at a premium.

She dumped her suitcase on the single bed, padding across to the window to look out at the view. It was far from spectacular. Instead of a skyline vista over the rooftops of Paris, Alyson’s room looked out on a small courtyard where the refuse bins were stored, a couple of long-forgotten pot plants wilting in the corner. It was hardly the Parisian dream.

She turned round to find Dionne and CeCe standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly.

‘Shall we help you unpack?’ Dionne asked brightly. ‘Not that it’ll take long …’

Alyson thought about it, a sudden embarrassing vision of them going through her secondhand clothes and greying underwear. ‘It’s fine,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll do it later.’

‘Sure. Come through, sit down, let’s get to know each other,’ grinned Dionne, grabbing her hand and pulling her back through to the lounge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

‘Oh my God, I love your accent,’ Dionne squealed. ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ she repeated, trying, and failing, to imitate Alyson’s flat Lancashire vowels. ‘It’s just too cute! So what would you like? We have champagne, wine, gin, vodka, brandy … There’s probably some other stuff lying around, but I wouldn’t recommend the absinthe.’ She pulled a face.

Alyson smiled, assuming she was joking. But Dionne was staring at her, waiting for a response.

Alyson checked the clock on the wall – just gone eleven a.m. ‘Um … do you have anything nonalcoholic?’ she ventured, wondering if she was making some kind of terrible faux pas.

‘Oh, sure. Will coffee do ya? CeCe looks like she could do with some.’

CeCe, curled up in a chair with her eyes closed, merely grunted.

‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ Alyson said politely.

‘You got it.’

As Dionne left the room, Alyson turned to CeCe, who was dragging herself upright, wincing at the light as she tried to open her eyes. She reached out to the coffee table, fumbling for a pair of Ray-Bans.

‘Sorry for being shit,’ she apologized as she pulled on the sunglasses, the phrase sounding odd in her strong French accent. ‘We go out a lot. Last night was a killer.’

‘That’s okay,’ Alyson said easily. ‘Hopefully the coffee will help.’

‘I think I need a triple shot,’ she groaned. ‘I’ve developed an immunity.’

Alyson smiled, unsure of what to say next. ‘Dionne said you’re a fashion designer,’ she commented, trying to start a conversation.

‘Yes. Undiscovered, but hopeful,’ CeCe grinned. She seemed to sit up straighter, her face becoming animated as she talked about her work. ‘I love it so much – the creative process, making something beautiful, something totally original and unique. It’s my life,’ she finished, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Alyson. Alyson shook her head. ‘And you? Are you interested in fashion?’

‘Um … not really,’ she admitted.

‘Ah, that will change,’ CeCe asserted confidently. ‘When you live here, in this apartment, you cannot help but be consumed by it. You will become a true, chic, Parisian woman.’ She smiled at the look of doubt on Alyson’s face. ‘So, Alyson, tell me about you. You do not love fashion, so what do you do?’

‘Well, at the moment I work in a bar,’ she explained, her tone apologetic.

‘No problem,’ CeCe shook her head. ‘Do not ever apologize for yourself. After all, that is not where you are going to finish, yes? All of us, we are starting at the bottom, but we have our dreams, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Right,’ Alyson agreed, feeling a huge surge of relief and unexpected kinship towards this girl. Finally, someone who understood that she wanted something more out of life!

‘So what is your plan?’ asked CeCe, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette in a long stream. ‘What is the grand ambition of Alyson?’

‘I’m interested in business, actually – the corporate world,’ Alyson confessed. ‘I think it seems really fast-moving and exciting.’

‘Perhaps not the words I would use to describe it, but … as you wish,’ CeCe remarked, a smile playing on her lips. ‘So you are intelligent, yes? It will be good to have someone in the apartment who has a brain.’

‘What’s that?’ Dionne walked back through, balancing three cups of coffee. She’d changed while she was out of the room, into the tightest pair of jeans Alyson had ever seen, and a very thin, form-fitting sweater.

‘I was saying to Alyson, it will be nice to have someone of intelligence living here.’

‘Speak for yourself honey,’ Dionne told her, as she handed round the drinks. ‘I’m borderline genius.’

CeCe looked amused. ‘What is it they say? A fine line between genius and bullshit, I think.’

‘Fuck off, darling,’ Dionne shot back good-naturedly, as she plucked the dying cigarette from CeCe’s fingers, took a drag and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

Alyson watched the banter between the two women with interest. They were obviously close, and had a great relationship.

‘I think this calls for a toast,’ Dionne announced, rising to her feet and raising her coffee cup. ‘To our new recruit – officially the third most fabulous girl in Paris. CeCe, you’re second,’ she grinned, as the three of them clinked mugs.

‘But of course,’ CeCe shrugged, resignedly.

‘We’ll celebrate with champagne later, I promise,’ Dionne insisted, turning to Alyson. ‘Hey, we should all go out tonight! I’ll call David – he can take us to dinner, then on to a club …’

‘I have to work tonight, I’m afraid,’ Alyson cut in, before Dionne got too carried away.

‘Man, that’s lame. Another night then?’

‘Sure,’ Alyson replied uncertainly.

‘Oh, we are gonna have so much fun!’ Dionne squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement. ‘Seriously, doll, CeCe and I know everybody. And I mean, like, everybody in Paris. We know all the club owners, all the door staff, so we never have to pay for anything. We can introduce you to so many people – all the guys are gonna love you. You’re gorgeous, isn’t she CeCe?’

‘Beautiful,’ CeCe nodded seriously.

‘And I’ve got the most amazing wardrobe, so if you ever need to borrow anything, feel free. Although ask me first, in case it’s something I’m planning on wearing …’

Dionne chattered on and Alyson began to feel overwhelmed; it was like being slapped round the face repeatedly. Dionne was sweet, but she was also incredibly full on.

‘Shit, is that the time?’ Dionne swore, gulping down the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve got a casting to get to. Wish me luck.’

‘Good luck!’ Alyson exclaimed; it seemed churlish not to.

‘We have to go out one night this week – let us know when you have an evening off and we’ll arrange something,’ Dionne insisted, picking up her mobile and throwing it into her bag. She wedged a pair of sunglasses on top of her head and threw Alyson a dazzling smile. ‘I’ve gotta head. Ciao, ladies.’

The door slammed shut behind her and she was gone. Alyson felt as if she’d just survived being caught in a tornado. ‘She has a lot of energy,’ she managed to say.

‘Yeah, she’s incredible,’ CeCe agreed, staring wistfully at the door where Dionne had just left. ‘So beautiful, with such passion for living, such joie de vivre …’

Alyson nodded, looking thoughtfully at CeCe. Whatever her reservations about living here, one thing was for certain: with those two around, life would never be dull.

Dionne turned her hand over to examine her nail extensions – they were long and square-tipped, painted a deep purple and decorated with a small piercing at the end of each thumb – then stared listlessly round the room, all thoughts of her new flatmate long gone.

She was at a casting for Pierre Gavroche, some new designer fresh out of Esmod, and around her sat a dozen other models clutching their black leather portfolios, each wearing the identical model ‘uniform’ of skinny jeans and a cotton tank. They all carried an oversized bag, which only served to make them look even thinner and more fragile by comparison, and in which they carted their whole lives around – mobile, diary, modelling cards, high heels, nude underwear and a bikini. You never knew what the client would request and the girls had it drilled into them that – like a good boy scout – they should always be prepared.

Models really were a different race, Dionne reflected, as she stared round at the others. They were almost alien-like with their long, racehorse limbs, angular features and striking faces scrubbed bare of make-up. One or two were clearly anorexic – their hair lank, skin flaky, bones protruding just that little too much. There was a girl sitting across from her who Dionne was certain couldn’t have had her period for months.

Looking round, she was the only black girl at the casting. The others were a mixture – mostly white, mostly French, with a scattering of mixed-race women in a nod to the country’s colonial heritage – fourth generation Moroccan or Algerian. In spite of what anyone said, the fashion industry was still overwhelmingly racist. Of course, there was the occasional girl that broke through – Naomi, Tyra, Iman. The stats didn’t faze Dionne. They simply made her more determined.

Rather than trying to fit in, to become a clone of one of the aloof-looking, effortlessly groomed French girls, Dionne embraced her differences. If she couldn’t compete with the others, she had to set herself apart, make her diversity her advantage. She didn’t intend to compromise who she was for anyone, and she knew that every job she got was because the designer really bought into her whole style and vibe.

Not that many people had been booking her. The easy acceptance she’d hoped for when she’d moved from Detroit hadn’t exactly happened. Dionne had imagined that she’d be feted by the whole of Paris, instantly proclaimed the Next Big Thing and snapped up by a world-renowned name such as IMG or Elite. Instead, she’d signed with a bog-standard agency that no one outside the industry had heard of and become a jobbing model, spending her life at go-sees and castings in the hope that the next one would turn out to be her big break.

She was constantly aware that she had only a finite amount of time to break out and make a name for herself before she became just another has-been, an also-ran, doing the rounds on low-grade jobs without a hope in hell of making it to the next level. Dionne was a child of the nineties, the era of the supermodel – of Cindy, Linda, Claudia, Naomi, Kate. Her goal was to become a household name, referred to by her first name alone. Nothing less would do. But she was nineteen years old and time was running out.

‘Salomé Valentin?’

A woman emerged from the casting room, clipboard in hand, as she called out the name of the next model. Salomé stood up – she was ultra-thin, white, with mousy-brown hair – and tottered through on legs that looked too frail to carry her. Then the door banged shut, and the others resumed their habitual bored expressions. It wasn’t done to look too enthusiastic about anything. Designers still overwhelmingly went for the dead-eyed, spaced-out look, particularly for runway work, lest any personality should detract from the clothes. Commercial was a little better – there at least you could inject some individuality, play a character. And it was where the big money was.

Like most girls who dreamed of being a model, Dionne’s ambition was to do high fashion: edgy, editorial work. The pay was shit – an embarrassment almost – but it was a stepping stone to higher things. Having a Vogue cover or an Elle editorial gave you kudos and meant your face was seen by top designers, who in turn might use you in their big money ad campaigns – the holy grail of the modelling world, and one which was increasingly being muscled in on by celebrities.

Yet in spite of everything, all the schlepping around and the kicks in the teeth from the jobs you never got, Dionne still loved it. The thrill of being in the French capital hadn’t dimmed; every time she turned a corner and saw the Eiffel Tower rearing up over the city, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t believe that little Dionne Summers from downtown Detroit was running around Paris, working as a model and partying with some of the richest and most glamorous people on the planet.

She wondered what Dash Ramón would think if he could see her now. It made her laugh to think how she’d revered him. He might have been a big shot in her neighbourhood, but he was nothing to the people she hung around with now. They were players on an international stage, part of the exclusive jet set. And Dionne intended to be one of them.

The door opened again and Dionne looked up. Salomé Valentin sloped out without speaking to anyone, her face impassive as she walked out of the door. The woman checked her list. ‘Dionne Summers?’

Showtime!

Dionne got up and went in, where she was introduced to the designer himself, Pierre Gavroche. Obviously gay, he was a short, wiry man dressed all in black and wearing black-rimmed glasses.

The clothes were a little boring for Dionne’s tastes – a muted palate of greys, taupes and creams. Yet she had to admit that they were well made, and the fabric was high quality.

‘I want her in the pencil skirt and the ruffle blouse,’ Pierre muttered to his assistant. Addressing the models directly was not his thing, apparently.

There was no separate changing area, so Dionne dropped her clothes without batting an eyelid and slid on a camel-coloured pencil skirt, beautifully cut and lined. This was paired with a dramatic white blouse, slit in a deep V-neck to below the breasts, then wrapped around bandage-style to create a cinched-in waist. Dionne was bra-less, the edge of the fabric skirting her nipples, her collarbone standing out prominently.

‘Wear these,’ the woman told her, throwing her a pair of dark-brown Charles Jourdan heels. They were a size too small, but Dionne squeezed them on without complaint.

She looked good and she knew it. The pale colours contrasted beautifully with her dark, glistening skin, and the whole look was fierce.

The female assistant raised a camera to take a Polaroid. When it had developed, she scribbled Dionne’s name underneath and attached it to her modelling card.

‘Can we see you walk?’

Dionne obliged. The shoes were pinching her feet, but she kept her face set, moving with sass and attitude. Dionne had an excellent walk – she was always amazed by the amount of girls that couldn’t put one foot in front of another.

Pierre and his assistant watched her in silence.

‘And again please,’ they said when she’d finished.

As Dionne set off, they began to confer amongst themselves in fast, low French, perhaps thinking Dionne couldn’t understand. Her French wasn’t the greatest, but she understood enough.

‘Is she a little on the heavy side?’ asked Pierre.

‘We could make her drop a few pounds,’ the woman assured him.

Dionne pursed her lips. She turned at the end of the imaginary runway and began to walk back.

‘I’m not sure …’ she heard Pierre Gavroche deliberate. ‘Maybe we should go with a white girl. Are ethnics in this season?’

Dionne nearly fell off her heels. She was so fucking furious, she couldn’t even speak.

‘That will be all, thank you,’ the woman called out.

Damn right, that was all, thought Dionne, humiliation burning through her as she pulled off the skirt. The white shirt was a little tight as she tried to drag it over her head. Perhaps they were right; perhaps she did need to lose a few pounds. She heard the tiniest rip as she pulled it a little bit too hard. That gave her an idea. Glancing over, she saw that Pierre and his assistant were deep in conversation, scanning over the list to see who was next. Dionne took hold of the sleeve and yanked it. The fabric fell away sharply with a satisfying tearing sound.

Pierre Gavroche looked up sharply. ‘What the hell are you doing? Putain!’ he swore, rushing over to find several hundred euros’ worth of ruined shirt. The rip was small, but it was in the fabric, not along the seam where it could be easily repaired.

Dionne slipped on her own clothes, giving him the most innocent look. ‘I’m so sorry. You know us ethnics,’ she smiled, emphasizing the word. ‘We’re just so clumsy.’

Then she swung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, leaving Pierre Gavroche and his flunky gaping after her.

She knew that was one job she wasn’t getting, but she didn’t care. No one treated Dionne Summers like that and got away with it. The world would just have to learn.