Читать книгу Diva - Carrie Duffy - Страница 9

Alyson Wakefield stood in the sleek glass offices of Masson International, France’s leading shipping company and a regular on the Forbes Global 2000 list. Located in the west of Paris, in the famous business district of La Défense, the Masson building was spectacular – thirty-six floors constructed in steel and glass, it even boasted a three-storey-high granite fountain in the lobby. Alyson would have given anything to work there.

But right now that didn’t look likely. The uptight receptionist stared distastefully at Alyson, making no effort to hide her hostility. The girl in front of her was undoubtedly beautiful – her fine, blonde hair was scraped back in a functional ponytail, and even the fact she wore no make-up and a shapeless grey suit couldn’t conceal the tall, slender figure and the stunning features. But she was clearly playing at being a grown-up – she could barely have been more than eighteen years old, and she looked utterly terrified.

The receptionist smiled tightly at her. ‘Monsieur de Villiers is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed. And no, I don’t know what time he will be finished.’

Alyson felt the heat rising in her face and willed herself not to be intimidated. ‘Can I at least leave my résumé?’ she asked, fighting to keep the note of desperation out of her voice.

Raising a pencil-thin eyebrow, the receptionist took it from her. Alyson knew it would be going straight in the bin the second she left, but she smiled brightly.

‘Merci. Bonne journée,’ she called, holding her head high as she turned and walked smartly across the polished marble floor. The exit doors hissed open to let her through as she emerged into the warm, still air outside, and headed straight across the square towards the métro.

She didn’t notice the way the men turned to stare as she strode past, their attention captured by this willowy young girl with the strikingly long legs.

She reached the station, quickening her step to catch the train that was pulling up to the platform. It was only when the doors slid closed behind her that Alyson let her composure drop, slumping down in her seat with an exhausted sigh.

What on earth was she doing with her life?

As soon as her mother had been settled in a home, she’d accepted her father’s offer to get away for a while. Perhaps he was right – perhaps she did need to do something for herself. The chance of escape was tantalizing, and she fled before it was retracted, bolting across the Channel to Paris. It was all so easy – a train to London, a short hop on the Eurostar and there it was: a whole other city, a whole other world. It was a place of dreams, so familiar to her from countless television programmes and movies and black-and-white posters.

In spite of the dirt and the pollution, Alyson felt as though she could breathe for the first time. It was all too easy to forget about home; she just wanted to keep on running and never look back.

She had no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but she got organized fast. Her money would last barely a month, so she needed to find work quickly, and she set her sights on an office job. At school she’d been interested in business studies, and she was intelligent, presentable and hard-working. How difficult could it be?

Impossible, turned out to be the answer.

Within days of arriving in the capital, Alyson sent a copy of her CV to every single one of the top one hundred French companies, along with a personalized letter of introduction specifically targeted at each firm. She knew she’d have to start at the bottom, but she didn’t care. She would make the coffee, photocopy, do whatever it took – she was buzzing with ideas and all she wanted was a chance to prove herself.

She heard nothing. Not one single reply.

So Alyson decided to take a more direct approach. Catching the métro out to La Défense, she hawked her résumé round every office that was willing to take it. And she hated every minute of it.

‘I’m sorry, we have nothing available at the moment,’ Alyson was told over and over again, in haughty Parisian tones. The supercilious secretaries, with their dark-framed glasses and chic suits, looked disparagingly at this terrified young girl who clearly wasn’t good enough to work for their firm. Her French might have been faultless, but she didn’t even have a degree, and her contact address was some two-star hotel in the 5th arrondissement. She was lucky they didn’t laugh her out of the building.

But there was no way she could go home. The idea was terrifying, and was what drove her on every single day. Now she’d got out she couldn’t bear to go back. She’d finally been given the opportunity to really make something of herself – although, as yet, she had no idea what that might be.

And Alyson adored Paris. The longer she stayed, the more she fell in love with it – the people, the energy, the cosmopolitan vibe and the stylish way of living. She didn’t know a soul and the freedom was exhilarating.

The first day Alyson arrived, she had walked and walked, with no real aim in mind, eventually finding herself at the Eiffel Tower with a crush of other tourists. Alyson made her way to the top, just another anonymous face in the crowd. She looked out over the city and the sight took her breath away – the wide river snaking far below, the distinctive cream buildings with their sprawling rooftops and the magnificent white dome of Sacré Cœur high on the hill to the north. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so beautiful.

Overwhelmed by a fierce determination, Alyson vowed that, one day, one way or another, she would conquer this city. There would be no snobby secretaries looking down their nose at her, no ‘sorry, he’s not available’ or ‘sorry, she’s not interested’. Alyson Wakefield would be someone they wanted to see, someone they respected. One day.

But it was easy to make vows, Alyson reflected, as the train pulled into Saint-Michel. The hard part was fulfilling them.

She exited the station, walking back through the vibrant neighbourhood that was already so familiar to her. The smell of fresh crêpes drifted deliciously on the air, and Alyson’s stomach rumbled hungrily. She’d eaten nothing all day except the apple she’d grabbed for breakfast.

Alyson checked her purse as she walked towards the stall, then stopped in shock. Was she really that low on cash? Shit, things were getting dire. She’d been walking everywhere she could to try and save money, living on little more than bread and fruit from the market, but Paris was an expensive city and the money she’d arrived with was being eaten away at an alarming rate. If she didn’t find work soon … Alyson swallowed. There was no way she was giving up on her dream.

As she stood fumbling with her purse she noticed the café on the corner, the waiters bustling in and out in their smart uniforms. Alyson thought for a moment, gathering her nerve. She could do that easily.

It felt horribly like a step back – she didn’t want to return to waitressing – but surely it would only be temporary, until she got a real job somewhere. Right now, earning money was her priority.

Before she could change her mind, Alyson crossed the road.

‘Pardon,’ she began, in hesitant French. ‘Do you have any jobs available?’

It had been an impulsive gesture, completely out of character. She hoped the gamble would pay off.

The waiter she’d approached shook his head. ‘Non,’ he offered curtly, before heading back inside. Alyson stood on the pavement, feeling stupid. Then she mustered her dignity and moved on. She’d taken enough blows today – a little more humiliation was hardly going to make a difference.

The Latin Quarter was a mecca for cheap tourist restaurants, but everywhere she tried she got the same response. It was like a replay of her morning spent at La Défense. So much for being proactive, Alyson thought in frustration. She couldn’t even get a job as a waitress.

But she persevered, making her way from one low-rent eaterie to another. Some kind of dogged determination kept her going, a perverse instinct to keep putting herself through the wringer. One more place, she told herself. Just one more, and then she would go back to the scuzzy little hotel room she was staying in. It was hardly a cheering thought.

The final bar on the street was illuminated by a gaudy green and white flashing sign. It was an Irish theme pub, all shamrocks, leprechaun hats and pints of Guinness. Even the name was a horrible cliché – Chez Paddy. Alyson walked in without hesitating.

Inside it was dimly lit, decorated in dark wood panelling to give it a rustic feel. About half a dozen of the tables were occupied, and Alyson walked straight up to the bar. At first she thought no one was serving, but then a guy appeared out of the back room.

He was tall and slim, with dark hair, and he smiled when he saw her.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, in a rich Irish accent.

‘Do you have any jobs?’ Alyson blurted out, not even trying to hide her desperation.

The guy smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘When can you start?’

‘Straight away?’ she suggested, wondering if he was joking.

‘Well, get behind the bar then,’ he laughed, throwing her a black T-shirt with Chez Paddy stitched in green just above the left breast. ‘I’m Aidan, by the way.’

‘Alyson,’ she told him, shaking the hand he was holding out. His grip was firm, his skin warm.

‘Welcome to the team,’ he grinned.

For the next month, Alyson worked solidly, six-day weeks and taking on any extra shifts she could. Life was reduced to little more than travel, work and sleep – métro, boulot, dodo, as the French said – but hard work didn’t faze her: it was all she knew. She was so busy that she forgot no one had rung her back with a more serious job offer.

To her surprise, Alyson found she was enjoying life at Chez Paddy. Aidan was a lifesaver – funny, warm and patient as he showed her round the bar, teaching her how to pull a pint of Guinness and make a shamrock design on the head, or how to mix cocktails over the back of a spoon so they sat in perfect layers.

She found that she was far more relaxed than she’d been at home. Back in Manchester, Alyson had always been something of an outsider. Her natural shyness was often misinterpreted as hostility, the other, more popular, girls labelling her snooty or stuck-up.

Here she was less defensive, confident enough to let her guard down and make small talk with the endless stream of tourists that were passing through, or the Irish expat regulars who came in to get drunk on Jameson’s whiskey.

She didn’t realize that, night after night, Aidan watched her and marvelled at the difference in her already – from the nervous young girl she had been when she’d first come in to beg for a job, to the incredibly beautiful, confident woman she was fast becoming. He knew she had a history. That much was obvious. She didn’t like to talk about herself, and she was clearly running away from something. But he didn’t ask her, and he didn’t rush her. Almost instantly, Aidan felt incredibly protective of her and wanted to help her in any way he could. He daren’t ask himself what his motives were.

‘Any luck finding a place yet?’ Aidan asked one afternoon as they cleared away the tables after the lunchtime rush.

Alyson shook her head. ‘I haven’t had time to look. I’ve been so busy here.’

‘You’re not still living in that crummy hotel?’ Aidan asked in disbelief. ‘Go on. Take the afternoon off.’

Alyson stared at him in confusion.

‘I mean it. Seriously, I can manage here. Have you been to the American Church?’

Alyson shook her head.

‘It’s on the Quai d’Orsay, along the river. They have ads for flat shares, au pairs, hostess work, that kind of thing. But don’t go getting another job! There’s no way I can do without you here.’

‘Thanks, Aidan,’ Alyson grinned shyly, as she grabbed her bag and slipped out of the door, stepping into the bustle of the busy street.

It was a beautiful day and she decided to walk, eager to see as much of the city as she could. She took a left and followed the curve of the river. Heavy sycamore trees swayed gently in the light breeze as the traffic rumbled incessantly on the other side of the Seine.

A group of young Parisians, not much older than herself, whizzed by on rollerblades, their bronzed limbs sleek and toned as they yelled to each other. Their French was rapid and full of slang, but Alyson was learning fast, the colloquial phrases quickly becoming familiar to her. Yeah, she was really making progress, she thought happily, as she strolled along enjoying the warm spring sunshine.

‘Mademoiselle?’

Alyson felt a hand on her arm and turned sharply. A man stood in front of her, nervously clearing his throat. He was in his forties, a touch overweight and beginning to go bald. There were sweat patches under the armpits of his shirt, and the top of his head barely came up to her chin. ‘Vous avez l’heure?’ he asked.

Alyson checked her watch. ‘Oui. Quinze heures trente.’ She went to move on, but the man stopped her.

‘Vous êtes très belle, mademoiselle. Vous voulez prendre un café avec moi?’

Alyson reddened, looking away sharply. ‘Non, merci.’ She began to walk off. The guy watched her go for a moment, as though considering whether or not to pursue her. He decided not to. He didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it.

The incident had unsettled Alyson. She hated the way men came on to her like that. It had happened ever since she’d arrived in Paris. They would follow her down the street, hit on her when she was sitting in the park reading a book – even chat her up when she was in the launderette, trying to wash her clothes She knew that the French reputation was legendary when it came to romance, but so far all she’d encountered were a bunch of sleazeballs with appalling chat-up lines. Besides, she’d lost her trust in men when her father had walked out on them …

Angrily, Alyson stomped up the stone steps of the American Church, trying to banish the unhappy memories. Away from the road it was quiet, and the cloisters were cool after the heat of the street. Shading her eyes from the sun reflecting off the windows, Alyson skimmed the ‘To Let’ adverts. There was very little that was suitable – too small, too expensive, too far out of the city. But then her eye landed on one that sounded exactly what she was looking for. She took her new mobile out of her bag and dialled the number.

‘Oh yeah, baby, that’s right …’

‘Fuck,’ swore Dionne, as her cell phone began to ring, completely distracting her from the job in hand.

‘Laisse tomber!’ David shouted to her. ‘Leave it, Dionne.’

‘It could be important,’ she protested, climbing off him. ‘A job or something.’

David Mouret, dark and gorgeous with a body to die for, lay back heavily on the black satin sheets, his unsated cock rock-hard and throbbing in frustration.

‘Come on, Dionne,’ he pleaded, in heavily accented English. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Just shut up for a moment,’ she snapped, rummaging through her purse. ‘Shit,’ she swore again as the phone stopped ringing.

‘Thank Christ for that. Perhaps now we go back to fucking, yes?’

‘Wait! Maybe they’ll leave a message.’

David sighed as Dionne tapped her nails impatiently. Her phone beeped and she pounced on it.

‘Hello? Hi, this is … well, my name’s Alyson,’ stammered the girl at the other end. ‘I’m phoning about the flat-share you’re advertising.’

Dionne groaned, feeling something inside her sink. She had hoped it would be from her modelling agent, but it was just some girl with a weird voice calling about the apartment.

‘If the room’s still available, I’d be interested in viewing it. You can call me on my mobile …’ – A mobile? She must be British. And check that accent! – ‘… and just leave a message if I’m at work. My name’s Alyson Wakefield and I look forward to speaking with you soon. Thank you.’

Dionne hung up. She could phone the girl later; right now, she had David to attend to. CeCe had been right when she said that he adored her, but Dionne knew she had to keep him sweet. She was counting on him to take her out for dinner later, then onto the hot new club, Bijou, so she could get another look at the luscious guy who owned the place.

Moving across the bed, Dionne placed one manicured fingernail firmly on the dark, wiry hairs on David’s chest and gently pushed him backwards. He let out a groan as Dionne began to kiss his stomach, teasing the soft hair on his belly, until her lips gradually worked lower, and David Mouret remembered exactly why he bought her all those expensive presents …