Diva

‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she retorted, with a pointed glance at her father.

The doctor nodded, understanding. ‘Well, now you do.’

Alyson stared at him, her brow furrowing in incomprehension.

‘We think it might be better if your mother went somewhere she could get the help that she needs. Her condition is obviously serious, and Lynn might be better served in a place where they have the specialization to really look after her. Now, there are a number of care homes in the area—’

‘I look after her,’ Alyson burst out. ‘We’ve managed fine all these years.’

‘Ally, you’re clearly not coping,’ her father cut in.

‘We’ll be fine,’ Alyson insisted, her voice small and tight. She stared hard at the motionless figure in the bed, fighting back tears. ‘We don’t need you.’

‘Perhaps I’ll give you some time to talk this through,’ Dr Chaudhry suggested tactfully, sensing the atmosphere. ‘They have all the details you need at reception, and I’ll be back after my rounds if you have any questions.’

‘Listen, Ally,’ her father began after the doctor had left. ‘Think about it. And I mean seriously. You can’t spend the rest of your life looking after your mother – it’s just not fair on you. Now the doctor thinks this is the best option, and maybe he’s right. You’ve got to think about her too, not just what you want.’

‘Why not? That’s what you did, isn’t it?’ Alyson retorted. She was lashing out, all the anger that she’d bottled up over the past decade finally finding an outlet.

‘You need some time for yourself, sweetheart,’ Terry said adamantly. ‘And maybe it’s best for both of you. It could be that Lynn’s become too reliant on you …’

Alyson felt a swathe of guilt and hated her father for making her feel like that. Was he right? Was this somehow her fault, for encouraging her mother to become too dependent on her?

‘Look, love, I can give you a few hundred pounds, maybe more. You can do what you want, go where you want.’

‘I don’t need your money,’ Alyson spat, her eyes flashing dangerously. She couldn’t believe that her father thought he could just walk back into her life and pay her off.

Terry Wakefield leaned forward and caught her hand. His hold was strong, a little painful even. He stared straight into her eyes, the pressure on her palm getting stronger. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, threatening almost. ‘Think about it, Ally.’

3

Paris, FranceThree months later

Cécile Bouvier was late. She hurried down the rue de Rivoli, dodging tourists and taking furious drags on the Philip Morris cigarette dangling from her pillar-box-red lips. Everybody stared. A few tourists took pictures. No one could take their eyes off her.

Despite the heat of the day, she wore black drainpipe trousers with black brogues, and a Frankie Says Relax T-shirt that she’d slashed to her midriff so only the top half of the message was visible. At five foot four her frame was gamine, petite in that particularly French way, with her flat, porcelain-white stomach extending beneath the T-shirt, her small breasts jutting through the thin cotton fabric. She wore armfuls of bangles and Wayfarer sunglasses, while enormous earphones were clamped over her head, attached to a tiny iPod.

But the most striking thing about CeCe was her hair. On one side of her head it fell in a thick, dark curtain, straggly and gloriously unkempt. The other half was shaved in a severe buzzcut. The whole look was eccentric, edgy and individual. She’d been compared to early Madonna, Agyness Deyn and Alice Dellal, but as far as CeCe was concerned, the look was all her own. One hundred per cent original and impossible to replicate.

CeCe was twenty-one years old, and lived and breathed fashion. She was obsessed with clothes – and not in a superficial, Beverly-Hills-socialite way. CeCe saw clothes as an art form, a true expression of the individual. She was fascinated with the way they were conceived and created, the way they could alter moods, launch a star or destroy a career.

CeCe’s dream was to make it as a designer. She wanted her own fashion house, to be known the world over for her bold, glamorous designs. She’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen, but there was still a long way to go.

She came to a halt outside a large store at the less salubrious end of the rue de Rivoli, in the midst of shops selling tourist tat and cheap clothes. The sign above read ‘Rivoli Couture’,and the window display showed rail-thin, black plastic mannequins modelling ostentatious designer clothing. It was where CeCe worked as a sales assistant. The job was soul-destroying, but she had rent to pay.

She threw down her cigarette and burst through the door, pulling off her earphones and stuffing them into her bag. It was vintage Chanel tweed, and she’d customized it herself with ribbon and lace.

‘Bonjour, tout le monde,’ CeCe greeted everyone.

‘Morning CeCe.’

‘Buongiorno!’

‘Cześć, CeCe, how are you?’

A chorus of languages greeted her as she pulled off her sunglasses to reveal dark black circles under her eyes.

‘Christ, CeCe, you look like shit!’ exclaimed Maarit, a waif-like Finnish blonde, whose foul mouth belied her demure appearance.

‘I stayed awake until five a.m., designing,’ CeCe explained in her thick French accent. ‘I had an incredible idea that wouldn’t leave me, and I could not sleep until it was finished. Is Dionne here yet?’

‘Yeah, she’s out the back.’

‘Merci,’ CeCe smiled, as she made her way across the shop, past groaning shelves overflowing with garish clothing. Rivoli Couture bought up the dross from France’s top designers, last season’s pieces that those with taste and money found too hideous to actually buy. Yet the tourists seemed to lap it up, leaving with bagfuls of designer labels at heavily discounted prices.

‘CeCe!’ Dionne exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Girl, I am loving your outfit! But hell, look at your eyes – you’re exhausted, honey.’

‘I was up the whole night working on something new: a beautiful full-length dress made of crêpe de chine, with shoulder draping and an asymmetrical hemline.’ Her hazel eyes sparkled as she described it. ‘I have made the toile and I need you to try it, Dionne, I just know it will look amazing on you. But where were you last night? You did not come home, no?’

‘No,’ Dionne giggled. She was wearing an obscenely short, cherry-red bandage dress that clung to her incredible curves. CeCe realized she’d come straight to work from wherever she’d spent the night.

‘Are you still drunk?’

‘Maybe just a little,’ Dionne admitted, as she broke down in another fit of giggles. ‘Shit, that reminds me, help me get these back before Khalid notices them,’ she hissed, pulling a pair of neon-yellow peep-toe stilettos out of her bag.

‘You wore those?’ CeCe asked disapprovingly. ‘They’re vile.’

‘I thought they were kind of fun,’ Dionne disagreed, as she turned them over to inspect them. The soles were badly scuffed, and a cigarette butt clung to the bottom of the right one. Dionne quickly shoved them back on the shelf with a shrug. ‘If anyone complains, just say they’re shop-soiled and give them ten per cent off.’

The way Dionne saw it, there was no point working in a clothes shop if you couldn’t borrow the occasional item. It was one of the few perks to this job, and meant she was rarely seen in the same outfit twice.

‘So where did you go?’

‘David took me for dinner, then we went on to Bijou,’ Dionne gushed, naming the hot new nightclub that had just opened in the Marais. ‘I had so much fun – you should have come. The champagne was flowing, I was dancing on the tables all night long, shaking my booty … And the best part …’ Dionne paused for effect, ensuring she had CeCe’s full attention. ‘… The owner. Philippe Rochefort. Man, that guy is hot! Loaded too – like, serious money. David introduced me to him and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Very good-looking. Very French, you know what I’m saying?’

‘Poor David.’ CeCe smiled sympathetically. ‘He adores you.’

‘David’s a sweetie,’ Dionne conceded. ‘He’s a great guy but—’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dionne sighed despairingly. ‘There’s just not that spark. I want totally intense chemistry where you can’t keep your hands off each other, where there’s an orchestra playing every time you’re together and you think you might die when you’re apart.’

‘Life is not like in the movies, Dionne.’

‘My life’s going to be,’ Dionne replied indignantly. ‘There’s gonna be drama and passion and—’

‘Ah, ladies, much as I hate to interrupt you, I had hoped you might get round to doing a little work today.’