Diva

It was Khalid Hossein, owner of Rivoli Couture, a short, pot-bellied man in an ill-fitting beige suit. Egyptian by birth, he was a now a French national, for reasons neither Dionne nor CeCe could understand. Khalid never had a good word to say about the French, complaining about the Parisian weather, the taxation levels, and especially the liberal employment laws which, in his view, gave workers every excuse to slack off whilst making it virtually impossible to sack them.

‘I was just …’ CeCe began, then trailed off.

‘Putting these away for me,’ Dionne interjected, dumping a pile of lavishly decorated Christian Audigier jeans in her arms. ‘And I was about to—’

‘Do the coffee run,’ cut in CeCe, in a flash of inspiration.

‘Absolutely,’ Dionne purred, batting her eyelids at Khalid. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Well … an espresso,’ he agreed grudgingly. Dionne might have been lazy and unreliable, but she could charm the pants off anyone, employing the same skills she’d honed at Macy’s back home in Detroit to sweet-talk the Parisian tourists into leaving Rivoli Couture with bags full of overpriced, end-of-line designer gear. For Khalid Hossein, the bottom line was money. He would overlook a lot as long as the cash tills kept ringing.

Dionne slipped out to the café next door – the young guy there had a hopeless crush on her and gave her such a generous discount the order was practically free – as CeCe began straightening hangers. Khalid was OCD about having them all face the same way round.

There were times when CeCe hated this job with a passion. She put zero enthusiasm into it, saving her energy for her designing and her partying – the two great loves of her life. She and Dionne moved in moneyed, hip circles, and she loved the lifestyle, but she had to find some way of supporting herself. Her socializing was always paid for – her friends were rich and generous – but rent, food, the basics, all needed to be covered, and since falling out with her parents, CeCe had been on a steep learning curve, quickly discovering the harsh realities of working for a living.

CeCe had grown up in Clochiers, a small town in Auvergne in central France. It was stunningly beautiful, but boring as hell, and from a young age CeCe had been desperate to move to the city.

Her family were wealthy – CeCe had fallen in love with Paris when she’d accompanied her mother, Inès, on her regular shopping trips to the capital – but CeCe had little interest in money. Like Marilyn Monroe, she just wanted to be wonderful.

As a child she’d been given dolls to play with and she used them as her first models, cutting up old dresses then stitching them together in provocative, sensual designs that outraged her conservative mother. Whilst Inès’s wardrobe comprised chic, classic pieces by traditional French fashion houses, like Yves St Laurent and Givenchy, CeCe’s passions lay elsewhere. She loved the overt sexuality of Jean-Paul Gaultier, the high drama of Alexander McQueen and the punk-inspired eccentricity of Vivienne Westwood. Soon she was experimenting with her own style, mixing her father’s battered old walking boots with her mother’s vintage Dior, or using an Hermès scarf as a sash for her school uniform. She dressed to get attention – everyone in the small village knew her name, and that was just the way CeCe liked it.

When she hit her teenage years, CeCe cranked the rebellion up to max. She experimented with drink, drugs and sex, sleeping with both boys and girls – anything to push the boundaries. But there were dark times too. After the highs she would crash with depression, hiding beneath her sheets and refusing to get out of bed until her mother despaired and her father became white-lipped with fury. She remembered with horror the demons that had chased her down, pulling her deeper into a web of darkness that seemed impossible to escape from. It had taken a long time to fight her way out. There had been visits to a clinic – private and discreet, naturally – a startling array of pills and a course of counselling.

And then suddenly CeCe was back, as out of control and outrageous as ever, her behaviour even wilder than before. The summer after she turned eighteen, the issues came to a head and CeCe knew she needed to make a decision about her future. Her parents threatened to cut her off unless she curbed her ways and went to university to study for a proper degree. They wanted her to go into one of the professions, to become a doctor or a lawyer. Better still, to marry a doctor or a lawyer, and stay at home being a good housewife. CeCe couldn’t think of anything worse.

After a particularly heated argument, CeCe packed up her little Citroën and drove non-stop to Paris. She went first to her mother’s regular hairdresser in rue Cambon. Sitting in the stylist’s chair, CeCe stared hard at her reflection and took a deep breath. ‘I want you to shave off all my hair,’ she declared.

It was an exclusive salon, catering for well-heeled Parisians and known for its elegant styling.

‘Absolutely not,’ the woman replied in horror.

CeCe walked out, heading towards Les Halles, where she found a far less discerning establishment. She intended the haircut to be a gesture of liberation – her mother had always told her that her long, brunette hair was her best feature, and the childish locks reminded CeCe of the old life she was leaving behind. But halfway through, she told the hairdresser to stop. She liked it like that. She was half rebel, half princess. It suited her perfectly.

‘One double espresso for Madame le Designer.’ Dionne came back in, the pungent scent of freshly ground coffee filling the air.

‘Thanks, Dionne.’ CeCe took it gratefully, knocking it back in one. She felt the caffeine kick start her body, the jolt of energy hitting her instantly. She needed it after her late night.

‘Hey, I totally forgot to tell you,’ Dionne said, as she began refolding a pile of sweaters. ‘Elise is moving out.’

Elise was their flatmate.

‘Shit, really?’

‘Uh huh.’ Dionne pulled a face. ‘She told me last night. She’s moving in with her boyfriend.’

‘Fuck. I hope we find someone.’ CeCe sounded worried.

‘I’ll ask around, see if anyone we know wants to take the room,’ Dionne suggested. ‘And I can put a couple of ads up. We’ll get someone. After all, who wouldn’t want to live with the two most gorgeous, most popular girls in Paris?’ she exclaimed dramatically, as CeCe raised a sceptical eyebrow.

‘I hope you’re right. I can’t afford to make the rent between just the two of us.’

A flicker of an idea crossed Dionne’s eyes, and she smiled wickedly. ‘Well, if you need the extra money, you can always cover my shift this afternoon …’

CeCe groaned. ‘Dionne, I’m totally exhausted,’ she protested. ‘I barely slept last night.’

‘Please,’ Dionne begged, pouting like a child.

‘What is it for?’ CeCe asked resignedly. It was all a charade; they both knew that CeCe would agree.

‘Just a few go-sees, doing the rounds, but I’m booked all afternoon.’

‘Well, I suppose I—’

‘Thank you, honey, you’re a star!’ Dionne exclaimed, throwing her arms around CeCe. Then she caught sight of her reflection and was instantly distracted. ‘Do you think I’ve put on weight?’ Dionne frowned, turning from side to side as she scrutinized her incredible body. She was twenty pounds lighter than she had been in Detroit, and staying that way was a constant battle. ‘My agent told me I need to lose a little, and the last casting I went on I could barely fit into the samples.’

‘Dionne, you are gorgeous – vraiment parfaite,’ CeCe assured her. And she meant it.

When CeCe first met Dionne, she had hated her on sight. It had been in VIP Room, a cool nightspot catering to les branchés,the hip, well-connected crowd. Dionne had been loud and brash, impossible to ignore.

Typical American, CeCe thought, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Dionne was desperate to be the centre of attention, that curvaceous body poured into some little black dress that was so tight CeCe wondered how she could even breathe. Her hair ran wild in a tightly curled afro, and she held an ever-present glass of champagne in one hand while gesticulating wildly with the other. She didn’t stop talking, dancing, flirting the whole night.

By the time they left the club at six a.m., CeCe was converted, totally under Dionne’s spell. Within a month, the two girls had moved in together and were inseparable. They rented a beautiful apartment in the upmarket, 8th arrondissement, with high ceilings, polished wooden floors and even a baby grand piano in the living room.

‘It’s a lifestyle choice,’ Dionne had explained, and CeCe agreed.

The rent was killing them, so they let out the third room. CeCe had planned to use it as a small studio, but there was no way she could afford to. Her designs quickly took over the rest of the flat and there were always offcuts of calico draped over the sofa, the sewing machine permanently left out on the dining table, even rolls of fabric stashed upright in the bathroom.

The pair of them would get gloriously drunk on champagne as CeCe draped and tacked, while Dionne tottered up and down the makeshift runway between the living room and the kitchen, resplendent in a pair of fuck-me stilettos and whatever creation CeCe had pinned to her body.

Dionne was the perfect choice for CeCe’s flamboyant designs. Unlike many of the gay, male designers, CeCe appreciated a woman’s body and designed accordingly. She cited beautiful, strong, independent women as her inspiration and declared that Dionne was her muse – a title that fuelled Dionne’s already unfettered ego.

CeCe favoured bright, bold colours in shimmering, body-hugging fabrics. An aquamarine sheath, slit dazzlingly high at the thigh and decorated with oversize silver and gauze butterflies. An outrageous scarlet ballgown, with petalled layers of chiffon skirt and a beautifully boned corset that gave the wearer a figure to die for. The audacious colours looked stunning against Dionne’s dark skin, and she certainly had the confidence to carry off even the most outrageous designs.

One drunken night, CeCe and Dionne had made a pact. They vowed that whoever hit the big time first would do everything they could to help the other. So Dionne swore that when she became a top model, she would wear CeCe’s creations to every event she could to help raise her profile. And CeCe assured Dionne that even when the most beautiful women in the world were clamouring to wear her designs, it would be Dionne debuting them on the runway and heading up the ad campaigns.

‘Man, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here,’ Dionne sighed, glancing round the shop to where an obese woman was wrestling with a skintight lime-coloured T-shirt. ‘All I need is a chance. I mean, you know I’m a good model, right? I’ve got energy, personality …’ She struck a bold pose against a set of shelves, her hip jutting out, her neck elongated to emphasize her superb bone structure.

CeCe couldn’t help but smile. ‘You and I are destined for the top, chérie. This,’ CeCe waved her hand disparagingly to indicate their uninspiring surroundings, ‘is only temporary. One day you will be the famous supermodel, and I will be the most celebrated designer, and the whole world will know our names. We are a partnership, no?’

‘Right,’ Dionne agreed, finally cracking a smile. ‘You and me, boo.’

‘You and me,’ CeCe repeated.

4

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.