by Rebecca Lim
I’m silent for a long while. There’s no getting around it. Irina must be some kind of highly-strung, celebrity clotheshorse. With a self-destructive streak a mile wide. I’m beginning to see the extent of my problem. Somehow, I need to locate Ryan again, vanish Irina right out of her very public life, and give the Eight the slip so that I can rendezvous with Luc back in Ryan’s hometown of Paradise. Have I covered everything?
I curse the Eight under my breath for their eternal interference, the tests within tests they seem determined always to set me.
‘You know this city better than I do,’ I say cajolingly. ‘I have to go out, I have to find someone. Couldn’t we just go — you and me? Walk out of here right now?’
Gia meets my eyes in astonishment. ‘You’d be screwed,’ she replies. ‘Even though the paparazzi are camped outside your usual hotel, as soon as you set foot outside here, a crowd of ordinary Italians with phone cams will be in your face broadcasting your whereabouts to the entire world. Everyone knows who you are and why you’re in Milan. And they’re all waiting for you to fall flat on your face.’
‘I really am “clean”,’ I say simply. ‘And I really do need your help. Because it’s important I find this guy — you don’t know how much.’
Gia rolls her eyes. ‘They’re always “important” until you leave them begging and broken and move on to your next victim. No way,’ she says firmly. ‘I’m under strict orders from management not to let you out on the street during the hours of darkness. You’re too much of an insurance risk these days. It’s not worth my hide to try and smuggle you out.’ Her eyes soften a little as she stares into my mutinous face. ‘I know it’s seemed like a prison sentence lately, but the arrangements are in place for your own good. You know that, don’t you?’
I feel a surge of anger at her words that makes the fingers of my left hand ache. Why does everyone think they know better than me?
Gia jerks a thumb at the bed. ‘Ask me again in daylight, okay? It can at least wait until after sunrise. Now get some rest. Final fittings begin in about three hours and they’ll be brutal. Giovanni’s already warned me that he won’t stand any more tardiness or attitude from you or you’ll lose the global print advertising contract, as well as the catwalk gig. Remember, you’ve only got this because your management called in all their favours. Somehow, the great Giovanni Re still has a soft spot for you even though you’ve always been a complete bitch to him. No one else is prepared to touch you right now, so don’t stuff this up. Sleep. Now. Capiche?’
I climb into bed reluctantly and she stares down into my face. ‘Let’s just start over, okay? Let’s just get through today as if none of this …’ she gestures in the air between us, ‘ever happened. I still might quit, you know. If I don’t kill you first.’
Gia walks over to the windows and draws the curtains shut again before heading back towards the door. She snaps off the light and closes the door firmly behind her.
I pull the plump, feather-light bedclothes right up under my chin and lie there in the dark, looking up at the ceiling.
It’s covered in an original Renaissance fresco, with lots of fine brushwork in gold and blue and blush pink. Maybe Tiepolo? Definitely in the style of Tiepolo, with all those luminous clouds and long-limbed, vigorous people. Who seem, like so much else, achingly familiar, but so very far beyond my reach.
I’m unable to sleep, even though I want to so badly. In all these years, sleep has been my only source of solace. In dreams, I feel most like myself, capable of anything, not limited by the human face and form I happen to be wearing.
And in dreams, I have access to that most longed-for of things — time with Luc. Though even that, the Eight would deny us, if They could.
When Luc first picked me out of that throng of elohim — each more beautiful than the last — to be his love, he said, to be his queen, some small part of me had refused to believe that it would last. Because when I looked at him, and then looked at me, I couldn’t understand what he saw in me, what set me apart from all the rest. But in a funny kind of way, we have lasted. Though it’s been years since we last touched, or even met face to face.
Gabriel told me himself that while I sleep — when the linkages between soul and body are at their weakest — Luc somehow still has access to my thoughts, access to me. It’s a connection that has persisted despite everything the Eight have done to keep us apart.
And though in my dreams, Luc sometimes seems more angry, more goading, more desperate, cruel and spiteful than I have ever remembered him to be, just the sight of him — golden-skinned, golden-haired, broad-shouldered, snake-hipped, long and lean, with eyes as pale as living ice, like broken water — is like a shot of pure adrenaline to the heart. He’s the most beautiful thing in creation, more beautiful than the sun. Call me shallow — and I’m sure plenty have; it’s just a feeling I get — I’ve always loved beautiful things.
I could use Luc’s devious counsel now. There was no one better at getting what he wanted. No one. But for the past few hours, I’ve lain here, tossing and turning, unable to reach out to him, unable to conjure up the necessary pre-conditions for him to reach out to me. I’ve just been stuck in a kind of waking trance, replaying Lela’s last moments — our last moments together — over and over. Feeling that fatal gunshot, wondering if there was anything I could’ve done differently.
There’s a sudden, sharp rap on the door and Gia Basso enters the room again, dressed in street clothes this time. She marches across to the curtains and yanks them open with a skittering sound. It’s still dark outside but lightening just a little, at the horizon. My internal clock says it’s still very early: six; maybe six fifteen, at most.
Gia’s wearing a tough-looking, black leather jacket with rows of brass studs on the lapels over a bunch of layered, artfully ripped tee-shirts and tank tops and a vintage-looking, beat-up waistcoat; skin-tight jeans and towering black leather ankle boots criss-crossed by a welter of leather straps. There’s jangling silver jewellery at her ears and on her wrists, a couple of long and floaty patterned scarves slung around her neck, and she’s wearing a striking dark purple lipstick and strong, smoky eye make-up combination that somehow work together, even though they shouldn’t. With her glossy, China-girl hair, she’s the most stylish creature I’ve ever beheld, and I say so, admiringly.
She frowns, giving me a sharp look as if she thinks that I’m — what’s that phrase I puzzled over so much when I was Lela? Ah, yes, taking the piss. Making fun of her. I’m not, but she ignores my comment and barks, ‘As soon as people get a lock on your location, a huge contingent will materialise out of nowhere. It’ll be like a flash mob, I guarantee it. You’re “so hot right now” and not for the right reasons. Get ready to run the gauntlet. Breakfast is on its way up. We can plan our route with Felipe while you eat.’
She ruthlessly hauls the coverlet off my body, her eyebrows flying up in surprise when I rise immediately and head into the OTT marble ensuite to splash water onto Irina’s perfectly symmetrical, heart-shaped little face, jumpy with nerves at the thought that Operation Get Me Outta Here is about to find itself back on track.
Gia watches me narrowly, exclaiming in a passable Russian accent, ‘You’re not going to call me a heartless beeetch today?’
I shake my head and look around. Scattered across the enormous stone vanity unit are at least a dozen hairbrushes in as many styles: barrel-shaped, paddle-shaped, oval, square, mini-sized, maxi-sized, natural or synthetic. I can’t move without tripping over a plush white bath towel on the floor, and I pick up each one I come across, folding it quickly and neatly into a precise square, until there is a stack of them on top of the gilded footstool near the basins. Gia folds her arms and leans in the doorway. I feel her eyes follow me around the room.
Next, I pick out a large, flat brush that looks like an instrument of torture and yank it through Irina’s long, caramel-coloured mane, her hair crackling beneath my brushstrokes.
The room is filled with toweri
ng floral arrangements, all in white; groupings of half-burnt scented candles with base notes of cinnamon, myrrh and orange blossom; and the heavy artillery of glamour — hair straighteners, large and small, curling tongs, hot curlers, eyelash shapers, hair dryers, tweezers, combs, hairpins, hair spray, lacquer, fudge, gel, mousse, styling wax, treatments for dry hair, damaged hair and coloured hair, bottles of perfume of every size and description, enough make-up to fill a store, not to mention all the gear required to take it off again. Clearly, it takes a lot to be Irina Zhivanevskaya. I frown. She looks okay to me the way she is. How much of this stuff am I expected to use? And how do I use most of it?
As I hesitate, I see that Gia wants to say something, then literally has to bite her tongue to stop herself.
I look back towards the massive stone vanity above which our three faces — mine, Irina’s, Gia’s — are reflected. I meet Gia’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Gia’s eyebrows disappear into her slanting, razor-cut fringe. ‘What do you mean you don’t know what to do?’ she exclaims. ‘Do what you usually do. Do you know how insane you sound?’
She’s right. Even a junkie supermodel is going to remember how to get herself dolled up for work. It’s clear that I’m going to have to recycle the cover story I’d used when I was Lela. The last thing I need right now is for Irina to be sent back to rehab because she’s making no sense.
‘I’m clean, Gia, I promise you,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I’ve never told anyone this before …’ I lower my voice so that she has to lean forward to hear ‘… but I can’t … remember things. It’s a disease, you know? It’s been happening for a while now, and lately it’s been getting worse. But I’m too scared to have it properly checked out …’
I’m no actress, but I make Irina’s expression as scared and as mournful as I can. Gia looks genuinely shocked and I can tell she believes me.
‘You mean all those times I thought you were strung out, you might actually have been …’
I nod quickly. ‘I haven’t been very good at hiding my … affliction. I have mood swings, you know? I find myself doing things I know I’ll regret later. I’m so afraid I’m going to die that I deliberately do things I know might kill me anyway …’
I have to bite back laughter. Once I get going, I’m pretty unstoppable. Luc used to say that I was almost as good as he was at making things up, that I was a natural. I frown at the sudden recollection.
Gia takes me by the sleeve, bringing my attention back. ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ she says softly. ‘You let me believe all those awful things about you. If the press knew about this … brain thing of yours, then maybe they wouldn’t make up so much shit about you all the time. You should let me feed the story to a couple of the more sympathetic editors. Make sure it gets around …’
I shrug and look sadly at the floor. But the lie’s worked. A little of Gia’s ingrained wariness around me, her brooding irritation, seems to have dissipated.
‘Come on,’ Gia sighs, leading me back through the palatial sitting area into the room littered with luggage and clothing.
‘Now, you’ve got just over half an hour to pull a look together,’ she says crisply. ‘Clothes first, war paint after. We cannot be late. It’s Giovanni’s fiftieth anniversary in the biz and he’s rumoured to be retiring after the runway show is over, and announcing the new designer who’s taking over from him. Which, if true, is huge news. And he’s picked just you — not the usual battalion of hollow-cheeked fembots — to open and close. So act appropriately. No falling off the catwalk; no lewd or criminal behaviour at the afterparty — not unless you never want to work again.’ She’s already backing towards the door as she adds, ‘And the faster we leave, the more chance we have of avoiding the press.’
She’s on the verge of shutting the door when I call out, ‘Wait!’
Gia gives me a wary look through the gap. ‘What? What now?’
I scan this stranger’s sea of belongings ruefully. ‘Why don’t you … help me?’ I say.
Gia goes incredibly still. ‘Help you?’ she says finally, wrinkling her nose and stepping slowly back through the door. ‘Like, what, physically dress you? I’m not supposed to touch “the presence”, remember? And the last time I suggested you weren’t rocking the outfit you had on, you threw a McQueen armadillo at me.’
I shake my head, bewildered by almost every word that’s just emerged from her mouth, doubly bewildered by the sheer volume of clothing in the room. Working out whether I’m ‘rocking’ my outfit has always been the least of my troubles when I wake up in someone else’s body with no memory of how I got there.
I look around the room, with literally no idea where to start. Most days, I have enough difficulty trying to blend into my immediate surroundings convincingly, without adding ambush photography to the mix.
‘I’m not having a good day,’ I plead, tapping the side of my head. ‘Help me to look —’
‘What?’ Gia shoots back, hands on hips. ‘Like a cashed-up, colour-blind rock chick meets vintage-boho, Euro-princess slut?’
‘Say that again?’ I’m taken aback at the venom in her words.
She shrugs. ‘Well, you asked. And it makes a change from having my opinion completely ignored. The way you dress may have made you famous, but it’s a little too schizophrenic and look-at-me for my tastes. You may have the “best body in the business” to go along with that “face of the century” of yours, but you kind of put too much information out there, if you know what I’m saying.’ Gia’s expression is a weird mix of envious and dubious.
She sighs. ‘You’re right though — you actually do need help. You’ve started appearing at the top of “What’s Not Hot” lists in fashion magazines lately. People are saying you’ve lost your fashion mojo. Bad news in your line of work, darling.’
She moves through the sea of cases and bags with a critical eye and picks out a narrow pair of soft, leather trousers, low-rise, long and lean, in a warm chocolate colour. Then she rifles through some kind of jumbo-sized duffle bag on wheels and pulls out a crew-neck, long-sleeved, body-skimming, dusky-olive cashmere tunic that falls to mid hip. ‘These will have to do.’
She comes to a standstill and scans the room for several minutes until she finds what she wants — a hard travelling case that comes up to just above her waist, filled to the brim with shoes stored in neat pairs. ‘Just what I was looking for,’ she says as she draws out a gleaming pair of black patent heels — so shiny, I can see my face in them — with criminally high heels, six inches at least, and bright red soles.
‘I can’t move in those,’ I protest. They look like the claws of some alien creature.
‘You’ll have to,’ Gia replies, distractedly. ‘You know as well as I do that flat shoes won’t lift the ensemble the way these will. Plus, you’re Irina, and Irina never wears flats. Wedges maybe, clogs at a stretch.’ Gia wrinkles her nose at the idea.
‘Always something with a heel,’ she insists, ‘to make you seem even less like the rest of us mere mortals when you stalk by with your head in the clouds.’
‘Where is it?’ Gia mutters, as she grabs a matched set of silky, floral-print lingerie and throws it at me, too. ‘Did we pack them in the medium trolley case? Or cram them all in the hatbox?’ She laughs triumphantly as she unclasps the fastening on a hatbox as big as a bass drum and draws out a midnight-black felt cloche hat with intricate pleating extending over one ear so the leading edge extends upwards slightly, like a bird’s wing.
‘Perfect. It’ll look fantastic against the warm, neutral tones and all that long hair of yours. And let’s finish it off with that long, black, military-style shearling overcoat Andreas sent you from his studio in Madrid last winter. It’s the only one he ever made in that particular design. You’ve never worn it and I know that hurt his feelings enormously. When I ran into him backstage at the London shows this year, his lips were practically trembling as he asked after you.’
Gia locates
the overcoat in a huge case that opens outwards like a mini wardrobe complete with hangers. She drapes it over her arm with the other pieces she’s selected for me, the little hat perched over one small fist. ‘Hop to it,’ she says, wending her way back through the cases and holding her selections out to me.
‘What?’ I say, startled. ‘Right now? Here?’
It’s Gia’s turn to look shocked. ‘You’re, like, a model?’ she exclaims mockingly. ‘You stand around in your underwear all day — if you’re lucky — while fifteen people work on your hair and make-up and shove fabulously expensive clothes over your head. I’m the one who’s always telling you to put some goddamn clothes on, remember? So, needless to say, I’ve seen it all before. But I’ll look away from “the presence”,’ she snorts loudly, ‘if that’ll help.’
I have no choice but to scramble out of the cashmere sleep suit I’m wearing and into the things Gia’s chosen for me, in record time. She looks at me clinically when I’m done, turning me in the direction of a full-length mirror set up in the corner of the room. The colours she’s selected highlight Irina’s cream and roses complexion, her toffee-coloured hair and huge, wide-set, dark eyes fringed by extravagant dark lashes.
Gia tugs the black cloche hat onto my head, twisting and pulling at it until she’s satisfied with the angle of the delicate bird wing arcing above one brow. She pulls a set of bobby pins from a large, monogrammed vanity case and secures the hat firmly.
‘Fabulous,’ she murmurs as she jams the last pin in place. ‘And put these on when we get outside or you’ll be sorry.’ She hands me a soft, sleek pair of short, hand-stitched, shearling-lined, black leather gloves.
I shove them into a pocket of my ankle-length coat and climb reluctantly into the shoes, feeling as if I’m going to tip forward onto my face at any moment.
‘I can’t do this!’ I exclaim, screwing up Irina’s small and exquisite nose.
Gia frowns as she takes in my awkward, slump-shouldered, turtle-necked posture. ‘What you mean is, you can’t do this unmedicated. Well, tough, because it’s not my job to facilitate your self-harming tendencies. Stand up straighter, and it won’t seem like you’re falling downhill. You need to redistribute your weight. I can’t believe I’m telling you this — your memory really must be shot to hell.’
