“And when am I leaving for Madrid?” she asked in an English accent. And somehow she looked familiar…
“Your flight leaves in two hours and twenty minutes. I have your details here waiting for your confirmation,” Hervé answered as he waved a printed email in his hand. “And I have all of your details for the La Lune shoot tomorrow. Like I said, you’ll go straight there from the airport tomorrow morning.”
She stifled a yawn before asking Hervé, “Do I have to go? I’m exhausted. I’ve been travelling non-stop since Christmas and from what you’ve told me it doesn’t sound as if I’ll have a day off for another six months…”
“Ellie, my beautiful one, when zee big God gives you le grapefruit, you must make zee juice, non?”
Like a rolling snowball, a small idea began to form itself in my mind, gathering momentum with each second that ticked… She speaks English, she’s booked to work with the La Lunes tomorrow, she seems nice… She could be just the person to introduce me to the La Lunes and then I could solve the mystery of Belle’s disappearance! But how? She was about to leave for Madrid and if I wanted her help I’d have to get to know her now, today, this morning. I had to convince her to take me to the La Lune shoot with her tomorrow. How could I do it if she was about to catch a flight to Madrid?
“I’m all for making lemonade, Hervé – but do I have to get so tired making it?”
“Ma chérie, you are too young to get tired! So,” Hervé continued, “departure at 11.55 on Air France. Or would you prefer the next flight? It’s a half an hour later.”
“No, 11.55’s fine,” she answered.
No! No! That was NOT fine. I had to stop her. I needed her help and she needed my…my what? What could I offer her? How could I convince her to stay?
“Good, I’ll just call to confirm.” Hervé rapidly dialled a number on his phone.
Ellie yawned again, this time not bothering to hide her open mouth. Then she stretched her arms up over her head and said, “After you’ve confirmed, Hervé, we need to talk about giving me some time off.”
Hervé rolled his eyes at her as he waited for his call to go through.
“I’m serious, Hervé. I’m worn out working and I’d like some time off – just a few days.”
While talking to the travel agent, Hervé mouthed the words, “Next year.”
“You’re joking,” the model said.
Hervé shook his head. And that’s when I had my idea.
“So, 11.55?” Hervé asked.
As Ellie answered, I said “You can’t go!” – or at least, I thought I did. But only a dry little croak came out of my mouth. Thick and dry, my throat felt as if I hadn’t swallowed since breakfast.
“And Seat 1A?” continued Hervé. “Yes, yes, no problem, I’m still here,” he said to the travel agency, “and, yes, we’d like to—”
But before he could say anything else I jumped up and yelled, “YOU CAN’T GO!”
Complete silence descended upon the room. The bookers all looked at me, frozen in action. Even Mr Leather Jacket, still bent over the same booker’s computer, forgot about Belle for a moment and stood up.
“Yes, just one second, please,” Hervé said, putting the travel agent on hold. “Ellie,” he said calmly, giving me a look usually reserved for annoying insects, “would you like a vegetarian meal?”
“Say no,” I whispered, “please.”
“Why?” she mouthed. “Who are you?”
“Because I need your help! I’ll explain later – promise.” She was hesitating – and why wouldn’t she? She’d never seen me in her life. “Take the day off! Have some fun. Forget them,” I added under my breath, with a nod towards the bookers.
She visibly perked up at the thought of some free time.
“Ellie?” Hervé said. “Vegetarian meal?”
The model flicked her long honey-blonde hair behind her shoulder, smiled at Hervé and shook her head, NO. “Get rid of the travel agent, Hervé. Tell them we’ll call back.” Hervé looked confused. “I can’t go, Hervé,” Ellie said, looking at me.
“But—” Hervé protested.
“But nothing, I can’t go because…” It took me a moment to realize she wanted me to give her a reason. Out loud. I began to sweat under my lucky jumper. My lips felt thick and my throat was going dry again. Furthermore, I’d just realized why she looked familiar: Jenny had photos of her taped all over her bedroom walls and all the girls at school were constantly dissecting her latest magazine pictures. She was none other than Elizabeth Billingsley, otherwise known as Ellie B, the hot new English export and rumoured to be the next “big thing”. And I was about to stop her from flying to Madrid to shoot for Spanish Vogue. Visions of my mum, her face an angry bright red under the cracking green face mask, filled my mind.
“Well?” she asked.
“You can’t go because you’ve agreed to a Chic: Paris magazine interview,” I said in one quick breath. “A big spread with photos… Remember?” Desperately I looked at her, silently pleading with her to play along with me. “So you can’t fly to Madrid because Chic magazine would be upset. You agreed to the interview last week. Directly with my aunt. I guess the magazine forgot to call,” I added with a shrug of my shoulders as I looked at Hervé. If I planned on living long, I thought, I could only hope that my aunt never heard what I’d just said. At the very least, she’d force me to wear polyester for the rest of my life. Quietly I stood and held my breath as I watched Ellie decide whether to join me or not.
“Yes… Yes, I remember now,” she finally said. I let out a long sigh.
Hervé was rolling his eyes. “Ellie, please, we have to confirm this trip.”
“I am not going on the trip. Cancel it, Hervé.”
“But, Ellie, my beautiful one, you cannot cancel. Everything has been booked around you! Please.”
“No buts, Hervé. I’m not going and that’s final. The client will have to forgive you – and me. Tell them we’ve made a mistake – a computer error. Chic: Paris booked me first. But we can reschedule the Vogue for next week. I’ll fly out on my way to New York. And you can drop the news that I’ll be on the cover of next month’s British Vogue. They’ll want me more than ever after hearing that.” She gave Hervé that million-dollar smile of hers and flicked her hair some more. It was as if she was turning down nothing more than a last-minute reservation at a neighbourhood restaurant.
At that moment Hervé’s telephone rang. “Ellie,” he said, as he put the caller on hold and openly scowled at me, “Chanel wants to know if you’d do a fitting today – as you’re not going to Madrid now, you could fit that in, couldn’t you? They know you’ve just gotten off the plane and are tired, but they’ll have your favourite green tea and you can order whatever you’d like for lunch. Oh, and Christine,” he added, turning to the booker in charge of the “new faces” division, “they’d also like to see anyone new.”
“Yeah, I’ll go, but…” Ellie turned to me. “What’s your name?” she whispered.
“Axelle,” I answered in a clear whisper, accent on the second syllable (like the verb excel – and not like the car part!).
“But Axelle should come with me.”
“Fine.” Hervé gave me a snooty look. “As long as she stands quietly and waits patiently – your fitting could take some time. Better yet, she could wait across the street at the Ritz and have a milkshake,” he said with a smirk.
“No,” Ellie said. “I mean ‘come with’ as in she can go as one of the agency’s new faces. You know: me, her, two models from this agency going together to Chanel for their fitting. Here, let me talk to them.” And before Hervé knew what was going on, Ellie had snatched the earpiece off his head and was speaking to the person on the other end of the phone.
“Oh my gosh, you have to meet this new girl. Yeah…yeah…okay.” Turning to me, Ellie continued, “And she looks just like…” Please be kind I thought, please be kind. “Well, she looks…interesting…and…unique! She has very long legs… Okay. G
reat! See you later!”
Hervé was glaring at me and the rest of the bookers were looking at me as if I were a plate of rotting leftovers that they’d just found shoved in the back corner of their refrigerator. Only Mr Leather Jacket with the wicked grin seemed to find the whole thing amusing. I could see his smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he fiddled with his phone.
“Ellie, honestly, that kind of decision can only be made by Miriam! In case you have forgotten, this is her agency!” Hervé was apoplectic with rage. Only the thought that the agency could not afford to lose Ellie kept him in check.
“Well, I think she looks great,” Ellie said with a shrug of her shoulders. She knew full well I didn’t, and she also knew exactly how to irritate her bookers by throwing her weight around. “I think it could be fun,” she said turning to me. “We could model together for as long as you’re here. How long are you here for?” she asked.
“A week.”
“Fantastic! Then please say you’ll model for the week. We’ll have fun together – I know it. Besides, at this point I could use a new adventure to keep me going. You can be the holiday the agency never lets me take!” Here she paused to smile at the roomful of angry grimaces directed our way. “Besides, fashion loves a new face – especially an interesting one. And don’t worry – I’ll teach you everything you’ll need to know. So, what do you say?”
My mind was racing. I began to think about the fact that I hadn’t worn a dress since that cheesy family portrait my mum had insisted we take two years ago. Plus there was my hair and glasses… I’d been living for so long behind the wall of anonymity they afforded that the thought of being shorn of my “disguise” was nearly terrifying. Then again, Ellie had inadvertently given me the best possible disguise for this case, the one I never would have thought of: fashion model.
I stood transfixed, surprised and anxious in equal measure at the idea of modelling. Visions of high heels and lip gloss whizzed through my mind. I’d never tried modelling before. Could I do it? Could I make the leap from being Jenny’s makeover guinea pig to the pages of Vogue (as if I’d ever get that far)? And, more pointedly, could I really use this opportunity to get close to the La Lunes? The last thing I wanted was to get stuck modelling for a week with no pay-off for the case.
I didn’t hear the ringing phones and non-stop chatter. I stood in a cloud of indecision, waiting for some kind of signal to drop from the sky. Yes? Or no? Ellie was waiting. Now she was the one silently pleading, her eyes willing me to join her for a week of fun. Before any kind of fear bit back at me, I said… “Yes!”
You could have heard a pin drop in the agency.
“Good, that’s settled then,” Ellie said.
Hervé looked as if he was going to go straight home from work to stick long sharp pins into the little voodoo effigy he would surely make of me during his lunch break.
At this moment Aunt Venetia and Miriam strode into the silent room.
“What’s settled?” Miriam asked breezily.
Within two seconds the story was out. I stood next to Ellie, saying nothing.
Unlike the bookers, Miriam seemed to find the entire situation amusing. “Don’t worry about Spanish Vogue,” she said, “I’ll speak with them. And Ellie deserves to stop jetting around for a couple of days, don’t you think?” Miriam then turned to me and, cupping my chin in her hand, turned my face this way and that. “Hmm… Well, perhaps…why not? Since Kate Moss, the industry also wants girls who aren’t conventional… Look at all of these London ‘It’ girls – they can hardly be called beautiful in the traditional sense. And, petite Axelle, you do have nice cheekbones.”
“You cannot seriously expect us to push her,” Hervé cried in exasperation, unleashing a torrent of criticism from the other bookers:
“I mean, she couldn’t hope to fit into a sample size – look at how short she is.”
“Short? That’s the least of our worries. What about the glasses and that hair?”
“Everyone is going to think she’s the make-up artist or the stylist’s assistant when she arrives on location!”
“Are we supposed to open a new division called Short and Strange?”
“How about Little and Odd?”
“Or Weird…and More Weird?”
“Axelle, I’d like to have a word with you – alone,” my Aunt Venetia interrupted.
I could feel her glaring at me from behind her enormous black sunglasses. All my previous fears came back as she motioned me to follow her into an empty meeting room. She shut the door and stood, hands on hips, lips pursed, ready to launch into me at once.
“You told me to write an article for Teen Chic so I thought an interview with Ellie B could be a scoop!” My aunt’s eyes narrowed as she made a step towards me. “And I had nothing to do with the Chanel fitting – I promise! It all happened so fast…”
“Axelle, from what I have gathered, nothing just ‘happened’. You told Ellie B she should cancel a job because of an interview – AN INTERVIEW WHICH I KNEW NOTHING ABOUT. Do you have any idea how much prestige that job was worth to this agency? Do you even have any idea who Ellie B is? And since when do you want to be a model? Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the girl who CHOSE to wear a stained jumper this morning?”
To say she was furious was to put things lightly. I felt her eyes laser into me from their perfectly made-up sockets. Finally, after a long pause, she broke the heavy silence with the one question I didn’t want to answer.
“This is all about Belle La Lune, isn’t it?”
I wanted to hold fast, stay cool and play the what are you talking about? card – but this meant too much to me. Before I could collect myself, a wave of anger and defiance washed over me. When would I be left alone to do what I wanted to do?!
My aunt leaped at my silence. I should have known I’d never be able to hide anything from her – she was too sharp.
“It is! It is about Belle! I saw how you watched the news report last night – you were absorbing every detail! You actually believe you can find Belle, don’t you? And why? Why? Because your grandfather was a detective? Because my mother brainwashed you with years of playing Cluedo? Or is it time to move on from finding missing cats?” She paused for breath. “Axelle, I’ve promised your parents that for one week I will steer you away from potential trouble – and that is what I am going to do. You will not be modelling or spying on the La Lunes and you will apologize to Miriam.”
“Aunt V, please, I—” At that moment, Aunt Venetia’s phone rang. It was the Chic: Paris office.
“Yes,” she answered curtly. Within three seconds Aunt V’s face had drained of colour. “What? Is Ivan on it? Right. Well, get moving. We want damage control now.” She hung up and collapsed into the nearest chair.
What was going on? I waited as Aunt V slowly stood up then paced up and down the length of the room a few times, her hand held out to silence me. Finally, after a deep breath at the opened window, she spoke.
“Axelle.” Aunt V hadn’t quite yet regained her full composure, but, as her mind began to move beyond the shock, her colour slowly revived. Finally she seemed to come to a decision. What she said next took me completely by surprise. “Axelle, do you really believe you can find Belle La Lune?”
I was sure it was a trick question.
“Well?” she asked again, turning to face me.
I looked at her closely and saw that it wasn’t a trick question. Her gaze was steady, not a trace of irony or sarcasm played upon her features, her jaw was clenched. She was serious. “Well…yes, I do believe I can find her,” I answered.
“Good, then do it – quickly.” She paused again as she struggled with what she was going to say next. Then, “I’ll help you as much as I can. And I’ll start by telling Miriam that you really do want to model – after all, the best way for you to infiltrate this world is to become one of us.” She quickly reapplied some lip gloss then snapped her purse shut. A long angry breath escaped her before she said, “
The police have just called my office. You remember Blossom Ing, my assistant?”
I nodded.
“Well, last night Blossom was at a party at an art gallery in the Marais district…and copies of Belle La Lune’s drawings – Belle’s drawings! – of the new Juno bag fell out of her shoulder bag. And it’s just my luck that Harlan Forbes – European editor-at-large for my biggest rival – found the drawings!” My aunt could barely contain herself. She resumed pacing the room as she told me the rest.
Harlan had, of course, immediately recognized Belle’s distinctive handwriting and understood the importance of what he held in his hand. As a consequence, Blossom had been held at the police station for questioning and safe-keeping until early this morning. Of course, she denied having ever seen the drawings – let alone having stolen them – but this was the first clue anyone had found concerning Belle’s disappearance; the police were not going to let her go just like that. It was being said that Blossom must have ties to a ring of Chinese counterfeiters to whom she was going to feed the drawings. It would be worth millions to counterfeiters to have the drawings of the bag before the bag itself was even launched. They could have the fake article out on the streets just as the genuine ones were hitting the shops.
The fact was, as long as Blossom was considered a possible accomplice and suspect in the disappearance of Belle La Lune, and no matter how discreetly the entire matter was dealt with, no amount of perfume would cover up the scent of suspicion which now clung to Blossom’s employer: Aunt V and Chic: Paris magazine.
I stood in shock as Aunt Venetia gathered her scarf and handbag and headed for the door.
“Come on, Axelle,” she said, “we haven’t got a moment to spare.” Then, as she placed her hand on the doorknob, she stopped and turned to me, her voice deep as she coolly said, “Oh, and, Axelle, this will remain between you and me. I’m afraid your mother’s well-laid plans are about to take a detour.”
Back at the booking table, everyone was waiting to hear what punishment I’d been given.
A Crime of Fashion Page 4
