A Crime of Fashion

by Carina Axelsson

  “Ah non! Quelle catastrophe! Dry lips!” he said, as he threw the eye-shadow brush down and grabbed the gloss.

  Both Thierry and Gilles leaped to Ellie’s rescue. I watched, fascinated, as she turned her chin up towards Thierry, lips perfectly pouted and positioned for the careful strokes of his lip brush. Then (and she was still on the phone), as Gilles gently swept back a few loose hairs with his fingers, she closed her eyes. She looked as if she were praying.

  There was no point asking her how she felt about the incessant prodding. I might just as well ask a fish what it thought about water.

  “Hi! You must be Axelle.” Dom bounded into the bus, camera in tow. “You look even better in life than in the composite Hervé sent me,” he said.

  Thierry was hard at work applying some dark brown pencil to my right eyebrow which meant I had only my half-opened left eye to look through – although even that did nothing to diminish Dom’s hotness.

  “Actually, we met yesterday. You’re Dom.” While I realized there was a difference between the Axelle of yesterday morning and the one of today, still…did I look that different? Sebastian, after all, had recognized me immediately.

  “If we met yesterday then I must be suffering from a major case of short-term memory loss,” he laughed.

  I wanted to answer him, but Thierry had begun to apply mascara to my top lashes.

  “Now, Axelle, you must hold still and look downwards. Exactly, like that…good. Dom, she’ll have to talk to you later.” Then, as Dom moved off to chat to Murielle, Thierry whispered to me, “He has to talk to every pretty girl that crosses his path.” Two minutes later he said, “Et voilà! Now I’m finished. You may stretch your legs.”

  “Ah! It’s you,” Claude greeted me as he stuck his head through the open door of the bus. I turned round and saw that while he sounded pleased enough to see me, he didn’t look it. Despite his breezy manner, he seemed tightly coiled, like a snake about to strike.

  Was I starting to get paranoid about the La Lunes or was there something odd about Rose’s overly – in my eyes – warm greeting and now Claude’s mildly sinister one?

  They couldn’t possibly know I’d snuck into their house yesterday…could they?

  Before I could answer Claude – let alone start asking him about the disappearances – Dom and the rest of the crew surged forward to greet him and a discussion began about the day’s shoot. Thierry brought out his collage book to show Dom and Claude the same pages he’d shown me, Murielle asked questions about the clothes, and Gilles twisted and held Ellie’s hair to show his various ideas. My questioning would have to wait.

  I poured myself some iced tea and then slipped out of the bus for a bit of fresh air. Carefully I sipped from the glass with tiny slurps; I was under strict orders from Thierry not to smile, laugh, or basically move any facial muscles. This was to stop the foundation and powder carefully layered on my face from cracking. Great. I was finally within talking range of the La Lunes, but, because of all the gunk on my face, I couldn’t even move my lips.

  At least I could still read.

  I found a quiet corner near a neatly trimmed hedge at the bottom of one of the tower pillars and sat down with my iced tea. Then I reached into my shoulder bag and pulled out the bundle of letters I’d found yesterday. I couldn’t wait any longer – I was too curious – and now seemed as good a time as any. Besides, the crew probably wouldn’t be finished fiddling with Ellie for another half an hour. Carefully I took the first one in the pack – the one I’d meant to read last night before I conked out – and unfolded it. Fortunately, my French was up to the task. Now if these letters would only give me some clues to help find Belle…

  Paris, 5th August, 1930

  Dear Adelaide,

  As you know, my delicate constitution prevents my family and me from joining you in Normandy, but I have a new-found reason to be thankful for this otherwise deplorable enforced stay in Paris this August. I am positively trembling with excitement: my darling daughter Giselle has a suitor! And it’s all thanks to you, Adelaide!

  Tall, dark and handsome, and a businessman – well, I’ll stop as I have no need to describe him to you. You see, Giselle’s new suitor is none other than your dear friend Monsieur Pierre Roux. He has charmed us all and Giselle has rapidly developed a soft spot for this most gallant cavalier.

  Thank you so much for the letter of introduction you gave him. By coincidence, he met Giselle straight away. Giselle had been walking back from the park with Hector (whom she’d miraculously persuaded to join her for a walk – you know how her brother loves being in the office, even in this stifling heat), when they saw Pierre standing just outside your gate. To say he was baffled at seeing your house closed up is an understatement – he’d expected to drive up together with you to Normandy! Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding about the dates – although I confess that at this point I feel nothing but gratitude for this!

  Of course we invited him to dine with us that very evening and now he’s decided to stay on in Paris for a few more days! Now what do you think of that? As I always tell my dear Monsieur Merlette: a young man who makes a spontaneous change of plans can be motivated by one thing only – his heart!

  Happily, I find my constitution has rallied sufficiently to allow me the pleasure of writing to you with this news. I believe Pierre plans on joining you at the end of next week. And, if my motherly instincts are anything to go by, dare I say that you may need a new hat by spring?

  With a big hug,

  Thérèse

  I read through the letter twice more. The trail of a drunken spider would have been easier to follow than the extravagant flourishes of Thérèse’s handwriting. At least the vocabulary used was straightforward (if breathless) – and, fortunately, the name on the back of the envelope was clear: Merlette.

  Logically then, Thérèse was Thérèse Merlette; and Thérèse Merlette was the mother of Giselle and Hector – who were siblings. And, from what I could gather, a love story was unfolding, its principal players being Thérèse Merlette’s daughter Giselle and a tall, dark and handsome stranger called Pierre Roux.

  But what had me humming with quiet excitement was the brief reference to Giselle’s brother, Hector. Could this be the same Hector Merlette of the curse? The letter was written in 1930. Hector Merlette worked with François La Lune in the forties and fifties – so the timing could easily fit. Plus, his mother, Thérèse, made that cryptic comment about how he loved to work. That definitely chimed with the image my aunt had painted last night of the old-fashioned, methodical and office-bound Hector.

  I looked up quickly at the bus. Through the open door I could see Gilles’s back as he wielded a hairdryer over Ellie’s head. I folded up the letter and reached back into my shoulder bag for the packet, slipped the first one back under the rubber band, then took out the second one…

  Deauville, 13th August, 1930

  Dear Thérèse,

  My dearest friend, the news you send me is of the most worrying kind. I’m afraid I will give you a terrible shock with what I must say, so pray do sit down before reading any further.

  Unfortunately, I must emphatically state that we have never made the acquaintance of Monsieur Pierre Roux. Furthermore, we never invited anyone to join us on our journey north. I’m truly perturbed to think that someone – an imposter – has used our name to infiltrate your good graces. Please don’t believe a word he says! On the contrary, if I were you I’d immediately report him to the police! He may be a part of this ring of thieves that break into people’s homes when they’re away. Oh, Thérèse! I’m truly sorry for such a troublesome, worrying business. Unfortunately, I fear the police may be your only recourse at this late date…

  I anxiously await your next letter…

  Yours,

  Adelaide

  I took a deep breath and folded the letter back up. I didn’t need to read it again; the drama was all too clear: Mr Pierre Roux was not who he claimed to be!

  Oka
y. But so what? It was Hector that interested me – I needed him to resurface. Hopefully he’d make more than a cameo appearance in the other letters. In the meantime, I thought, as I reached again for the bundle of letters, I’d better keep reading.

  Suddenly my phone rang, making me jump. I’d been so absorbed by the letters that I’d forgotten about the outside world. I shook the spilled tea from my hand and reached for my phone. It was Sebastian.

  “Did I call at a bad time?”

  “No.” I wiped my hand on my jeans, slipped the bundle of letters back into my bag and stood up. “I’ve just been reading the first couple of letters.”

  “And? Do they have anything to do with the disappearances?”

  “Not that I can see, but I’ve only just started…although I’ve come across Hector’s name.”

  “Sounds promising…”

  “I’ll tell you all later. Where are you?”

  Sebastian was across town at City Records, searching for a trace of Hector Merlette’s family. It sounded like fun – certainly a lot more fun than having my face and hair pulled in every direction, not to mention the fact that I wasn’t even allowed to crack a smile. I said as much to him.

  “You’ve only been working for an hour and already you’ve become one of those models who complain about the unglamorous working conditions,” he said with a laugh. “Remember: for you, it’s a disguise. And you couldn’t have a better one for finding out about the La Lunes.”

  That’s what I’d thought too – until this morning. Thanks to my make-up, I was reduced to mumbling, and even if I’d been able to talk properly, it wasn’t as if I’d had chance to pull a La Lune aside for a one-on-one chat. Some disguise!

  “Anyway,” Sebastian continued, “so far you’re not missing anything. Wiki had one sentence on the Merlettes – most of it false – and I couldn’t find a lead anywhere else. If I do find something interesting I’ll call you. Promise.”

  “Okay, okay,” I sighed. “Just remember: any little thing could be important, so get it all down, will you, please? And send it to me?”

  “Bien sûr, mademoiselle.” I could feel him smiling down the line. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. If you happen to come across anything on Le Vau, let me know.”

  “You still think there’s something to that?”

  “Yes, I do. Remember Darius’s room? It was messy, but his notes were all very precise. He wasn’t – isn’t – the type to just mention something casually.”

  “Right. I’ll keep it in mind – promise. And I’ll call you later after I’ve done more digging.”

  I slipped my phone into my bag and tilted my head back as far as I could. As the sun broke through a few fast-moving clouds, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, basking in the fleeting warmth. A few seconds later I opened my eyes. Thinking of the clues in Darius’s room had made me remember the missing shoe from Belle’s wardrobe. Why was one shoe missing? The thought wouldn’t let go. I had to find an answer…

  By the time Ellie and I were needed on set it was nearly noon. According to Ellie this was normal. “But don’t worry,” she said, “we’re only doing four shots today. We’ll be finished by six. They know I have to be at my first show for hair and make-up at six-thirty.” Ellie would be walking for Louis Vuitton and Dior tonight in the opening Fashion Week shows, so, despite the relaxed start, we were on a tight schedule.

  Apparently, on some busy catalogue shoots models could be expected to do over twenty shots per day. But on a sophisticated advertising shoot, the norm was more likely to be around four or five.

  We began on the second level of the tower, at the Jules Verne restaurant. We waited while Dom and his assistants took light readings and checked equipment. Thierry, Murielle and Gilles, meanwhile, were doing their frenzied best to make every last hair, thread, and bit of glitter adorning Ellie look perfect. Claude hovered around the set, jittery and jumpy, pacing in an endless loop from Dom to Ellie to the storyboard. (A storyboard is a series of drawings or photographs put together to illustrate the “story” the shoot should be telling – a sort of navigation system for the entire crew.)

  Rose stood in a corner, talking on her phone, her back to us as she looked out at the view. I, too, turned to look at the view; from this height Paris looked like a toy city. As I watched the tiny tourists far below, a black Peugeot saloon car identical to the one that almost hit me drove into the parking lot. A tall, lean figure stepped out, then stood and tilted his head back and looked up before making his way to the nearest lift. I wondered if it could be Philippe de Vandrille.

  Finally, Ellie was ready and led to a table. Freed of their main star, Murielle, Thierry and Gilles came to work their frenzied magic on moi. Once I was deemed photo-ready, I, too, was led to the table and asked to sit beside Ellie. This was it! I was about to be photographed for the first time as a fashion model. I sat perched in position, trying not to breathe too hard or look nervous. Dom’s face was completely hidden behind his enormous camera. One of his assistants, meanwhile, was holding a large flexible disc of metallic gold fabric – a reflector – underneath Ellie and me to soften the light.

  To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what was going on. Everyone was quiet and Dom was moving around, changing positions every few seconds, as if he was trying to find the right angle to begin shooting from. Ellie wasn’t saying anything but I could see her making minute movements with her lips, neck, and hands. This time, I thought, she really is warming up. Then, a moment later, Ellie elegantly picked up a freshly fried pomme frite between her manicured fingers and put it into her perfectly painted mouth. Fantastic, I thought, we can start with lunch while we’re waiting. I’m starving! That was all the encouragement I needed: leaning over in front of her, I grabbed two handfuls of fries and greedily began wolfing them down.

  Then all chaos broke loose.

  “Hey, stop! Axelle, we’re shooting the picture, not eating lunch!” Dom yelled. “Thierry, would you check her make-up please?”

  Thierry was at my side within seconds and carefully began wiping salt off my lips. “Oh non, oh non! My lipstick!” he cried. At the same time I heard Ellie giggle and Claude order a new plate of fries.

  “But I saw you eat one,” I mumbled through my fry-filled mouth.

  “Axelle,” she said, through a bout of the giggles, “I put a fry into my mouth, but I didn’t eat it. It’s a prop. See, like this.” With a quick flick of her wrist she plucked an unsuspecting fry off the plate and popped it into her opened mouth, but she continued to hold it with her fingers. I watched as the fry hovered over the best known teeth in fashion. After a few seconds, she pulled it back out.

  “Axelle,” said Dom, as he walked up to where Ellie and I sat, “the fries are a prop, Okay? They’re not lunch. So, please, pay attention to me and try not to eat the props, all right?”

  Like a hamster at snack time, I looked up at Dom with bursting cheeks and startled eyes. I swallowed hard and nodded yes as the lump of half-chewed potatoes made its way down my throat.

  Thierry quickly retouched my lipstick while Ellie instructed me. “The camera doesn’t make much noise, but it was clicking all the time. Didn’t you see me moving?”

  “I thought you were doing some kind of model warm-up exercises.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes.

  “Well, now I know.”

  A fresh plate of fries was brought out and Dom resumed shooting. This time I made sure to listen for the camera. It was like a faint humming in the background – I was soon able to tune in and out of it. In fact, I learned by watching Ellie. She reacted instinctively to the camera and seemed to have a sort of sixth sense which told her when she should be “on”. Keeping her movements to an elegant minimum, she continued to hold a fry to her mouth, only now I knew she wasn’t actually eating it. All the while she managed to keep her eyes wide open like a kitten’s. Sometimes she’d look up or down, other times left or right; only occasionally would she deign to flatter the camera with a direct
look – and whenever she did Dom would yell, “Beautiful! Très jolie, Ellie! Très belle!”

  Meanwhile, I sat beside her. I wasn’t even sure how much of me was in the photo, but sometimes Dom would yell out, “More profile, Axelle. Yes, like that. Okay, now more to the left. Right. Left. Super! Beautiful! Beautiful!”

  Wistfully, I waited for him to yell out, “Eat the fries, Axelle! Eat the fries!” But he didn’t.

  Every few minutes, Gilles, Thierry and Murielle would dash in and check our hair, make-up, and clothes. After a while I ended up tuning out of the proceedings altogether. I thought about the disappearances, or, more specifically, the timing of the disappearances. Why now, during Fashion Week?

  And if it wasn’t counterfeiters or the curse, then Philippe was right: surely it had to be one of the group who’d been at the La Lune mansion, both Saturday night and yesterday. But which one of them? And why?

  “Axelle? Axelle – you can relax now.”

  With a start, I snapped to attention as I heard my name. Ellie was standing by me, smiling. “We’re finished with this shot and we’re going to have lunch now. You looked beautiful and you did really well. I know Dom, and I can tell that he’s really pleased with the way you worked.”

  The way I worked? All I did was sit there and move every now and then. I said as much to Ellie.

  “Yeah, but it was the way you moved: slowly but surely. And your profile. You have a wonderful profile.”

  I didn’t believe a word of what she’d just said, but it didn’t matter.

  Lunch was delicious – and I finally had my plate of fries! – but we were on too tight a schedule for a leisurely meal. As soon as Ellie and I had had our fill, Thierry and Gilles began to freshen up our make-up. Then Murielle dressed me and I was sent to help Dom test the lighting while Ellie’s hair was restyled.

  One of Dom’s assistants led me to a lift and we went up a level on the tower. A strong gust of wind hit me as I stepped onto the viewing platform. From this height, Paris looked like a detailed painting, the wide boulevards reduced to mere lines that dissected the little blocks of colour the buildings and parks had become. I could even see the place where I’d nearly been run over yesterday.