by Carrie Duffy
‘She’s just as bad as everyone says she is,’ agreed Alexa.
‘What a diva,’ said Gerard, the hair stylist. Gerard was gay, and his tone was awestruck.
Dionne barged into Nicolo’s dressing room without knocking. ‘Is he in here?’ she yelled. ‘Oh hel-lo,’ she broke off, a lascivious look crossing her beautiful face. Nicolo was pulling on a pair of spotless white briefs. Dionne caught a glimpse of firm, tight buttocks as he stood up and whirled round. His skin was tanned and glistening. He had an incredible six-pack, an impressive bulge in his trunks. Dionne stared unashamedly.
‘Is that all you, or have you got a roll of quarters down there?’
‘Scusi?’
‘Never mind, honey,’ Dionne grinned wickedly. It didn’t matter if they didn’t speak the same language. Some things were universal. She let her eyes run languidly over him, leaving him in no doubt as to her intentions.
Then she walked right up to him, standing intimidatingly close. He was a few inches taller than her, and when he looked down, he couldn’t help but stare directly at her cleavage. Dionne tilted her head upwards, as though she was about to kiss him. ‘I’m Dionne, nice to meet you,’ she purred, her voice breathy.
Nicolo looked intoxicated by her, absolutely under her spell. Elise, standing behind Dionne, was pissed off. Nicolo had been pretty friendly with her until Dionne had rocked up. It was like a form of racism, Elise thought bitterly. Models only stuck with their own breed – other beautiful people. It was as though they didn’t want to pollute the gene pool. Five-foot-nothing make-up artists with out-of-control hair and a few extra pounds on the hips certainly didn’t count.
‘Well, I’m looking forward to working with you,’ Dionne told him breathlessly. She turned and sashayed to the door, throwing him a look over her shoulder.
Elise followed her as she finally sat back down in the chair.
‘Make sure I look hot,’ Dionne snapped at her. Then she closed her eyes as Elise got to work, reflecting on the perfection of the butt cheeks she’d just seen. She wouldn’t mind grabbing onto those later. And if Nicolo was lucky, she might suck him off before she made him go down on her.
Dionne felt confident she could have him. She could have any man she wanted.
Of course, David was still hanging around, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. It was like everything in her life these days – she could have whatever she wanted. Dionne could make the most insane request and some underling would be despatched to find it, with instructions to return as fast as possible.
Eighteen months ago, when she’d walked for Capucine, her career had already been on the up. But that one show had sent her career skyrocketing. Dionne had shown no hesitation in dumping her small-time agent and signing with Elite as soon as she could. She hadn’t stopped working since, catapulted into the big league. Armani, Marc Jacobs, Alexander McQueen, Louis Vuitton – you name them, she’d walked for them. She’d done ad campaigns for Versace, Gucci and Burberry, covers for French Elle, Brazilian Vogue and i-D magazine. There’d been a collaboration with MAC, and spokes-model roles for H&M and Revlon.
Ultimately, Dionne wanted to be a global brand, a multitasking super force. Heidi had the presenting, the Birkenstocks, the maternity line. Kate had the music, the high street collaborations, the perfumes. Dionne wanted to be bigger than any of them.
The only blight in her otherwise charmed existence was Alyson Wakefield. Perfect, pretty Alyson – or Ally, as she’d been rebranded. L’Inconnue, as the media sometimes fondly referred to her. She’d just walked straight into the career Dionne had been fighting for her whole life, and everyone loved her. She’d even stolen Dionne’s guaranteed gig as the face of Capucine, and for that Dionne couldn’t forgive her – or CeCe.
The two women had very different styles. Dionne was strong and brash, feisty and in-your-face. Her shots were always electric, full-of-energy action poses. You almost expected her to leap from the page and sock you in the face.
In comparison, Alyson was boring and insipid – according to Dionne, anyway. With her slim, pale body, she was perceived as vulnerable and waif-like, touted as the natural successor to Kate Moss. She’d been photographed dewy-eyed and flat-chested for Calvin Klein, WASP-y and precious for Ralph Lauren. Dionne couldn’t stand her.
She’d tried to trash her career before it even got off the ground, but it hadn’t worked. Alyson’s rise had been too meteoric, and Dionne simply didn’t have the clout.
The two hadn’t spoken since that day on the yacht. Alyson had walked out, leaving without speaking to anyone. Dionne refused to feel guilty over what she’d done. Alyson needed to get with the real world. Men slept around. Hell, women slept around. Why couldn’t Alyson just get out there and have a little fun? According to tabloid reports, she was still single. She was never pictured out with guys. All she did was work that skinny butt off, and designers and the media all loved her.
Dionne pursed her lips in a way that made Elise sigh in frustration. Dionne didn’t notice. She was too busy brooding about Alyson Wakefield. Well, she wasn’t going to think about her any more. She was going to think about the gorgeous guy next door and what she was going to do to him after the shoot.
Fuck Alyson Wakefield, and her workaholic, virginal ways. Dionne was going to take over the world, and she was going to have a hell of a lot of fun doing it.
25
The club was dark. It was a narrow cavern of underground tunnels, the brickwork painted black and covered in posters for upcoming gigs. Music was playing loudly – French pop, occasionally mixed in with something edgier.
CeCe leaned against the wall, feeling the rough edge of the brickwork press into her back. She took a slug from her brandy and coke. She was starting to feel good – she’d taken a little MDMA to loosen her up, and it was beginning to kick in. Hazily, she stared around her. There were a lot of people on the dance floor and the sweat was dripping from the ceiling. Beside her, two girls were heavily making out, oblivious to everyone around them.
CeCe wondered if anyone recognized her. With her distinctive style, she rarely blended into the background. Her hair was still cropped short, but she’d grown out the other side and dyed the whole thing a vivid red. It was pretty noticeable. Then again, she wasn’t on the radar for anyone outside the fashion world. The models were the public faces, and very few designers achieved household recognition unless they courted it. CeCe didn’t court it. She had no interest in being a celebrity. She just wanted to be known for what she did.
She downed the brandy and coke, and felt the world begin to blur. That was good. That was how she wanted it to be. To dull the pain, and not to have to deal with reality.
The last eighteen months had been a roller coaster by anyone’s standards. The Tuileries show had had the desired effect, catapulting her into the fashion industry’s consciousness. Almost instantly she was the hottest new thing on the block, bigger than she’d dared to dream. Celebrities wanted to wear Capucine on the red carpet, requests tumbling in thick and fast for a bespoke gown for this event or that film premiere.
CeCe had gone from being a one-woman band to suddenly acquiring a huge team, each of whom claimed to be necessary for her future survival – agents, managers, publicists, spokespeople, not to mention a whole design team to help her produce the hugely anticipated next collection. CeCe had appointed quickly and well – young, hungry kids who were outside the established modes. She didn’t want anyone safe or risk averse – those who’d trained in knitwear, or who favoured drab, ‘classic’ styles in grey and beige. CeCe took the talented and the eccentric, those who fitted her ethos and could share her vision.
Then there had been the endless flights. To the Far East to visit factories, to Italy to source materials. She’d hired a team of pattern-cutters in Poland, a PR agency in the States to promote Capucine over there. It was nonstop. CeCe wondered if she would ever find the time to design again.
But the fashion world was waiting with baited breath, eager
to see her A/W collection, this time presented ‘officially’ at the Carrousel du Louvre. CeCe’s feet had barely touched the ground in six months, and the second collection was built on adrenaline, enthusiasm and excitement. The critics adored it, falling over themselves to give it glowing reviews, each one more effusive than the last. Commercially, it was a huge success; Capucine A/W had been stocked by Printemps in Paris, Selfridges in London, by Saks and Neiman Marcus in New York, to name but a few.
Hand in hand with the rave reviews came the job offers. CeCe was approached to become head of womenswear at Hermès – a dream job by anyone’s standards, let alone someone who’d been a complete unknown twelve months ago. But after agonized soul-searching and endless sleepless nights, CeCe turned it down. Her priority was to make a success of Capucine, to build the label and grow it – not to throw it all away and become immersed by some huge brand.
Then LVMH made an offer to buy her out. They were offering everything she needed on a plate – money, security, big-name backing, all dangled temptingly under her nose. CeCe bit the bullet and turned them down too, fearing outside interference and a loss of control. Everyone said she was crazy. Perhaps she was. All she knew was that she’d made it this far by herself, and selling out at the first opportunity would feel like failure. So she struggled on by herself, spending days on end kicking herself for not having succumbed to the billion-dollar pockets of LVMH. Life would be so easy, so much more secure … But in her heart, she knew she’d done the right thing.
And then the backlash started. The whispers had begun with her last S/S collection, a year after her fêted Tuileries debut. Most of the reviews had been positive. Just a few – that bitch Ana Rodzik on the Slave to Fashion website, and that known dyke-hater, Stéphane Matthiae, who wrote for Madame Figaro – had voiced their dissent. Phrases like ‘unoriginal’, ‘running out of steam’ and ‘one-season wonder’ had been bandied about.
CeCe tried to ignore them, putting her head down and getting on with her designs, an A/W collection that would put her firmly back where she belonged and silence her detractors. But the pressure was getting to her, the stress of the situation undeniable.
The latest Paris Fashion Week had ended just over a fortnight ago, and CeCe had been roundly slated. This time, the critics hadn’t been so limited – the consensus was that she’d lost it.
It happens to so many … commiserated La Mode. After a promising start, Capucine turns out to be little more than a one-season wonder …
CeCe Bouvier has become a victim of her own hype, bitched Stylista.com. Her latest show proves that her much-heralded debut was nothing more than a clever PR stunt.
CeCe had burned with fury when she read that. She was so annoyed, she could hardly see straight.
But it didn’t just affect her – it crushed the team around her. They’d believed they were joining something new and exciting, looking forward to a bright future in a prestigious fashion house. CeCe could hardly bear to see the look of disappointment in their eyes. They were losing their belief in her, losing faith in the Capucine label. And that, for CeCe, was harder to bear than anything else.
She knew she needed to get back on the horse, rally the troops and dive headlong into her next collection. It needed to be incredible, something original, beautiful and coveted, to put her back on the map and prove her critics wrong. But she couldn’t do it. CeCe hated to admit it, but she was terrified. She’d only been back in the studio once. The looks on everyone’s faces, the accusation and blame in their eyes, had frightened her so badly that she’d locked herself in her private office, requesting not be disturbed. She’d spent a horrific afternoon staring at a blank piece of paper, unable to do anything. It was as though her brain had shut down. No inspiration came.
CeCe had fled, straight to a bar where she’d begun drinking. When it got later she’d moved on to a club where she’d picked up a girl. Anything to dull the pain, to not be alone when she woke up. When the girl left the next morning, CeCe threw on her clothes and headed out to a bar, where the cycle began again. This had been going on for two weeks now, and she hadn’t been back to Capucine’s offices since. The black mist had descended, the depression that CeCe knew from experience was so hard to battle her way out of. She didn’t even have the energy to try; she wanted to lie back, wave a white flag and lose herself somewhere at the bottom of a brandy bottle.
Tonight she was at La Douceur, one of her less frequented haunts in the Marais. CeCe stared at her empty glass for a moment, then staggered to the bar for another. As she slumped against the counter, a girl approached her. CeCe turned her head to look, unashamedly checking her out. Her vision was blurred, but the girl was cute. Asian – Japanese maybe. Her face was pretty, with fine features and sloping, almond-shaped eyes; a long curtain of thick, dark hair fell straight down her back.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’ CeCe asked. Her words were slurred.
The girl shook her head, reaching for CeCe’s hand and pulling her onto the dance floor. It was totally unexpected. For a second, CeCe just stood there stupidly as the girl began to dance.
Her body was tiny. She wore black skinny jeans, slung low on her protruding hips, heavy biker boots and a white vest top with spaghetti straps. She had a flat chest, sharp nipples visible through the thin fabric, and a snake inked in black on her right shoulder blade. Her skin was creamy white, contrasting dramatically with the dark tattoo.
CeCe began to move, awkwardly at first. She didn’t usually dance, and she’d been drinking heavily. Her body felt clumsy and uncoordinated. She started to move from side to side, swaying to the rhythm, feeling the beat. CeCe closed her eyes self-consciously, not wanting to see the girl watching her, trying to get lost inside herself.
She knew she couldn’t go on like this – the drinking, the partying, the one-night stands – but she didn’t know what else to do. She was paralysed by fear. It was weeks since she’d touched her designs; after that abortive attempt in the Capucine offices, she’d been too scared to even try. She knew what the real problem was. Her muse had deserted her.
CeCe needed to be in love to design. It didn’t have to be a sexual thing, she just needed to adore someone, to give her all to them. For a long time that had been Dionne. She’d been crazy about her since the first night they met; she loved being around her, absorbing that energy and lust for life. It was no coincidence that she’d been at her most creative and most inspired in those early days, when she, Dionne and Alyson had shared an apartment in the 8th. Dionne had pushed her all the way – hell, she’d even been the one to suggest gate-crashing the Tuileries and putting on the flash-mob show that had launched Capucine globally.
It was after that Fashion Week that everything had begun to fall apart. The press had picked out Alyson as the star of the show – not Dionne, as everyone expected. They’d clamoured for interviews with CeCe and Alyson, ‘the designer and her muse’, as they’d been dubbed. L’Inconnue and the woman who’d discovered her.
Dionne had been livid, accusing CeCe of betraying her. Hadn’t they agreed, all that time ago, that when one of them made it, they’d do whatever they could to help the other? They’d made a pact, Dionne reminded her furiously, and that pact couldn’t be broken.
CeCe was torn. Had it been solely down to her, she’d have chosen Dionne in a heartbeat, but the situation was no longer that simple. The fact was that Alyson was now the one getting all the publicity. It was Alyson the press were clamouring to speak to. She and CeCe were the dream ticket as far as the media were concerned, and Dionne was just another of the jobbing models CeCe had booked for the day.
‘You’re a fool if you don’t take her,’ Jacques Perrot, CeCe’s new second-in-command told her.
The rest of the team were equally enamoured: ‘We want to work with Ally – she looks amazing in the clothes, she perfectly captures the spirit of Capucine, and everyone loves her.’
Her new investors were even plainer – ‘Go with Ally, or we pull the funding.’ The consens
us was clear and CeCe was backed into a corner.
‘It was out of my hands,’ she told Dionne beseechingly, as she broke the news that Alyson had been chosen for Capucine’s first campaign. ‘I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’ She couldn’t bear Dionne to be angry with her. They’d been friends for so long and CeCe worshipped her; she would walk over hot coals if Dionne demanded it.
Dionne looked at her long and hard. She drew herself up to her full height, a sneer forming on those bee-stung lips. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ Dionne told her bluntly.
They hadn’t spoken since, and CeCe missed her more than she could possibly say, horrified to think that she’d put her career before their friendship. At first she’d tried to make up with her, but her phone calls went unanswered, emails ignored, and after a while she simply gave up. Dionne’s career continued to flourish and the message was clear: I can do this without you. She was ferociously ambitious, willing to do whatever it took and trample on whomever she needed to in order to make it to the top. At times, the strength of her determination was frightening.
Any chance she got, Dionne would bad-mouth Capucine and Alyson, refusing to work with either of them. It was incredibly unprofessional, but the press loved a bad girl and rivalry like that sold magazines. Dionne got the fame she craved and became a gossip column staple, frequenting the world’s hot spots with a veritable harem of eligible men – dining with David Mouret in Paris, partying with a hot young rock star in Miami, holidaying in the Turks and Caicos with a big-shot movie producer. CeCe papered over the cracks in her broken heart and tried to move on.
When Dionne packed her things and moved out of their shared apartment, CeCe couldn’t stand to be there any longer. Everywhere she turned there were ghosts – of Dionne, of Alyson, of the good times the three of them had shared, the tears they’d cried and the ridiculous quantities of champagne they’d drunk. She handed in her notice for the tenancy and moved out the following day, not even staying until the end of the notice period. It felt like the end of an era. She bought her own place in Sentier, the textile district; a beautiful, high-ceilinged, two-hundred-square-metre apartment, a stone’s throw from Capucine’s offices. She intended it to be a new start, a way of proving to herself that she was grown up enough to live on her own.
