Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  She hated it.

  She’d never really lived by herself before, and she couldn’t handle it. The silence, the oppressive sound of nothing, the hell of being left alone with her own thoughts. Instead of going home she would work until the early hours at the studio, then crash out overnight on the cramped sofa in the office. She might go back to her apartment in the afternoon and grab a shower, before hurrying back to Capucine. The daytimes weren’t so bad; it was the nights that were the worst, all alone with only the darkness and the silence for company.

  Sometimes she would go out to a club and pick up a girl – it was a long time now since she’d been with a guy – and take them back with her. It meant there was someone to hold her in the night, and be there for her when she woke up.

  At first, CeCe realized that all the women she was bringing home were carbon copies of Dionne – black, curvy, outrageous. So she began deliberately going against type. Short, busty blondes; butch-looking, masculine women; or Oriental, like the girl in front of her now. Delightfully androgynous, with slim bodies and skinny hips.

  CeCe opened her eyes. The girl was dancing as if she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. Her arms were thrown above her head, her body moving in time to the music. She smiled at CeCe and moved closer. Then she wrapped her arms around her and leaned in to kiss her. Instinctively, CeCe responded. At the back of her mind she felt faintly embarrassed, knowing that she was drunk, that she must smell of brandy and cigarettes. The girl who was kissing her smelt divine. It wasn’t perfume, just the scent of her skin – fresh and clean, like soap and moisturiser.

  CeCe pulled her closer as their kisses grew harder, mouths open, tongues exploring. The girl tasted sweet, as though she’d been drinking something fruity. Her lips were soft, her body small and tight. CeCe let her hands roam across that flat, compact ass, around the tiny, almost nonexistent curve of her waist. She stroked the skin on her arm; it was hairless and soft, like a child’s.

  The girl broke the kiss, pulling away and leaning her cheek against CeCe’s as she spoke in her ear.

  ‘I’m Mayumi,’ she told her, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the music. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Cécile,’ CeCe told her. She was yelling in her ear, too drunk to make a good impression. ‘I’m Cécile,’ she repeated, unsure if Mayumi had heard her.

  Mayumi looked at her and smiled, tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulders. ‘Okay, Cécile. Let’s get out of here.’

  26

  Alyson was sitting in her hotel room in Tokyo. It was situated on the forty-eighth floor of the Park Hyatt hotel, and the view was breathtaking, out over the dazzling skyscrapers and futuristic towers of Shinjuku, all the way to Mount Fuji on a clear day. Now it was dark, and the city below her was a sea of shimmering lights and glistening neon, the Tokyo Tower lit up brightly in the distance.

  Right now, Alyson didn’t care. She closed the shades and sank down onto the bed. She wasn’t tired; she just felt listless, apathetic. She had no idea why she felt so down. It seemed ridiculously self-indulgent. Here she was, in this beautiful hotel suite, with the world at her feet – literally – and yet, for all its luxury, the room felt like a prison cell.

  Alyson lay lifelessly on the bed. She knew she should do something, but she couldn’t decide what. Bathe? Eat? Sleep?

  Her phone began to ring. Lazily, Alyson rolled over and reached for it. It was her agency in New York.

  ‘Hey, Ally, it’s Donna.’ The voice on the other end had a sharp, Brooklyn accent and talked at a mile a minute. ‘So, I have your flights confirmed to JFK tomorrow. I’ve spoken with Keiko at Shiseido and told her that your shoot absolutely cannot overrun. There’s a car coming for you at four p.m. Japanese time, and it cannot be delayed.’

  In spite of herself, Alyson smiled. She couldn’t imagine the mild-mannered, polite Keiko refusing anything of this abrasive Yank. ‘Okay,’ Alyson agreed resignedly.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘You okay, Ally?’

  It’s Alyson! She wanted to shout. My name is Alyson! Only her father had ever called her Ally, and for that reason she despised it. But she’d been rebranded, repackaged to make her palatable to the masses, and now everyone knew her as Ally. Sometimes, it felt as though the whole world wanted a piece of Ally, supermodel and supposed fashion icon. No one was interested in Alyson Wakefield, the shy, awkward girl from Manchester.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. She hesitated for a moment. ‘No, actually.’

  Was that the tiniest sigh on the other end of the line? ‘What is it?’ Donna asked briskly.

  Alyson paused. ‘I don’t know if I want to do this,’ she said, in a small voice.

  ‘Do what? The shoot?’

  ‘The whole thing. The shoot. Modelling …’ She’d just made it through another season. Four cities, endless aeroplanes, God alone knew how many shows. The intensity, the craziness, people talking about her as though she wasn’t there, sticking pins in her, the complete loss of dignity … Even just the thought of it depressed her unbearably.

  ‘Ally …’ Yes, Donna definitely sounded pissed off. ‘You’re just tired, okay? Everyone hates the season,’ she lied. ‘I know it’s long and stressful, but it’s over now. Look, you’ve been working really hard, so how about I try and clear your diary for a few weeks’ time and you can take a few days off, hmm? Book yourself in somewhere nice and just disappear. I know this fabulous place in the Maldives; all the girls here swear by it. You want me to give you the details?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Tropical spas weren’t exactly her thing. ‘But maybe some time off does sound good …’

  ‘Exactly,’ Donna said crisply, sounding pleased that the crisis had been averted. One thing Ally Wakefield could always be relied on for was her professionalism. She turned up on time, did whatever was asked of her, and was unfailingly polite to everyone from the photographer right down to the work experience kid who fetched the coffee. She was never hungover, never threw a hissy fit, and always nailed the shot.

  But there was something almost detached about her. She didn’t seem interested in the whole fashion world, nor in the perks of celebrity. The rumour was that she’d never asked to keep anything from a shoot. She even turned down free stuff, sent it back with a polite note. Who the hell turned down a complimentary Marc Jacobs handbag with a six-month waiting list? But the way Ally saw it, she already had a handbag and was happy with it, so why would she need another?

  To some, this aloofness made her even more fascinating. In an age where celebs spilled every detail about themselves, when everything from what they had for breakfast to what brand of toothpaste they preferred was documented and posted on a website somewhere, this sense of mystery was refreshing. As long as she kept bringing in a truck-load of cash for the agency, Donna didn’t care what she did.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Have a bath, and an early night. You’ll feel better in the morning. Better still, I have some friends out in Tokyo right now – John Forbes, the photographer. He shot Gisele for Italian Vogue last month,’ she gabbled. ‘And there’s Ayako Takata, she’s Head of Branding for Kenzo. Also Giuliana Petrucci, this divine little Italian model on our books who’s working out there at the moment. Do you know any of them? I could give them a call, you could head out to dinner with them …’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Alyson said quickly. Fashion people. She couldn’t think of anything worse. She hated all the bullshit that went with the industry. She didn’t think she’d come across one genuine person the whole eighteen months she’d been part of it. They only wanted to know her while she was hot, she thought cynically. She couldn’t think of one person she could really call a friend, who’d still want to be there after the buzz around her inevitably cooled.

  ‘Okay, your call. I’ll speak to you soon, Ally.’

  ‘Bye.’ But Donna had already rung off.

  Alyson lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Donna didn’t understand what she was talking about. No one did.
How could she complain that she felt completely unfulfilled, empty inside, when everyone else thought she had the perfect life? After all, she got to travel the world, wear incredible clothes and make more money in a day than most people made in a year.

  She knew she sounded ungrateful, like a spoilt child, but she couldn’t help how she felt. Of course, there were perks to the job. She’d invested wisely with the money she’d made, and knew that if it all stopped tomorrow she’d be set for life. But Alyson had never wanted to be a model. Her ambitions lay in other directions, and right now she felt as if life was passing her by. She needed something to challenge her, to excite her senses and stimulate her mind.

  Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Alyson reprimanded herself sharply. It was pathetic. She jumped up off the bed, pulling on her Burberry trench and tucking her hair up under a matching trilby. It was less of a fashion statement and more a way of trying to go incognito. Since making a name for herself, Alyson had learned the importance of hats and a large pair of sunglasses.

  She grabbed her purse and headed to the elevator with a growing sense of excitement. She loved Tokyo. It was the third time she’d been here, and whilst the city was becoming familiar, there was still so much to see. She knew she’d barely scratched the surface.

  She walked out of the hotel, slipping into the crush of people on the pavement, just another face in the crowd. She adored the energy and buzz of Tokyo, the way it forced her out of her comfort zone. Not everyone spoke English, and many of the signs were in Japanese only, so any solo outing was always an adventure. In a lot of ways, the city felt so Western and advanced, but the culture was completely alien to her, and if she stepped off the beaten track it felt as though she was in another world.

  Tonight, that was exactly what Alyson needed. She just wanted to walk and explore, to be anonymous and unnoticed. She headed towards Shinjuku Station, past the flashy malls and the high-tech stores selling the latest must-have gadgets. Alyson kept walking. She wasn’t here to shop.

  No one seemed to recognize her. Oh, she attracted plenty of attention – at five foot eleven, with white-blonde hair, she felt like a different species, towering over both men and women. But with her hat pulled low, the brim of her collar turned up against the chilly Tokyo spring, she could pass unnoticed through the busy streets.

  As she reached Shinjuku Station, she stopped dead. Just above her was an enormous billboard, her own face plastered across it and staring down at her. For a moment, she didn’t move. The crowds flowed around her, hurrying on their way. No one paid attention. It was like a clash of two worlds – up there was unreality: beautiful, untouchable Ally. Down in the street she was just Alyson, and no one gave a damn.

  She put her head down and kept walking, past the station, skirting the edge of the red light district at Kabukicho. Her mind was racing, trying to work through the issues in her head. As she so often did, Alyson found herself going back to that night in St Tropez, the night that had changed everything for her.

  She’d run from Philippe and fled back to her room, expecting someone to come after her. No one did. She was alone, she realized, completely reliant on herself – the way she always had been. There was no way she would trust anyone again – not friends, not a man. Trust was for fools who didn’t mind having their hearts broken.

  Quickly, Alyson had got her things together. It didn’t take long. She packed her small suitcase and checked out, scribbling a brief note for Saeed on the hotel notepaper. She thanked him for his hospitality and apologized for leaving without saying goodbye. He probably didn’t give a damn, but she prided herself on good manners. Then Alyson took a taxi to the airport. Not to Le Mole, where she’d arrived, but to Nice, with all the other holidaymakers who couldn’t afford to fly private.

  When she got back to the apartment, the first thing she did was email her resignation to Richard Duval. She felt bad – he’d been nothing but kind to her – but she apologized for the short notice and said she was sure M. Rochefort would approve the decision. Richard had probably been expecting this email for a while, she realized.

  After that, she packed and got the hell out of there. She couldn’t bear to stay in the apartment another night, and wanted to make sure she was gone before Dionne and CeCe got back. What was it Dionne had said? That they’d both been with Philippe? Dionne and CeCe together, planning to have sex with her boyfriend.

  Questions raced through Alyson’s mind. When? How long ago? And where? Had they been in Philippe’s beautiful apartment, the place where she’d spent so much of her time and regarded as a sanctuary from the rest of the world? His bed, where she’d slept with him night after night, where she’d let him touch her and do things to her no other man had done? Or had they been here, in the very flat she shared with the pair of them. Maybe she’d even overheard them, lain awake at night listening to Dionne groan and scream through the wall …

  Alyson felt sick. No, she was never trusting anyone again, she vowed, as she threw her clothes into a suitcase. Tears stung at her eyes, but she blinked them furiously away. She called a taxi and drove straight to a cheap hotel, where she finally gave in to her misery, throwing herself down on the small, hard bed and sobbing. She felt as though she was back to square one. It was eerily reminiscent of when she’d first arrived in Paris – no job, no friends, just a shitty hotel room in an unsavoury area. She cried until she was exhausted, eventually falling asleep on top of the dirty counterpane.

  She almost didn’t make her appointment with IMG. She overslept, depression making her drowsy, and when she finally woke up she barely had the energy to get out of bed. But she hated letting people down and dragged herself up. Alyson didn’t make any effort with her appearance. The make-up Philippe had bought her for work lay untouched in her bag, and she simply threw on her old jeans and T-shirt. They’d soon see that they’d made a big mistake, that Alyson Wakefield was no model.

  Incredibly, they hired her on the spot. They spoke to her briefly, took a few test photos and told her excitedly that she was going to be the Next Big Thing. Alyson wasn’t impressed – she assumed they said that to everyone, and she’d had enough of bullshit promises to last her a lifetime.

  They asked where she was living. When she told them, they moved her straight out into model accommodation. Five other girls, bitchy and competitive, all sharing a tiny space. It was hell. Alyson lasted two weeks before she moved out. By then it was clear she could afford her own place. The work was flying in, and everyone wanted to sign l’Inconnue, the hottest new model in town.

  Magazines wanted to interview her, features were written about her. Alyson told reporters the bare minimum, then began to decline interview requests altogether. She didn’t like the fact that what she said seemed to have changed by the time it made it into print. That the huge pull-out quotes they used didn’t accurately reflect the way she’d expressed herself. That the media appeared to be trying to mould her into something she wasn’t to fit the story they’d created.

  More than anything, she hated the intrusion into her private life. Why did some nosy journalist she didn’t know from Adam deserve to know every detail of where she’d grown up, where she liked to holiday, what her favourite skin-care product was? It was none of their damn business. So she kept quiet and continued to model. What else could she do? It wasn’t as though she had a real job, something concrete that she could go back to. She’d been a barmaid, then a general dogsbody for her ex-boyfriend’s company. Now she was bringing in good money. Most importantly, while she was forever working, travelling, moving, she had no time to think. She could block out all thoughts of Philippe, how she’d trusted him and how he’d betrayed her.

  Blocking out thoughts of Dionne was more difficult. She was everywhere and, unlike Alyson, she wasn’t shy about talking to the press. It wasn’t long before the gossip rags began to get wind of some feud between the two women, and it seemed pretty obvious that Dionne had leaked it, hoping for more publicity. She wasn’t exactly subtle. Usually, the two
of them avoided each other as best they could, but Alyson had heard rumours of Dionne refusing to do shows if Alyson was already booked for them. Alyson didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, that just meant Dionne lost out on work.

  The fashion press were fascinated by the animosity between the two of them, and it spilled over into the wider media, with mainstream magazines picking up the story. No one knew what had caused the fall-out between them. Dionne dropped hints every now and again, alluding to an argument over a man, or a professional rivalry. Every season, designers tried to get the two of them on the runway together – it would be a huge coup for a design house to book the two warring models – but Dionne always refused. On one occasion, Burberry had shot the two of them separately, then Photoshopped them into the same ad for the inside foldout cover of Vogue. Dionne had threatened them with legal action.

  Alyson couldn’t see what she’d done wrong. Dionne was the one who’d got it on with her boyfriend, publicly rubbing her nose in it, so why was she acting as though she was the injured party? And okay, so Alyson had headed up the print campaign for Capucine’s debut collection, a role that Dionne saw as rightfully hers due to some long-held pact with CeCe, but how was it Alyson’s fault if CeCe changed her mind? As far as she was concerned, it was just work, nothing personal. CeCe had explained what happened that night with Philippe, and how sorry she was, but it was before Alyson had started dating him. Unlike Dionne, Alyson had got over it and moved on.

  Her breath was coming fast as she walked and she could feel herself getting angry at the memories, her shoulders tightening with tension. Maybe she should have gone out for dinner after all. At least she’d be surrounded by people, forced to make conversation rather than brooding alone.