by Carrie Duffy
Alyson looked up to realize she’d unconsciously walked in a large circle. She was back in Nishi-Shinjuku, at the other end of the street from the hotel. Alyson set off towards it. She would order room service, just something light, then bathe and sleep. Hopefully tomorrow she’d feel better.
She entered the building and took the lift up to the hotel lobby. A male receptionist came rushing across as he saw her enter. His suit was smart, his manners polite.
‘Miss Wakefield, you do not have your cell phone?’ he asked.
Alyson checked her bag and realized she’d forgotten it.
‘A lady has been calling for you, many, many times. Donna-san, in New York. She left a message, asking that you would call her immediately.’
Inwardly, Alyson scowled. What did she want now? She was probably worried Alyson wasn’t going to show up tomorrow. Or maybe she had booked her in for some more work, after promising she wouldn’t. That was all they cared about – work and money. Alyson was nothing more than a commodity to them.
But she didn’t let her frustration show. She simply thanked the receptionist and headed across the lobby to the elevator.
Back in her room, Alyson called Donna.
‘What is it?’ she asked shortly. ‘Have you booked me in for another job?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Donna sounded uncomfortable.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Not exactly.’ Donna hesitated. ‘It’s your father.’
Alyson felt her heart contract. Adrenaline shot through her, her pulse rate tripling. ‘I don’t have a father,’ she stated, her voice hard.
‘Well you do now, honey. He’s spoken to the press. The Mail on Sunday are doing an exposé on you this Sunday. We’ve seen a proof copy and … it’s not pretty.’
27
The beautiful people of Paris streamed up to the entrance of the Four Seasons George V. Sansôme, the famous French jewellery house, was throwing a dinner, and the great and good of Paris were invited. Photographers jostled outside as guests posed on the red carpet, tucked safely behind the security cordon. Everyone was impeccably dressed, the men handsome and distinguished in black tie, the women in their finest haute couture, dripping in Sansôme diamonds.
Inside, the Salon Vendôme looked spectacular. The round tables were covered in immaculate white linen, decorated with slim gold candles in flower-covered candelabras and French crystal tableware. The food was exquisite, but many of the guests didn’t eat – the figure-conscious simply pushed the petite portions of beef medallion around their plates, perhaps taking a tiny mouthful of wilted spinach.
Dionne was seated across from David, sandwiched between André Renard, the gorgeous Marseilles-born Formula 1 driver who’d taken last season by storm, and Bertrand Benoit, Vice President of the French Fashion Council. Bertrand was a randy old goat, with swept-back silver hair and a deep mahogany tan. He kept leaning across and dribbling on Dionne’s cleavage, telling her she should pay a visit to his place in Mustique. Dionne wasn’t surprised. His wife was sitting next to David, covered in garish jewels, her expression severe. She didn’t look as though she’d be much fun in the sack.
On David’s other side was Esther Levy, a gorgeous Israeli model. She was gap-toothed and flat-chested, with long, blonde hair, and looked stunning in a sleek, peach silk dress. She was very feminine, very unthreatening. Just like Alyson Wakefield, Dionne frowned, noticing that David seemed engrossed in speaking to her.
He really was incredibly good looking, thought Dionne, looking at him objectively. That smooth, chocolate skin perfectly set off by the sharp white shirt and black jacket. His eyes were dark and warm, his body solid and powerful …
Dionne sighed. So why did she always feel as if she needed something more?
Maybe she’d just got used to David always being around and started taking him for granted. Their relationship had certainly had its ups and downs over the past few years. There were periods when both of them claimed to be faithful, really trying to make a go of things, but these were inevitably followed by stand-up rows and vicious arguments. Yet no matter how bad their bust-ups, David always came running back – then there would be expensive presents and making up in spectacular style … But still she wasn’t satisfied.
Dionne turned to the guy next to her with a dazzling smile. André Renard. Man, but he was cute. Blonde and tanned, with perfectly styled hair and bewitching blue eyes. There was something arrogant in his face – a slight sneer to the lip, an overconfidence in his actions. It was sexy, thought Dionne, feeling herself start to get hot. It marked him out as a winner.
They’d been making polite conversation all the way through the meal and Dionne was tired of being polite.
‘So, I hear you like to go fast,’ Dionne purred, noticing with pleasure the way André’s eyes roamed hungrily over her body. Her sumptuous Elie Saab dress was cut low, the tight bodice pushing up her breasts to eye-popping levels. She wasn’t a believer in subtlety.
André smiled, amused by her forwardness. He liked it when women didn’t play games.
‘Yeah, and I’m the best there is,’ he stated arrogantly. ‘World number one.’
‘At what?’ Dionne asked breathlessly.
‘Racing. Life. Sex.’ He gave a Gallic shrug, raising an eyebrow suggestively. ‘I have many talents.’
Dionne’s chest was rising and falling, her breath coming fast. Yeah, this guy was definitely on the same page. She glanced briefly across the table to see if David was watching. He wasn’t.
She leaned forward in a subtle movement, running her hand along André’s muscular thigh beneath the table. His expression registered surprise, his blue eyes widening, and then he smiled. Dionne’s fingers moved higher, dancing over his crotch. She could feel him through his trousers, hard and thick.
‘That’s quite a claim,’ she whispered.
‘Give me the chance and I’ll prove it. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.’
Dionne broke into a wide grin, amused by his arrogance. She got off on stuff like this. It was a power kick. She loved risky sex – the riskier, the better – only now she was starting to need a bigger high each time.
She stood up, pushing back her chair. The other diners at the table turned to look at her. ‘Please excuse me, I need to use the bathroom,’ she stated deliberately. David nodded, only half paying attention. Around him, the guests went back to their food.
Dionne turned to go, leaning down to speak to André. ‘Meet me outside in five minutes,’ she murmured. ‘Take me for a test drive.’
Then she stood up and sashayed out of the room, a satisfied smirk on her face.
‘My God,’ breathed Alyson, as her car pulled up outside Lynn Wakefield’s house. She’d boarded the next available flight from Tokyo to London, then taken a car service up to Manchester, a gruelling eighteen-hour journey in all, but the scene outside her mother’s home was worse than anything she’d imagined. The usually quiet street was heaving with reporters, crammed onto the pavement and spilling out into the road.
‘These all for you?’ asked the driver, nodding at the swarm of photographers.
‘Seems like it,’ Alyson replied in disbelief.
‘Good luck,’ he offered.
‘Thanks.’ She was going to need it. She stared up at the house, a good-sized, new-build detached property in a nice area. It was the first time she’d seen it since she’d bought it for her mother a few months ago, and it was a far cry from the ramshackle terrace Alyson had grown up in.
She and her mother had been in touch, sporadically, over the last year or so, gradually rebuilding their relationship. They spoke on the phone, the conversations stilted and awkward, but Alyson told herself it was progress. She still didn’t speak to her father.
Lynn had moved back into her house after more than a year spent living in the care home, and appeared to be doing well. Once she realized that Alyson was making serious money, she’d hesitantly asked for some – just small amounts at first.
Enough for a new vacuum cleaner, or to cover the grocery bill. Alyson, wracked with guilt, had offered to buy her mother anything she wanted and suggested that she move out of the depressing terraced house where she’d lived since Alyson was a baby. Her mother hadn’t wanted to go far – it was important to her to keep things familiar, to have her friends nearby – so Alyson bought the new property outright, a few streets away from the old place. All Lynn’s bills were direct-debited from Alyson’s account, and a monthly allowance landed in her mother’s bank. She’d done as much as she could – although you wouldn’t know that from the Mail on Sunday story, thought Alyson bitterly.
She stared out of the window one final time, pulling down her sunglasses and wrapping a scarf round her head. Taking a deep breath, Alyson stepped out of the car.
As soon as the reporters realized who it was, they swamped her, flashbulbs popping so brightly she could barely see. People were shouting questions, cameras being thrust in her face. It was terrifying.
‘Ally, have you spoken to your dad?’
‘Is there any truth in what he’s saying?’
‘When was the last time you visited your mother, Ally?’
Alyson ignored them all, her expression stony-faced. She battled her way down the path, physically pushing the paparazzi out of the way as she fought to get to the door. It opened in front of her and she scrambled over the step, then the next moment she was inside, safe in the hallway as the door slammed shut behind her.
It seemed startlingly quiet after the commotion outside. Instead of the hordes of photographers, it was suddenly just the two of them, mother and daughter alone for the first time in more than three years.
It was Lynn who broke the barrier first, cautiously opening her arms. Alyson embraced her, the sensation so strange and unfamiliar.
‘You look tired,’ Lynn said, breaking away and holding Alyson at arm’s length.
‘It was a long journey,’ Alyson offered by way of explanation, brushing her face self-consciously. She’d barely slept on the flight and there were dark circles under her eyes, her body thinner than ever. ‘You look good,’ she told her mother. ‘Everything does.’
And she meant it. The house was clean and tidy, and Lynn looked well presented; her skin was healthy and clear – it had lost the puffiness and dullness from when she’d been drinking – and she’d dyed her hair, the grey covered with a natural ash blonde.
‘Would you … um, would you like a cup of tea?’ Lynn asked awkwardly. They were little better than strangers.
‘Please,’ Alyson nodded. ‘I’ll help make it. You can show me round.’
Lynn led her through to the kitchen, pointing out the furniture Alyson had bought for her, the framed photos of Alyson and her brother that she had put up. As they walked into the kitchen, Lynn turned on the overhead light. All the curtains in the house had been closed to stop the paparazzi taking pictures through the windows, and the rooms were dark in spite of the daylight outside.
‘How are you?’ Alyson asked.
Lynn paused before answering. When she spoke, her words were guarded. ‘I’m okay. You?’
‘I’ve been better,’ Alyson admitted truthfully. ‘Have you seen the article?’
Lynn nodded. ‘I’ve got it through there,’ she said, indicating the living room.
‘Did you know?’ Alyson began, voicing the question she didn’t want to ask. ‘Did you know he was going to do that? What he was going to say?’
Lynn Wakefield looked nervous suddenly, a haunted look in her eyes. ‘I didn’t, Alyson, I swear I didn’t know anything about it. But … it’s complicated. Come on, let’s sit down.’
Alyson picked up her mug and followed her mother through to the lounge. The Mail on Sunday was spread open on the coffee table, staring accusingly out at them. It made Alyson feel sick to look at it – the huge headlines, the sensationalized pull-out quotes, accompanied by pictures of her looking hard-faced and cold on the catwalk, aloof and untouchable in a fragrance ad.
The headline was Ally’s Secret. Donna had faxed her a copy before she left Japan and she’d had the whole fourteen-hour flight to read it, digest it and grow furious. She couldn’t believe what her father had said.
He’d made her sound like the worst kind of person, claiming she’d abandoned her sick mother to pursue her modelling career, hiding Lynn away from the world like a dirty little secret. It said Alyson was ashamed of her mother’s illness, that she’d dumped her in a care home and run away to Paris, leaving her at the time when she needed her the most.
Even a suicide attempt couldn’t persuade cold-hearted Ally Wakefield to stay with her mother, the article said. Ally walked out as her mum begged her not to go.
It claimed that Lynn Wakefield was forced to work as a cleaner just to make ends meet, whilst Alyson lived a life of luxury, a fabulous existence of glamorous parties and private jets. They brought up the feud with Dionne as proof of Alyson’s ‘unpopularity’ within the industry, saying that she was bitchy and stuck-up, that she didn’t socialize with the other girls and was obsessed with money. They even ran the photo of her outside the Palais Garnier with Philippe Rochefort, the caption stating: ‘Even as a teenager, Ally used her stunning looks to snare one of France’s richest bachelors.’
The story was nothing but a hatchet job made up of lies and conjecture. Alyson didn’t even know how to begin to refute it. Every single allegation was untrue, but she had no idea where to start. Yes, it was true that her mother was working as a cleaner, but that was her choice and it wasn’t about the money – it got her out of the house, gave her a sense of routine that helped to stabilize her condition. As for the claims that Alyson had somehow tried to ensnare Philippe Rochefort … The very thought of it disgusted her. It was all she could do not to rip the paper into a million pieces, take it outside and burn it. But she knew it wouldn’t do any good.
‘Are you still in touch with him?’ Alyson asked. There was no need to specify who she was talking about.
‘I still see Terry …’ Lynn admitted. ‘From time to time. I can’t just cut him off, Alyson,’ she protested, seeing the look on her daughter’s face. ‘Legally, we’re still married. There’s so much history …’
‘Do you miss him?’ Alyson asked quietly, unable to tear her gaze away from her mother’s anguished face.
Lynn wouldn’t look at her. ‘Sometimes,’ she whispered. ‘Not him exactly … But there’s never been anyone else since he left. Sometimes I miss the company …’
Alyson exhaled slowly, trying to control her breathing. She didn’t think it was possible to feel any guiltier than she did right now.
‘But I didn’t know he was planning to do this,’ Lynn insisted, gesturing towards the newspaper. ‘I promise you I didn’t. He asked about you when he came round. Of course I talked about you, told him how well you were doing. Maybe I talked a bit more than I should have done, but I’m proud of you, love.’
A noise like a strangled sob escaped from Alyson as she tried to hold herself together.
‘Then he got more personal – did you have a boyfriend, how much money were you making? I said that you were doing well, that you’d invested in some properties, bought this place for me …’ Lynn’s voice was getting quieter and quieter. She looked devastated. ‘I never in a million years thought he would … that he’d go …’
Alyson put her mug down, resting her hand on her mother’s as she fought back the tears that were forming.
‘I should never have left you,’ Alyson asserted, shaking her head.
Lynn Wakefield clung to her daughter’s hand. ‘Don’t be silly. It gave me the kick I needed. Waking up in that hospital was terrifying – I knew straight away that I didn’t want to die, that I needed to get my life sorted out. I hated it in the home, but I had to prove to them that I was okay before they’d let me come back. And I am okay. I sorted myself out,’ she said, with more than a hint of pride in her voice.
‘I shouldn’t have gone,’ Alyson repeated. �
��I feel so guilty.’
‘Don’t,’ Lynn said firmly. ‘It was the best thing you could have done for both of us. What kind of life would it have been for you, spending your best years running round after me? No, you got out there and made something of yourself. Look at you now, how well you’re doing. It’s incredible.’
Alyson felt torn. Everyone thought that she had the perfect life, that she’d achieved more than most people even dream of and should be grateful for it. But it didn’t feel like that at all. ‘I’m not sure … It’s not what I want to do,’ she confessed, turning her wide, blue eyes on her mother. ‘I just don’t know any more. I feel so lost.’
Lynn Wakefield shrugged, reaching across to take her daughter in her arms. ‘Do what makes you happy, love. You only get one chance at this life, and you have to make it count.’
Dionne was squeezed inside a tiny broom cupboard, a dull light flickering on and off overhead. Her back was rammed up against a stack of toilet roll, her feet straddling a plastic bucket. It wasn’t the most glamorous location in the world, but right now she didn’t care.
André’s body was pressed up against hers, his breath hot on her neck. The door was unlocked, the whole situation risky as hell, but Dionne knew they were both getting off on it. André was talking dirty, a barrage of filth pouring out of his mouth as he described exactly what he was going to do to her. Dionne moaned, biting her lip as she scrabbled to undo his trousers. The sense of urgency was palpable, André’s hands sliding up her thighs as he fought his way through layer after layer of chiffon that seemed determined to prevent him reaching his goal.
His bow tie had been dragged off, discarded somewhere on the floor, and his shirt was undone. Finally, Dionne unhooked his trousers, pulling down the zip and tugging down his pants, gratefully freeing his swollen penis.
He wasn’t the biggest she’d ever seen, but now wasn’t the time to be fussy. After all, it was what he could do with it that counted, she thought optimistically.
