Diva

by Carrie Duffy

  ‘Yes, it’s me,’ Dionne said eagerly, a wave of relief washing over her. ‘CeCe, what the hell’s going on? Who are all these people?’

  CeCe tried to pull herself upright. Slowly, she looked around. ‘I don’t know …’ she muttered. She fell back against the wall, her eyes beginning to close once more. ‘Don’t care …’

  ‘Girl, what is wrong with you?’

  ‘Just let me sleep.’ CeCe sounded agitated.

  Dionne was mad. She’d made the effort, coming all the way over here to make up with CeCe, and now she was in this state. Something was clearly very wrong, yet CeCe didn’t appear to give a damn.

  ‘No, I won’t just let you sleep.’ Dionne was shouting to be heard over the music. ‘I’m getting rid of these people. This place is like a fucking crack den.’

  ‘Whatever,’ CeCe mumbled.

  Dionne was furious now. She whirled around, eyes landing on the startled guy behind her. He was fiddling with the stereo, trying to change tracks.

  ‘Get the hell out of here,’ she yelled at him.

  His eyes were dazed, his pupils enormous. He stared back, uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Get out now. Move, you goddamn jerk!’ Dionne screeched. She ran towards him, waving her arms, and he bolted away into the mass of people.

  Dionne exhaled sharply. This was going to be impossible. With a burst of inspiration, she bent down to the stereo and pulled the plug out of the wall. The music stopped instantly, and the buzz of conversation died down.

  ‘The party’s over, get the fuck out of here right now,’ Dionne yelled at the top of her lungs.

  A skinny girl with braids in her hair, wearing a pink prom dress, looked her up and down. ‘Just chill, bitch.’

  ‘I won’t fucking chill,’ Dionne fumed. ‘And don’t call me bitch.’

  ‘Isn’t that Dionne Summers?’ someone said.

  ‘Yeah man, it is. Hey, I’ve seen her pussy!’

  ‘Man, that was years ago. She got an old pussy now.’

  Dionne saw red. ‘Get out, all of you, or I’ll call the police,’ she ranted. ‘Out! Go on, get out!’

  She marched into CeCe’s bedroom, flinging open the door. On the bed, a couple were making love, while another girl was rummaging through CeCe’s closet, trying on her clothes.

  ‘Party’s over, fuck off,’ Dionne told them sharply.

  She was physically manhandling people now, pushing them towards the exit. There were protesting cries, and more lewd catcalls, but she blocked them out. Slowly people began to move, filtering into the corridor and down the stairs.

  Dionne didn’t stop until she was certain all the rooms were clear, flinging open windows as she went to try and get rid of the acrid stench. Then she slammed the front door, the noise reverberating around the now empty flat.

  CeCe was sitting up in the same place Dionne had left her, tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Dionne. I’m so sorry.’

  Dionne sat down on the floor beside her, wrapping her arms around her bony shoulders. CeCe clung to her, her body wracked with sobs. Dionne’s cashmere scarf was stained with tears and eyeliner and God only knew what else, but she didn’t care. She held CeCe until she began to grow quiet.

  ‘Come on,’ Dionne told her, helping her to stand up. ‘I’ll get us both some water.’

  ‘Can I have brandy?’

  ‘Baby, that’s not good for you. How about a coffee or something?’

  ‘I need a drink,’ CeCe pleaded, becoming tearful once again. ‘Please.’

  ‘I don’t think you have anything left,’ Dionne told her softly. ‘Those bastards cleaned you out.’

  ‘Check my room,’ CeCe whispered. ‘Under the bed.’

  Dionne looked at her. Her body was shaking, and she didn’t look healthy. Maybe alcohol would help, as a temporary measure. Sighing heavily, she headed to the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with an unopened bottle of Courvoisier.

  ‘What do you keep one there for?’

  ‘Emergencies,’ CeCe told her seriously, already pulling off the plastic and unscrewing the cap. Dionne frowned as CeCe placed the bottle to her lips, swigging on it as eagerly as a baby calf suckling on its mother’s milk.

  ‘Hey, girl, take it easy.’

  CeCe looked up at her with tear-stained eyes. ‘I heard Elite fired you,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘Uh huh.’ That wasn’t the comment Dionne was expecting, but she was willing to run with it. ‘Nowhere else will take me on – nowhere decent, anyway. I’m a liability, that’s what they tell me. A risk. Turns out that a heavily pregnant diva with a pornographic past is pretty much unemployable, apparently. Look, CeCe …’ She needed to get out what she’d come here to say. ‘I’m so sorry about everything that happened between us. Really I am. It should never have happened – it just got out of hand, and I feel so bad about everything. Hey, I guess I always was a bitch, right?’

  She raised an eyebrow ruefully, and CeCe smiled.

  ‘You know if it had been up to me that job would have been yours? I’d have done anything for you, Dionne.’

  ‘I know you would, honey. Come here.’ She held out her arms, and the two of them embraced, CeCe’s skinny body pressed against Dionne’s bump. It was as though the years had rolled away, as though all their success had never happened and it was just the two of them again, curled up on the sofa after a night on the town, sharing secrets and dreams and ambitions.

  ‘Congratulations on the baby.’ CeCe sat up and pulled away, rubbing her hand over Dionne’s swollen belly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  ‘Ain’t that the million dollar question …?’ Dionne commented archly. ‘But come on, CeCe. What the hell’s going on with you, huh? Why are you living like this?’ She waved an arm to indicate the carnage in the room.

  There was a long silence. Finally, CeCe spoke. ‘She left me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mayumi.’ The name meant nothing to Dionne but she kept quiet, encouraging CeCe to talk. ‘I loved her, Dionne. I was crazy about her. She was my inspiration, the only thing that kept me designing.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ Dionne said gently. ‘You’re the one who created all those amazing designs, not anyone else.’

  ‘No,’ CeCe insisted. ‘I needed … I needed her.’

  ‘What happened?’ Dionne asked carefully. ‘Did you have a fight or something?’

  CeCe shook her head miserably. ‘No, nothing like that. She walked out on me. I came home one day and she’d gone. Taken everything and left. She thought I wouldn’t find her,’ CeCe explained, her words slurring. ‘I think she changed her number – I could never get through. I didn’t even know where she lived. She was a student, you see, always told me her place was a mess and she didn’t want me to see it.

  ‘But I knew her timetable. I went to her university and waited until she’d finished her lessons. I saw her come out of the building. She looked perfect – exactly as I remembered her. But she was with a guy. They were holding hands and they didn’t see me. I hung back, hiding in the crowd. And then they kissed.’ Tears were rolling down CeCe’s cheeks, and she took another long swig of brandy.

  ‘You should have seen them, Dionne. It was like she didn’t want to let him go, like it was a physical pain. Even when they withdrew, their fingertips were touching until the very last second. She was never like that with me,’ CeCe wailed. ‘I feel like she was playing with me, like she was never really serious at all. She left me for a man. It always happens,’ CeCe burst out, glaring accusingly at Dionne. ‘I fucking hate men.’

  ‘Hey, I hear you, sister,’ Dionne tried to joke, looking down at her belly.

  CeCe stared at her. She looked utterly lost, her face streaked with make-up, the tears dripping from her cheeks. ‘Hold me, Dionne. I miss her so much. I need her. I need someone …’

  Dionne leaned across, taking CeCe’s fragile body in her arms. It was clearly a long time since she’d eaten a square meal.<
br />
  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ CeCe sobbed. ‘My life is such a mess. I just wish there was some way out, some way to start again …’

  ‘Hey, it’ll be okay,’ Dionne assured her, stroking her hair. It was lank and greasy, and badly needed washing. ‘I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you’ll get out the other side. You just have to hold on to that.’

  ‘I just feel like … like there’s nothing to live for.’

  ‘You’ve had your heart broken, baby. I know it feels like hell now, but you’ll get over it, I promise you.’

  ‘It hurts so much.’

  ‘I know it does, boo, but you’ll find someone else. You’re amazing, you know that? So talented and special.’

  ‘Really?’ CeCe looked up at her in disbelief.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Dionne smiled. She stroked CeCe’s face, wiping the tears away with her thumb.

  CeCe stared at her for a moment. Then she tilted her head upwards and moved towards her suddenly, her lips meeting Dionne’s.

  For a second Dionne didn’t move, taken by surprise at the familiar feel of CeCe’s kisses, her mouth soft and warm. But her breath smelt of stale alcohol, and the situation was all wrong. Shocked, Dionne pulled away. ‘No, CeCe honey, I didn’t mean …’

  CeCe looked mortified, devastated by the rejection. ‘You’re all the same, aren’t you?’ she spat accusingly. ‘I’m just some plaything to you straight girls. You used me, Dionne.’

  ‘That’s not fair—’

  But CeCe cut her off. ‘I broke my heart over you and you didn’t give a damn. You used me to get what you wanted – that’s all you ever do to people. You’re a heartless bitch. I’m not surprised you’re on your own now.’

  Dionne stood up. There was no point in getting mad. She’d grown up a lot these past few weeks, and was learning not to fly off the handle at every little thing. CeCe was clearly wasted. She was hurt and lashing out, and Dionne knew it wasn’t personal. She didn’t even know if CeCe would remember what she’d said when she woke up tomorrow.

  ‘Look, CeCe, I’d better go. Get some sleep, okay? I’ll swing by tomorrow and check in on you. And lay off the brandy, yeah?’

  ‘Just get out,’ CeCe sobbed. ‘I hate you, Dionne. You’re a fucking bitch. Just get out.’

  Without another word, Dionne got up and left the apartment.

  After Dionne had left, CeCe sat on the sofa for a very long time, staring into nothingness. The silence that had long haunted her was oppressive – she’d managed to block it out with noise and people, becoming numb to life. But now it was back and she didn’t know how to deal with it.

  She stared round at her beautiful apartment, seeing it afresh for the first time. It was a wreck. Furniture was pushed over and broken, smashed glass littered the floor. One guy had clearly pissed in the pot plant – yellow urine sat on the wood around it – and a dozen cigarettes had been stubbed out in the soil. Some of her possessions were missing, presumably stolen, and someone had even graffitied her hallway, a spray-painted tag on the long white wall.

  CeCe reached down beside her and picked up the bottle of brandy, taking a long, deep swallow. It helped. The alcohol dulled her sensations, blocking out real life. She took another swig. It almost hit the spot, but not quite. She could still feel. She didn’t want to feel any more. If she did, all the misery came back to her: the mess of her business, the slow death of her career, the desertion of her lover.

  Dionne said it would get better, but what was the point? CeCe didn’t want to get better. She couldn’t see that there would ever be anything good in her future again. She swallowed some more brandy, drinking for as long as she could until her body rejected it and she spat it back out. It ran down her chin, spilling over her clothes and the sofa. Dazedly, CeCe wiped her mouth.

  Then she hauled herself off the sofa, the brandy bottle still tightly clutched in one hand, and headed for the bathroom.

  Dominique Clemenceau sat stiffly in her apartment on her faux Louis XV armchair, her cream Persian cat seated on her lap.

  At least that infernal music from the flat upstairs had stopped, she thought irritably. The situation had become interminable over the last couple of days. It had been the same ever since that eccentric designer had moved in. Dominique had never heard of her, but apparently she was very popular with the young people.

  Her living habits, however, left something to be desired. There were people coming and going at all hours of the day and night, undesirables hanging around on the staircase and the near constant smell of marijuana drifting round the building.

  But, for now, the noise had stopped and the people had left. Dominique sat quietly, enjoying the rare sound of silence, until a peculiar noise caught her attention. It was as though she’d left a tap running somewhere, a constant drip drip drip. She stood up slowly, shooing the cat from her lap, and went to investigate.

  She traced it to the bathroom and, as she opened the door, Dominique did something she rarely did. She blasphemed.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed, as she saw the water dripping through the ceiling, landing in a puddle on her expensively tiled floor. Well, this really was the last straw. She’d put up with the partying and the drugs and the noise, but this was criminal damage! She was going upstairs right now to give that young lady a piece of her mind, Dominique vowed. She didn’t care whether she was a famous designer or not – it still didn’t give her the right to ruin other people’s apartments.

  Angrily, Dominique climbed the central staircase to the next landing and rapped sharply on the door. When there was no answer, she tried the handle and was surprised to find it opened.

  ‘Bonjour?’ she called out. ‘Il y a quelqu’un?’

  There was no reply.

  Hesitantly, she stepped further into the apartment, calling out again. The place was a pigsty – there was mess everywhere, graffiti on the walls, and all the windows had been left wide open, the curtains billowing out in the light breeze.

  Dominique moved towards what she assumed was the bathroom, conscious of the damage the water would be doing to her own apartment. Time was of the essence – she didn’t want the ceiling to cave in.

  Perhaps the stupid girl had gone out and left a tap on. Yes, she could definitely hear the sound of running water.

  Dominique moved towards the bathroom and pushed open the door. What she saw made her eyes bulge, her shaky hands flying up to her mouth. Bile rose in her throat and she let out a bloodcurdling scream. Then she collapsed onto the floor, and everything fell silent.

  35

  Kennedy’s Dubai was in utter chaos, and Alyson was right in the middle of it – literally. She stood in the centre of what was slowly beginning to take shape as a recognizable bar and restaurant, directing the whirlwind of activity all around her.

  Aidan was flying in later today. It was almost a fortnight since he’d last been in the country, and Alyson wanted everything to be perfect for his arrival. Right now, that looked like a pretty tall order. There were still workmen everywhere she turned – carpenters, joiners, plumbers, all rushing to complete their allotted tasks. The electricians were installing the distinctive chandeliers overhead, while the walls were being given their final coat of paint. The finishing touches to the spectacular bar area were being fitted by the entrance, and even outside the beautiful wooden terrace was being sanded and varnished.

  ‘Miss Wakefield? Where do you want this?’

  Alyson turned round sharply, brushing away a strand of hair that had come loose from her messy ponytail and was snaking across her face. Her pale blonde hair was getting long; she was so busy she’d had no time to go to the hairdresser’s, and her appearance was the last thing on her mind.

  ‘Over there,’ she directed, consulting her clipboard then pointing in the direction of the bar.

  It was the Kennedy coat of arms, carved in Irish oak, and it had been shipped over all the way from Galway. Aidan had insisted on having one in every Kennedy’s, a signature piece w
hich would have pride of place above the well-stocked bar.

  The man nodded, struggling to carry the enormous package shrouded in layers of polythene. Alyson watched in excitement as it was carefully unwrapped, thrilled to see that it had survived its journey halfway across the world intact. It was a beautiful piece, exquisitely carved and expertly finished, and it would look fantastic when it was finally erected.

  Her BlackBerry began to ring, and Alyson snatched it up. It was one of her suppliers, letting her know the linen napkins would be late. ‘Shit,’ she swore. ‘Well, can you give me an arrival time?’

  She made a mental note to switch suppliers for the next order, and hung up.

  In a matter of weeks, her role had extended way beyond its original, consultative brief, and she’d essentially become project manager of Kennedy’s Dubai, overseeing everything while Aidan flew back and forth to Europe, attending to the rest of his business.

  Alyson didn’t mind. She’d become strangely fond of Dubai, with its insane weather and ever more extreme ways to beat nature. Not that she’d had much time to appreciate the shopping and sunbathing for which the extravagant Gulf state was famous. She’d been on a steep learning curve since the day she arrived, rapidly acquiring a wealth of knowledge on everything from banking in the emirate to its complex legal system.

  When she’d taken the commission that night in Kennedy’s London, riding high on a wave of enthusiasm and optimism, Alyson had only the barest idea of what it was like to conduct business in the Middle East. Sure, there’d been the odd photo shoot in Jordan, and a fashion show one time in Lebanon, but this was a whole different ball game.

  Now she was dealing with accountants, foremen, interpreters, government agencies. She was learning about permits and licences, with a crash course in taxation and the strict alcohol laws. The emirate was keen to encourage overseas investment, offering favourable tax breaks as an incentive, but the flip side was a whole load of red tape and legalese.

  And, of course, she had the added problem that some men out here weren’t interested in dealing with a woman. Quite frankly, Alyson wasn’t about to try and change their minds. If they wanted to lose out on business, that was their problem. She wasn’t on a crusade. Instead, she concentrated on building a good reputation amongst the people she was working with, ensuring she was always courteous, professional and appropriately dressed, conscious that she was working in a Muslim state. Being young, blonde and female, she knew she had a lot to prove. She had to work twice as hard to be taken seriously.