by Carrie Duffy
“You look like a sexy Harajuku girl,” Dionne told her.
“And you look like a model,” CeCe replied, running her gaze over Dionne who sat resplendent in skinny jeans that clung to every curve of her endless legs, and a plain white tank with a cropped leather jacket. “A fabulous supermodel.”
“Thanks honey,” Dionne beamed. “That’s half the battle.”
The cab made its way towards the centre of the city, making a right at the lights then slowing to a crawl along the Champs Élysées. The traffic was insane – when was it ever not in Paris? – but Dionne didn’t care. She was happy to lounge on the back seat, peering out at the city from behind her oversized Gucci sunglasses. She still couldn’t believe she actually lived here. Who would have imagined that Dionne Summers from downtown Detroit would end up in the most beautiful, romantic city in the world?
But she’d done it. She’d followed her dreams and got the hell out of there, no matter the cost. It was almost three years ago now since she’d left Michigan, and the memories had faded to little more than a bad dream. She’d done what she had to, that was all, and there was no shame in that. It made her laugh to think how she’d revered Dash Ramón, how her view of the world had been so blinkered as to think everything revolved around that little pocket of the city. All she’d known at the time was that she had to get out. She wasn’t like the rest of them – she had ambition, self-belief – and there was no way she was going to end up as another deadbeat dropout, like the rest of the kids on her block.
After that night at Dash’s, she’d run back to her momma and daddy’s house and picked up the bag she’d packed the day before. Leaving a note on the kitchen table, she caught a cab straight to the airport, her heart hammering the entire journey. She didn’t start breathing again until the Air France plane rose into the air above Detroit. But as soon as she arrived in Paris and saw the sweeping, tree-lined boulevards, the ornate buildings carved from white stone just like in the movies, Dionne knew all the risks had been worth it. Here she could make it. Here she would fulfil her destiny.
Dionne wanted to be a model. She was tall, slim and beautiful, and ever since she was a kid people had commented on how incredible looking she was. Oh, she’d tried agencies back home in Michigan, but every single one rejected her. Too voluptuous, too curvaceous. And all because she had breasts and a butt, like a real woman should. So she worked out like a demon and dropped twenty pounds, but her curves stayed resolutely in place and there was nothing she could do about it. As a proud African-American, they were as much a part of her as her chocolate skin or her liquid brown eyes.
She’d believed that Europe would be the place where she’d finally make her breakthrough, but so far it had been harder than she’d ever imagined. Yes, she’d landed an agent, but one which operated from a single room above a hardware store on the outskirts of Paris. It was a long way from the international representation she’d dreamed of. Occasionally, the agency sent her on a few castings. Very occasionally, she booked something – usually catalogue work, or maybe a low paid print ad. French Vogue were hardly beating down her door.
But Dionne loved the city, and she was having a blast. The ubiquitous party girl, she’d met CeCe – Cécile Bouvier, aspiring fashion designer – on yet another wild night out and they’d clicked instantly, moving in together a few weeks later. The two of them made a formidable pair; between them, they knew all the doormen at the hottest clubs and had no problem getting into even the most exclusive of venues. Their friends were rich, powerful, international jet-setters, who wanted a good time and were willing to spend lavish amounts of money. Dionne was now an expert at both.
The cab finally made its way across Place de la Concorde, pulling up a few minutes later outside Rivoli Couture – a discount store selling high-end designer brands at knock-down prices to undiscerning tourists. Dionne staggered through the door, closely followed by CeCe, and was greeted by a chorus of whoops and cheers as their colleagues acknowledged their late arrival.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck you all,” Dionne told them good-naturedly, as she spread her arms wide and bent over in a mock bow.
“Where’s Khalid?” asked CeCe, referring to the store’s owner, who ranted and raved every time they turned up late but, despite repeated threats, had never yet got round to sacking them.
“You’re in luck,” replied Maarit, a gorgeous, Finnish blonde. “He called in sick today.”
“Sick?” Dionne repeated, as she pulled off her sunglasses and winced at the bright shop lights. “He’s never sick.”
“Well, he must be dying because he’s not here.”
“Cool,” Dionne commented, a grin spreading across her face. “While the boss is away, Dionne will play …”
“Maybe later,” said Francesco, appearing out of the back. Francesco was a flamboyant Italian of questionable sexuality. “We have just had a huge delivery come in, of the most hideous clothing imaginable, and I need some help to put it all away.”
Dionne pulled a face. “No rest for the wicked.”
“It’s disgusting,” Francesco said with emphasis, leading Dionne and CeCe through to the stock room, where he pulled out a pair of Hawaiian-print palazzo pants in shades of fuchsia and orange.
“Horrific,” Dionne said, looking appalled.
CeCe shook her head sadly. “Someone will buy them though. They always do.”
“Who’s ever gonna look good in lime-green paisley? Or purple, wet-look PVC?” Dionne demanded, slicing open another box and pulling out the contents.
Francesco winked at CeCe. “I bet you could pull it off, Dionne.”
CeCe saw where he was going with this and picked up on the theme. “Absolutely – if anyone can make them look good, it’s you, Dionne.”
Dionne tried, and failed, to look humble. “Flattery will get you everywhere, guys.”
“So, why don’t you try them?” suggested Francesco, the palazzo pants dangling tantalisingly from his fingers.
CeCe nodded, trying to keep a straight face. “It’s true – a good model should be able to sell anything. You have to make us want the clothes …”
Dionne stared at them both for a moment, sizing them up through narrowed eyes. “Well, you know I’m not one to turn down a challenge …”
Before either of them could say anything, she grabbed the trousers from Francesco and was already wriggling out of her skinny jeans. She had no qualms about showing off her body in front of them – Francesco wasn’t interested, and CeCe had seen it all before.
Pulling off her vest top, she stood naked except for a white lace bra and matching thong, before bending over and rummaging through the boxes, relishing the attention. She was aware of CeCe’s eyes on her, and knew she was being a total tease, but Dionne couldn’t resist.
“How about this?” she demanded, holding up a polka-dot print shirt fringed with tiny pom-poms.
“Vile,” Francesco confirmed delightedly.
“Put this with it,” CeCe instructed, handing her the purple wet-look jacket. All three of them were giggling uncontrollably as they helped Dionne to get dressed, Francesco hunting out a pair of cheap-looking patent heels, criss-crossed with chunky silver zips, as CeCe threw her a brash, Aztec-print scarf.
“No, no – for your hair,” CeCe explained, as Dionne swept up her afro and knotted the scarf around, African-style.
“Man, but I am lookin’ gooood,” Dionne drawled, as she examined herself in the grimy, three-quarter-length mirror. Between them, they’d created a truly offensive outfit, an appalling clash of colours and styles. Dionne grabbed her sunglasses from her bag, pushing them up her nose as she turned to CeCe. “Whaddya think?”
CeCe didn’t miss a beat. “Absolument horrible.”
Dionne howled with laughter. Her French wasn’t the best, but even she couldn’t fail to understand what that meant. “But you’d still fuck me, right?” she demanded.
Without giving a shocked CeCe chance to respond, Dionne pushed open the stock room doo
r and sashayed out onto the shop floor. Completely unself-conscious, and apparently oblivious to the bemused expressions of the customers, she stopped and posed, her lips pouting, her face fierce.
“Yeah! Work it, Dionne,” yelled Maarit, as she began to applaud.
“Beautiful, Dionne. That’s so hot.” Francesco whipped out his cell phone and began filming. “Over here, that’s right!”
Maarit dragged a couple of mannequins out of the way, clearing a space to give Dionne a full-length, unobstructed runway. She took full advantage, strutting up and down with long, striding steps, and striking pose after pose as she played up to Francesco’s camera.
“Hey CeCe,” Francesco yelled. “Turn the music up.” An inoffensive radio station playing classic French love songs was humming quietly in the background. CeCe switched to NRJ, turning the volume way up as Rihanna blared out over the speakers.
Dionne’s energy levels hit the roof as she began to dance and clap her hands to the beat, swept up in the party atmosphere. Spinning around, she noticed that a small crowd had gathered in the shop doorway, with people peering through the window to see what was happening inside. Impulsively, she headed over to the window display and jumped in, draping an arm around one of the mannequins and holding the pose. The tourists outside began to applaud, a handful of flashes going off as they took photos. Their reaction only fired Dionne up more as she began to dance in the window, grinding up against the models like she was in her own, private nightclub.
Outside, the crowd continued to grow, cheering and pointing, as those at the back craned their necks to see what was happening. Dionne was loving every second, and was absolutely in her element. If every day was like this, she reflected, as she blew kisses to her adoring public, then maybe she’d consider coming into work a little more often.
3
Alyson pushed back her chair and sighed, squinting at the computer screen. She was in the local public library on the rue Mouffetard, trying to compose a killer CV that would make it impossible for any firm to refuse her. This was where she’d spent most of her days since arriving in Paris, and it was hardly the most glamorous location in the city. The library badly needed a refurb; the shelves were old and dusty, the wall displays outdated and curling at the corners. A few seats along from Alyson, a scruffy old man was reading a paper, hampered by a hacking cough that meant he had to break off every few minutes to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief. Alyson winced and tried to block out the sound.
Still, it was early days, she tried to reassure herself. It took hard work to establish yourself, but she was positive and proactive, researching jobs and sending out dozens of applications. She’d had to make some quick decisions about her life, to decide what really fired her ambitions and got her juices flowing. One thing stood out above all the rest: she wanted to go into business, to get a role with a major international corporation and work her way up – the sky was the limit, she thought excitedly. So she’d begun applying for entry level jobs; reception work, admin, all-round office gofer. She would make the coffee, photocopy, do the filing – whatever it took. All she needed was a chance.
She had a fantasy of herself as one of those smartly-dressed businesswomen she sometimes passed in the street, immaculate in a beautifully-cut suit and subtle make-up as they rushed to catch the metro, coffee in one hand, a copy of Le Figaro in the other. They were clearly on their way to some high-powered job or other, making big money deals on a global scale. Alyson yearned for a position like that, one where she would be smart, sophisticated, respected – and about as far from her old life as she could possibly get.
So far she’d been diligent and thorough, researching the companies she wanted to work for and tailoring her applications accordingly. There’d been no responses as yet, but surely it was only a matter of time? She was very aware that the money her father had given her wouldn’t last forever, but she was no stranger to living on a budget. She wished she’d never had to take his cash in the first place – it felt like guilt-money, like some kind of pay-off. But it was just a stepping-stone, she reassured herself. Besides, why shouldn’t he contribute something after all these years? He’d been absent for almost a decade, and she’d never had a penny from him.
Screw him, Alyson thought, feeling the anger rise in her chest at the memories. She would damn well take his money, and use it to launch herself into a position where she could support herself and her mother, to put some security and stability into their lives. She would give them both all the things they’d never had when she was growing up, and she didn’t care how hard she had to work to do it.
Alyson hit the print button, and logged off the computer. The elderly library assistant recognised her and smiled.
“Alors, tu as eu de la chance, aujourd’hui?”
He knew all about Alyson’s search for a job, and followed her progress with interest.
“Pas encore,” Alyson replied despondently. Not yet.
It was sweet of him to ask, and Alyson was grateful for it. Since she’d arrived, she’d hardly spoken to a soul. Whole days would go by where she said nothing but a few nervous words to the cashier in the supermarket, and she could feel herself slipping back into her old ways – shy and introverted, withdrawn to the point of rudeness. She didn’t want to be that girl anymore.
“Merci. À demain,” she called brightly, as she stashed the résumés in her bag and headed for the exit. Out on the street, she was immediately swallowed up by the bustling crowd on the rue Mouffetard. It was a narrow, lively, market street, flanked by bars and restaurants serving every kind of food, and crammed with stalls selling fruit, vegetables, meat, fish and pastries. It smelt amazing, and Alyson let herself be swept along in the stream of people, enjoying the atmosphere as old ladies haggled with the stall holders, and tourists browsed longingly at the delicious-looking goods on offer. A group of boys yelled something at her that was clearly obscene and the rest of them burst into laughter. The words were slang, and Alyson didn’t understand them. It was probably better that way, she reflected.
She checked her watch – just after lunch. By rights, she should head over to the employment centre in the next arrondissement for yet another afternoon of searching for jobs and filling out applications, before she finally gave up and crawled back to her grotty hotel room. But today, Alyson just couldn’t face it. The lure of fresh air and unexplored city was irresistible. What was the point of living in Paris if all she ever saw was the inside of the job centre?
Feeling gloriously rebellious, Alyson set off down the street, her hips swaying, her long blonde hair shimmering over her shoulders. The weather was typically Parisian; overcast, with the occasional burst of sunshine that made everything ten times more beautiful, and she took off her jacket and carried it over her arm, enjoying the first signs of spring weather. Her small breasts bounced under her thin sweater, the baggy trousers she was wearing doing little to disguise the long, lean shape of her legs.
She passed through a small square surrounded by cafés, the tables and chairs outside filled with people for the lunchtime rush. Everyone was chatting and smoking over a bottle of wine, the very image of the French laidback lifestyle. Alyson continued to walk, heading north, and was delighted to find that the road emerged by the river at the Île Saint-Louis. A tiny island in the middle of the Seine, it was utterly beautiful, home to exclusive apartments, antique shops and boutiques.
Alyson stopped on the bridge, looking out at the view. Instantly, she forgot that she didn’t have a job yet, that she was staying in a crummy hotel and that she didn’t know a soul. This was why she was here. This was the real Paris, the one she’d dreamed about. From her vantage point she had a perfect view of the rear of Notre Dame Cathedral, with its dramatic, vaulting arches and needle-like spire. On the path beside the river, chestnut trees swayed lightly in the breeze, and in the distance Alyson could see the iconic Eiffel Tower rising above the city.
A little further along the bridge, a couple were having their photo ta
ken. They wrapped their arms around each other, kissing as the camera clicked. Alyson lowered her gaze and walked on. But the image of the couple stayed with her, and she suddenly found herself thinking about the man she’d met on the train – Javier, she whispered under her breath, feeling the foreign-sounding syllables roll over her tongue. He’d seemed like a nice guy; kind and considerate and … incredibly handsome. She remembered the way he’d looked at her with those dark eyes, the sheer bulk of his body when he’d walked away from her at the Gare du Nord. Just the thought of him made her insides fizz deliciously.
Alyson shook her head, trying to clear the crazy thoughts. Forget about him, she told herself. He’d be halfway to Morocco by now.
She glanced up, trying to get her bearings. She’d been walking without even paying attention to where she was going, and now she was on a long, perfectly straight street. Alyson looked around for a street sign: rue de Rivoli, in the first arrondissement. It was filled with clothes shops and souvenir stores, and the people milling around looked like tourists. Alyson continued to walk, stuck behind a group of Italian kids sporting identical backpacks. It was only when they veered off excitedly after spotting a McDonalds that she noticed a small crowd on the pavement up ahead. They were gathered round a shop window, pointing to whatever was happening inside and filming it on their camera phones.
Alyson’s first instinct was to turn round and walk in the other direction – she had no desire to get caught up in whatever was happening. But curiosity got the better of her, and she remembered the vow she’d made about transforming her life. What was the name of that book she’d seen at the train station? Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway. Her new philosophy. Rather than running away from situations that scared her, she needed to meet challenges head on.
Pulse racing, she walked towards the crowd, pressing in to try and see what was going on. One of the advantages of being five foot eleven was that she could see over the heads of pretty much everyone, and despite being at the back she had a clear view.
