VIP

by Carrie Duffy

  “I was passing by – I saw you in the window,” he began, at the same time as Alyson said: “I thought you’d be on your way to Spain, or Morocco by now.”

  Javier smiled. She’d forgotten just how attractive he was, with his dark good looks, and muscular body. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, and there was a thick matting of dark stubble on his face that gave him a rugged, bohemian appearance. “Something kept me in Paris. And now I know what it was. It’s a crazy coincidence, no?”

  “Crazy,” Alyson managed breathlessly. Her head was spinning.

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remember. Paris obviously agrees with you.”

  Alyson looked away, embarrassed. She took a sip of her coffee to hide her confusion.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot that you do not like compliments,” Javier apologised. “That is very unusual for a woman.”

  “I just don’t … I’m not used to …” Alyson began, feeling ridiculous. How could she explain to him that she was so unused to people saying nice things to her that she had no idea how to behave when someone did? That she’d rarely been complimented in her life, so how on earth could she believe what he was saying?

  “Don’t worry.” Javier shook his head, a teasing glint in his eye. “I promise not to say another word about how beautiful you are.”

  He summoned the surly waiter and ordered a coffee in flawless French. “Would you like another?”

  Alyson shook her head, indicating the almost full cup in front of her.

  “I’m so pleased to see you again, Alyson,” Javier marvelled, settling back in his chair and letting his gaze run lightly over her, taking in the long, slim legs and neatly-turned ankles. “I really can’t believe it. I’ve thought about you a lot, you know …” He broke off, seeing her discomfort. “But, tell me, how are you enjoying Paris?”

  “It’s … amazing,” Alyson told him truthfully.

  “Not disappointing?”

  Alyson laughed, remembering the feeling of anti-climax when she’d had her first glimpse of the French landscape. “Definitely not.”

  “And are you settled? Do you have a job?”

  “Not yet,” Alyson told him, feeling her good mood start to sink. “I’m still looking, sending out applications …”

  “You will get there,” he told her confidently. “You’re stronger than you know. Look at what you’ve achieved already – you’ve moved here by yourself, and started a whole new life. Never sell yourself short.”

  Alyson fell silent, unsure how to respond. It was hard to think under the penetrating gaze of those dark eyes. “What about you?” she changed the subject. “How’s your writing going?”

  Javier smiled. “I find the city full of inspiration. So yes, it’s a good place to be.”

  “Are you staying for much longer?”

  For the first time, Javier seemed subdued. “I leave tomorrow – my seat is booked on the train south. I was on my way to say goodbye to some friends when I saw you here.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to hold you up – I should let you go. If you need to see people …” Alyson trailed off. It seemed unbelievable that they’d found each other again, in this vast city with its millions of people, and she couldn’t hide her distress at the thought of losing him once more. Her time in Paris had been pretty lonely so far, and she could really use a friend.

  “No, it’s no problem.” He waved away her worries, as the waiter came over and slammed his order down in front of him. “I have time for a coffee at least.”

  “Right.” Alyson fell silent, the awkwardness returning. She clasped her hands around her cup, feeling the warmth seep through her palms, and turned to look out of the window.

  There was some sort of commotion happening across the road. A taxi had pulled up, and everyone in the queue was straining to look at the people inside. In spite of herself, Alyson was intrigued. For a moment, she couldn’t see anything, but then the crowd parted and she had a clear view as two women climbed out of the cab. One was outrageously tall, wearing an incredible outfit in dazzling silver. It was a bona fide A-list dress, and she looked like a movie star arriving at a premiere. The second girl was much smaller, but equally striking, with dyed-blue hair and a crazy outfit.

  Alyson stared as they swept out of the car and straight to the head of the line. She could see the angry body language of those who were queuing, furious at being made to wait while these women simply rocked up and were ushered straight in. But nobody protested; they all simply watched as the glamorous pair walked up to the doorman, kissing him ostentatiously on both cheeks, before he unhooked the velvet rope and waved them through.

  Alyson looked across at Javier, who was watching with interest.

  “Who are they?” she asked. “Are they celebrities?” Alyson didn’t read gossip magazines and rarely watched the TV. For all she knew, it could have been Lady GaGa and Beyoncé stepping out of the cab.

  Javier shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognise them. But they could be famous in France, who knows?”

  Alyson sipped her coffee thoughtfully, wondering what life must be like for those women – to be an object of fascination and cause a sensation wherever you went, where the VIP line was always open and your path through the world just became effortless. Her life had never been like that. She’d always had to fight for everything.

  “Do you like clubbing?” Javier’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  Alyson hesitated. “I don’t know,” she finally confessed, biting her lip. “I’ve never been.”

  “You’ve never been to a club? Then we must go,” he said decisively. “Now. Tonight.”

  Alyson laughed nervously, hoping he was joking. “But I can’t …”

  “Of course you can. It’s my last night in Paris – we have to do something special.”

  “But what about your friends?”

  “I’ll call them,” Javier told her easily. “Tell them to meet us there. What’s the name?” He squinted across the road, reading the name on the canopy. “La Maison. Come on, it’ll be fun. We can dance!” he said enticingly. “Do you like to dance?”

  “I … I don’t know,” Alyson admitted. She genuinely didn’t. She had a brief memory of her mother, in one of her manic phases, taking Alyson’s hands and swinging her round and round the room. Alyson was only about five or six at the time, and it had made her so dizzy that she felt sick, but she didn’t want to tell her mother to stop because it was so good to see her laughing.

  “Well you’ll like dancing with me, I promise you,” Javier winked. “Look, do you have any other plans?”

  Alyson coloured. She knew he was teasing her. If she had anything more exciting to do, she obviously wouldn’t be sitting alone in a cafe, staring wistfully out of the window.

  “But … I’m not dressed right,” she protested. “Look at the girls out there. They’ve all got sexy little outfits, perfect hair and make-up …”

  “And you look better than any of them.”

  “I won’t even be allowed through the door like this,” she insisted, gesturing to her outfit. After her experience with the bitchy sales assistant, she’d plucked up the courage to go shopping, and was now wearing a neat, tan skirt and a crisp white blouse that she hoped projected smart and stylish.

  Javier got to his feet. “Stand up,” he told her.

  “What? Javier, I—”

  “Trust me,” he grinned, his white teeth dazzling against his tanned skin.

  Reluctantly, Alyson got to her feet as Javier took a step backwards and looked at her critically. “Your skirt,” he began. “It’s too long. Can you roll it at the top?”

  Alyson wanted to burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

  Javier nodded, apparently completely serious.

  She shook her head as though he was crazy. She’d seen some of the girls at school doing this – rolling over their waistbands to make their skirts shorter.

  “Stop there,” Javier instructed. “We need to keep it chic – just
sex it up a little. Now, are you wearing anything under your shirt?”

  Alyson flushed. She was aware that the other customers in the café were turning round to stare, enjoying the show. The waiter who’d served them practically had his tongue hanging out. “I have a camisole …” Alyson began.

  “Great, that’s perfect. You need to undo a couple of buttons, and loosen everything a little …” One of the old Frenchmen in the corner wolf whistled, and Alyson thought she might die of embarrassment, but Javier seemed to find it hilarious. Slowly, he stepped towards her, until they were standing so close that Alyson could feel the heat of his body against hers, could smell the delicious tang of his skin. Gently, he reached around to where her hair was tied in a rough ponytail, tugging at the band so her hair fell soft and loose over her shoulders. It was an incredibly intimate gesture, in such a public place.

  “Parfait,” he whispered softly. Perfect.

  “Quelle belle fille, hein?” commented the old man in the corner, to a chorus of agreement.

  “Are you ready to go?” Javier asked.

  “No,” Alyson told him truthfully. Her pulse rate seemed to have tripled. She felt dizzy and light-headed, a swarm of butterflies dancing in her stomach. “Not at all.”

  “Too bad.” Javier threw a ten euro note down on the table and grabbed her by the hand. Stumbling after him, she followed him across the road towards La Maison. She expected them to join the back of the queue, but Javier pulled her straight to the front of the line. Alyson was mortified, certain that the doorman would laugh in their faces. They weren’t wearing designer clothes, they hadn’t pulled up in a limo … She could sense everyone’s eyes on them, the cold stares that demanded to know just who the hell they thought they were.

  Alyson hardly dared watch as Javier spoke to the doorman in rapid, fluent French. Even just standing there felt intimidating. Close up, she could see that the place screamed luxury and wealth – the richness of the red carpet, the smart potted bay trees either side of the door and the smooth, cream-coloured stones of the building. This was so far away from her world it wasn’t even funny.

  She was contemplating turning around and running straight to the nearest metro, when she felt a tug at her hand. She turned to see Javier smiling at her, and the next moment the doorman was pulling aside the rope, nodding respectfully at her, and she was in.

  6

  Dionne and CeCe sashayed into La Maison and tottered down the sweeping staircase. The hostess greeted them warmly, ushering them straight through. Dionne and CeCe never paid.

  Inside, the club was dark, with coloured lights spinning over the room and R&B music pumping from the speakers, as lithe young bodies moved together on the dance floor. The décor was just as stylish as the exterior, with low-slung leather seats and dark wooden tables. Quickly, Dionne scanned the room to see who was partying tonight. She recognised most of the people in there – it was always the same faces on the branché club circuit, the regulars at the hippest nightspots – but tonight, there was no one exciting. Soon, they’d head to the VIP area. There was bound to be some action there.

  They made their way through the crowd, air-kissing and exclaiming with fake enthusiasm. The men were thrilled to see them; the women … not so much.

  “Dionne – you look divine,” shrieked Marianna, a three-time divorcée in her late forties, who’d poured herself into an unforgiving body-con dress meant for someone twenty years younger.

  “You too,” Dionne gushed insincerely. “I love your outfit.”

  “And Cécile …” Marianna trailed off, trying to find something to say to her. “You’re always so unique!”

  CeCe grinned. She was wearing black hot pants held up with braces, and a gold bandeau bikini top. For her feet, she’d picked out gold platform sandals paired with thigh-high black hold-ups. The look showed off her petite figure and marble skin, and she’d accessorised with Madonna-inspired black-lace fingerless gloves and half a dozen necklaces. She didn’t give a damn what Marianna thought – no way did she want to look like an identikit Playboy bunny, all bleached hair and Botox.

  “So nice to see you,” CeCe lied, as she and Dionne moved on, heading for the toilets. They crowded into a cubicle, and CeCe pulled out a wrap of powder from her bag. Just a little something to get them in the party mood. After they were done, Dionne turned to go, but CeCe blocked her way. Already her eyes were spacey, the pupils dark and vacant from the line she’d done in the cab on the way there.

  Blearily, she focused on Dionne, pressing her body against hers.

  “Kiss me, Dionne,” she pleaded, turning her face upwards.

  “Oh honey,” Dionne smiled fondly. “Coke really does make you horny, doesn’t it?” She leaned over, their lips finding each other as they kissed briefly, soft and warm. “Now, let’s get out of here,” Dionne declared. “I’ve got to go find me a man.”

  She pushed past CeCe and unlocked the door, not seeing the way CeCe’s face contorted with fury behind her.

  ***

  Alyson was dizzy with excitement. She stared all around her, heart pounding as she tried to take everything in, then realised she looked totally uncool. She needed to act nonchalant, blasé, as though she did this kind of thing every day.

  “Ladies first,” Javier offered, indicating that she should go ahead. But Alyson shook her head.

  “No, you go,” she told him shyly, as he led the way confidently down the stairs and into the club. Alyson followed, watching the movement of his broad shoulders beneath the pin-striped shirt he was wearing, the sensual, easy movement of his hips in the loose grey trousers.

  Already she could hear the thump thump thump of the music, the heavy bass line vibrating through her body. She’d never heard the song before, but that wasn’t unusual.

  As they reached the bottom of the steps she paused, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, making out the shapes dancing in the strobing lights. The people here looked just like the ones outside – tall, glamorous, genetically blessed. It seemed as though everyone was looking at her, and she was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining it. The women were scrutinising her outfit, the men eyeing her up as they knocked back their drinks. She felt horribly self-conscious, certain that they could all tell she didn’t belong there. Alyson had spent her whole life feeling like an outsider, and it didn’t look like the situation was about to change anytime soon.

  She tugged awkwardly at her plain skirt, wishing she was wearing something that made her fit in. Although if fitting in meant wearing a butt-skimming dress in a clinging fabric and garish colour, then maybe she was happy not to.

  “What would you like to drink?” Javier asked, as they made their way to the bar and a girl came up to take their order. She was dressed all in black, her brunette hair slicked back in a tight ponytail, her red lips dazzling against her flawless skin. Damn, even the staff here looked like models.

  Alyson looked uncertainly at the vast array of bottles behind the bar, all different shapes and colours. “Um … what are you having?”

  “Hennessy – it’s a cognac,” he explained.

  Alyson hesitated. She was pretty certain she didn’t want that.

  “Champagne?” Javier suggested. “Have you ever tried a Bellini? They’re delicious.” The music was loud and he had to lean in close to make himself heard. Alyson could feel his breath against her ear, hot and warm.

  “Just an orange juice – if that’s okay.” She looked up at him through long, pale lashes.

  “Sure,” he shrugged, turning back to the server.

  When the drink arrived, Alyson took a sip and nearly gagged.

  “What is that?” she exclaimed.

  Javier eyed her mischievously, like a naughty child who’d misbehaved. “So maybe there’s a shot of vodka in there too,” he admitted. “Come on, if you’re going to go to a club you have to do it properly. No one in here is drinking orange juice, Alyson. Live a little – it’s good for you.”

  Alyson smiled weakly. She’d rec
ognised the smell immediately. She remembered it from her childhood, recalling the stash of empty bottles, the way her mother would reek of cheap vodka if she was having a particularly bad time. Lynn was on heavy medication for her mental health problems – she’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia when Alyson was just eight – and despite the doctors advising against it, she drank heavily.

  No, the smell of vodka brought back nothing but bad memories for Alyson.

  When Javier wasn’t looking, she discreetly placed her glass back on the bar beside them. She didn’t pick it up again.

  ***

  The VIP area was upstairs: it was a glass-panelled room overlooking the dance floor, so that the occupants could look down on the rest of the club and watch the less privileged, less fortunate ones who hadn’t made the cut.

  The goon guarding the staircase recognised Dionne and CeCe immediately, standing aside to let them through. Dionne gave him a little wink, shimmying past in her dazzling silver dress. She’d paired it with matching silver Louboutins and just the lightest touch of make-up so as not to detract from the outfit.

  Upstairs, the music was softer, the lights a little brighter. It was even more luxurious than the main club, with white banquette seating and shimmering crystal chandeliers. There were ice buckets on the table, stashed with champagne, spirits and mixers.

  Instantly, Dionne and CeCe were enveloped by a group of people, excitedly greeting each other, hugging and kissing. This was where the fun started. There were some real friends here, all gorgeous, glamorous and hedonistic.

  “Stunning dress, Dionne,” purred Gilles, a real estate developer from Antibes. “You look utterly ravishing. Is it one of CeCe’s creations?”

  “Sure is,” Dionne replied, as she threw an arm around CeCe and planted a glossy kiss on her cheek. “Isn’t she a genius? I’m such a lucky girl.”

  CeCe grinned, basking in Dionne’s adoration.

  “Can I get you both a drink?” Gilles asked solicitously.

  “I’d love a coupe,” Dionne told him, with a dazzling smile.

  “CeCe?”