Diva. Carrie Duffy

distracting her from the job in hand.

      ‘Laisse tomber!’ David shouted to her. ‘Leave it, Dionne.’

      ‘It could be important,’ she protested, climbing off him. ‘A job or something.’

      David Mouret, dark and gorgeous with a body to die for, lay back heavily on the black satin sheets, his unsated cock rock-hard and throbbing in frustration.

      ‘Come on, Dionne,’ he pleaded, in heavily accented English. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

      ‘Just shut up for a moment,’ she snapped, rummaging through her purse. ‘Shit,’ she swore again as the phone stopped ringing.

      ‘Thank Christ for that. Perhaps now we go back to fucking, yes?’

      ‘Wait! Maybe they’ll leave a message.’

      David sighed as Dionne tapped her nails impatiently. Her phone beeped and she pounced on it.

      ‘Hello? Hi, this is … well, my name’s Alyson,’ stammered the girl at the other end. ‘I’m phoning about the flat-share you’re advertising.’

      Dionne groaned, feeling something inside her sink. She had hoped it would be from her modelling agent, but it was just some girl with a weird voice calling about the apartment.

      ‘If the room’s still available, I’d be interested in viewing it. You can call me on my mobile …’ – A mobile? She must be British. And check that accent! – ‘… and just leave a message if I’m at work. My name’s Alyson Wakefield and I look forward to speaking with you soon. Thank you.’

      Dionne hung up. She could phone the girl later; right now, she had David to attend to. CeCe had been right when she said that he adored her, but Dionne knew she had to keep him sweet. She was counting on him to take her out for dinner later, then onto the hot new club, Bijou, so she could get another look at the luscious guy who owned the place.

      Moving across the bed, Dionne placed one manicured fingernail firmly on the dark, wiry hairs on David’s chest and gently pushed him backwards. He let out a groan as Dionne began to kiss his stomach, teasing the soft hair on his belly, until her lips gradually worked lower, and David Mouret remembered exactly why he bought her all those expensive presents …

      5

      ‘Is that it?’ Dionne asked incredulously, as Alyson came into the apartment carrying a single suitcase.

      ‘Yeah,’ Alyson nodded self-consciously, wondering what all the fuss was about.

      ‘Honey, I take more than that for a weekend in Cannes.’

      ‘I don’t have … I don’t need a lot of stuff,’ Alyson explained. It was true – she carried the bare minimum of clothes, only the essential cosmetics. She had a couple of books, including the French dictionary she’d used at school, three pairs of shoes and one handbag. No photos, no keepsakes. She’d taken very little when she left home.

      ‘Maybe I could take over some of your closet space …,’ Dionne wondered, but broke off as a bedroom door opened and another girl staggered out. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her eyes were barely open, narrowed into tiny slits. One side of her head was shaved, but the hair on the other side was sticking out at crazy angles. It looked as though she’d just woken up.

      ‘Hey, I’m CeCe,’ she said warmly, kissing Alyson on both cheeks. ‘Nice to meet you.’

      ‘You’ll have to excuse her,’ Dionne apologized. ‘We had a big night last night, and poor CeCe’s still feelin’ it.’

      ‘It was wild,’ CeCe added, by way of explanation.

      ‘Sounds like fun …’

      ‘Oh, it was,’ Dionne assured her. ‘Nobody parties harder than me and CeCe. We’re legends in this city. Anyway,’ she chattered on. ‘Your room’s through here – but you already know that …’

      Alyson followed them along the corridor, looking around her as she took in her new home. She’d seen the apartment before, when she came to view it, but that had been brief and Dionne hadn’t stopped talking. Although the whole place was beautifully decorated, it was also incredibly cluttered – half-finished garments, rolls of material and fashion magazines dominated the communal areas. Alyson began to think it was a good thing she hadn’t brought much with her: space was clearly at a premium.

      She dumped her suitcase on the single bed, padding across to the window to look out at the view. It was far from spectacular. Instead of a skyline vista over the rooftops of Paris, Alyson’s room looked out on a small courtyard where the refuse bins were stored, a couple of long-forgotten pot plants wilting in the corner. It was hardly the Parisian dream.

      She turned round to find Dionne and CeCe standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly.

      ‘Shall we help you unpack?’ Dionne asked brightly. ‘Not that it’ll take long …’

      Alyson thought about it, a sudden embarrassing vision of them going through her secondhand clothes and greying underwear. ‘It’s fine,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll do it later.’

      ‘Sure. Come through, sit down, let’s get to know each other,’ grinned Dionne, grabbing her hand and pulling her back through to the lounge. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

      ‘Yeah, that’d be great.’

      ‘Oh my God, I love your accent,’ Dionne squealed. ‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ she repeated, trying, and failing, to imitate Alyson’s flat Lancashire vowels. ‘It’s just too cute! So what would you like? We have champagne, wine, gin, vodka, brandy … There’s probably some other stuff lying around, but I wouldn’t recommend the absinthe.’ She pulled a face.

      Alyson smiled, assuming she was joking. But Dionne was staring at her, waiting for a response.

      Alyson checked the clock on the wall – just gone eleven a.m. ‘Um … do you have anything nonalcoholic?’ she ventured, wondering if she was making some kind of terrible faux pas.

      ‘Oh, sure. Will coffee do ya? CeCe looks like she could do with some.’

      CeCe, curled up in a chair with her eyes closed, merely grunted.

      ‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks,’ Alyson said politely.

      ‘You got it.’

      As Dionne left the room, Alyson turned to CeCe, who was dragging herself upright, wincing at the light as she tried to open her eyes. She reached out to the coffee table, fumbling for a pair of Ray-Bans.

      ‘Sorry for being shit,’ she apologized as she pulled on the sunglasses, the phrase sounding odd in her strong French accent. ‘We go out a lot. Last night was a killer.’

      ‘That’s okay,’ Alyson said easily. ‘Hopefully the coffee will help.’

      ‘I think I need a triple shot,’ she groaned. ‘I’ve developed an immunity.’

      Alyson smiled, unsure of what to say next. ‘Dionne said you’re a fashion designer,’ she commented, trying to start a conversation.

      ‘Yes. Undiscovered, but hopeful,’ CeCe grinned. She seemed to sit up straighter, her face becoming animated as she talked about her work. ‘I love it so much – the creative process, making something beautiful, something totally original and unique. It’s my life,’ she finished, lighting a cigarette and offering one to Alyson. Alyson shook her head. ‘And you? Are you interested in fashion?’

      ‘Um … not really,’ she admitted.

      ‘Ah, that will change,’ CeCe asserted confidently. ‘When you live here, in this apartment, you cannot help but be consumed by it. You will become a true, chic, Parisian woman.’ She smiled at the look of doubt on Alyson’s face. ‘So, Alyson, tell me about you. You do