Diva. Carrie Duffy

dreamed of being a model, Dionne’s ambition was to do high fashion: edgy, editorial work. The pay was shit – an embarrassment almost – but it was a stepping stone to higher things. Having a Vogue cover or an Elle editorial gave you kudos and meant your face was seen by top designers, who in turn might use you in their big money ad campaigns – the holy grail of the modelling world, and one which was increasingly being muscled in on by celebrities.

      Yet in spite of everything, all the schlepping around and the kicks in the teeth from the jobs you never got, Dionne still loved it. The thrill of being in the French capital hadn’t dimmed; every time she turned a corner and saw the Eiffel Tower rearing up over the city, her heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t believe that little Dionne Summers from downtown Detroit was running around Paris, working as a model and partying with some of the richest and most glamorous people on the planet.

      She wondered what Dash Ramón would think if he could see her now. It made her laugh to think how she’d revered him. He might have been a big shot in her neighbourhood, but he was nothing to the people she hung around with now. They were players on an international stage, part of the exclusive jet set. And Dionne intended to be one of them.

      The door opened again and Dionne looked up. Salomé Valentin sloped out without speaking to anyone, her face impassive as she walked out of the door. The woman checked her list. ‘Dionne Summers?’

       Showtime!

      Dionne got up and went in, where she was introduced to the designer himself, Pierre Gavroche. Obviously gay, he was a short, wiry man dressed all in black and wearing black-rimmed glasses.

      The clothes were a little boring for Dionne’s tastes – a muted palate of greys, taupes and creams. Yet she had to admit that they were well made, and the fabric was high quality.

      ‘I want her in the pencil skirt and the ruffle blouse,’ Pierre muttered to his assistant. Addressing the models directly was not his thing, apparently.

      There was no separate changing area, so Dionne dropped her clothes without batting an eyelid and slid on a camel-coloured pencil skirt, beautifully cut and lined. This was paired with a dramatic white blouse, slit in a deep V-neck to below the breasts, then wrapped around bandage-style to create a cinched-in waist. Dionne was bra-less, the edge of the fabric skirting her nipples, her collarbone standing out prominently.

      ‘Wear these,’ the woman told her, throwing her a pair of dark-brown Charles Jourdan heels. They were a size too small, but Dionne squeezed them on without complaint.

      She looked good and she knew it. The pale colours contrasted beautifully with her dark, glistening skin, and the whole look was fierce.

      The female assistant raised a camera to take a Polaroid. When it had developed, she scribbled Dionne’s name underneath and attached it to her modelling card.

      ‘Can we see you walk?’

      Dionne obliged. The shoes were pinching her feet, but she kept her face set, moving with sass and attitude. Dionne had an excellent walk – she was always amazed by the amount of girls that couldn’t put one foot in front of another.

      Pierre and his assistant watched her in silence.

      ‘And again please,’ they said when she’d finished.

      As Dionne set off, they began to confer amongst themselves in fast, low French, perhaps thinking Dionne couldn’t understand. Her French wasn’t the greatest, but she understood enough.

      ‘Is she a little on the heavy side?’ asked Pierre.

      ‘We could make her drop a few pounds,’ the woman assured him.

      Dionne pursed her lips. She turned at the end of the imaginary runway and began to walk back.

      ‘I’m not sure …’ she heard Pierre Gavroche deliberate. ‘Maybe we should go with a white girl. Are ethnics in this season?’

      Dionne nearly fell off her heels. She was so fucking furious, she couldn’t even speak.

      ‘That will be all, thank you,’ the woman called out.

      Damn right, that was all, thought Dionne, humiliation burning through her as she pulled off the skirt. The white shirt was a little tight as she tried to drag it over her head. Perhaps they were right; perhaps she did need to lose a few pounds. She heard the tiniest rip as she pulled it a little bit too hard. That gave her an idea. Glancing over, she saw that Pierre and his assistant were deep in conversation, scanning over the list to see who was next. Dionne took hold of the sleeve and yanked it. The fabric fell away sharply with a satisfying tearing sound.

      Pierre Gavroche looked up sharply. ‘What the hell are you doing? Putain!’ he swore, rushing over to find several hundred euros’ worth of ruined shirt. The rip was small, but it was in the fabric, not along the seam where it could be easily repaired.

      Dionne slipped on her own clothes, giving him the most innocent look. ‘I’m so sorry. You know us ethnics,’ she smiled, emphasizing the word. ‘We’re just so clumsy.’

      Then she swung her bag over her shoulder and walked out, leaving Pierre Gavroche and his flunky gaping after her.

      She knew that was one job she wasn’t getting, but she didn’t care. No one treated Dionne Summers like that and got away with it. The world would just have to learn.

      6

      Alyson was having a bad day.

      ‘Oui, j’arrive …’ she called over her shoulder, as she raced past the crammed tables in Chez Paddy. They were already short-staffed, and a sudden downpour meant everyone had abandoned their usual lunchtime terrace tables at the nearby cafés and headed for the cosy interior of the Irish pub.

      It didn’t help that Alyson had slept badly the night before. Her new flatmates, Dionne and CeCe, didn’t appear to need sleep. Ever. Oh, they were sweet girls, and the apartment was gorgeous, but the way they lived their lives was crazy. Alyson had been there almost two weeks now and discovered that most nights the pair stayed out until dawn, finally rolling in with a large group of ‘friends’ they’d acquired over the course of the evening, before cranking the music up loud, breaking out the champagne and partying until they passed out.

      She didn’t understand how they managed to hold down their jobs in the boutique. If Alyson turned up late, exhausted and hungover every day, she’d be fired for sure. She guessed they were just those kinds of people – the beautiful ones, who breezed easily through life with everyone smoothing their path. Life had never been like that for Alyson. She’d always had to work damned hard for everything.

      But no, that wasn’t fair, she told herself. It was the lack of sleep making her irritable. CeCe and Dionne had been nothing but kind to her ever since she’d moved in, always inviting her out with them even though she declined every time. Clubbing just wasn’t her scene. She had no interest in going out, getting drunk and making a fool of herself. She saw enough people doing that while she was at work. Perhaps it made her uptight, but she didn’t like that loss of control.

      ‘You okay?’ Aidan asked, in that lilting Irish accent.

      Alyson forced a smile as she rushed past him. The bar was a bomb site, the tables piled high with dirty plates and empty glasses.

      ‘Alyson,’ Aidan called. He caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to stand still for a moment. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said easily. ‘It’s quietening down now. We’ll have this place sorted in no time.’

      ‘Thanks, Aidan.’ Alyson gazed up at him, her blue eyes meeting his. Her skin was flushed from the exertion, wisps of fine, blonde hair snaking loose from her ponytail. She looked incredible.

      Quickly, Aidan let go of her shoulders and dropped his gaze, not wanting her to see the look in his eyes. He’d worked hard to win her trust, and Alyson had never given him any indication that she thought of him as anything other than a friend.