Diva. Carrie Duffy

bold colours in shimmering, body-hugging fabrics. An aquamarine sheath, slit dazzlingly high at the thigh and decorated with oversize silver and gauze butterflies. An outrageous scarlet ballgown, with petalled layers of chiffon skirt and a beautifully boned corset that gave the wearer a figure to die for. The audacious colours looked stunning against Dionne’s dark skin, and she certainly had the confidence to carry off even the most outrageous designs.

      One drunken night, CeCe and Dionne had made a pact. They vowed that whoever hit the big time first would do everything they could to help the other. So Dionne swore that when she became a top model, she would wear CeCe’s creations to every event she could to help raise her profile. And CeCe assured Dionne that even when the most beautiful women in the world were clamouring to wear her designs, it would be Dionne debuting them on the runway and heading up the ad campaigns.

      ‘Man, I can’t wait to get the hell out of here,’ Dionne sighed, glancing round the shop to where an obese woman was wrestling with a skintight lime-coloured T-shirt. ‘All I need is a chance. I mean, you know I’m a good model, right? I’ve got energy, personality …’ She struck a bold pose against a set of shelves, her hip jutting out, her neck elongated to emphasize her superb bone structure.

      CeCe couldn’t help but smile. ‘You and I are destined for the top, chérie. This,’ CeCe waved her hand disparagingly to indicate their uninspiring surroundings, ‘is only temporary. One day you will be the famous supermodel, and I will be the most celebrated designer, and the whole world will know our names. We are a partnership, no?’

      ‘Right,’ Dionne agreed, finally cracking a smile. ‘You and me, boo.’

      ‘You and me,’ CeCe repeated.

      4

      Alyson Wakefield stood in the sleek glass offices of Masson International, France’s leading shipping company and a regular on the Forbes Global 2000 list. Located in the west of Paris, in the famous business district of La Défense, the Masson building was spectacular – thirty-six floors constructed in steel and glass, it even boasted a three-storey-high granite fountain in the lobby. Alyson would have given anything to work there.

      But right now that didn’t look likely. The uptight receptionist stared distastefully at Alyson, making no effort to hide her hostility. The girl in front of her was undoubtedly beautiful – her fine, blonde hair was scraped back in a functional ponytail, and even the fact she wore no make-up and a shapeless grey suit couldn’t conceal the tall, slender figure and the stunning features. But she was clearly playing at being a grown-up – she could barely have been more than eighteen years old, and she looked utterly terrified.

      The receptionist smiled tightly at her. ‘Monsieur de Villiers is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed. And no, I don’t know what time he will be finished.’

      Alyson felt the heat rising in her face and willed herself not to be intimidated. ‘Can I at least leave my résumé?’ she asked, fighting to keep the note of desperation out of her voice.

      Raising a pencil-thin eyebrow, the receptionist took it from her. Alyson knew it would be going straight in the bin the second she left, but she smiled brightly.

      ‘Merci. Bonne journée,’ she called, holding her head high as she turned and walked smartly across the polished marble floor. The exit doors hissed open to let her through as she emerged into the warm, still air outside, and headed straight across the square towards the métro.

      She didn’t notice the way the men turned to stare as she strode past, their attention captured by this willowy young girl with the strikingly long legs.

      She reached the station, quickening her step to catch the train that was pulling up to the platform. It was only when the doors slid closed behind her that Alyson let her composure drop, slumping down in her seat with an exhausted sigh.

      What on earth was she doing with her life?

      As soon as her mother had been settled in a home, she’d accepted her father’s offer to get away for a while. Perhaps he was right – perhaps she did need to do something for herself. The chance of escape was tantalizing, and she fled before it was retracted, bolting across the Channel to Paris. It was all so easy – a train to London, a short hop on the Eurostar and there it was: a whole other city, a whole other world. It was a place of dreams, so familiar to her from countless television programmes and movies and black-and-white posters.

      In spite of the dirt and the pollution, Alyson felt as though she could breathe for the first time. It was all too easy to forget about home; she just wanted to keep on running and never look back.

      She had no idea what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but she got organized fast. Her money would last barely a month, so she needed to find work quickly, and she set her sights on an office job. At school she’d been interested in business studies, and she was intelligent, presentable and hard-working. How difficult could it be?

      Impossible, turned out to be the answer.

      Within days of arriving in the capital, Alyson sent a copy of her CV to every single one of the top one hundred French companies, along with a personalized letter of introduction specifically targeted at each firm. She knew she’d have to start at the bottom, but she didn’t care. She would make the coffee, photocopy, do whatever it took – she was buzzing with ideas and all she wanted was a chance to prove herself.

      She heard nothing. Not one single reply.

      So Alyson decided to take a more direct approach. Catching the métro out to La Défense, she hawked her résumé round every office that was willing to take it. And she hated every minute of it.

      ‘I’m sorry, we have nothing available at the moment,’ Alyson was told over and over again, in haughty Parisian tones. The supercilious secretaries, with their dark-framed glasses and chic suits, looked disparagingly at this terrified young girl who clearly wasn’t good enough to work for their firm. Her French might have been faultless, but she didn’t even have a degree, and her contact address was some two-star hotel in the 5th arrondissement. She was lucky they didn’t laugh her out of the building.

      But there was no way she could go home. The idea was terrifying, and was what drove her on every single day. Now she’d got out she couldn’t bear to go back. She’d finally been given the opportunity to really make something of herself – although, as yet, she had no idea what that might be.

      And Alyson adored Paris. The longer she stayed, the more she fell in love with it – the people, the energy, the cosmopolitan vibe and the stylish way of living. She didn’t know a soul and the freedom was exhilarating.

      The first day Alyson arrived, she had walked and walked, with no real aim in mind, eventually finding herself at the Eiffel Tower with a crush of other tourists. Alyson made her way to the top, just another anonymous face in the crowd. She looked out over the city and the sight took her breath away – the wide river snaking far below, the distinctive cream buildings with their sprawling rooftops and the magnificent white dome of Sacré Cœur high on the hill to the north. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so beautiful.

      Overwhelmed by a fierce determination, Alyson vowed that, one day, one way or another, she would conquer this city. There would be no snobby secretaries looking down their nose at her, no ‘sorry, he’s not available’ or ‘sorry, she’s not interested’. Alyson Wakefield would be someone they wanted to see, someone they respected. One day.

      But it was easy to make vows, Alyson reflected, as the train pulled into Saint-Michel. The hard part was fulfilling them.

      She exited the station, walking back through the vibrant neighbourhood that was already so familiar to her. The smell of fresh crêpes drifted deliciously on the air, and Alyson’s stomach rumbled hungrily. She’d eaten nothing all day except the apple she’d grabbed for breakfast.

      Alyson checked her purse as she walked towards the stall, then stopped in shock. Was she really that low on cash? Shit, things were getting dire. She’d been walking