A Crime of Fashion (28 page)

“Well, that's my answer to your question,” Philippe said. “When I found out – I'd long suspected, by the way – and finally confronted my mother with the truth, she asked me what I'd like to do. Did I want to pursue the matter legally? Did I want to confront my father Patrick about it? Did I want my mother to do it for me? What did I want?”

Turning out towards the garden he continued, “I decided to follow in my mother's footsteps and let sleeping dogs lie. I like my life, I loved my father René, and I'm happy being Philippe de Vandrille. I'm not sure that being known as Philippe Merlette-La Lune would really make me any better or happier.”

I can't say I remember much of our meeting with Belle after that. I know I was finally able to emit some appreciative squeaky sounds, which Belle graciously accepted. She then hugged me and said goodbye, with one last entreaty to call her any time I needed help – fashion or otherwise. She also said that she expected us to keep in regular contact and then kindly offered to send us back to our hotel with her chauffeur, but Mum and I wanted to walk home. After the shock we'd received, we needed to feel the earth under our feet.

As we stepped out onto the Rue de Varenne, the sun hit my face with a sharpness my mind lacked. Quietly I mused on the fact that so many conflicting emotions and experiences, good and sad, new and bewildering, could happen within the span of a week. I wondered how long it would take before everything felt “normal” again. Would life revert to its pre-Parisian rhythm once I was back in Notting Hill? Or was I now on some kind of fashion fast-track?

Shielding my eyes with my hand, I tilted my head back and gazed up. I thought of Gran and wondered if she was watching…and if so, whether she'd ever forgive me for turning her daughter in…

“Axelle?”

“Yes, Mum?”

“Don't you think fashion people are just so clever and kind? I really think you should stay in close contact with Belle. She wants you to. And, by way of celebrating, I might get you a few new dresses. The spring sales will be on when we return and I…”

Like I say, some things never change.

Sebastian and I had made plans to meet in the afternoon. Because of my morning press conference and long lunch, we decided on something easy and close-by: ice cream.

Unfortunately, when his call came through from reception it was my mother who answered. With a cheesy knowing look in my direction, she said we'd be right down.

“
We?
But, Mum, you don't have to come down.”

“Axelle, don't be silly, of course I do. I'm your mother – and this is your first date. Sebastian has to know that I'll be looking out for you.”

“You're joking, right? I mean, Mum, Sebastian is my friend and we're going out for an ice cream – not a date!”

“Of course you are, darling,” she said, that look still on her face as she locked our door behind us.

Thankfully, Sebastian didn't seem surprised to see my mum. He politely said hello and explained our plans. My mum, who wishes I was full of raging hormones and really thought there would be more excitement to our “date” than just ice cream, looked slightly deflated.

Sebastian and I walked to the small park in the middle of the Place des Vosges. Happily, today I had no fashion show or photo shoot to rush off to, no cockroach-infested tunnel to explore. The rest of the day was mine to enjoy as I saw fit. It was still, warm and windless, not a cloud in the sky, although the night's rain had left large puddles. They lay like mirrors in the sandy gravel of the pathways, reflecting the tidy shapes of the clipped trees and the impressive facade of the old buildings surrounding the square. Silently we continued, our steps falling into an easy rhythm, as we headed towards the cathedral of Notre Dame.

I was thinking about when I'd see Sebastian again. I'd been so focused on solving the mystery that I hadn't thought further than last night. But now, mission accomplished, I suddenly realized that I had no reason to see him after my train pulled out tomorrow. A feeling of emptiness hit me with a force that took me by surprise. We'd become friends, so of course I'd miss him – and I'd come to depend on him. But…was there more to it than that?

“Are you okay?” He was smiling at me, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Did he have to look so gorgeous?

“I'm fine. Just thinking.”

“Seriously, Axelle, don't you think you've done enough thinking for one week? Just relax. Look,” he said, pointing to the river.

The Seine was moving rapidly, the dark, swirling water slapping against the side of the stone bank with reassuring enthusiasm. Seagulls screeched and swooped above us while tour boats chugged slowly past, their modern white shapes barely fitting under the centuries-old bridges spanning the river. When we reached the Notre Dame we stopped to admire its romantic bulk from the quayside. Finally, we climbed back up onto the road, crossed the nearest bridge, and joined the queue at Berthillon, the famous ice-cream maker. As we crossed back over the bridge, ice creams in hand, Sebastian suggested we stop midway to look at the view.

The sun was beginning to drop, its late afternoon light bathing the stone bridges and buildings in a soft yellow-orange haze of warmth. Sebastian was surprisingly quiet, and it dawned on me that since we'd left the hotel he'd been watching me in a funny way. Well, maybe not funny, but differently, anyhow, to the way he normally looked at me. Not that it was uncomfortable or anything…it was just…I don't know…different.

I tried to look discreetly down at my chest, thinking that maybe I'd spilled some ice cream. Slowly, though, a funny, fuzzy feeling at the back of my brain started to kick in and my palms began to sweat. Pulling my eyes away from his, I quickly turned back to the water.

“Axelle?”

I began to panic. I mean, like, what if he wanted to kiss me or something? This was one scenario I was absolutely NOT prepared for. Not at all. I mean, of course I liked him, but I'd had so much on my mind all week that canoodling with a hot French guy just hadn't really entered into it.

Okay. Maybe that was a tiny lie. I mean, there'd been a few moments, in between the cockroaches and rats, when I'd thought…

“Axelle, I've had an amazing time with you this week,” he began, hastening to add, “solving this mystery and all…”

Okay. I was seriously panicking now. Questions raced through my mind: what did he want? What did I want? Did I want to kiss him? Why was I so sure that he wanted to kiss me?
Don't think so much, Axelle,
I could hear Jenny saying,
just go with the flow.
Yeah, easy for her to say! His hand was coming towards me…gently he swept back the hair from my right cheek and pushed it behind my ear.

Taking my chin in his hand, he turned my face back to his and leaned in. I began to hyperventilate. This hadn't been part of my plan, this had nothing to do with anything, this was just… Hmmm…this wasn't so bad. Cautiously, once my body had told my brain to stuff it, I leaned forward and kissed Sebastian back.

Everything slipped from my mind: the La Lunes, the cockroaches, my sore shoulder – even my mum. All I was aware of was the feel of his lips, his smell, his hands on my waist and back. Every caress, every nuance in his movements shot through me till I was dizzy, until all that mattered was him.

His hands slowly moved up my back to my neck. If he hadn't been holding me, I think I'd have fallen into the river.

And then my phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

WHY NOW? And who was it?

Shut up! Shut up,
I told myself.
You're going with the flow, remember?

I ignored my phone and leaned harder into Sebastian. Kissing him felt amazing. He tasted good and smelled good and I could have kept kissing him for hours – and maybe would have if my phone hadn't rung
again
.

ARGH!

It couldn't be my mum. With romance on the cards she wouldn't have rung me even if Ralph Lauren, Giorgio Armani and Coco Chanel, back from the grave, had called her asking to speak to me. It couldn't have been Jenny, we'd spoken this morning, and Ellie was doing the Sonia Rykiel show…so it must be someone else…it must be
work
. Hervé, maybe? During the shows the agencies were open on the weekends too. It must be Hervé.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my phone. As unobtrusively as possible, I switched it to silent – and saw the tiny blinking screen. It was
Miriam
. What could she want?

I felt Sebastian laugh as he pulled away.

“Go on,” he said with a grin, “answer it.” Unlike Dom, he seemed to find the interruption amusing. “It's probably important.”

“Axelle, is that you? I'm sorry to call you today, you must be exhausted,” Miriam said in her usual breathless, upbeat manner. “But listen, the phone has been ringing non-stop with questions about you. The fashion brigade is desperate to work with you, but we can discuss all of that on Monday.” There was a short pause before she continued. “There was a call, however, which was just put through to me…and I thought you might be interested to hear about it
now
.” I heard her reshuffle the notes on her desk. “It was New York calling…”

Oh no,
I thought,
more photos.
I was just about to say that this could wait until Monday too, when Miriam continued:

“Have you ever heard of the ‘Black Amelia'?”

“No.”

“It's the most famous black diamond in the world.
Chic: New York
is – was – using it on a shoot, but…” Her voice trailed off.

“But?”

“It's missing…”

If you want to blend in with the fashion set, it's worth learning the lingo. Here's a handy guide:

BOOK: This is another word for the all-important portfolio models have. A book or portfolio is used to show clients and designers both how a model looks in photos, and what kind of work they've done.

BOOKER: A staff member at an agency whose job is to handle requests from clients and to represent and set up appointments for models.

CLEAN CLEAN: This is how a model should show up for a photo shoot: with freshly washed hair and a clean, make-up free face. Clients often specify clean, clean.

FITTING: A session that may take place before a fashion show or photo shoot where the clothes to be modelled are fitted onto the model.

GO-SEE: An appointment for a model to see a photographer or a client. Unlike a casting, there is no specific brief.

HAUTE COUTURE: Pronounced “oat-ko-chure” this phrase is French for “high-fashion”. Couture is extremely high-end, tailor-made designer clothes that only a few dozen people in the world can afford.

LIGHT METER: A device used to measure the intensity of light for a photo. Photographers or their assistants will hold a light meter up in front of the model before taking the photograph.

LOCATION: Any place, other than in a studio, where a shoot takes place.

NEW FACES: Models who are new to the business.

OPTIONS: An option is put to a model by a client to see if he/she would be available for their shoot. Options are then either confirmed as a booking, or released.

STORYBOARD: A comic-like piece of artwork that shows a frame-by-frame depiction of a photo shoot in drawings.

TEAR SHEETS: These are photos which are literally torn from magazines, and which a model can use in her book. Tear sheets from magazines like
Vogue
and
Elle
are what every model hopes to have in her book.

ZED CARD or COMPOSITE CARD: This is basically a business card for models. A5 in size, zed cards or composites normally show at least two photos, as well as basic info such as a model's hair colour, eye colour, height and agency contact details.

And if anyone's still suspicious that you don't belong, just throw in one of these handy phrases…

“I love those boots!
Whose are they?”

“Wow, you're really
working
that hat!”

“Feathers are a
must have
this fall.”

“It's all about
accessorizing
right now.”

“I'm
loving
emerald green.”

“Punk is so
of the moment
.”

“Neon just
screams
1999.”

“Grey is the
new black
.”

“Velvet is so
important this season
.”