A Twist of Fate (21 page)

She just hoped that Romy could tow the line before then. It was unheard of for a model to call the shots. But Simona had been in the business long enough for nothing to surprise her. Especially
as far as
this
girl was concerned. But what the hell? She obviously had good instincts, because in a single suggestion Romy suddenly had a room full of self-important men running round her,
doing her bidding.

Romy – the girl was special all right. She had an aura of attitude around her, of toughness that offset her beauty in the most unusual way. Simona had noticed it the very first moment
she’d seen those shots Nico had sent her, of Romy drying her hair on the beach after taking a swim. She’d called him straight away and told him to sign up the girl on the spot. Offer
her triple her salary from whatever stinkpot cruise ship she was working on, and do everything in his power to make sure she didn’t go back.

By the time Nico had dragged the poor starstruck girl to Madrid, the guy had been as hopelessly and completely besotted with Romy as she had been with him. It had been a tough conversation to
break the news to Romy that Nico was gay.

But that was Romy all over – worldly in some respects way beyond her years, but as naive as a child in others. Perhaps that was why Simona had fallen for Romy too. She’d never had a
daughter, or ever bonded with any of the models on her books, but this kid – there was something about her that made Simona favour her above all the others.

So what if her story about her normal childhood in England didn’t wash? Simona didn’t care where she came from. Romy had a freshness about her that had enabled Simona to orchestrate
a total reinvention. She’d styled the girl and shaved a couple of years off her actual age and, looking at Romy flicking her hair, Simona knew in her gut that Romy was
the one
. The one
she’d been waiting for. The one Simona intended to propel right to the very, very top.

But despite Simona’s reassurances, none of Romy’s new-found modelling experience had prepared her for Paris fashion week. Romy had thought that live modelling would
be a similar kind of deal to the studio sessions she’d done, but the second she walked backstage and saw the frenzy of activity, she knew that she was totally out of her depth. Within minutes
she was hustled through to the hair stylists, who slicked her hair back with Brylcreem, then hacked some of it off, before she could protest.

Then after the make-up team had done their extraordinary job on her face, she was dressed in a corset dress, yanked in and trussed up. Everyone spoke in rapid French all around her.

‘Fur and lace?’ she said to the designer’s assistant, tugging at the thin mesh top. ‘That’s got to be a first on me.’ But the guy just scowled at Romy as he
pinned an elaborate headpiece on her head, his face creased in concentration as he gripped the pins between his lips.

Almost ready now, Romy peeped through a tiny slit in the blackout curtain, into the cavernous venue where the expectant crowd of fashion aficionados gathered in the darkened auditorium along the
sides of an elevated runway. Prince’s ‘Diamonds and Pearls’ boomed out and dramatic lights strobed the stage, illuminating the V-hologram of Perez Vadim’s famous logo.

‘Don’t,’ a girl whispered, tugging at Romy’s arm. ‘If Pierre sees you peeping, he’ll go nuts.’

‘Who?’ Romy asked, turning to talk to the demure English girl with white skin, who flicked her tawny eyes in the direction of the skinny Frenchman who was concentrating on the skirt
of one of the models’ dresses. Even from a distance she could feel the tension radiating from him. Romy hadn’t realized they’d take it all this seriously, but it was more like an
art show than a fashion parade.

‘He’s in charge,’ the girl hissed. ‘I’m Emma, by the way,’ she added, more kindly. She took out a packet of gum from the pocket of her voluminous denim outfit
and offered some to Romy. ‘I’m so pleased to meet another English girl.’

Romy took the gum and the girl smiled shyly. There was something so vulnerable about her. And she saw something else in the girl’s eyes – something more than just nerves, something
closer to fear.

‘Hey, you OK? What’s up?’ Romy asked, instinctively reaching out to touch the girl’s shoulder.

‘It’s Tia,’ the girl said in a frightened, hushed whisper.

‘Who’s Tia?’ Romy asked.

Emma’s eyes brimming with tears were wide, looking at someone behind Romy. She turned to see a girl in high boots, with a sharp fringe of jet-black hair and the piercing green eyes of a
snake.

‘She scares me,’ Emma said.

‘She’s just a model – the same as you. You have as much right to be here.’

Emma shook her head. ‘You don’t understand. It’s not like that with her. Look at this,’ she whispered, turning over her arm. There were purple bruises on either side of
what looked like nail-marks.

‘She did that?’ Romy asked.

Emma nodded. ‘She does it to everyone.’

Romy stared over in the direction of Tia again, but she was strutting into the makeshift bathroom. Romy went to follow.

‘Don’t,’ Emma begged. ‘Don’t say I said anything.’

But Romy was already pushing her way through the crowd of bodies and models to the bathroom door.

For a second Romy stopped dead in her tracks when she saw her own reflection in the long mirror. Her eyes were surrounded in thick black and fluorescent shadows, but the elaborate headdress
somehow finished the whole look. It was elegant and yet playful, punky and somehow extremely feminine. The messy fur and lace top tapered into a tweed ra-ra skirt with pink-net petticoats
underneath. Then there were slashed fishnets leading down to skyscraping open-toed boots. But considering how outlandish the whole ensemble was, Romy felt oddly comfortable.

Then she noticed Tia was snorting a long line of white powder from a mirror that she’d rested on the side of the sink.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Tia said, rubbing her nostril and noticing Romy staring.

So
this
was Tia, Romy thought. A bully. She’d seen enough at the orphanage to spot this one a mile off.

‘What’s it to you?’ Romy said, suddenly aware that the girl was assessing her too.

‘Oh, I know . . . you’re that new English chick from Italy.’ She had a low French accent. ‘The way I heard it, you only got the Perez gig at all because my friend Lula
broke her ankle, and I was too busy. But she’ll be back and then you’ll be gone,’ she said, flicking her fingers at Romy, as if she were an annoying insect. Then she brazenly
snorted another line of cocaine. ‘So don’t get used to any of this, because, after today, I’ll make sure you’re history. I mean, Christ . . . who told you –
you
– could be a model anyway? Freak.’

Romy stood perfectly still, forcing herself to stay calm. She shouldn’t pick a fight. Not here. Not on such an important job, but it was a while since she’d encountered someone so
arrogant and rude. No wonder Emma was frightened of her.

A few moments later, when Tia came back out of the bathroom, Romy heard Tia’s voice above all the others.

‘Hey, Pierre,’ she called, without turning round. She shouted in rapid French and Romy became aware that everyone had turned and was staring at her headdress.

‘That headdress is better. Give me her headdress,’ Tia said in English, strutting over and trying to rip it from Romy’s head.

And all of a sudden Romy felt as if she were nine years old again, fighting Fox in the refectory in the orphanage. She shoved Tia backwards.

Pierre was by Tia’s side in a second, trying to calm her down. Tia snarled at Romy, before turning on her heel and stamping away.

Pierre glared at Romy.

‘What?’ Romy shrugged, adjusting her headdress. ‘You saw what she did.’

‘She’s Tia Blanche. She can do what the hell she likes,’ Pierre said. ‘Now get in line. We’re on in less than a minute. Please,
new girl
, do not upset our
top model again. Monsieur Vadim will not be happy.’

But Tia clearly hadn’t finished with Romy. When Romy saw that they were models one and two out on the catwalk, she knew there’d be trouble.

‘Wow,’ Emma said to Romy as they hustled into line, being checked and primped. ‘You really stood up to her.’

‘Yeah, well, she doesn’t frighten me,’ Romy said.

Romy saw Tia preparing herself in the darkness, waiting for the music cue to step into the spotlight.

‘You don’t get to walk in front of me, bitch,’ Tia hissed to Romy, as she took her position behind her. ‘You don’t get to be near me. You don’t get to touch
me. You do not even step foot out here until I am on my way back and give you my signal.
Capiche?
’

Romy didn’t say anything, but she felt every nerve-end bristling. Then the lights came on and the music boomed out. It was Tia’s cue to move. Just before she went onstage she
deliberately took a step backwards, plunging her stiletto heel into Romy’s big toe.

The pain was so intense that Romy couldn’t stop herself. She gave Tia a massive shove, making her lose her balance and sending her flying. Tia landed in a heap in the spotlight at the back
end of the runway.

Romy heard the audience gasp.

Everyone backstage froze. Then Tia was up, coming for Romy, screeching with fury. There was an almighty tear, as Romy’s fur-and-lace bodice ripped and Tia pulled her into the spotlight
too.

Romy punched her full in the face, the music thumping out as the audience got to their feet.

Romy was up first. Shaking her head free, she pulled up the mesh top and secured it in place with the gum from her mouth. Then she marched down the runway, her head held high, working the
catwalk, giving it her all in the bright lights, to whoops and applause.

The rest of the show passed in a blur. Nico came backstage and, having found a first-aid kit, dabbed at the wound on Romy’s toe. It had gone an angry purplish-red and was
swollen. But adrenaline still coursed through her body.

‘Hey, it was fun to have a catwalk moment,’ she said. ‘In Paris.’

‘I think it will be your last,’ Nico said grimly, not rising to her gallows humour. ‘Do you have any idea how furious Simona is?’

‘Tia started it, Nico,’ Romy protested, but she knew her outburst had caused a tearful row between Tia and Pierre, and the star model had left the venue before the end of the show.
‘Maybe I’m just not cut out for this.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Nico said.

They both looked up as Pierre shouted, running towards them. ‘You. You’re on. Final bows,’ he said to Romy, his cold look making it clear just how angry he was with her.

Her knees were shaking as she was hustled to the front of the line of silent models. Judging by their wide eyes, she was in no doubt that she’d just committed the ultimate modelling faux
pas. But there, waiting to walk with his models for the final bow, was Perez Vadim.

She’d never seen him in person before. It was his protégé, Milo, who’d interviewed her in Vadim’s Milan headquarters. There’d been plenty of photos of Perez
Vadim around the place, some going way back, spanning his thirty-year career.

Looking at him now, he was much older than she’d expected, with watery blue eyes. Dark shades were pushed into his thinning hair. He wore trousers covered in zips and a cape attached to
his cowboy shirt.

‘I am very sorry, Monsieur Vadim,’ she said, expecting the worst. ‘I guess I made a bad impression.’

‘
Au contraire
,’ the great designer said, taking her hand and kissing it, leading her out to the standing ovation. His eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You’ve made my
show the most talked-about one of the whole season. You, Romy, are a triumph.’

March 1992

Thea stood outside the back door of the Swiss ski chalet and grinned. The conditions for her twenty-first birthday weekend couldn’t be more perfect. Bright-blue sky and a
clear powder run stretching from their very front door straight down the mountain.

‘Come on, what you waiting for?’ Tom called as he whooped away through the snow.

Thea skied after him, laughing as she overtook him, and he raced again to be in front. When he came to a stop, showering her in powder, he took off his goggles and his face was flushed.
Sometimes his sheer beauty took her breath away and she wanted to pinch herself that a man so wonderful could love her the way he did. She kissed him, glad that she’d brought him here. Then
she laughed as he expertly tripped her over so that he was lying on top of her in the powder snow.

‘I love you, Thea Maddox,’ he said, kissing her.

‘I love you too,’ she said.

‘So will you stop being so nervous?’ he said, smiling at her.

‘Nervous? I’m not being nervous, am I?’

He laughed. ‘You always plait your hair when you’re nervous,’ he said, toying with her thick rope of blonde hair.

She blushed, amazed that he’d noticed. ‘I’ll take it out,’ she said.

‘Don’t. I like your
Fräulein
look,’ he said. ‘But . . . Thea, just relax, will you? We’re here to have fun. You’ve got your own way. You’ve
managed to wriggle out of a big party. They’ve all come over to Europe. So stop acting like it’s such a big deal. What can really be so bad about me meeting your folks?’

‘I know. I’m sorry,’ she said. Then she kissed him again and he hauled her to her feet before skiing away laughing.

He’s right, she told herself. She should relax. It was just a weekend and then she’d be back in Oxford with plenty of time to revise before her finals. One weekend of fun
wasn’t going to ruin her chances of a first.

Besides, it was great to be on holiday with Tom, and she knew how much he’d been looking forward to this weekend. She mustn’t ruin it with her doubts. So far it had been brilliant.
They’d arrived to find that everyone at the chalet was already out on the slopes, so they had this time to themselves.

So why did she feel so goddamn tense?

But further on, down the slopes, a familiar trill of laughter brought Thea to a stop outside the Krug champagne bar.

‘Thea?’ Storm called, waving her over. ‘Thea, honey. Over here.’