apologize for yourself. After all, that is not where you are going to finish, yes? All of us, we are starting at the bottom, but we have our dreams, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Right,’ Alyson agreed, feeling a huge surge of relief and unexpected kinship towards this girl. Finally, someone who understood that she wanted something more out of life!
‘So what is your plan?’ asked CeCe, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette in a long stream. ‘What is the grand ambition of Alyson?’
‘I’m interested in business, actually – the corporate world,’ Alyson confessed. ‘I think it seems really fast-moving and exciting.’
‘Perhaps not the words I would use to describe it, but … as you wish,’ CeCe remarked, a smile playing on her lips. ‘So you are intelligent, yes? It will be good to have someone in the apartment who has a brain.’
‘What’s that?’ Dionne walked back through, balancing three cups of coffee. She’d changed while she was out of the room, into the tightest pair of jeans Alyson had ever seen, and a very thin, form-fitting sweater.
‘I was saying to Alyson, it will be nice to have someone of intelligence living here.’
‘Speak for yourself honey,’ Dionne told her, as she handed round the drinks. ‘I’m borderline genius.’
CeCe looked amused. ‘What is it they say? A fine line between genius and bullshit, I think.’
‘Fuck off, darling,’ Dionne shot back good-naturedly, as she plucked the dying cigarette from CeCe’s fingers, took a drag and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
Alyson watched the banter between the two women with interest. They were obviously close, and had a great relationship.
‘I think this calls for a toast,’ Dionne announced, rising to her feet and raising her coffee cup. ‘To our new recruit – officially the third most fabulous girl in Paris. CeCe, you’re second,’ she grinned, as the three of them clinked mugs.
‘But of course,’ CeCe shrugged, resignedly.
‘We’ll celebrate with champagne later, I promise,’ Dionne insisted, turning to Alyson. ‘Hey, we should all go out tonight! I’ll call David – he can take us to dinner, then on to a club …’
‘I have to work tonight, I’m afraid,’ Alyson cut in, before Dionne got too carried away.
‘Man, that’s lame. Another night then?’
‘Sure,’ Alyson replied uncertainly.
‘Oh, we are gonna have so much fun!’ Dionne squealed, clapping her hands together in excitement. ‘Seriously, doll, CeCe and I know everybody. And I mean, like, everybody in Paris. We know all the club owners, all the door staff, so we never have to pay for anything. We can introduce you to so many people – all the guys are gonna love you. You’re gorgeous, isn’t she CeCe?’
‘Beautiful,’ CeCe nodded seriously.
‘And I’ve got the most amazing wardrobe, so if you ever need to borrow anything, feel free. Although ask me first, in case it’s something I’m planning on wearing …’
Dionne chattered on and Alyson began to feel overwhelmed; it was like being slapped round the face repeatedly. Dionne was sweet, but she was also incredibly full on.
‘Shit, is that the time?’ Dionne swore, gulping down the last of her coffee. ‘I’ve got a casting to get to. Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck!’ Alyson exclaimed; it seemed churlish not to.
‘We have to go out one night this week – let us know when you have an evening off and we’ll arrange something,’ Dionne insisted, picking up her mobile and throwing it into her bag. She wedged a pair of sunglasses on top of her head and threw Alyson a dazzling smile. ‘I’ve gotta head. Ciao, ladies.’
The door slammed shut behind her and she was gone. Alyson felt as if she’d just survived being caught in a tornado. ‘She has a lot of energy,’ she managed to say.
‘Yeah, she’s incredible,’ CeCe agreed, staring wistfully at the door where Dionne had just left. ‘So beautiful, with such passion for living, such joie de vivre …’
Alyson nodded, looking thoughtfully at CeCe. Whatever her reservations about living here, one thing was for certain: with those two around, life would never be dull.
Dionne turned her hand over to examine her nail extensions – they were long and square-tipped, painted a deep purple and decorated with a small piercing at the end of each thumb – then stared listlessly round the room, all thoughts of her new flatmate long gone.
She was at a casting for Pierre Gavroche, some new designer fresh out of Esmod, and around her sat a dozen other models clutching their black leather portfolios, each wearing the identical model ‘uniform’ of skinny jeans and a cotton tank. They all carried an oversized bag, which only served to make them look even thinner and more fragile by comparison, and in which they carted their whole lives around – mobile, diary, modelling cards, high heels, nude underwear and a bikini. You never knew what the client would request and the girls had it drilled into them that – like a good boy scout – they should always be prepared.
Models really were a different race, Dionne reflected, as she stared round at the others. They were almost alien-like with their long, racehorse limbs, angular features and striking faces scrubbed bare of make-up. One or two were clearly anorexic – their hair lank, skin flaky, bones protruding just that little too much. There was a girl sitting across from her who Dionne was certain couldn’t have had her period for months.
Looking round, she was the only black girl at the casting. The others were a mixture – mostly white, mostly French, with a scattering of mixed-race women in a nod to the country’s colonial heritage – fourth generation Moroccan or Algerian. In spite of what anyone said, the fashion industry was still overwhelmingly racist. Of course, there was the occasional girl that broke through – Naomi, Tyra, Iman. The stats didn’t faze Dionne. They simply made her more determined.
Rather than trying to fit in, to become a clone of one of the aloof-looking, effortlessly groomed French girls, Dionne embraced her differences. If she couldn’t compete with the others, she had to set herself apart, make her diversity her advantage. She didn’t intend to compromise who she was for anyone, and she knew that every job she got was because the designer really bought into her whole style and vibe.
Not that many people had been booking her. The easy acceptance she’d hoped for when she’d moved from Detroit hadn’t exactly happened. Dionne had imagined that she’d be feted by the whole of Paris, instantly proclaimed the Next Big Thing and snapped up by a world-renowned name such as IMG or Elite. Instead, she’d signed with a bog-standard agency that no one outside the industry had heard of and become a jobbing model, spending her life at go-sees and castings in the hope that the next one would turn out to be her big break.
She was constantly aware that she had only a finite amount of time to break out and make a name for herself before she became just another has-been, an also-ran, doing the rounds on low-grade jobs without a hope in hell of making it to the next level. Dionne was a child of the nineties, the era of the supermodel – of Cindy, Linda, Claudia, Naomi, Kate. Her goal was to become a household name, referred to by her first name alone. Nothing less would do. But she was nineteen years old and time was running out.
‘Salomé Valentin?’
A woman emerged from the casting room, clipboard in hand, as she called out the name of the next model. Salomé stood up – she was ultra-thin, white, with mousy-brown hair – and tottered through on legs that looked too frail to carry her. Then the door banged shut, and the others resumed their habitual bored expressions. It wasn’t done to look too enthusiastic about anything. Designers still overwhelmingly went for the dead-eyed, spaced-out look, particularly for runway work, lest any personality should detract from the clothes. Commercial was a little better – there at