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 least you could inject some individuality, play a character. And it was where the big money was.
Like most girls who 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
