felt a slow, heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach, as though she’d just eaten a pile of lead.
‘We kept in touch, now and again,’ her father continued. ‘Sometimes I sent her some money … when she was struggling.’
Alyson felt sick. Her mother and father were still in contact, yet her father had never once asked to see her, her mother keeping silent about the clandestine meetings. And all the time she’d been slaving away, working until she dropped, her mother had failed to mention the extra money Terry Wakefield had given her. She’d probably spent it on alcohol, or something ridiculous from QVC, Alyson thought furiously.
‘Why didn’t you help me?’ Alyson demanded. Her voice was growing louder, more hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you want to see me?’ The room was spinning.
‘Ally …’
Her father stepped towards her, but at that moment a white-coated figure appeared from her mother’s room.
‘I’m Dr Chaudhry,’ he introduced himself, shaking hands with the three of them. ‘Would you like to come in now?’
They followed him through; Alyson went first, shocked to see her mother looking so small and fragile in the hospital bed. She was hooked up to all manner of machines, an IV tube attached to the back of her hand. She was sleeping right now, the machines around her beeping at regular intervals.
‘Please, take a seat, all of you,’ suggested Dr Chaudhry. They sat down, her brother rolling his eyes and sighing like this was all a big inconvenience.
‘I understand you’re her primary carer,’ he said, turning to Alyson. He looked tired but patient, and his dark-brown eyes were kind.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said determinedly.
‘It’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young.’
‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she retorted, with a pointed glance at her father.
The doctor nodded, understanding. ‘Well, now you do.’
Alyson stared at him, her brow furrowing in incomprehension.
‘We think it might be better if your mother went somewhere she could get the help that she needs. Her condition is obviously serious, and Lynn might be better served in a place where they have the specialization to really look after her. Now, there are a number of care homes in the area—’
‘I look after her,’ Alyson burst out. ‘We’ve managed fine all these years.’
‘Ally, you’re clearly not coping,’ her father cut in.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Alyson insisted, her voice small and tight. She stared hard at the motionless figure in the bed, fighting back tears. ‘We don’t need you.’
‘Perhaps I’ll give you some time to talk this through,’ Dr Chaudhry suggested tactfully, sensing the atmosphere. ‘They have all the details you need at reception, and I’ll be back after my rounds if you have any questions.’
‘Listen, Ally,’ her father began after the doctor had left. ‘Think about it. And I mean seriously. You can’t spend the rest of your life looking after your mother – it’s just not fair on you. Now the doctor thinks this is the best option, and maybe he’s right. You’ve got to think about her too, not just what you want.’
‘Why not? That’s what you did, isn’t it?’ Alyson retorted. She was lashing out, all the anger that she’d bottled up over the past decade finally finding an outlet.
‘You need some time for yourself, sweetheart,’ Terry said adamantly. ‘And maybe it’s best for both of you. It could be that Lynn’s become too reliant on you …’
Alyson felt a swathe of guilt and hated her father for making her feel like that. Was he right? Was this somehow her fault, for encouraging her mother to become too dependent on her?
‘Look, love, I can give you a few hundred pounds, maybe more. You can do what you want, go where you want.’
‘I don’t need your money,’ Alyson spat, her eyes flashing dangerously. She couldn’t believe that her father thought he could just walk back into her life and pay her off.
Terry Wakefield leaned forward and caught her hand. His hold was strong, a little painful even. He stared straight into her eyes, the pressure on her palm getting stronger. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, threatening almost. ‘Think about it, Ally.’
3
Paris, France Three months later
Cécile Bouvier was late. She hurried down the rue de Rivoli, dodging tourists and taking furious drags on the Philip Morris cigarette dangling from her pillar-box-red lips. Everybody stared. A few tourists took pictures. No one could take their eyes off her.
Despite the heat of the day, she wore black drainpipe trousers with black brogues, and a Frankie Says Relax T-shirt that she’d slashed to her midriff so only the top half of the message was visible. At five foot four her frame was gamine, petite in that particularly French way, with her flat, porcelain-white stomach extending beneath the T-shirt, her small breasts jutting through the thin cotton fabric. She wore armfuls of bangles and Wayfarer sunglasses, while enormous earphones were clamped over her head, attached to a tiny iPod.
But the most striking thing about CeCe was her hair. On one side of her head it fell in a thick, dark curtain, straggly and gloriously unkempt. The other half was shaved in a severe buzzcut. The whole look was eccentric, edgy and individual. She’d been compared to early Madonna, Agyness Deyn and Alice Dellal, but as far as CeCe was concerned, the look was all her own. One hundred per cent original and impossible to replicate.
CeCe was twenty-one years old, and lived and breathed fashion. She was obsessed with clothes – and not in a superficial, Beverly-Hills-socialite way. CeCe saw clothes as an art form, a true expression of the individual. She was fascinated with the way they were conceived and created, the way they could alter moods, launch a star or destroy a career.
CeCe’s dream was to make it as a designer. She wanted her own fashion house, to be known the world over for her bold, glamorous designs. She’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen, but there was still a long way to go.
She came to a halt outside a large store at the less salubrious end of the rue de Rivoli, in the midst of shops selling tourist tat and cheap clothes. The sign above read ‘Rivoli Couture’, and the window display showed rail-thin, black plastic mannequins modelling ostentatious designer clothing. It was where CeCe worked as a sales assistant. The job was soul-destroying, but she had rent to pay.
She threw down her cigarette and burst through the door, pulling off her earphones and stuffing them into her bag. It was vintage Chanel tweed, and she’d customized it herself with ribbon and lace.
‘Bonjour, tout le monde,’ CeCe greeted everyone.
‘Morning CeCe.’
‘Buongiorno!’
‘Cześć, CeCe, how
