‘Fine. Shut up about it now.’
‘Why should I?’ Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m your sister, it’s my job.’
‘I’m tuning out.’ Elisabeth slid on a huge pair of sunglasses and lay back. ‘Save your gossip for someone who actually cares.’
Hours later, laden with bags, the two sisters collapsed into a café on the lively market square. St Tropez was boutique heaven.
Jessica ordered two champagne cocktails to celebrate.
‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ said Elisabeth.
‘I don’t want to get bored.’ But they ordered two bottles of La Croix all the same.
‘Delicious!’ Jessica clapped her hands together like a seal as the drinks arrived. Taking a sip, she extracted a pair of pink Rondini sandals from a huge paper bag and held them out. It was amazing how seriously she took the pursuit of shopping–of spending money in any capacity, really. Elisabeth had spent, too–mostly on her weakness, jewellery, in Gas Bijoux–but nowhere in the same league as her sister. For Jessica retail therapy was a full-time occupation: clearly it filled a gap where something else was missing.
Elisabeth checked her cell. Still nothing from Robert. She suspected they’d be leaving Monaco on Bernstein’s boat by now. Why hadn’t he been in touch? She had to stop worrying–there was nothing wrong with her fiancé; everything would be just fine.
‘I love France,’ Jessica mused, sitting back and running a hand through her hair. She gazed round at the architecture. ‘There’s so much American influence here.’
Elisabeth snorted.
‘Maybe I’ll move to Europe one day,’ her sister went on. ‘Marry a count.’
‘As if.’
‘Oh, I’m very well practised in the European ways. And by “European ways", of course I mean “European men".’
Elisabeth couldn’t help but laugh. It had been ages since she and Jessica had enjoyed each other’s company–much as her sister got under her skin, Elisabeth had to admit she was fun. Plus Jessica’s bravado on the subject of men, she knew, only concealed her desire for a meaningful relationship. The more insecure Jessica was definitely easier to love.
‘You’ve never had a French guy, admit it.’
Jessica shrugged. ‘I’ve had an English.’
‘Not the same thing.’
‘A sexy English.’
Elisabeth looked disgusted. ‘Not that hideous London one with the long hair. Wasn’t he in a rock band? Not that I’ve heard of them.’
‘Nate Reid,’ Jessica nodded, ‘is an incredibly hot guy. Seriously. I can get myself off just thinking about him.’
‘Jessica!’
Then she added, ‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll be big. I know that already, but musically speaking.’
Elisabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘And anyway,’ Jessica fiddled with her earlobe, ‘he practically is a count. Or something. His family’s major-rich. I think we’re well-suited.’
‘Good for you.’ She stirred the sugar at the bottom of the cocktail.
‘It’s the Italians who really know what they’re doing …’
‘Not if Alberto Bellini’s anything to go by,’ muttered Elisabeth, wondering why the old man had sprung to mind. It must be the champagne.
‘What do you mean?’ Jessica leaned forward, keeping her voice hushed. ‘Has he tried it on with you?’
Champagne bubbles fizzed down Elisabeth’s throat. ‘He’s forever trying it on, you must know that.’ She added without a trace of arrogance, ‘It’s no secret he’s in love with me.’
‘But I mean, has he ever tried it on … physically?’
‘God, no!’ Elisabeth giggled. ‘He’s ancient.’
‘The old ones are the worst,’ Jessica said sagely.
‘Maybe.’
Elisabeth looked out at the bustling square. Against her will she felt a stir at the mention of Alberto; the memory of what he’d said about her dear mother; his unconcealed adoration such a far cry from Robert’s recent behaviour. It was the cocktails, that was all.
‘Let’s get another,’ she said on impulse. Jessica beamed. ‘I’m feeling reckless.’
London
‘Just hold steady, that’s it, eyes wide … Perfect!’
Chloe had been in hair and make-up for what seemed like for ever. The catwalk show was a star-studded fundraiser for a children’s hospital, a cause she felt passionate about–she was desperate to hit the runway, if for nothing else than to stretch her legs.
Jared, her make-up guy, was a paunchy artiste with a shiny black Mohawk and shockingly dark, sculpted eyebrows. He stood back.
‘Voila. My work here is done.’
In the spotlit mirror, Chloe absorbed her reflection–her hair, normally worn long and loose, was secured in an elaborate cascade of curls; her eyes a smoky grey. The other models, with many of whom she had worked but none she had become great friends, watched her from gaunt, pale faces, eaten up with envy. Chloe was naturally lovely–she didn’t have to try.
‘Thanks, Jared.’ She smiled. She could hardly wait for Nate, in the front row in the audience, to see her tonight.
The show went off brilliantly. Chloe was the main attraction and first out on the walk, donning a striking collection of silver high-necked, short-length dresses from a debut designer. The heels they put her in made her about six-five and she had visions of toppling over and landing with her face buried in Anna Wintour’s lap. A row of slim, neatly crossed legs lined the length of the runway, sharp suits and straight backs, as famed spectators knew they were as much on show as the models.
Afterwards Melissa Darling met her backstage. It was like a mannequin production line, with long, slender limbs in various states of undress.
‘Melissa!’ Chloe greeted her, giving her a kiss on both cheeks. She was half-naked and struggling into a pair of jeans–Melissa didn’t seem to notice.
‘You were fabulous,’ said Melissa. She was in her twenties, with light brown hair that was pulled into a thick, swinging ponytail. Always managing to strike a balance between glamour and ‘What, this old thing?’, she wore leggings with chunky boots and a cashmere wrap.
‘Thanks!
