03 The Fate Of The Muse - Marina's Tales (15 page)

Evie smiled with pleasure as she watched
Shayla, and caught my eye, reminding me of the real reason for our
trip.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I am,” I realized.

“Well,” Evie closed her magazine, sitting up
in her chair in anticipation, “We’ve certainly come to the right
place.”

After a smooth landing we taxied to a stop at
another private section of the airport. It was morning in Paris,
and I felt more rested than I had a right to be after such a long
flight. Evie went into a dressing room behind the bar and came out
looking as fresh as a daisy, chicly turned out in a wrinkle free
Dior sheath complimented by a strand of enormous baroque pearls.
Boris carried our bags and got into the front of the waiting
limousine.

“Why is he with us?” Shayla asked me under
her breath, “Is he like a bodyguard or something? Do you expect
more reporters?”

“He watches over Evie,” I told her. Shayla
nodded solemnly.

“He’s my valet,” Evie explained, noticing
Shayla’s curiosity, “I never travel without him.” She reached into
her crocodile handbag and pulled out two new passports, “I’ve taken
the liberty of acquiring some documents for you girls.” She turned
to Shayla, “You’ll need this whenever you travel, so be sure to
keep it in a safe place.”

I opened mine, noticing that the picture had
been taken from the photo shoot at Evie’s. She never ceased to
amaze me with her foresight, and the way she used her money and
connections to smooth over all the rough edges of life. If only
Ethan had would have allowed me to ask her to stop the land
seizure, the congressman might still be alive. Evie would no doubt
have found a peaceable way to get the job done.

I remembered the awful moment that my last
passport ended up on the bottom of the sea inside a sunken
helicopter. That day had been the catalyst, setting into motion the
series of events that led me here. Why did that stupid helicopter
have to crash? All of Evie’s talk of fate and destiny rolled around
in my mind as we drove through the city of Paris and finally
reached the Ritz Hotel.

Shayla looked up at the ornate façade of the
building in awe.

“I’m famished,” Evie announced dramatically,
ushering us through a revolving door into the lobby, leaving Boris
to get our luggage to the suite. We planned to eat first and then
go to our rooms to change and rest. Later in the afternoon,
Monsignor Reynard was scheduled stop by to take Shayla to her first
fitting, and introduce her to the girls she’d be sharing an
apartment with.

Shayla was nervous, “What if they don’t like
me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I soothed her, “Just
be yourself and they’ll love you.”

We passed through a palatial lobby filled
with giant floral arrangements and were seated right away in the
equally luxurious restaurant.

I took in the room’s lavish old world style,
from its paneled gilt walls to the high ceilings masterfully
painted with tromp l´oeil clouds. Enormous swagged velvet curtains
framed a beautiful terrace garden view. The place was dripping with
over the top luxury, and looked a lot like Evie’s extravagant
apartment. No wonder she felt so at home here.

“Whoa,” Shayla exhaled softly.

“This restaurant is where Lady Diana had her
last meal,” Evie pointed out as she unfurled her napkin.

“Really?” said Shayla, looking around with
wide eyes, “She was right here?”

“I wonder what she ordered…” I mused, for I
couldn’t decipher the French menu.

Evie ordered for us in French, and I
regretted not knowing another language. Dad and I had traveled to
many different parts of the world, but I only knew little bits and
pieces of lots of different languages. I studied Evie, wondering if
she’d been married to a Frenchman too. Then I almost laughed out
loud, realizing that I
did
speak mermaid.

Soon the food began to arrive, distracting me
from my daydreams. A large plate of sliced fruit and berries served
as our centerpiece, and it was almost too beautiful to eat.
Individual portions of eggs scrambled with black truffles were
served along with buttery croissants and jewel-like jellies and
jams. Comically large bowls of hot chocolate crowded the table,
along with a silver tea service. Shayla tasted everything
carefully, asking Evie what each dish was called in French.

We were completely refreshed when we got to
our suite of rooms, and naturally, all of our things were waiting
there for us.

Shayla wandered about, getting a good look at
the elaborately carved and gilded moldings, floral themed décor and
plush furnishings. Evie led us out to the balcony, pointing out the
nearby gardens that Marie Antoinette had wandered in, held captive
in the final days before her execution. Great, I thought, we have a
theme; yet another tragic femme fatale and her sorrowful end. Not
exactly what I wanted to dwell on at the moment.

“Where’s Boris?” I asked. Evie explained to
me that he would be in an adjoining room until we needed him to
escort us anywhere. It was a comforting thought, for I couldn’t
imagine anything bad happening to us while we were under his
watchful eye.

“Who are these dudes?” Shayla asked, studying
a pair of portraits prominently displayed above a grand mantel.

“These dudes,” said Evie, coming up alongside
her, “Are the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. This suite of rooms was
among their favorites.” She went on to explain how the king of
England had given up his throne to marry a woman many considered to
be unsuitable.

“What an idiot,” Shayla said, “She’s not even
that hot.”

Evie laughed, “People have given up a lot
more than a kingdom for love.”

Before too long Shayla’s agent arrived to
bring her to the new model’s residence. Her first show was
scheduled for tomorrow and she was under strict orders to settle in
and get some rest before any sightseeing was to be allowed. I
watched her go, happy to see her heading off into her bright
future, putting the past and all of its unpleasantness behind
her.

I turned to Evie, “What happens now?”

“We wait,” she said, “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t shop while we’re doing it.”

The first few rows of the fashion show were
reserved for the famous, the beautiful or the filthy rich. Fitting
into all three categories, Evie was naturally seated front and
center, taking me along for the ride. I recognized pop stars,
fashion divas and actors all around us, jockeying for position,
competing for the highest profile spot to flaunt their plumage to
its best advantage. They scrutinized me, trying to figure out
whether or not they should know me.

The relentless drive among the fashionable
set to stay relevant reminded me of salmon struggling desperately
to swim upstream, unaware of the common fate that awaited them at
the end of their journey. They had yet to discover that there was
no “there” there.

The battle to remain an A-lister was
brutal.

The music started pumping, and the models
began to slither down the runway in a perfectly synchronized
display. The clothes were colorful and stylish, and the collection
consisted mostly of flowing gowns and sporty, intricately
constructed swimwear. The suits were lovely, but I couldn’t imagine
going surfing in any of them. The models were waiflike, slim and
frail looking. Stone-faced, they walked haughtily along, leading
with their hips.

And then came Shayla, and my scalp tingled as
I felt the entire audience sit up and take notice. She stood out
like a wolf among greyhounds, her athletic physique and bold but
endearingly awkward walk sweeping through the room like a breath of
fresh air. Where the other girls slinked, Shayla strode, her raw,
unrefined gait loose and unmistakably free. She stole the show.

Shayla had several outfit changes, and each
time she appeared the effect was the same. When all the models came
out for the finale the designer selected her to hold hands with,
leading her down the runway to take a bow at the end. The crowd
stood applauding, and Shayla looked ecstatic, scanning the crowd
until she spotted us.

In a terrible breach of protocol, she jumped
from the catwalk and threw her arms around me and Evie, “Did you
see? I did it!” she exclaimed. There was an audible collective gasp
from the crowd.

“Well done, my dear,” said Evie, “But you’d
better get back up there to finish the job!”

Shayla leapt onto the narrow runway like she
was pouncing onto a surfboard, charming both the crowd and the
designer, who planted a kiss on her cheek under a hail of
flashbulbs. He took her hand and lifted it in the air like a
referee at a prizefighting match. Obviously, the man was a master
of self-promotion, and nobody’s fool. He knew that Shayla’s little
stunt would get lots of press. A star was born, and he had the
right to claim that he had booked her first.

Evie and I made our way backstage after the
show, weaving through the highbrow crowd that flitted about, acting
out their elaborately choreographed displays of false affection.
Evie excused herself to speak to the designer while I looked around
for Shayla.

I rounded a corner to find her surrounded by
the press, microphones thrust in her face. She had a sassy answer
for every question, and the reporters were clearly charmed by her
brash attitude. Her eyes lit up when she saw me, and she broke free
of the crowd to join me.

“Oh my God! I was so scared I thought I was
gonna puke and fall flat on my face! That was so sick! You should
see the apartment! Come and meet my roomies– they were in the show
too!”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a
screened off dressing area where a dozen gazelle-like girls were
packing bags, removing their theatrical makeup and smoking
cigarettes. Some of them scrutinized Shayla with thinly veiled
envy, mimicking her casual stance, trying to suss out exactly what
constituted her appeal.

Others glared at her with open hostility,
seeing Shayla as an interloper, and her stunning debut as a threat
to their own status. She stared boldly back at them, sending a
little territorial surfer stink-eye of her own in their direction.
I chuckled to myself, thinking that Shayla’s wily street-smarts
would probably go a long way in the cut-throat world of
fashion.

We approached a couple of girls keeping to
themselves who smiled broadly when they saw her. Unlike Shayla,
they seemed intimidated by the other girls, and I realized that
they were the fellow newbies.

“Marina, this is Greta and Irina,” Shayla
gestured to each girl in turn. They smiled sweetly and nodded.
“They don’t speak much English, but Greta speaks French real good.
We’re going to go clubbing tonight… You should come out with
us!”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I said, “Evie might have
plans.” I peeked around the screen and scanned the crowd, spotting
her across the room. She was speaking to a richly dressed blonde
woman that stood facing away from me. There was something in Evie’s
stance that caught my eye, a rare tension. I was a little surprised
to see Evie thrown off kilter; she actually looked nervous.

The blonde turned to stare directly at me.
When our eyes locked I knew.

“Pleeease?” Shayla asked coyly. Nightclubbing
was the last thing on my mind at the moment.

Evie was talking to one of them. One of us… a
hybrid. All at once the reality of what the council meeting really
meant crashed down on me. There was no going back now. I suppose
I’d been in denial up until I saw her, because for a minute I
forgot to breathe. When I recovered, I sucked in a sharp
breath.

Shayla eyes followed mine, “Who’s that with
Evie?” she asked suspiciously.

“I don’t know, probably some friend of
hers.”

It was funny, really, for the woman could
easily pass for your garden variety fashionista. She seemed
ageless, but if I had to guess I would have placed her somewhere in
her thirties. Like so many of the woman who followed fashion, she
was impeccably groomed, but there was something more going on–
something intangible. There was an aura about her; she was cloaked
in a mantle of success and unquestioned power.

I turned away from them, a little taken
aback. I always thought it was just Evie.

“Greta says she knows this really awesome
club where they have like, fire-dancers and magicians and
stuff!”

“It sounds like fun, but I think Evie might…
have dinner reservations,” I wished that was all it was. “Maybe we
can do something tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on, at least come check out my
shack!” Shayla told me about her new apartment, going into detail
about how weird everything was. Just as she began to describe the
bidet in detail, Evie and Jacques thankfully interrupted us.

“Bravo!” said Jacques, stretching up to kiss
both of Shayla’s cheeks. “C’est magnifique! Come now, I have a
client that is dying to meet you!” He spirited Shayla away, leaving
us standing with her roommates. They stared at Evie, stunned
speechless.

“Greta, Irina, this is my Aunt Evie,” I
said.

“B-b-bonjour,” Greta stammered, impressed
almost beyond words. She elbowed Irina, “La belle Evelyn Pond!”

Evie smiled kindly at them, used to being
recognized in the fashion world. She took my arm and murmured in my
ear, “May I have a word with you in private?”

I followed her to an uncrowded corner where
she told me that our meeting with the council was scheduled for the
next night, immediately following Shayla’s second runway show. My
knees felt weak, and the last thing I wanted to do was go out
dancing. Evie suggested that we go back to the hotel to have a
quiet room-service dinner and go over our story again.

“That sounds good,” I said, relieved to have
a chance to rehearse. “But I feel bad, because Shayla wants me to
go out with her and her friends tonight. I hate to let her down…
She’s probably nervous, you know, being away from home and
everything for the first time.”