Christmas at Tiffany's (29 page)

‘Well, no . . .’ Cassie said, her hand flying up to the glossy mane that Bas had lovingly blown-out for her on her last day in Manhattan.

‘So don’t worry,
chérie
. There is nothing to be concerned about. Everything will be terribly subtle. Paris is nothing, Cassie, if not subtle.’

‘This is
not
my definition of subtle, Nooks!’ Cassie hissed, trying to catch sight of herself in parked-car windows. ‘I mean, at least my poor mother would have had a chance of recognizing me before. But this?’

Anouk stared at her, appraising the new look. ‘It suits you,’ she said finally. ‘That blonde was far too harsh. And look, you’ve got dark eyebrows and lashes. You can take it,’ she nodded.

‘But I liked my hair the way it was.’

‘Kelly had turned you into an American girl. You would have been a constant kidnap threat.’ She winked at Cassie, just as the lights turned green and the pedestrians flooded across the road. ‘These colours – what did he use in the end?’ she asked, striding out.

‘Caramel and chestnut,’ Cassie said sullenly. ‘No. No. It was
hazel
nut.’ Like that made a difference. It was still dark brown. She couldn’t stop stroking her hair. It was an inverted bob now – saved from Charleston pastiche only by the way it broke into twists at the front – and her neck felt cold.

‘Yes, well, those colours typify
absolument
the difference between New York and Paris. There it is about fashion. Here, it is about style. Subtlety, elegance, chic.’ She tugged Cassie’s arm. ‘Quick, this way. We are late.’

She turned a sharp left down the rue Saint-Jacques and along a street where the average age dropped sharply to twenty-one.

‘The Sorbonne is just over there,’ Anouk smiled, clocking Cassie’s even more frantic hair-soothing as cliques of girls in tight jeans and ethnic scarves sloped by.

‘You still haven’t explained what this enderthingy is,’ Cassie said, trying to keep up.

‘It’s probably best if I don’t,’ Anouk said, stopping suddenly at a glass door and pressing the entry buzzer.

‘What on earth does that mean?’ Cassie cried in alarm.

‘Listen. Would I ever steer you wrong?’ Anouk asked, stepping in and leaving Cassie with no choice but to follow her.

Ten minutes later, the answer was a clear ‘yes’. Cassie was wearing a white sheer bodystocking that rolled from her neck down to her wrists and ankles, and a woman in a white coat, who looked like she should be giving her either a facial or ECT, was brandishing a machine with rollers on it.

‘So just run me through that again,’ Cassie said, hands on hips, momentarily forgetting that she looked like a blanched sausage. ‘You want to put that thing up and down my body and it will roller up my fat bits—’

‘And break down the fatty deposits, yes,’ the woman sighed.

Cassie looked at Anouk, who was sitting on the bed, swinging her legs. ‘But you were telling me only yesterday how skinny I was.’

‘And you are. But this is
fantastique
for getting rid of
peau d’orange
.’

‘But I don’t have cellulite . . . do I?’ She twisted round to get a better look at her bottom. Again, she was wearing paper knickers.

‘And also it’s great for making sure it never starts.’ Anouk shrugged happily. ‘I swear by it. But never tell Suzy or Kelly, okay? There are some secrets that cannot leave Paris.’

‘But she’s basically going to be
hoovering
me,’ Cassie said imploringly.

‘Cassie, trust me,’ Anouk said, tapping her watch and reminding her they had lunch plans. ‘Inside out, remember? Beauty is the foundation for happiness and self-esteem. In Paris, this is just what women do.’

New York felt a long way away. She felt separated from it not just by the 3,500 miles between the two cities, but by time, too. New York was about the moment, the Zeitgeist, the cutting edge. Here – Cassie looked round the formal restaurant with its sky-frescoed cupola and seventeenth-century tapestries on the walls – all homage to the riches of the past. Classical statues that looked like they’d been pinched from the Louvre were spot-lit in the corners, the marble floors were as polished as mirrors, and giant ten-foot urns were spilling over with lavish floral displays as rich in scent as in colour. This hotel, one of the city’s landmarks, could have looked like this two, even three hundred years ago; the only difference would be the hair, clothes and shoes of the people populating it – pompadour wigs and buckled shoes instead of the Chanel quilted pumps and helmet blow-dries that were out in force today.

Cassie offered up a silent prayer of thanks for having had the good sense to put on her all-camel Michael Kors outfit – skinny polo and wool A-line skirt with shearling-lined boots. This morning, absolutely everyone in the room was wearing navy, grey or chocolate brown. There was no black to be seen anywhere. Having said that, when she’d pulled the clothes on, she’d still been a long-haired butter-blonde. Now she was a bobbed brunette and the ‘match your clothes to your hair’ look that had seemed so chic earlier now just look washed out, which was more than could be said for her thighs, which were still red and tingling from the endermologie session.

‘So, it is your first time to Paris?’ Florence asked, her English as flawless as her face. She was the marketing director for Dior, and Cassie had been able to tell just by looking at her that she was a fashion thoroughbred. Her dark hair was a shimmy of cocoa lowlights, her cheekbones were as sharp as if they’d been filed, and several of Anouk’s signature oversized cocktail rings clunked on her elegant hands.

‘Yes, I can scarcely believe it myself,’ Cassie smiled, slapping herself on the forehead as though it was something she’d just forgotten to get round to. ‘It seems so gauche, somehow, to have got to this age and not made it here before now.’

‘Well, you were busy with other things,’ Anouk said tenderly. ‘Anyway, Cassie’s just spent the past four months living in New York, and she’s moving to London in the summer, so she’s making up for lost time.’ She put her hand over Cassie’s. ‘You shall be quite the international jet-setter by then.’

‘Maybe.’

‘And what are you going to do with your days here?’ Florence asked, delicately spearing an asparagus tip.

‘Well, I’m not sure yet. It’s all slightly tricky job-wise. My trip’s too short for a permanent job, but I’ve never done temping before. I don’t think I’d be qualified enough to go on an agency’s books.’

‘Well, maybe you could spend it trying to talk Anouk into coming on board with us,’ Florence smiled. ‘We’ve been trying to strong-arm her into working exclusively for us for years, but she won’t listen. I have recurring nightmares that I’m going to lose her to someone else.’

‘That won’t happen,’ Anouk replied, sipping her Beaujolais Nouveau. ‘I like my independence. It suits me to work for myself and come and go as I please.’

‘Talk some sense into her,’ Florence said, leaning towards Cassie. ‘You are old friends, after all. I am sure she would listen to what you have to say.’

Cassie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I’d be absolutely the last person Anouk would listen to. I’m utterly clueless about all the things she holds dear.’

‘Oh,’ Florence said, sitting back, clearly shocked.

There was a prolonged, embarrassed silence. Anouk stared openly at Cassie, who was in turn staring openly at the tablecloth. She hadn’t meant it to come out as such a rebuke to the bonds of their friendship.

‘Well, I hate to contradict you, Cassie,’ Anouk said, after a moment, ‘but you are my very first port of call on lots of matters. For one thing, I would give anything to be able to cook like you. I can still ruin a saucepan just boiling water. You are the only person I would want around me in a crisis. And as for your loyalty and bravery, well . . .’ She looked at Florence. ‘Did you know she scored the winning goal in the lacrosse finals against our most avowed enemies with two broken fingers – and didn’t utter a word about it until after the trophies had been handed out!’

Florence’s eyes widened, probably more at the incongruous image of Anouk playing lacrosse than Cassie playing it with broken fingers.

‘And none of that even comes close to the pride I feel in seeing how she’s carried on with such dignity in the past four months. I know I couldn’t do it.’

There was another silence, just as stunned, but for different reasons this time. Cassie’s eyes were shining with tears.

Anouk took a deep breath and looked at her colleague. ‘So I would say, Florence, that you need to give my dear friend here a job for the coming season. Because your chances of getting me to sign are going to be very much higher if you can get Cassie on your side.’

‘I didn’t know you felt like that,’ Cassie said as they walked back over Pont Saint-Louis, the bridge that connected the two islands in the middle of the Seine – the kernels from which Paris itself had grown.

‘I didn’t know
you
felt like that,’ Anouk smiled, squeezing her arm.

Cassie shrugged. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you. It wasn’t my intention.’

‘I know.’

‘I guess I’ve just always felt out of step with you, as if I could never catch up. You seemed grown up even when we were children. I never thought for a minute you got anything back from me.’

‘Apart from compassion, humour, loyalty, steadfastness . . . apart from that, no, you’re right . . . nothing at all.’

They stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked downriver. Two swans were gliding on the brown water beneath them.

‘They mate for life, you know,’ Anouk said, lighting a cigarette.

‘Lucky things,’ Cassie murmured.

Anouk blew out a trail of white smoke. It disappeared instantly into the cloudy sky. ‘Are you missing him?’

‘Who – Gil?’ Cassie turned round and leaned against the bridge. A passing gleam of sunlight washed over her like a breath of wind. ‘Yes. And no. I’ve got used to being without him, at least. That’s where Edinburgh came in useful, I suppose. It wasn’t as if we lived in each other’s pockets. But –’ she inhaled deeply. ‘It’s the little things that catch me out. Little boys just kill me. And there was a man on the plane who was wearing Gil’s favourite tie. And on his birthday – well, I was
that
close to ringing, I tell you.’

‘You haven’t spoken to him at all?’

‘Uh-uh. What’s the point? We couldn’t go back even if we wanted to. Everything was built on a lie. Out of ten years of marriage, Rory was there for three of them, and I still don’t know when it actually began with Wiz. Was it two years before that? Before we even married?’ Her voice faltered and she shut her eyes quickly.

‘Well, I’m sure it won’t be long before he does to
her
what he did to you.’

Cassie shook her head. ‘No. No, he won’t. They’re right together. I can see it now.’

‘
Mon Dieu
,’ Anouk said quietly. ‘You were the perfect wife; now you’re the perfect ex-wife.’ She looked at Cassie. ‘And Luke? Have you spoken to him yet?’

Cassie shook her head. ‘That’s almost the harder thing. He won’t take my calls. I don’t understand why he’s so all-or-nothing. It’s just . . . over.’

‘Keep trying. He’ll come round. Didn’t you say he’ll be over for the shows?’

‘Yes, mid-Feb.’

‘Well, that’s only six weeks away.’

Cassie looked at her friend. ‘It’s funny. I’d have thought you’d have said it was undignified chasing after a man like that.’

Anouk shrugged. ‘It’s not always so easy to find someone. Sometimes, you have to break out of your comfort zone.’

‘I bet you’ve never begged anyone to pick up the phone.’

‘Maybe not,’ she shrugged. ‘But maybe I should have.’ She stared blankly at a bateau-mouche chugging past, most of the orange plastic seats flipped up and empty. She finished her cigarette and stamped it out beneath her velvet ballet pumps. ‘Come. We must head over to the studio. I want to get everything set up before Katrina arrives.’

They started walking again.

‘So who’s Katrina?’

‘Katrina Holland. Currently married to Bertie Holland, the CEO at Index Bank. She’s one of my best clients.’

An image of a willowy blonde with plumped-up lips floated through Cassie’s mind, along with an anecdote about her preference for handsome young ‘walkers’. Had Bas known her? He was her usual source of outrageous gossip.

‘Where does she live?’

‘Manhattan and Geneva mainly, but she’s over for the couture shows next week. Dior passed her over to me, what, eight seasons ago? I’ve been designing collections for her twice yearly ever since. We go through what she orders at the shows and I come up with pieces unique to her.’

‘How the other half live, eh?’ They passed down the quiet streets of the Ile Saint-Louis, so much more tranquil than Ile de la Cité, where the tourists buzzed; she felt more like she was in a tiny provincial village, not one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. The island, in years gone by, had been mainly given over to fields for grazing sheep and cows, which was why there were so few houses there, and even now, Anouk had told her, when residents crossed the bridges back to the Left and Right Banks, they said they were ‘going to Paris’.

‘It’s so peaceful here. You could almost forget you’re in a city.’