On the train to Paris on the Tuesday morning Frannie and I were nearly senseless with laughter. Peter Potter had pissed me off royally at the Sunday salon, but boy had he got his own back at Nivek Thims for stealing his thunder with the Nelly story. Frannie had bought The Daily Reporter that morning along with all her other beloved tabloids – the papers of the people, she called them – and we were in stitches over what the Rotter had written.
It’s quite amazing, the lengths to which some people in this business are prepared to go, to make themselves seem more interesting than they really are. Turns out ‘rising’ not-so-young photographer Nivek Thims was actually born with a slightly less fascinating name. How does Kevin Smith look on your passport, Nivek? Or perhaps you need a mirror to read it?
‘Kevin – Nivek…’ I had tea coming down my nose, I was laughing so hard. ‘But, hang on a minute,’ I said, scribbling the letters on the edge of Frannie’s paper. ‘Look – Thims isn’t even Smith backwards. It should be Htims; he’s fiddled with it to make it work. God, what a self-conscious wanker.’
‘Who cares,’ said Frannie, handing me a piece of paper. ‘Check this out.’
She’d drawn mock-ups of our Chic business cards with the following names on them: Senior Fashion Editor – Ylime Retniop. Beauty Director and Fashion News Editor – Einnarf Retsillacm.
It just set us off some more.
‘I don’t think Retsillacm really works,’ said Frannie. ‘But I’m quite taken with Einnarf. Sounds more Celtic than Frannie, almost Tolkien-esque. I could be a minor elfin queen, Cate Blanchett’s little sister, but Ylime Retniop, now that’s a winner. It’s brilliant. You sound like a Tibetan lama, but sexy. I’m going to call you Y-lime from now on.
‘Hey, Alee-chay,’ she called over to Alice, who was sitting opposite, with her eyes closed. ‘Have you met Y-lime?’
Alice, as usual, was oblivious to the joke. She really couldn’t see anything wrong with Kevin calling himself Nivek – ‘I think it’s quite creative,’ she had said in all seriousness, when we’d shown it to her, in the deep, whispery monotone voice she thought sounded intelligent. Once she’d closed her eyes again, Frannie had sketched out Alice’s new business card and Ecila Wergittep set us off all over again.
‘Cilla!’ said Frannie, wheezing with laughter. ‘We can call her Cilla.’
Bee was tapping away at her laptop across the aisle, frowning hard, so we couldn’t share the joy of Eeb Ssetrof-Htims with her – or Thims, as we made it, in Nivek’s style – but it kept me and Frannie amused all the way to Gare du Nord. We really were fantastically immature at times.
A driver was there to pick us up, waiting right on the platform, as per orders, but it wasn’t our usual Paris chap. Bee – or Eeb as we were now calling her – looked at him with great suspicion which was very soon borne out. He couldn’t even find his way to the car park where he’d put the limo. And he couldn’t speak English. The poor man had unwittingly tapped right into one of Bee’s tenderest Achilles heels – because our brilliant, sophisticated editor-in-chief couldn’t speak a word of French.
‘Oh, for GOD’s sake,’ she was practically shouting, the third time he had us patrolling back along the station concourse with all our luggage. ‘What use is this idiot going to be? Frannie, you speak Frog, tell him I am going to stand outside this station – smoking – until he comes to pick me up.’
Frannie duly told him and in the end we all went and stood there waiting until he eventually emerged in the car. It got worse. Getting from Gare du Nord to the Hôtel Meurice, on Rue de Rivoli – one of the city’s more well-known thoroughfares – he got hopelessly lost. He didn’t even know it was one way and tried to turn left into it from Rue de Castiglione.
Bee was going into orbit.
‘What use is he going to be to us? How is he going to find his way to an abandoned bloody asbestos works on the Périphérique if he can’t even find the Tuileries gardens? We might as well have Luigi here. At least he speaks bloody English.’
‘But Luigi’s not from Paris,’ said Frannie, going into top-of-the-class mode, a condition often brought on by exercising her text-book perfect, but hopelessly un-idiomatic command of French.
‘No, he’s not,’ said Bee. ‘But I’ll bet you dinner at Caviar Kaspia that this fuckwit isn’t either. Go on – ask him, Miss Bilingual Dundee Nineteen Ninety-six.’
‘Excusez-moi, Monsieur,’ said Frannie in a perfect Dundee accent. ‘A quelle ville est-ce que vous habitez habituellement?’
‘Marseilles,’ came the smiling reply, causing Bee to smack the dashboard in triumph.
‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘I’m calling Luigi, I’m going to get him to come and drive us. At least if we get lost with him, he’ll be charming about it and I can abuse him in a language he will understand.’
It was shaping up to be an interesting Paris season.
It got a lot more interesting that very afternoon when I was waiting – sweating – inside the vast plastic tent in the Tuileries gardens that was the venue for the Dior show. I’d accidentally got there on time simply because our hotel was just across the road from the park, and I knew I was in for a very long wait. I’d milled around for a bit outside in the afternoon sun, watching everyone come in, which was always like another catwalk show in itself, until my shoes seriously started to remind me that they had four-inch heels attached to them.
Inside, it was the usual circus, but at least the lights were on, so I had something to look at. All the big players were there in their customary spots, doing their customary things and in this instance I had a particularly good view of the French Vogue crew, who I found seriously fascinating. The editor-in-chief, Carine Roitfeld was the ultimate cool skinny French brunette, with legs as fine as crochet hooks and straight dark hair that fell right over her face, which was accessorized with the most astonishing pair of black eyebrows. They looked like Fuzzy Felt. She had an almost simian look to her – but, boy, was this one stylish monkey.
On this occasion she was wearing a killer black suit with a fiercely waisted jacket and a tight pencil skirt, which fitted her tiny body like a glove. Her heels were so dizzyingly high, even I would have been nervous to step out in them and, believe me, I did heels. It was no surprise she was Tom Ford’s muse.
The other amazing thing about the French Vogue-ies was that they all looked exactly the same. They were all super tall and skinny, with straight black layered rock ’n’ roll hair, and they only ever wore combinations of black and navy. Even the one guy who was part of the pack had the look. It was hilarious.
Another face I loved watching was Allure editor-in-chief Linda Wells, who was as restrained and icy as a Hitchcock blonde. She even dressed the part in perfectly fitting coats and high-heeled pumps. And she never wore stockings, which was another thing I liked about her.
Then there was British Vogue editor Alexandra Shulman, who always looked refreshingly normal compared to her front-row companions, who were all so extreme in their style, they looked almost freakish. Ms Shulman looked like someone you might actually be able to have a decent chat with, but she worked a killer heel with the best of them.
As well as all the famous magazine babes, there was another whole front-row A-list of buyers, who were usually seated on the opposite side of the catwalk to the media. They were like a separate fashion tribe, with quite a few corporate suit-y men and women, mixed in with the more famous characters.
Of these my favourite was Joan Burstein – or Mrs B, as we all called her – from Browns in London. She was like the Duchess of Devonshire of fashion. Always immaculately elegant in tailored trousers, cashmere, pearls, kid gloves and a fur, a small crocodile bag in her hand – she had the manners to match her style too. If Mrs B hated a show, you could never have known it from her face, which she always kept in a perfect, politely interested semi-smile – in fact she did a much better job of not looking bored at tedious events than Her Maj the Queen. She was true fashion royalty.
Among the other buyers I always noticed was the exquisite Hong Kong Empress Joyce Ma, who wore the most amazing jewellery – she had pearl earrings the size of quail eggs. Then there was Kal Ruttenstein, from Bloomingdale’s, who suffered from very poor health, and had to be helped in and out of venues on his crutches, but always showed up just the same.
But the most intriguing was Lizard Man. No one seemed to know who he was – although I’d been told he had an upscale boutique in LA – but he must have been ‘someone’ because he always got great seats. What made him stand out was his unique look: he always wore bleached-out jeans and reptile skin – a hat, a jacket and elaborate cowboy boots. Different every day. He had a face as craggy as a komodo dragon, and bleached-out Shredded Wheat hair too. I was mad about him.
After a while, though, waiting for Dior to start, even this stellar people-watching got boring and I seriously missed having Nelly to talk to. If she’d been there we would have been eating sweets – cadged off Frannie – and roaring with laughter by now. I would have loved to have told her about Nivek, Cilla and Eeb. She would totally have got it. I worked out her backwards name on the show running order: Yllen Soilets. Soilets was a classic, but it didn’t seem so funny with no one to share it with.
The rest of my posse were all out of reach. Bee was front row, Alice just behind her – three rows in front of me, I always got crap seats in Paris – and Frannie was backstage doing a story on the make-up. I didn’t know the women on either side of me and I couldn’t be bothered to start a conversation with them. After a while I got so desperate I started playing noughts and crosses with myself. I had just won – and lost – for the third time, when my concentration was broken by a wave of laughter round the tent. I looked up to see Miles walking the length of the high catwalk with his metal camera case and tripod hoisted up on his shoulder.
As he approached the end of the runway all the photographers whistled and cheered and he struck a supermodel pose, one hip out, hand behind his head. Quite a few flashes went off and the audience clapped, before he jumped down and disappeared into the photographers’ pit. It was very funny and very unusual, because like all the photographers he always got to the venues as early as possible to bag his position among the throng. So how come he was strolling in forty minutes after the invited time – just twenty minutes before the show would actually start?
They were a tight-knit pack of rogues, the shows photographers, and when they weren’t having fist fights with arrivistes who were blocking their sight-lines, or who had taken their particular spot – the territory was all minutely marked out – there was a kind of thieves’ honour between them. Even photographers who were fierce rivals would save positions for each other, if that was where they normally stood, but there was a limit to how long you could hold on to one square foot of standing space in conditions that would make laboratory rats freak out, even for your best mate.
But that wasn’t all that was weird about Miles’s runway strut. Apart from the spectacle of a grubby photographer acting up like Naomi Campbell, I was not prepared for the effect seeing him had on me. It was visceral.
He was wearing his same old jeans, his biker boots and his motocross jacket, he was unshaven, his thick hair was standing on end and he generally looked like he could do with a good wash. And I could have jumped up and shagged him right there on the Dior catwalk.
I really hadn’t expected to feel that way. In the few short days I’d had at home after Milan I’d honestly convinced myself I had worked Miles out of my system, as some kind of momentary insanity. Apart from the teeth-picking episode, I’d slipped straight back into my cool and comfy life with Ollie and, apart from the odd teeth-picking irritation, was perfectly happy there. Or, I thought I was.
We’d made love that night when we got home from E&O and I’d hardly thought of Miles at all during it. Just as it had always been, sex with Ollie was cosy, comforting and satisfying, like watching Casablanca on TV at home on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Sex with Miles had been like flying to Mars. They were two completely different activities and amazing though it had been with Miles, I didn’t think I really wanted to fly to another planet as a regular outing. It was too unsettling.
But watching him work that catwalk – just seeing his beautiful bum in those faded jeans and knowing the muscle that would have popped up on his right arm, when he put it behind his head like that – had me instantly convinced I wanted to take the next flight out, destination Outer Space. Not thinking with my conscious brain, but with something more primitive, probably located below the navel, I brought up his mobile number on my Palm Pilot wallet and sent him a text: ‘2nite?’
That was it. I had a reply very quickly: ‘hotel?’
I tapped back: ‘meurice’
And back came his reply. We had texts flying up and down that venue like invisible carrier pigeons.
‘room?’
‘319’
‘time?’
‘10’
‘11?’
‘ok’
‘v v ok’
It was that easy.
After the show I strolled along the sandy paths through the gardens wondering what to do with myself. Frannie was still inside with the Dior show make-up artist Pat McGrath, who she was going to be following all week for a big beauty story, and Bee and Alice had raced off to do an appointment before the next show, which I didn’t have an invitation for. Without Nelly to hang out with, I felt totally unanchored and, well, rather lonely. I thought about going to Angelina’s for a hot chocolate, as Nelly and I would have done, but I just didn’t feel like doing it on my own. I also felt extremely unsettled by what I had impetuously organized for my evening’s entertainment. I felt like I was possessed by someone else. A total slut.
I sat down on a bench to delete Miles’s texts from my phone and found I had another one – which suddenly made the night’s arrangements seem even more confusing. It was from Nelly: ‘We r here. Dinna 2nite? Nelly xxx’
I really didn’t know what to do. I had no plausible excuse for not seeing Nelly and Iggy. I couldn’t palm her off with some tale about a PR dinner because she knew the score – they didn’t really happen in the same way in Paris as they did in Milan; in fact we were usually left to our own devices there after the last show.
And apart from that, I desperately wanted to see Nelly. I wanted to hear all her news and I wanted to get to know Iggy better. Not just because he was the latest fashion superstar – although that was not without its appeal – but because he was my friend’s new man. It was my duty to check him out.
So I wanted to have dinner with Nelly – but I also wanted to rip the clothes off Miles and the two events were just not compatible. Or were they? I got my Palm Pilot out again and called his number.
‘G’day, Em,’ came a deep voice at the other end. It freaked me out. I had turned him into an abstract concept in my head and now it was all too real again.
‘Hi,’ I squeaked.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing you later,’ he said in that slow drawl.
‘Well, that’s why I’m calling…’ I said. ‘I’ve got a bit of a problem with it.’
‘That’s a bummer,’ said Miles. ‘But no worries, just let me know when you can do it. If you still want to.’
‘Well, what are you doing now?’ I said, boldness returning.
He laughed.
‘Funnily enough, I’m walking along the Rue de Rivoli in the direction of Angelina’s – where I was planning to have a hot chocolate – and I see I’m right outside the Meurice hotel.’
‘Go in,’ I said, my heart starting to pound. ‘Wait in the lobby. I’ll be there in a minute. Follow me up in the lift.’
I left the gardens at a run, cursing with frustration when I just missed the lights to cross the busy traffic on Rue de Rivoli. It felt like an eternity until they changed again and I raced over.
I stopped for a moment to compose myself before I entered the hotel and then as I came through the door, I could see Miles, out of the corner of my eye, sprawled on one of the brocade-covered chairs. In that fleeting glance I was pleased to notice he wasn’t encumbered by his photographic equipment. I went straight over to the reception desk to ask for a new key card because I’d accidentally left mine behind in my room and then headed for the lift.
I didn’t look over my shoulder as I waited for it to arrive, but as I stepped inside I felt Miles’s arms come round me from behind. I turned and lost myself in his kiss, with one eye open to hit ‘3’ on the control panel. Then I closed it again and we didn’t break off until the lift stopped. I led him down the corridor to my room and once we were inside we fell on each other, not even bothering to get fully undressed. I fear I made a lot of noise.
When we surfaced, I felt quite giddy. Miles sat up on the bed and shook his head.
‘Geeze,’ he said. ‘I think I’m seeing stars. What’s going on, Emily?’
I just shook my head.
‘Well, welcome to Paris, anyway,’ he said, tipping an imaginary hat at me. ‘Nice room,’ he said, looking round it. ‘Can I hit your mini bar?’
I just nodded. I still wasn’t capable of speech. Miles stood up and half hopped over to the cabinet, with his pants round his ankles.
‘Bloody boots,’ he said, grinning. He opened the fridge door and whistled between his teeth. ‘You magazine girls don’t exactly rough it, do you? Look at this, Veuve Clicquot. Tasty.’ He took out a bottle of Perrier. ‘Want anything?’ he said, waving it at me.
‘Is there any chocolate?’ I asked.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You could do with a bit of fattening up.’
He came back to me with a bar of Toblerone and two Perrier waters with old-fashioned bottle tops, which he flipped off with his bare hands. They were huge, his hands.
Huge and brown, with beautifully shaped fingers. They looked like hands which could shoe a horse, or mend a Land Rover with a piece of string. Hands that could make a night shelter out of palm branches. Miles would be a good person to be lost in the desert with, I thought and I sighed suddenly, much louder than I realized I was going to.
‘That was a big sigh,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
And it seems I wasn’t, because the next thing I knew I was in floods of tears. I don’t know where it came from, but I was howling.
‘Hey, Em,’ said Miles and he put those strong arms around me, stroking me with those beautiful hands and kissing the top of my head. ‘It’s all right, babe,’ he said. ‘You have a good cry. You must need it.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said eventually, my voice quivering between sobs. ‘I don’t know what happened. I never cry. It just happened. God, how embarrassing.’
‘Now don’t go all English on me, Emily,’ said Miles. ‘You obviously needed a cry, so let it out. It’s not anything to do with me, is it?’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t know what it’s to do with.’
‘Well,’ said Miles, handing me a large piece of chocolate. ‘Eat that. Give you strength.’
We sat chewing for a moment and then he spoke again.
‘You know, what happened between us back there, Emily. It’s not an everyday event, you know. It’s unsettling.’
I looked up at him, blinking my eyes which were stinging a bit. He picked up his T-shirt and wiped my cheeks with it.
‘You can blow your nose on it, if you like,’ he said, smiling his cheeky smile. ‘I often do.’
I shook my head, but he had me smiling again.
‘So it’s not always like that for you?’ I said quietly. Although I hadn’t thought about it consciously, I think I had somehow assumed that Miles was such a great lover that all his sexual encounters went off the Richter scale.
He laughed heartily.
‘Are you kidding?’ he said. ‘It’s a long time since Mount Vesuvius last erupted, you know. No, it is not always like that for me. In fact, it’s never been like that for me. Here, have some more chocolate.’
That gave me something to chew on.
After that we just lay there in each other’s arms for a while. We didn’t make love again. We didn’t need to. I didn’t know about him, but I didn’t want to do anything else, except to lie there breathing next to him. I loved his male smell. It was all very well having a lungful of Acqua di Parma whenever I went near Ollie, but there was something deeply appealing about Miles’s unadorned masculinity.
He was the first to speak.
‘I hate to break this moment,’ he said, almost whispering. ‘But are you doing Comme?’
And suddenly we were both roaring with laughter. I laughed until my stomach muscles hurt. The very idea of a fashion show just seemed so hilariously ridiculous in that primal situation we were in – man, woman, bed – it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. Eventually I recovered enough to speak. Now he was using his T-shirt to wipe tears from his own eyes – tears of laughter.
‘Well, actually, I’m not,’ I said. ‘They never give me an invitation. Not important enough. How about you? But it must be too late now anyway, you’d be even later for that than you were for Dior, I think, Mr Supermodel.’
He chuckled.
‘Did you see me then?’ he said, putting his arm behind his head and pouting, as he had on the catwalk. I’d been right, the muscle on his biceps did spring out. At that moment I could have taken a bite out of it.
‘Of course I saw you,’ I said. ‘Two thousand people saw you.’
‘Good,’ he said, grinning again. ‘I wanted you to see me. That’s why I did it.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I mean, I was late anyway, I’d had a big argie bargie with my email and I was running really late. Seamus was saving my spot and I knew I was cutting it fine, but I didn’t really need to walk along the runway, did I?’
‘Well, that did cross my mind.’
‘So I did it for a laugh, to cheer the boys up and to remind you I was in town – and gorgeous. Guess it worked, eh?’
I just shook my head at him.
‘You’re shameless,’ I said.
‘What’s to be shamed about? I’m a lusty man, you’re a beautiful woman. I’d be a sad arse if I didn’t try.’
There was a natural pause. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing.
‘So how was it with your old man, when you got home?’ he said, sounding a bit apprehensive. ‘Did you feel bad?’
‘For a minute. Then I forgot about you,’ I said, poking him in the ribs.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Good job I reminded you then. Anyway, like I said before Emily, there is no pressure from my end – as it were.’ He laughed. ‘But really, you know I’m here, you know I’m willing. It’s up to you.’
There was another pause and then he spoke again.
‘Are you doing Costume National?’
We laughed again.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And Rochas. Lucky that Costume National’s just across the road from here. What time is it now? Just before six? Perfect. We’ll make it with plenty of time.’
‘I’m not doing it,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got to sort out my stupid email and Seamus has taken all my equipment back to the hotel – I dumped it all on him when you rang…’
‘You didn’t tell him…’ I asked, horrified.
‘Don’t worry. He thinks that call was a model I used to see. Her name is Emma, so I called you Em, rather handy that.’
I felt an instant pang of jealousy. Maybe he was still seeing her. And other models, whatever he had said about them that time, being sexless objects. But I pushed the thought away. What right had I to be jealous of Miles?
‘I’d better get going then,’ I said, starting to get up.
He grabbed my arm and pulled me back, kissing me deeply. Then he put his nose to my face and neck, sniffing all over my skin, like an animal.
‘Just in case I never get to do it again,’ he said. ‘I want to remember your smell.’
I just looked at him in amazement. He seemed to have such a direct connection between his feelings and his mouth, with no baggage in between to trip him up. He told you what he felt and that was it. I’d never met anyone like that before, except for possibly Nelly, and I wanted to make a gesture as sincere and uncomplicated as him.
‘Here,’ I said and handed him the extra key card I’d got from the concierge. ‘Keep it.’
He looked at me steadily, slightly raising one eyebrow.
‘Just text me first,’ I said.
By the time we came out of the Rochas show at eight o’clock that night, Luigi was waiting for us. Frannie and I exchanged a look. Had Bee finally gone insane? We had a Milanese driver in Paris.
‘Oh, you clever boy,’ said Bee, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘You got the first plane over, didn’t you? Got the car from the agency? Wonderful. I love people who can be spontaneous. Now, I’ll direct you back to the hotel and then we’ll get the concierge there to give you the low-down on driving in Paris. You’ll be fine.’
We got in the car. It was nice to be with Luigi actually, a familiar back of head to look at, and we traversed the short distance back to the hotel without mishap apart from two extra circles of Place de la Concorde, just because he wanted to.
‘Now girls,’ said Bee, as we pulled up. ‘I’m staying in tonight. Easing into it gently this week. I’m doing some appointments in the morning, but they’re all with beauty advertisers, so you don’t need to bother yourselves. Have a nice easy one and I’ll meet you all here at two o’clock to go to Helmut Lang. That’ll be a challenge for Luigi. It’s on the far edge of the Sixteenth – practically Belgium.’
She chuckled happily to herself and disappeared inside with Luigi.
‘Well,’ said Frannie, waiting until Alice was also out of earshot. ‘She’s looking happier. So where did you say we were having dinner?’
‘Hôtel Costes – that’s where Nells and Iggy are staying.’
‘Oooh, very posh, I’d better go and change myself. I feel like an old fish-supper wrapper; greasy, smelly and unwanted.’
Dinner was hilarious and my pleasure at seeing Nelly was tripled when Paul joined us as well. Everyone was on sparkling form and while it was not the intimate get-to-know-Iggy dinner I had been looking forward to, it more than made up for it in laughs, turning into one of those big nights you can never plan – they just happen.
Iggy was a great host, generously ordering bottle after bottle of champagne and as he passed me a glass I noticed he wasn’t wearing the spooky hook, he had a prosthetic hand on instead and was so natural with it, you hardly noticed, which explained why I had never spotted his missing hand until the night of the show.
After dinner, we repaired to the Costes Bar, which was always a scene. Various Vogue cover models were in there and a couple of photographers more famous than the people they shot – Mario Testino holding court in one corner, Stephen Meisel in another. There were unexpected faces in there too, including Roman Polanski and Farrah Fawcett-Majors, but not together.
With Nelly’s usual bravado we somehow managed to commandeer a nicely dark back corner and it soon became a hot spot of table hopping, as people came over to say hi – mainly to Iggy and Nelly, it had to be said – while the rest of us basked in their reflected glory.
The ghastly Peter Potter came and joined us for a while, which I was not thrilled about with the scent of Miles probably still on me, but at least chatting to the happy couple gave him an item for his column, which got him off my back. Of course, we both faked being thrilled to see each other so brilliantly that anyone observing would have thought we were the closest of pals. It was a game I knew how to play and I was happy to play it. He didn’t stay long, to my great relief – there were too many other famous people in the bar to distract his attention.
Our little hardcore group was still there happily boozing and chatting in the early hours, when Paul suddenly sprang to his feet and walked a few steps away from us.
‘OK,’ he said, starting to walk back. ‘Who am I?’
He had his front teeth in a slightly goofy position, his chin held back into his neck as he lolloped along, swinging straight arms and leading with his hips.
‘Karolina,’ I shouted out.
‘Gimme flesh, sista,’ said Paul and we smacked hands in mid-air. ‘Your go.’
I got up, immediately knowing who I was going to do. I started walking towards them, taking each step with a high-lifted pointed foot, pouting sulkily, waving my hips from side to side and looking up from under my lashes.
‘Naomi!’ said Iggy.
‘Corrrrrect,’ I said. ‘Your go.’
Iggy stood up and started to walk like a gangling young horse, with knock knees and a stupid expression on his face.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Can you see? This one is vintage piece.’
‘Claudia bloody Schiffer,’ said Frannie.
‘Da!’ said Iggy and they smacked palms. ‘When I first go to Saint Martins I spend all my time watching videos of old fashion shows – I like late Eighties early Nineties, especially Chanel. That walk! How did she get job? She walk like magarac…’
‘That’s Serbian for donkey,’ said Nelly, who seemed to be getting fluent in her new lover’s language very quickly.
Next it was Frannie’s turn and she got up and walked along our imaginary catwalk looking like the proverbial village idiot. Her arms hung straight by her side and she plonked along on flat feet looking as miserable as if she was going to the scaffold.
‘What the fuck?’ said Nelly.
None of us could get it.
‘Give up?’ said Frannie, eyes sparkling with mischief.
‘Tell us!’ we all cried out.
‘Any male model,’ said Frannie and we all fell about.
And so it went on until Paul got up for another turn.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘This is a work in two parts.’
He turned his back on us then he swung back round and strode towards us, his head up, looking left and right, his eyes shining, swinging his legs and executing a perfect twirl, stopping in a killer pose.
‘I know! I know!’ I squealed, overexcited.
‘Say nothing,’ he commanded, holding up his hand. ‘Here’s part two.’
This time he walked tentatively along not moving his head, his mouth hanging slightly open, looking very unhappy, with a dazed, zombie-like expression.
‘Oh, that’s horrible,’ said Nelly. ‘I can’t bear it.’
‘Ooooooh,’ I said. ‘Ouch. Poor Maria.’
‘You’re right, girlfriends, that was Miss Maria Constanza. The Queen of the Runway – then and now.’
‘It’s so sad,’ said Frannie. ‘Why does she do it? She’s still so beautiful, but you just can’t do catwalk over the age of thirty, when all the other girls are nineteen. And she looks so depressed, like she’s lost her mojo. I just want to get up there and give her a big hug.’
‘Da,’ said Iggy, nodding. ‘I remember Maria too from videos. With Christy and Linda and Naomi and Helena. She was goddess. I have not seen her now, but I have heard. This very wrong.’
‘That’s what I hate about this business sometimes,’ said Nelly, vehemently. ‘It can be so fucked.’
‘Only if you let it,’ said Iggy, looking deep into her eyes and squeezing her hand with his one good one.
After that poignant note the evening just melted away. Paul was going ‘out’, as he called it and he walked along Rue du Faubourg St Honoré with me and Frannie, looking for a taxi to take him the other way to the Marais. One finally pulled up and as he was kissing me goodbye he took my face in his hands and looked closely at me.
‘Any chance we might get to see each other properly this time, skinny?’ he asked. ‘And I don’t count a coffee standing up with you bleating on about shopping as properly, OK?’
‘How about tomorrow morning?’ I said. ‘We’ve got nothing until Helmut the pelmet at two thirty.’
‘Cool,’ said Paul. ‘I’m directing Céline, so I’ll have to be there by one. I’ll see you in Café Flore at ten.’