The last afternoon of the shows was crazy with five big shows back-to-back, including the mighty Louis Vuitton which was always held way out in a giant glasshouse somewhere called Parc André Citroën. It was one of the most crucial shows of the season for new trends – and for advertising – and we nearly missed it, because this one time, Luigi followed the wrong car. It was Frannie who realized.
‘Er, Bee,’ she said. ‘Can you actually see the people in that car we’re following?’
‘Why?’ said Bee.
‘Well, are you sure they’re fashion people – because we’ve just passed L’Etoile back there and that’s nowhere near where we’re going. In fact I think we’re heading for La Défense and that’s definitely on the wrong side of the river.’
‘Shit!’ said Bee. ‘You’re right. I can see the woman in the back seat and she’s wearing a red jacket. Luigi! Stop! Basta! We’re following the wrong car, what a nightmare.’
I had been happily sitting there – in the middle seat – thinking about what I might do to Miles later and oblivious to everything else, so I hadn’t even noticed where we were going. Now I feared we were in for a Bee explosion of the atomic kind. All three of us backseat girls sat up straight and waited for the impact. Even Alice turned and widened her eyes at me and I felt Frannie’s little hand come over to find mine. I squeezed it back. Bee could be terrifying when she really lost it.
But she didn’t lose it. She looked over at Luigi and started laughing.
‘This is hilarious,’ she said, punching his arm. ‘We’ve probably followed some banker and his mistress on the way out to their love shack. Maybe we should carry on, eh, girls, and see where they end up?’ She tapped her perfect nails on the dashboard. ‘Now, let’s think, this is quite serious really – what shall we do?’
She put her forefingers to her temples and closed her eyes for a moment. Seconds later, she opened them again and snapped her fingers. ‘Got it!’ she said. ‘Frannie, you speak the best French, so hop out and get a taxi and tell him where we want to go and we’ll follow you. Simple. And tell the cab driver we’re following him so he doesn’t dash off and lose us. Promise him a big tip, OK? Light me up a ciggie would you, Luigi?’
It was brilliant in its simplicity, if slightly eccentric. I asked permission to go with Frannie – just for larks – and the two of us found a cab fairly quickly, which was a miracle itself in Paris. Bee’s plan worked like a dream and we arrived at the venue a mere thirty-five minutes after the invitation time. After that nutty episode we were all in a slightly hysterical mood, compounded by the de-mob fever which always gripped us on the last day of the shows – which, in Paris, is the last day of the entire season.
The sense of excitement geared up even more when we found Nelly already installed in our little Brit-pack area inside the Vuitton venue. When we told her the story about Bee getting Luigi over from Milan and how we had been following other fashion limos all over Paris for the entire week, she couldn’t believe it, she thought it was so funny.
‘Oh, that is hysterical,’ she said, her filthy laugh booming around the glasshouse. ‘That Bee is a classic. A Milanese driver – in Paris. She’s nuts.’
‘But don’t tell Beaver,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell anyone – it’s just between us. Bee is being so nice at the moment, we don’t want to piss her off.’
‘Don’t worry, babes, I would never give Eager Beaver a reason to feel better about herself, even though she has just given me a very tasty pay rise.’
We didn’t have any more limo dramas for the rest of the day, cruising from show to show in our unofficial convoy of fashion limos, until Luigi finally delivered us to the last venue of the season – the Rodin Museum, for Yves Saint Laurent.
I’d been to Tom Ford’s YSL shows there before, but it still made my hair stand up on my neck, it was so thrilling. You entered via a tiny door in forbidding grey gates and once you were through security, you stepped on to a black carpet – like a red carpet, but black, so chic – that led you up to the fabulous old grey stone mansion that housed the museum.
Adding to the sense of drama, the path was floodlit purple and it was lined with an honour guard of unbelievably handsome young men in black dinner jackets. All of them had jet black hair slicked down like matinée idols.
Nelly arrived at the same time as us – riding in the limo with the girls from the Japanese edition of pure, because she was avoiding too much close contact with Beaver. Letting Bee and Alice go ahead, I linked Nelly with one arm and Frannie with the other and walked up that black carpet like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
‘Check them out,’ said Nelly when we reached the bottom of the steps up to the entrance of the mansion. The YSL footmen on either side of the door were twins. Incredibly beautiful Eurasian twins. ‘So fucking cool,’ said Nelly. ‘Evening, boys.’ She winked at them both as we went past. One winked back.
Still on the black carpet we walked into the museum to find ourselves surrounded by some of the most famous sculptures in the world, like it was the most natural thing to do on a Saturday night. There was ‘The Thinker’, ‘The Lovers’ and the famously controversial statue of Balzac, looking like he was wearing an old dressing gown. I wanted to stop and look – I was an artist’s daughter after all – but Nelly pulled me on.
‘Come on, Em,’ she said. ‘Stop gawping. Let’s get to the drinks tent. We’ve got time for at least three.’
We came out of the other side of the mansion and down the steps, still on the black carpet, heading for a long sleek white marquee, also awash with the purple light. The golden dome of Les Invalides was visible to the right, through the bare branches of the trees. Napoleon’s tomb, in floodlit splendour – talk about drama.
Adding to the general scene were the other arriving guests. Isabella Blow, the fashion director of Tatler, was picking her way down the steps in front of us in an Alexander McQueen dress so tight, she could hardly walk in it. She could hardly see either, through the Philip Treacy creation circling her head, like a cylinder of thick black mesh going right across her eyes. Just normal everyday attire for Ms Blow, who passionately championed the designers she believed in.
Just in front of her was another of fashion’s famous eccentrics, from an earlier generation. Holding tight to a young man’s arm, Anna Piaggi was wearing a bright blue hussar’s coat over tie-dyed purple panne velvet leggings. Her Eton crop, with its signature turquoise kiss-curl, was topped with a miniature top hat, in gold and silver stripes. She was wearing a starched ruff like a Toulouse-Lautrec circus dog and carried a cane topped with a silver turtle. On her forefingers she wore rings with gaudy stones the size of gobstoppers.
It was the full fashion circus. All that was missing were the fire-eaters and jugglers. We entered the marquee, pausing to collect drinks from a handsome waiter at the door.
‘Ooh, I dunno,’ said Nelly, hesitating between two glasses. ‘Shall I be shampoo, or shall I be voddie? It’s make-your-mind-up time, isn’t it, at this stage of an evening?’
‘We’re in Paris,’ said Frannie, picking up two flutes and handing one to Nelly. ‘It’s got to be ’poo.’
We clinked glasses and wandered around the space together looking at all the people – quite a few of whom were looking at Nelly, who was cutting a striking figure in Iggy’s electric-blue parachute silk dress and the famous armoured bag. We had just taken up a position by a pillar topped with an enormous display of orchids, when Louise Kretzner came over.
‘Well, hello, Nelly Stelios,’ she said, putting out her hand. ‘Don’t you look great in your boyfriend’s frock? Did he have it let out for you?’
‘Thanks,’ said Nelly, ignoring the hand and turning away to grab a waiter who was walking past with a full bottle of champagne.
I saw one of the fearsome hack’s eyebrows twitch. She hadn’t missed the snub.
‘So, Nelly,’ she continued, her voice hardening. ‘I hear that you and your boyfriend have been house-hunting in Paris.’
‘Did you?’ said Nelly. ‘I imagine you hear a lot of things in your job, Miss Kretzner, must be fascinating. That’s a very beautiful bag you are carrying, if you don’t mind me saying so. Very cute, that, having a little Mickey Mouse to carry around with you.’
I felt a just perceptible nudge to my ribs.
‘Oh, do you like it?’ said the woman I had heard called Louise Crapster, by piqued designers. She had come over all coy and girly. ‘I adore these minaudières,’ she said. ‘It’s Judith Lieber, of course.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Nelly.
‘I collect them, you know,’ said Crapster, smiling indulgently at us.
‘Oh, that must be interesting,’ said Nelly and I felt another little nudge, this time from Frannie.
I could feel laughter beginning to rise inside me like foaming champagne. It was agony. I couldn’t let Nelly down by losing it, she was handling the situation so brilliantly. I bit down hard on my lip and held my breath.
‘Well, Nelly,’ said Louise. ‘I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other in months to come, in Milan – or maybe here in Paris.’
‘Absolutely, Miss Kretzner,’ said Nelly. ‘We must have dinner one night.’
‘Oh, that would be charming,’ she said, smiling at Nelly, like a crocodile eyeing up a swimmer, then she put one of her wrinkled claws on her arm. ‘And do call me Louise, everybody does.’
She smiled again – it was almost painful to look at – and sloped off towards her next victim.
‘If only she knew what people did call her,’ said Nelly.
‘Oh, Nelly,’ I said. ‘You were brilliant. You are really cut out for this new role of yours. I would have told her to get stuffed.’
‘All part of the service,’ said Nelly.
Twenty minutes later we walked out of the show feeling even more giddy than we had when we’d gone in. It had been one of Tom Ford’s great moments, wonderfully romantic and sexy at the same time, and we came out into the cold night air through a side exit feeling excited to be alive and fashionistas.
We were walking back towards the mansion when we ran right into Bee and Alice. They both greeted Nelly warmly, which was interesting, because they used to ignore her, except for a short period when Bee was trying to persuade her to jump ship and join Chic. After she declined, she was on Bee’s death list for quite a while, so this was a major reverse.
‘Well, girls,’ said Bee. ‘I don’t know about you, but I think we should celebrate that wonderful end to a wonderful season with a nice cold bottle of champagne in the bar at the Meurice. What do you say?’
Nelly was clearly included in the invitation and I nudged her when I looked over and saw Beaver was coming out of the tent.
‘Shit,’ said Nelly and hopped behind me, crouching down.
Frannie moved over to cover the gap, because that bright blue dress was hard to miss. Bee took in the situation with one of her instant radar sweeps and I saw her eyes crinkle with pleasure. She made small talk about the show for a few moments, until Beaver was safely out of sight.
‘You can come out now, Nelly,’ she said. ‘She’s gone. And if you don’t mind squashing into the back of the car, you would be very welcome to join us for a drink.’
‘Excellent,’ said Nelly. ‘The more free piss the better.’
The journey back to the Meurice was hilarious. Nelly’s dress took up so much room we were squashed into the car like fashion students at the back of a show, and without another limo to follow – we couldn’t rely on where the other cars would be going after the last show and didn’t want to find ourselves out at the airport – we had to navigate our own way back to the hotel.
We did manage it eventually, by a roundabout route, which turned out to be rather a wonderful sightseeing tour of Paris. We sang and laughed all the way – even Alice joined in occasionally – and when we finally got there, we all clapped Luigi and Bee asked him if he would care to join us in the bar. We found a nice corner table and Bee ordered three bottles of Bollie.
‘Saves time in the long run,’ she said.
‘Bloody ’ell, do you know how lucky you are with her?’ Nelly hissed in my ear, taking a big suck on one of Bee’s cigarettes. ‘She’s not like an editor – she’s just a great girl. Wish I’d known, I would have had your job.’
Then she got on the phone to Iggy, who came along to join us, and I sent a text to Paul and he came by, bringing his mates Mark and Karl, two really funny stylists from New York and London, and it just turned into another of those hilarious nights you could never plan.
And I have to say Luigi fitted right into the hysterical mix. I’d always enjoyed having him drive us around in Milan, and Bee’s mad idea to bring him over to Paris had actually worked brilliantly, but it wasn’t until I’d seen him in this off-duty mode, that I realized just how charming he was.
And any straight man who could hold his own – and in a second language – with Paul, Mark, Karl and Nelly on full beam, had my full respect. Paul was clearly impressed too.
‘I’m loving Parker,’ he whispered to me. ‘He’s a doll. Cute as.’
I didn’t get it at first.
‘Parker?’
Paul rolled his eyes.
‘Lady Penelope’s driver? Duh?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean, very funny. Yes, he is really lovely. It was a brilliant idea to get him over here. He really cheers us up.’
‘Well, he can cheer me up anytime, although he’s clearly not my team. Mind you, that’s never stopped me before…’ He got a dangerous glint in his eye. ‘Hey, Luigi,’ he said, grasping his knee. ‘Can you drive a stick shift?’
We were just starting on the fifth bottle, with only nuts and olives to soak it all up, when Nelly came back from a trip to the loo – or the ‘carsie’, as she called it – looking puzzled.
‘That was weird,’ she said.
‘What?’ I said. ‘Did you see your new best friend Louise Kretzner in the loo? She stays here, you know.’
‘No, but I saw that mate of Seamus’s – you know, that Aussie guy, whatsisname? Surfer, really built, great arse – oh, you know.’
She smacked me on the knee. I did know all too well and I also knew exactly what he was doing in the Meurice.
‘I think I know who you mean,’ I said weakly, wondering if I could turn my phone off without her noticing, in case he rang to see where I was.
‘Miles,’ said Frannie, loud and clear in her I-know-the-answer-Miss voice. ‘He’s called Miles. He’s really nice. He’s the one who walked along the catwalk at Dior – I didn’t see it because I was backstage, but I heard about it. You remember, Em, he was with us all that night at the Ferrucci party. You danced with him. So did I.’
She giggled and looked a bit sheepish, no doubt remembering what else she did that night. That made two of us.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I nodded enthusiastically. ‘I do remember. He’s really nice. That was hilarious what he did at Dior. Really helped to pass the time.’
‘But what the fuck’s he doing in here?’ said Nelly, who hated unexplained mysteries almost as much as Frannie did. ‘He and Seamus stay in a total doss-house, they certainly don’t stay here.’
‘He was probably delivering some pictures – a disc or something,’ I said, suddenly inspired.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Frannie. ‘That’ll be it. He works for loads of different magazines, that’ll be it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nelly. ‘But I saw him go up in the lift and you need a key card to make it work here, don’t you?’
‘Weird,’ I said, shrugging, and turned round quickly to Paul to change the subject, which worked, luckily.
He and his friends were hilarious together, but once I knew Miles was upstairs I lost all interest in the chatter and frivolity in that bar – even when we realized the couple sitting in the corner were Harold Pinter and Antonia Fraser.
‘Didn’t know they did the shows,’ said Paul, which made us all roar. ‘Wonder what Harold thought of Helmut?’
I sneaked a look at my watch. It was after midnight already. I’d had enough, I wanted to be upstairs with that gorgeous man, who was probably already naked in my bed, but how could I suddenly leave without them all twigging something was going on? I tried not to think about it, but I just couldn’t sit still.
‘What’s up with you?’ said Paul eventually, pushing me in the ribs, so I nearly fell off the corner of the chair we were sharing. ‘Have you got ants in your pants? You’re twitching like a voodoo zombie.’
‘Oh, it’s just sitting on uncomfortable seats all day,’ I lied. I did have ants in my pants, large ones, which looked very like Miles. ‘It’s made my muscles all tight. I think I need to go and have a hot bath and lie down.’
Lie down on top of Miles.
‘Well, I’m sorry if we’re boring you,’ he said, half acting snitty, half meaning it.
I was saved by Bee, who started yawning and said that she was off to bed, she was catching an early train home so she could go straight into the office. I used her exit to commence mine, which involved a lot of kissing and hugging of Nelly, Iggy and Paul, even though I kept telling them I would be seeing them all soon – Nelly and Iggy when they came over to London to move her stuff, and Paul on my trip to New York with Ollie.
When I finally did escape, it took all my self-control not to run to the lift and my heart sank slightly when Frannie appeared at my side, just as I got to it.
‘I’m going up too,’ she said. ‘I’m knackered.’
I was even less thrilled when she started to say something about borrowing the latest edition of US Chic, which I had in my room. I had to think fast.
‘Oh no!’ I said, clamping my hand over my mouth. ‘There’s something I forgot to tell Nelly. I’d better go back.’
Frannie gave me one of her clever-clogs looks – as if to say, what could be so important I couldn’t call her, or text her, in the morning? – but I just disappeared back round the corner to the bar as quickly as I could. I was planning just to wait by the wall for a minute until the lift had gone, but then Paul saw me as he was leaving.
‘I thought you’d gone to bed,’ he said.
‘Well, I had, but then I thought I’d forgotten something, but I just realized I hadn’t,’ I said, lamely.
‘Oh fine, Emily,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That all makes perfect sense.’ He came over and put his hands on my shoulders. He rubbed his nose against mine. Eskimo kisses, another of our jokes. ‘You are such a weirdo at times,’ he said. ‘But I still love you. See you in Sin City.’ He kissed me, smack on the lips, and left.
At last, I was free. Bugger the lift, I thought, and ran up the stairs – it was only three flights – and along the corridor to my room. By the time I got the door open I was literally panting.
Miles was lying sprawled on the bed, naked in a tangle of sheets – and fast asleep. He looked so peaceful and almost angelic, despite two days’ beard growth, with his wiry hair sticking up around his head on the pillow. I couldn’t bear to wake him.
I cleaned my teeth, drank two bottles of mineral water from the mini bar – I’d had a lot of champagne, I now realized – and sorted out the mess of handbags and shoes on the floor, ready to pack quickly in the morning. I was hoping he would wake up, but he didn’t, so eventually I just took my clothes off and slid into bed beside him.
We’d never actually slept together, I realized, as in actual sleeping, except for about an hour in the early morning of our first night and I wondered how it would be. It was one thing having rampant nookie with another man, but to sleep quietly with one, well that seemed weird.
I almost felt like retreating to the sofa, but as I settled on the bed and turned over, I felt Miles’s arm come round me and he pulled me towards him, curling his body round mine, all apparently in his sleep. Almost immediately, I fell asleep myself and neither of us stirred until the next morning, when my alarm split the peace. That was a very strange wake-up call. I don’t know which of us was more disorientated, but almost immediately Miles’s frown of confusion turned into a big smile.
‘I can’t believe I slept through it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Was I great?’
‘You were great at sleeping,’ I said.
And the funny thing was, I had been too, and on the whole I was not the greatest sleeper. I often woke up in the middle of the night, next to Ollie, who was a master sleeper, and I would lie there for hours, worrying.
Worrying about my credit-card bills and whether I should change my job and whether I was getting fat and whether Ollie would always love me and was my brother really OK and should I see more of him and should I go and see my mother in that terrible place or did it just stir it all up for her?
And quite often, in the darkest hours, I would shed a tear for my dad, remembering our happy times together in his studio. It was as though all the demons I kept at bay during the day could get through my defences at night.
‘I’m really sorry, Emily,’ said Miles, rubbing his head with both his hands. ‘What an idiot I am. I’m afraid I had a few too many with the boys last night and I just crashed out. Actually, I’m glad you didn’t see me awake, I was pissed. I was a mess.’
‘So was I,’ I said. ‘I think we probably both needed a good sleep.’
‘And now we need a good…’ he said, rolling over on to his front and reaching out for me.
‘Shower,’ I said, slapping his bum, that beautiful bum of his, which reminded me. ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Nelly saw you here last night. It was a pretty close call.’
‘Oh shit, it was her then,’ he said. ‘I thought I saw her, so I jumped into the lift to escape.’
‘Lucky you did,’ I said. ‘We were all in the bar and she would have dragged you in there, if she could have. I think I would have died.’
Then, at last, we got on and did what we had been supposed to do all along and then we said goodbye, me heading for Eurostar, London and my cosy little life with Ollie, Miles back to Sydney and whatever that held for him. We stood at the door and Miles took both my hands in his.
‘Bye, Emily,’ he said, playing with my fingers. ‘It’s been great. It’s been quite a “season”, as I believe you fashion babes call it.’
I smiled shyly at him. He got that mischievous look.
‘Are you doing New York?’ he said, with a mock serious expression.
I laughed.
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘So, maybe see you in February – well, I definitely will see you, through my long and throbbing lens – but it’s up to you, if you want to see me back, or not. You’ve got my number.’
And with one last peck on the cheek, he was gone.