A Crime of Fashion (6 page)

Victor is very tall and energetic. As his hands flew in all directions, working their magic on my hair, a steady stream of assistants came by, asking questions or seeking advice. According to
Chic: Paris
magazine, which my mother is forever quoting at me, Victor is nothing less than “
the
Hair Colour Oracle”. He is what is known as a colourist. Victor doesn't cut hair – he only colours it. His was the first salon in Paris to specialize in colour alone. Ten years ago, Victor arrived in Paris, sixteen and penniless, and today is consulted by every A-list actress and top model in the world.

He was wearing a pink T-shirt with
FIND BELLE
scrawled across the front. On the back was a drawing of the famous “Feather Dress” she'd designed five years ago. As its name suggested, it had been made entirely of feathers. So great was its impact in turning fashion back from grunge to glamour that Italian
Vogue
had dedicated an entire issue to that dress alone.

“Do you know Belle well?” I asked Victor.

“Yes,
ma chérie
,” he answered. “She was one of my first clients and very young when we met – about fifteen or sixteen. I met her backstage at a La Lune show. I was there to put streaks of colour in the models' hair. Pink, blue, and orange. Anyway, she wanted blue streaks – so I did them. You should have seen her mother's face! Fiona, Belle's mother, is very elegant and formal – she was not amused. But we were! I've been working on her hair ever since.

“In the beginning she would come to my flat when I did her colour – I had no salon then. I could barely afford my rent! Anyway, Belle is so sweet and so loyal, not only did she come to me but she sent every one of the models she worked with – she still does. Thanks to Belle, many top girls became my clients and friends. Then she started sending me the actresses who bought her designs. Of course, we started as friends, and that has carried on…” His voice began to quaver. “I just hope they find her…I hope she's alive.”

“What do you think has happened to her?” I ventured.

“Ah,
ma chérie
, that is the question!”

“But surely there must be some theories about why she's disappeared? Yesterday her brother Claude suggested that her disappearance is due to too much stress.”

“
Humf!
” he snorted, but he didn't elaborate. In the mirror, I watched Victor. I couldn't tell whether he was studiously ignoring me or just concentrating really hard on my hair.

“Maybe the stress of the business got to be too much for her and she decided she needed a break? Maybe she's taken off to Mexico or Bali or something?” I persisted.

“
Ma petite
Axelle, you are very curious,
non
?”

“Yes – but it's odd. Why would she disappear now, during Fashion Week? If she really disappeared for personal reasons then this is the worst time to do it. Any designer would instantly draw massive amounts of attention to themselves by disappearing at a time like this. So I can't help but think that it isn't just stress…despite what the family claims…”

As my probing didn't seem to be getting me anywhere, I decided to change track with my questioning. “What wa— is she like?”

“Beautiful, talented, charming. And, like I said earlier, loyal and sweet. Everything you read about her is true.” Victor was now bending over me with a comb in hand. I watched as he carefully used the back of the comb to scrape off some of the goop on my hair. “Hmm…another two minutes and your hair will be more shiny and soft than since it first grew out of your head.”

“What about the rest of the family?” I asked, bringing him back to Belle.

Victor shrugged his shoulders. “The others I only know a little. Her mother, Fiona, is
très chic
and formal. Her oldest brother Claude is smooth and sophisticated – he does the company PR. And Rose, she's a year or two younger than Claude, is in charge of the company's accounting. Honestly, I don't know her at all. Rose has always been the shy, awkward one in the family. Darius is number three – the sandwich child; very nice, also shy, and the family intellectual. He writes about fashion history. And then, of course, there's Fiona's favourite, Dom. He's a photographer. Handsome – and he knows it.”

Dom's green eyes came to mind. “Why is he his mother's favourite? What about Belle?”

“Dom is Fiona's favourite because he's good-looking and charming – and the youngest. As for Belle, she's always been her father's favourite. Patrick La Lune has always believed she's the most talented of his children. I'm sure if he wasn't so ill – he doesn't go out in public any more, he can hardly breathe let alone leave his bed – this never would have happened. He used to watch over her like a hawk. Anyway, despite their many differences, the family is very close – in any case, that's the impression they've always given.”

“Impression? So you don't think they really are close?”

Again Victor shrugged his shoulders. “They all live together in a large mansion.”

“Couldn't living together make them
less
close rather than
more
close – I mean, them being so different and all…?”

Victor was ignoring me again. Why? As if in answer to my unspoken question, he said, “
Ma chérie,
you are too curious.”

“But I'd like to find her.”

That comment caught Victor off guard. He stopped moving his hands and looked into the mirror, catching my eye. He had an eyebrow lifted quizzically.

“I'm serious,” I said.

“Well, then,
ma chérie
, I must wish you
courage
.”

“Courage?”

“Yes,
ma chérie
,
courage
– and lots of it – because in order to solve this mystery, you'll have to go up against a…”

I waited for him to finish his thought, but he didn't. His lips were firmly shut.

“A what?” I asked.

“No, I'm sorry,
ma chérie
, I won't say it. It's only an old rumour – and, anyway, this isn't the moment for such a dark matter,” he continued. “Right now we must concentrate on getting you ready for Chanel.”

Then he asked me to tilt my head back into the wash basin and began washing the colour-gloss out with the most amazing-smelling lemon-lavender shampoo (from his own brand). I shut my eyes and let all kinds of questions float through my mind:
What was he talking about? What old rumour? And why was it such a secret? Somebody else must know. Who?

“
Voilà!
” announced Victor, waking me from my reverie as he stepped in front of me. “Now we cut and dry your hair, then we must start make-up… Hmmm…although, first we must tackle those eyebrows of yours,” he said holding my chin in his hand and turning my face this way and that. Then he held out his hand like a surgeon at the operating table, and his assistant Maxi handed him a pair of tweezers.

“Ouch! Hey, that hurts!”

“
Ma chérie
, stop complaining. This thick monobrow isn't doing you any favours – unless you like caterpillars. Today an eyebrow should be thick but tamed. Ah…like this!” he proclaimed finally, handing me a mirror. But I hardly had a chance to look before Victor began to apply the make-up and Chrystelle started trimming my hair.

I couldn't wait to tell Jenny how little was painted on me. “As a model, there is no point in wearing much make-up – if any,” explained Victor. “Remember, the photographers, editors, and clients you will be meeting are all experts in beauty. They will be looking at your profile, bone structure, skin condition, teeth and smile – not your make-up. Hair is important too, of course.”

He was dabbing everything on by hand in light feathery movements. Apparently I didn't need concealer or foundation. Instead, a light dusting of loose powder was brushed onto my face with a large, thick, pillow-soft brush. I shut my eyes and breathed deeply as the sable hairs flickered gently over my skin. Next, Victor dabbed a bit of Nars blush over my cheekbones. “The creamy texture of this blush looks
soooo
natural,” he cooed.

Suddenly a gust of spring wind burst through the opened door, blowing the sound of familiar voices over the top of the privacy screen.

“Just wait till you see what we've picked up for you!” It was Ellie. She and Aunt V had returned from their shopping trip. “You're going to look amazing,” she gushed.

“I have to admit,” Aunt V added, “we were lucky. Now let's try some of the stuff on. I think we should start with the Karl Lagerfeld jeans and the H&M jacket and top.”

But before my aunt and Ellie had any hope of getting into our screened-off corner, Victor took the situation in hand: “I'll take the clothes,” he said as he sprang out to stop them from looking. “No one is to see my latest creation until I say she is ready!”

He returned with what seemed like half of the Paris shop windows in bags. Bags from Chloé, A.P.C., H&M, and Isabel Marant left barely enough space for us behind the screen.

“This is just like Christmas!” Victor said excitedly as he looked through the bags, pulling out a jacket and a pair of trousers.

I was just unpacking a navy pea coat when I realized Victor was trying to undress me!

“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked as he tried to pull my trousers down.

“
Ma chérie
, we must get you dressed and out of here. You are expected at Chanel in twenty minutes.”

“That may be, but I can undress myself, thank you!”

“From now on you are a model. And models, while on the job rarely dress themselves.”

“What?” I mumbled as he pulled my lucky jumper up over my head.

“Get used to it, because as a model you will be helped into and out of everything by a stylist.”

“But why? I can dress myself.” We were now getting me into the pair of Lagerfeld jeans.

“Well, trust me,” Victor said, as he helped me into the H&M jacket, “half the things you'll be asked to dress in you absolutely will not be able to get in and out of alone. Plus the clothes will all be ironed and steamed just before you wear them and you'll wrinkle them beyond recognition if you twist and turn half as much as you did just now. So unless you want to sabotage your new career,” he continued as he tugged and adjusted the jacket at my shoulders, “I suggest you get used to being helped… Ah!
Et voilà!
”

Smiling, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. He pushed his enormous vintage Yves Saint Laurent glasses up his nose and peered at me from every angle. Finally, he spoke. “You look amazing –
éclatant
– that's glowing, I think, in English. Now let's go and surprise your Aunt Venetia.”

We did. Big time. Keeping her eyes glued on me (at least, I imagined they were glued on me – as usual, she was wearing her sunglasses), she looked me over top to toe. Then I watched as she reached one arm out to the dainty cup filled with sugared almonds that lay on the reception table and her long fingers uncurled to delicately pick one up.

“My goodness, Axelle, you certainly do wash up well,” she said, before popping the pink sweet into her mouth.

Ellie was more forthright. “You look fantastic!” she squealed. “Your hair – and, oh my gosh – your glasses are gone too…wow! A good haircut and contacts can make such a difference.”

I didn't say anything.

Truth be told, I'd been frightened I'd be given a horribly short haircut. The result – thank goodness! – was a dark jagged mop that brushed my shoulders.

As far as the clothes went, Aunt V was right – style is in the details. I mean, basically, I was wearing what I always wear – jeans and jumper and jacket with flat shoes. But the cut and fabric of the jacket, shape of the jeans, and colour of the jumper made it all so much more. And my dainty new ballerinas and the rock-star-ragged long skinny scarf Ellie had wound around my neck tied everything together nicely.

The entire salon was now standing around staring at me. At that moment Hervé burst through the door and made his way to Aunt V. “Where is Axelle?” he asked her, standing right in front of me. “She has to sign her contract – and I have a new appointment for her.”

All eyes turned to me as silence descended. Hervé's eyes followed suit and slowly a look of disbelief spread across his features.
“Non!”
he exclaimed as he stepped back with shock. For a moment or two he stood gulping for air like a big carp out of water.
“Mon Dieu!”
he finally said.
“Quelle différence!”

“I've read through the contract, Axelle, you can sign it,” Aunt V said as I was handed a pen.

“And word travels fast,” Hervé said excitedly. “Thanks to Ellie, everyone wants to meet you – Lanvin has already called. They'd like to see you this afternoon, and if they like you they'll book you for their show. You'll go straight there from Chanel. And after Lanvin, you have another new appointment at La Lune with Claude La Lune. Ellie can go with you. She has fittings at both,” he said with a smile (yes, a
real
smile) as he handed me my copy of the contract and slipped his copy into his folder. “I think you'll be pretty busy this week, Axelle.”

There was no time to celebrate my new look, though. Hervé quickly ushered me out into the courtyard and asked me to stand against one of the cream-coloured walls so that he could take my picture. “I'll make you a temporary zed card which you can use until we get you some nice pictures,” he explained as he tried various angles. (As I knew from Aunt V, a zed card is a large card made of thick paper with a picture of the model, the name of the agency representing her, and personal information such as height and hair and eye colour.)