44
Here goes, this is the big one.
Selena fastened the black buckle on the leather belt around her waist. It cinched her in perfectly, showing off her hourglass curves. She might have indulged in a few heartbreak pizzas and some wine lately, but it didn’t show. She smiled and turned to examine her derrière in the mirror, nodding in approval. This red dress is actually working for me. I look pretty foxy, if I do say so myself.
There was a knock on the hotel door. Hair and make-up had arrived. Two French women carrying enormous black vanity cases marched in and wasted no time in setting up a salon corner.
“Hi ladies,” Selena said, bubbling with excitement. “Have you been to the other girls already?”
“Yes, all your team is done already,” said one of the stylists in hurried tones. She pulled her long black hair into a messy nest on the top of her head with a band and gestured to Selena to take a seat. “Let’s make you fabulous, Miss Day.”
“Call me Selena,” she said, brushing off the formality. She hated being addressed that way. “But first, let’s pop some bubbly.”
She twisted and pulled on the cork until it burst off triumphantly, allowing a mini fountain of bubbles to spurt up and onto the carpet. “Oops,” she said, giggling.
She poured three small glasses, giving one to each stylist, and then sat in the chair as she was ordered. The duo went at it, spraying, back-combing, dabbing and dusting. When the make-up artist’s fingers patted foundation over her scar, it suddenly dawned on Selena that she hadn’t flinched. Whenever she’d been made up professionally before, it used to send shudders through her bones to have someone’s fingers glide over the train-track-like scar tissue, but now, nothing. Wow. I’ve actually gotten over it. That’s the one thing I can thank Nick for.
Thinking his name sent a rush of nerves through her chest and into her heart, causing it to quicken. She hadn’t realized she still felt raw. It had been a month since she last saw him, but still the emotions kept flooding back to her as strong as ever. If she smelled bacon it reminded her of their breakfast at Soho House. When she looked across the street from her office at work she couldn’t help but see the woman in the office who had been working late the night they made love at the window. Singing In The Rain came on TV the other day and reminded her of Nick’s grandfather whom she’d never even met, and never would. But the poster in his living room, and the look on his face when he spoke of his granddad—that’s what she would always think of fondly.
Ugh, get him out of your head tonight. This is your big night, Lena.
After the last molecule of powder was brushed on her face, Selena was handed a large mirror to examine herself. “Wow,” she said, her mouth gaping. “Just, wow. Thank you girls. I feel like a star. Bloody hell, I’m a bit emotional.” She gulped away the lump in her throat and downed the last bit of champagne.
Feeling on top of the world, knowing that she was hot enough to melt a thousand icebergs, Selena made her way down to the hotel bar to meet the rest of the Shades of Chic team. She had deliberately asked Nancy to book a different hotel from their first trip to Paris. This time, she wanted modern, slick—basically nothing that would remind her of her previous French sexual revolution.
The team was there, drinking cocktails paid for by Shades of Chic. There was a party atmosphere as they stood in a small circle chattering nervously.
“The cars will be here soon,” said Nancy under her disguise of perfectly applied make-up. Selena had never seen Nancy’s hair so big.
“You all look amazing,” Selena said, as the younger girls on the team all started snapping selfies. They asked a waiter to take a group shot of the whole team and Selena looked around at all the happy faces. It was good to be away from London, away from that office.
She walked over to the bar to pick up a cocktail when a waiter in a white shirt and grey waistcoat intercepted her to pick up a glass and hand it to her. “Are you one of the models?” he asked, his smooth French accent sending a kick of excitement through her. “Me? No, no. I’m the boss,” she said laughing.
“No,” he said. “I thought, wiz ziss beauty you must be the make-up model. You are a very attractive woman.” He flicked an eyebrow on those last words, causing Selena to laugh into her drink, her cheeks burning red.
“Thank you,” is all she could think of to say. You’re pretty damned hot yourself.
She took her drink back to the group just in time to hear Marnie say, “It’s a shame Nick isn’t here, you know, with him being one of the original group who came to France. He would have loved this.”
Nancy’s face tightened as she glanced at Selena. Selena’s stomach lurched. Nobody mention that bloody man, and especially not with a reminder about the damn Paris trip in the same sentence.
She simply smiled as if she hadn’t registered that comment, raised her glass and said, “Cheers to Shades of Chic, Paris-style.” The team cheered and clinked glasses. This was going to be a night to remember.
The team were swept into a convoy of black limos to a large ballroom in central Paris where they were photographed on the red carpet next to huge billboards of Tamara, the model, under the Shades of Chic logo. Selena’s gut was on a spin cycle. She was nervous and excited all at once.
Pierre Berest greeted her with kisses on both cheeks as cameras flashed. He pulled her around to pose for the French media and her pearly teeth sparkled in the camera glare. It was like no other business trip. She was walking on air—well, a red carpet, which felt like air.
Tamara, the A-list girl about town, strode up to Selena in a floor-length silver gown, which plunged so low you could see every bit of her breasts apart from the nipples, and kissed her cheek. “Selena, so good to see you. What a night,” she said, her voice delicate and dramatic like Marilyn Monroe’s. She followed the same routine as Pierre had done and put one arm around Selena’s waist to turn her to the right camera. Selena glanced up to the see the model strike a pose that looked as if she was thinking “Don’t I know you?” to the camera lens.
Selena followed suit, smiling, but then toning down her smile and adding a touch of a frown in there. The last thing she wanted was to look like a happy clappy children’s entertainer next to a glamour-puss when the photos appeared in the press.
“Selena.” came a voice from behind the row of paparazzi. She squinted to see a man with a shaved head, beard, and loose linen shirt.
What the—? “Simon?”
He edged forward to the barrier and went to squeeze through a gap when one of the security men stepped forward to stop him.
“It’s okay,” Selena said, her face stern. “Let him through, though I’m not sure why you’re even here.”
He looked so different, shaved head, beard, wearing white linen, looking as though he’d joined a commune of some sort. Gone were the designer shades and sharp suits. And the beard. What was that about? It wasn’t even a fashion beard. It was like an upside down nest on his chin.
“Listen, I’m not going to spoil your night,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed with what looked like concern. “I’ve been such an asshole.”