A Crime of Fashion Read online

  “Exactly! Paris! And you’ll be there for Fashion Week.”

  A haze of silence descended upon me as I digested this surprise. As if from the end of a long tunnel, I heard my mum say, “And you’ll leave on Sunday.”

  How did we go from periscope to Paris? HOW? Even a surprise with sleeves would have been better.

  I was in shock. My mouth just kind of hung limply open. My hair hung, too. I mean, PARIS? And FASHION WEEK? ME? Surely this was some kind of joke?

  “And,” my father continued, “thanks to your Aunt Venetia, you will be spending your time there working as her personal fashion assistant at Chic: Paris magazine!”

  Right. It wasn’t a joke.

  After this last cruel bit, I was in a state of such anger and stupefaction that, honestly, it’s a miracle my hair didn’t spontaneously combust and just disintegrate off the top of my head. To make matters worse, the Watanabes (yes, et tu, Jenny) were oohing and aahing and making all kinds of aren’t-you-the-lucky-one comments.

  “But I don’t want to go to Paris! I know nothing about fashion nor am I even the least bit interested in it! I LIKE WEARING A SCHOOL UNIFORM PRECISELY BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE TO THINK ABOUT FASHION!!!”

  “Axelle, calm down, please. It’s only for a week and, besides, this is an opportunity any girl would love,” Mum chirped brightly.

  “But I am not any girl! And I don’t want to go to Paris or work in fashion! And I don’t want to work with Aunt Venetia! She’s a dragon!”

  “Listen, Axelle,” my dad said, “you know we wouldn’t ask you to do this unless we felt it was important. We feel you’ve been going a bit overboard with your ‘detective work’ lately, and, well, this could be a wonderful opportunity for you to see new things, expand your horizons…”

  ARGH! PARENTS. How corny can they get? “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts, Axelle,” my dad said sternly. “If you don’t go to Paris then Aunt Venetia is ready to set up a week-long internship at one of the magazines here in London.”

  “I wonder if Vogue would have you…” my mum chimed in.

  I felt my mouth fall open again. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Actually, Axelle,” my parents answered in unison, “we are.”

  “You decide,” my mum finished for them both. “Paris or London.”

  I slumped into one of the living-room armchairs and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe this was happening! Jenny must have wisely decided I needed a bit of time to myself because she stayed at the table. Suddenly I felt claustrophobic. I heaved myself out of the armchair, grabbed my dad’s cardigan, climbed the stairs up to our tiny roof terrace and gave in to my anguish on my own. The one person in the world who would have understood how I felt – and who no doubt would have vetoed the entire Paris idea – was Gran. And she wasn’t here. How I missed her.

  Wrapping the cardigan tighter around myself, I lay down on the chaise longue, looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. I told myself that a week wasn’t for ever. I’d go to Paris – that much was sure. There was no way I’d stay in London and submit to Mum’s daily interrogations on everything I’d been doing at Vogue or wherever. Besides, with a bit of luck my workaholic Aunt Venetia just might forget about me for long enough to let me do some exploring on my own. Seven days in Paris with my fashion editor aunt couldn’t be that bad…could it?

  Actually…

  Yes, it could.

  I know I was angry when I called my aunt a dragon, but, honestly, my Aunt Venetia really is a dragon – and a dragon of the worst kind. She’s a fashion dragon – which means that instead of breathing plain old flames, she breathes silk and patent leather and address books filled with unpronounceable names.

  I admit that after years of listening to my aunt bang on about fashion I know quite a bit about it. But still…that doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it – not even for a week!

  I lay outside for some time, looking at the stars. Eventually, I heard Jenny and her parents leave, after which the house went quiet. Thankfully, I was left alone. Even Halley wasn’t scratching at the door to join me.

  You decide: Paris or London.

  My parents’ ultimatum continued to ring in my ears. Again my thoughts switched back to my gran. She would have known just what to tell me, how to make me see the bright side of things (is there a bright side to fashion that doesn’t involve sequins or neon lycra?). Of course, more often than not, Gran’s favourite solution consisted of a pot of tea and the latest episode of Midsomer Murders. “Come sit with me, Axelle,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye. “It’ll do you good to get your mind off school” (or my parents or whatever the problem of the moment was) “for an hour.” And she was right – I always left feeling better.

  Anyway, my decision was made – Paris it would be. Quietly I made my way to my bedroom, undressed, and slipped into bed beside Halley’s snoring warmth. Her sweet little West Highland white terrier eyes were shut tight. Halley, I thought ruefully, had been a much better birthday gift (for my 10th) than Paris Fashion Week. My last thought before closing my eyes was a silent prayer that I’d manage to survive both Fashion Week in Paris and my aunt – and that one day soon I’d find a case to solve that was so interesting, so big, so undeniably juicy that my parents would finally bow to the inevitable and give up in their efforts to change me.

  That wasn’t asking too much, was it?

  “Mesdames et Messieurs, dans quelques instants, nous arriverons à Paris…”

  The train had slowed; we were on the outskirts of the city, gliding into our final destination, and I’d been dozing. By the time I was fully awake, half the passengers in my carriage were already standing with their luggage, forming a queue at the exit doors. Catching sight of my reflection in the large window, I quickly ran my hands through my bushy, brown hair (actually, without the aid of a wide-toothed comb or large fork, that’s an impossibility – let’s just say I made a last desperate attempt to artfully arrange my hair), and brushed the chocolate biscuit crumbs off my jumper.

  The conductor kindly helped me with my suitcase. I followed with a quick hop and alighted on French soil – my Fashion Week had officially begun. I turned to thank the conductor and relieve him of my baggage – but his head was swivelled to the side, a delicate smile of appreciation curling his lips. “Merci, Monsieur,” I said as I followed his gaze.

  It seemed everyone on the platform was gazing in the same direction as the conductor and, to be fair, it wasn’t surprising. My eye, too, was drawn to where the crowds were parting before the most impeccably tailored silhouette of black I’d ever seen. As this apparition made its unhurried way along the platform, I stood immobile. The jaunty set of the soft felt hat, the contrast between the deep black of her expensive-looking tweed coat and the white pallor of her skin, the long bare legs ending in an amazing pair of deep violet crocodile-skin platform stilettos, and the fine wisps of platinum hair framing her face, all conspired to serve the intended purpose of setting the wearer off to her best advantage. It also conspired to make anyone within her orbit feel hopelessly unstylish. And, while I’ve never been one to give much thought to the way I look, even I could sense, all the way down to my unpolished toenails, that compared with the vision on the platform, what I was wearing was nothing more than Neanderthal.

  Great… I hadn’t even made it out of the train station yet and already I was feeling fashion-impaired.

  Why couldn’t I just go back home? Couldn’t I just promise to be more discreet? I felt myself leaning in the direction of the long queues at the ticket booths, desperate to melt into the crowd and get myself on a train back to London. I could feel a sharp longing for the safety of my fashion-free cave on Westbourne Park Road coming on. Suddenly the thought of a week at London’s Vogue offices seemed like a cosy idea, my mum’s daily interrogations like fun.

  Too late, I sighed, as I locked eyes with the apparition and raised my arm in a quick wave.

  She was my aunt, Venetia White, fashion edito
r supreme…and she was here to pick me up.

  The distinctive scent of her perfume heralded her imminent presence (she’d been wearing the same perfume since before I’d been born), the click of those amazing stilettos confirmed it. But before she hugged me or asked me how the journey had been or even how I was feeling, out came the question that had haunted every visit with her since my childhood, the question I never had a suitable answer for, the one question she always asked. Like a rabbit caught in her headlights, I waited…

  “Axelle, darling. What are you wearing?”

  Ten minutes later, Aunt Venetia’s driver was zooming along the streets of Paris at a speed that would have made my parents think twice about sending me here. Furthermore I was sweating – an inevitable by-product of sharing a small enclosed space with Aunt V. I found myself suddenly wishing that I did have short hair – if only to keep me cooler in situations like this. I was feeling so hot, my glasses were beginning to steam up. I took them off and wiped them on my sleeve.

  “Axelle, darling,” she tut-tutted. “Eww. Honestly. We’ve got to do something about those dreadful glasses. And they’re filthy. How can you possibly see anything? Anyway, one thing at a time. So how was the ride? I hope you were sitting on your own. There’s nothing worse than being surrounded by ghastly-looking people for two hours.” From underneath the soft black brim of her hat, Aunt V’s arctic blue eyes focused intently upon me. “Axelle, are you all right?” Her voice was low and smoky, nearly growling.

  No, I wanted to say, no I’m not all right. Even my suitcase is probably sweating in the boot right now. Anyway, for once discretion got the better of me. “I’m just a bit tired…” I answered.

  “Frankly, Axelle, you’re looking a bit pale. I certainly hope your mum didn’t send you here with a cold. If that’s the case, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ll just have to remain quarantined in your bedroom. Carmen can take care of you. I cannot risk catching even the slightest cold during Fashion Week. We’ll take your temperature as soon as we’re home.”

  “I don’t have a cold, Aunt V, nor do I feel unwell or ill in any other way…” Great, this is getting off to a good start, I thought. I mean, needless to say, while I’d love to get out of trailing behind my aunt from one fashion show to the next, the thought of being quarantined in my bedroom for a week was even worse.

  “Yes, well, all forms of mass-transportation are chock-a-block with strange germs. You may have caught something, you know. Anyway, we’ll see.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I stole a look at my aunt, while with my left hand I carefully reached into my tote bag and took out the notes for the story I was working on for my school magazine, The Notting Hill News. Aunt V had a pair of black professor glasses on. She was perusing her printed schedule for the upcoming week. Without looking up from her schedule, she said, “What are you doing, Axelle?”

  “Just taking out some…uhhm…homework, actually…”

  Taking her glasses off, she turned to look at me. Her hat was off, the black stripe that ran through the middle of her platinum hair prominent. My very own Cruella de Vil. “That homework wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your school column, now would it? What is it this time? The Case of the Missing Lab Rat?”

  I knew it – I should have opted for the London internship. My mum was beginning to seem cute and fluffy – harmless, even – compared to Aunt V.

  “I’m joking, Axelle. Don’t look so frightened,” she said curtly. Then, leaning her head back, she sighed. “Listen, Axelle…your parents have sent you here because they feel you spend too much time obsessing over your dream of being a private eye, and, after hearing about your latest transgression at the department store, I must say I am inclined to agree.”

  “But, I promise you, the saleswoman—”

  “Axelle, calm down. Forget about the saleswoman and forget about being a private eye, okay? You’re sixteen now, Axelle. Sixteen! It’s time you put your notebooks, lock-picking devices, endless theories and everything else you fool yourself with to rest. And this is the week to do it. You’ll be very busy as my assistant.”

  “That’s fine, Aunt V. I’m more than happy to be your assistant, but, the fact is, I’m just not made—”

  “Axelle, that’s enough. Your parents have wisely entrusted me with the broadening of your horizons – so let’s concentrate on that. I repeat: it’s time you left your childish fantasies behind. Here,” she said, handing me a slick folder made of black patent leather. “I’ve had the office put together brief biographies of the designers whose shows we’ll be seeing. A copy of our schedule is also included. You can start reading about the designers now – I’ll quiz you later. This information will come in handy after the shows, when we go backstage. I can’t have my niece not knowing a thing, now can I?”

  Then, silence. I couldn’t believe it. Was that all Aunt V was going to say?

  “And, by the way,” she said, as she slipped her glasses back on and turned a page in her notes, “if one day you really do become a private detective…you’ll definitely have to do something about your outfit.”

  I had been waiting for that. As Gran used to say, with Aunt Venetia life is very circular: everything always comes back to clothes.

  I leaned back against the plush cream-coloured leather seat and pretended to read the proffered notes. But actually I was still thinking about Gran.

  It had started innocently enough. Quite simply Gran just loved a good mystery and thought it natural to share her hobby with me. “You’re going to become the best private detective this city has ever known, Axelle,” she’d tell me. Then, turning to my father, she’d add, “Don’t forget, Tom, it’s in her blood.” And with this last comment she’d end the discussion before it had even begun.

  It was true. The bit about the blood, I mean. My grandfather (Mum’s father and Gran’s husband), whom I couldn’t remember, had worked out of Scotland Yard. He’d even solved some famous cases, but he’d died before I was old enough to speak – although that didn’t stop Gran from being convinced that his sleuthing blood coursed through me.

  It also explained my mum’s resistance. “Your grandfather turned me off trench coats for ever, Axelle,” she’d say. “He was always away on some case. And so secretive. Trust me, it’s not a life for a woman.”

  “So what do you think? Interesting, no?” Aunt V said, breaking into my thoughts. She didn’t get any further, however, before her phone rang. It had been ringing non-stop since she’d fetched me. “This time I have to answer,” she said, as Jean (her driver) handed Aunt V her phone. “Yes, Marie… Yes… Is that an elephant I hear in the background? Good. How light is its skin colour? I said light, remember. If they’re too grey, send them back to their tent or wherever they came from… Remember: think grey like light rain on the Normandy coast, NOT grey like a Kansas thundercloud. Okay? Good. And, by the way, I want more colour in the backgrounds. And I mean saturated colour – not just bright colour. Any questions?”

  Just so you know, when Aunt V says “Any questions?” she doesn’t actually expect you to come up with any. She uses the phrase in the same way most people use full stops.

  Turning to me as she cancelled the call, she said, “That was Marie calling from India. She’s there on a reshoot. Let’s hope they get it right this time around. Anyway, Axelle, we have a busy week of shows ahead of us. Dior, Chanel, Lanvin, Givenchy…”

  As Aunt V reeled off more names, I slumped further into my seat. I’d only just arrived and already Aunt V had mentioned the names of about a dozen designers I’d never heard of – at this rate I really would have to read the notes she’d prepared for me! How was I supposed to survive the week as her assistant?

  As if in answer to my silent question, she said, “And don’t worry – there’ll be plenty for you to do. For instance, as you’re so good at taking notes, I thought you could write something about the shows we’ll be seeing. If it’s good, I’ll feed it to Teen Chic. ‘Fashion Week Through The Eyes of
a Teen Fashionista’. Something like that. Anyway, by the time this week is over,” she continued, “you’ll be more concerned with skirt length than you ever were with The Hound of the Baskervilles. Speaking of which, Axelle, you’re covered in white hairs. I thought terriers weren’t supposed to shed. Are you sure Halley is pure-bred?”

  “It’s spring, Aunt V,” I answered as I watched her flick some hairs off the seats. “Halley’s changing into her summer coat.”

  “Well, at least she has that much sense. Many people use the same clothes year round. Oh, good. We’re nearly home.” We were heading towards the Left Bank, which is where Aunt V lives and works. The Chic: Paris magazine offices, where Aunt V has been editor-in-chief for the last twenty years, are on the Rue de Furstemberg, a tiny, tree-filled square fifteen minutes away (by foot – not that her red-soled stilettos ever tread pavement) from Aunt V’s apartment.

  As we made our way around the Place de la Concorde, the open square was suffused with the last of the day’s golden light. Everything glowed, from the well-worn cobblestones to the gilded tip of the obelisk adorning the middle of the square. On our left, the treetops in the park were ablaze with colour and far beyond I could see the Louvre museum. I turned quickly towards my right to catch sight of the Champs Élysées; looking this way I had the sun’s fading brilliance full in my face. Through the crimson haze I could just make out the clipped horse chestnut trees lining the boulevard, leading up to yet another monument.

  “Cheesy samples,” my aunt said, as she folded her glasses and slipped them into their case.

  For as long as I can remember my aunt has always carried an anagram puzzle book with her in her handbag. And cheesy samples, I quickly figured out, was an anagram of Champs Élysées. I was just about to say so when a loud siren bore down upon us from behind. Jean swerved the car hard to the right and stopped just short of the yellow stone balustrade of the bridge we were crossing. I saw Aunt V’s glasses fly out of their pocket in her handbag and land on the carpeted floor, as two black sedans, blue lights whirling on their roofs, sped past us.