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For Terry Wakefield, the final straw came one night when he awoke to find his wife standing in the freezing cold kitchen, wearing only her underwear and holding a heavy metal pan high above her head. She claimed Mrs Davidson was trying to tunnel through from the house next door, and she wanted to be prepared for when she surfaced through the dirty lino floor.
The following day, Alyson came home from school to find the house unusually quiet. Her mother was slumped in an armchair, her eyes staring blankly into the middle distance and a near-empty bottle of vodka beside her chair.
‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Alyson, an ominous feeling creeping over her.
Lynn glanced up at Alyson. She looked exhausted, huge purple bags under her bloodshot eyes. ‘He’s gone.’
Alyson swallowed. Her father had left before – so many times that she’d lost count. Often he’d disappear for days at a time and there would be furious rows when he got back, her mother crying and screaming and drinking, while Alyson and her brother huddled together at the top of the stairs, longing for them to stop. But this time there was something different in Lynn Wakefield’s tone, an air of finality.
‘He’s taken Scott with him,’ she confirmed resignedly, picking up the vodka bottle and swallowing the final dregs.
From then on, it was just the two of them. Alyson never heard anything more from her father and grew to deeply resent him, furious at the way he’d abandoned them to struggle, choosing her brother over her and splitting up their family.
Alyson had had to grow up very quickly, learning to care for herself and her mother, ensuring she was always presentable for school lest the teachers became suspicious. One of the kids in her class had been taken away by social services, and for nine-year-old Alyson that seemed every bit as terrifying as being snatched by the Child Catcher. She was determined to avoid the same fate; after all, her mother was all she had left now.
Lynn Wakefield gave up looking for work when her husband left, the pair of them getting by on benefits and disability payments. There was barely enough to cover bills and food, let alone any money for extras like school trips or new clothes. Alyson dressed as cheaply as she could, buying clothes from charity shops and wearing them until they were threadbare. She wasn’t like the other kids, with fashionable outfits and designer trainers. She was different, obviously so, and was ostracized accordingly.
She began working as soon as she was old enough – a paper round, babysitting for the neighbours’ kids, then glass collecting at the local pub when she hit sixteen. Every penny she earned she took home to her mum, to help pay the heating or the water or whichever bill was coming through the letterbox stamped ‘Final Demand’ that week.
Sometimes, in her rare, quiet moments, she secretly dreamed of getting out; of escaping and going far, far away, like an adventurer in a fairytale. But in reality, she couldn’t see an end to this life. There was no time to think about her own dreams and ambitions, to consider what she wanted from the future. She was too busy fighting tooth and nail to keep everything together – school, work, home. She couldn’t stop for a second. If she did, she might break.
‘Alyson?’
Alyson jumped as her shift manager’s voice cut into her thoughts.
‘Yeah?’
‘I really hate to ask, but Carmen’s just rung in sick and I wondered if there was any chance of you covering for her tomorrow night?’ Helen bit her lip and looked pleadingly at Alyson.
Briefly Alyson thought about the English essay that was due in two days’ time, and the French verbs she was supposed to learn by tomorrow. She was a good student, bright and hard-working, but her troubled home life meant she couldn’t always finish her work on time or study as hard as she wanted for that exam. Her teachers got frustrated that she wasn’t reaching her full potential, but Alyson simply bowed her head and took their criticism, unwilling to go into details about her problems.
‘Sure,’ she told Helen, with a little shrug of her shoulders. Schoolwork could wait – they badly needed the extra money.
‘Great!’ Helen smiled gratefully at her, before disappearing back through the double doors into the restaurant.
It was raining lightly when Alyson climbed wearily off the night bus and set off through the darkness towards her house. It was almost one a.m., and the dank drizzle for which Manchester was renowned only added to her bleak mood. She was exhausted, longing to collapse into bed, but she dragged her aching body one step at a time through the deserted streets.
She lived in a small two-up two-down, just one of many on an estate with identical rows of red-brick terraces, built at the turn of the century for Oldham’s millworkers. Each opened directly onto the street in front, with a small yard out back and a narrow lane running behind. Beyond lay the rugged moorland, stretching for miles, but currently invisible in the blackness of the night.
Alyson slipped the key into the lock and opened the front door, surprised to find that the house was dark. Her mother was usually waiting up for her, watching TV or dozing in an armchair. With a strange sense of foreboding, Alyson flicked on the light and hurried through to the kitchen.
The first thing she saw was her mother’s red and white pills, scattered across the old, cracked lino. Her eyes followed the trail, refusing to take in what she was seeing. Lynn Wakefield lay slumped on the floor, her eyes closed and the pill bottle clutched in her hand.
The neon striplights at the hospital were harsh and draining, making it impossible to know whether it was night or day. Her mother was comfortable, they told her. Critical but stable. As yet, Alyson hadn’t been allowed to see her.
She’d been asked question after question, filled out form after form.
‘Who’s her next of kin?’ asked the young, male nurse, who’d introduced himself as Martin.
‘I am,’ Alyson answered clearly.
‘Is she married? We notice she’s wearing a wedding ring …’
‘He’s gone,’ Alyson said, and her voice was hard. ‘I don’t know where he is.’
The nurse looked at her sceptically. ‘Well, if you manage to think of anything, let us know. A contact number for your father would be very helpful.’
Alyson remained mute. Her father had been out of their lives for so long and she wasn’t about to invite him back again. I’m the one who looks after her, Alyson thought fiercely. I’m the one who’s cared for her every day for the past eight years. He doesn’t deserve any part of this.
Martin left, and for the next few hours she remained ignored, seated on a hard plastic chair in an endless white corridor, her head in her hands. She had no idea how long she kept up the vigil. She was on the verge of dozing off, her exhausted body finally running out of energy, when she heard a voice that made her think she was hallucinating.
‘Ally?’
Her head shot up. There was only one person who’d ever called her that.
Terry Wakefield stood in front of her, and he had the good grace to look embarrassed. Alyson stared at him in disbelief. He looked older than she remembered; his hair had grown thinner, the lines on his face etched deeper. Beside him was a tall, lanky guy that Alyson barely recognized – her brother, Scott. She hadn’t seen him since he was six years old, and he’d altered almost beyond recognition, becoming a sulky, sullen teenager with pale-blond hair and a bored expression. He looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but there – in the hospital, visiting the sick mother who was a stranger to him.
‘How … What the hell are you doing here?’ Alyson burst out. Her voice was anguished, a strangled cry.
Her father’s forehead creased anxiously. ‘They contacted me … The doctors. How is she?’
‘Like you even care,’ Alyson spat. ‘How did they get your number? I never gave them it.’
‘They found it …’ Terry began awkwardly. ‘In your mother’s things.’
Alyson felt a slow, heavy, sinking feeling in her stomach, as though she’d just eaten a pile of lead.
‘We kept in touch, now and again,’ her father continued. ‘Sometimes I sent her some money … when she was struggling.’
Alyson felt sick. Her mother and father were still in contact, yet her father had never once asked to see her, her mother keeping silent about the clandestine meetings. And all the time she’d been slaving away, working until she dropped, her mother had failed to mention the extra money Terry Wakefield had given her. She’d probably spent it on alcohol, or something ridiculous from QVC, Alyson thought furiously.
‘Why didn’t you help me?’ Alyson demanded. Her voice was growing louder, more hysterical. ‘Why didn’t you want to see me?’ The room was spinning.
‘Ally …’
Her father stepped towards her, but at that moment a white-coated figure appeared from her mother’s room.
‘I’m Dr Chaudhry,’ he introduced himself, shaking hands with the three of them. ‘Would you like to come in now?’
They followed him through; Alyson went first, shocked to see her mother looking so small and fragile in the hospital bed. She was hooked up to all manner of machines, an IV tube attached to the back of her hand. She was sleeping right now, the machines around her beeping at regular intervals.
‘Please, take a seat, all of you,’ suggested Dr Chaudhry. They sat down, her brother rolling his eyes and sighing like this was all a big inconvenience.
‘I understand you’re her primary carer,’ he said, turning to Alyson. He looked tired but patient, and his dark-brown eyes were kind.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said determinedly.
‘It’s a lot of responsibility for someone so young.’
‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she retorted, with a pointed glance at her father.
The doctor nodded, understanding. ‘Well, now you do.’
Alyson stared at him, her brow furrowing in incomprehension.
‘We think it might be better if your mother went somewhere she could get the help that she needs. Her condition is obviously serious, and Lynn might be better served in a place where they have the specialization to really look after her. Now, there are a number of care homes in the area—’
‘I look after her,’ Alyson burst out. ‘We’ve managed fine all these years.’
‘Ally, you’re clearly not coping,’ her father cut in.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Alyson insisted, her voice small and tight. She stared hard at the motionless figure in the bed, fighting back tears. ‘We don’t need you.’
‘Perhaps I’ll give you some time to talk this through,’ Dr Chaudhry suggested tactfully, sensing the atmosphere. ‘They have all the details you need at reception, and I’ll be back after my rounds if you have any questions.’
‘Listen, Ally,’ her father began after the doctor had left. ‘Think about it. And I mean seriously. You can’t spend the rest of your life looking after your mother – it’s just not fair on you. Now the doctor thinks this is the best option, and maybe he’s right. You’ve got to think about her too, not just what you want.’
‘Why not? That’s what you did, isn’t it?’ Alyson retorted. She was lashing out, all the anger that she’d bottled up over the past decade finally finding an outlet.
‘You need some time for yourself, sweetheart,’ Terry said adamantly. ‘And maybe it’s best for both of you. It could be that Lynn’s become too reliant on you …’
Alyson felt a swathe of guilt and hated her father for making her feel like that. Was he right? Was this somehow her fault, for encouraging her mother to become too dependent on her?
‘Look, love, I can give you a few hundred pounds, maybe more. You can do what you want, go where you want.’
‘I don’t need your money,’ Alyson spat, her eyes flashing dangerously. She couldn’t believe that her father thought he could just walk back into her life and pay her off.
Terry Wakefield leaned forward and caught her hand. His hold was strong, a little painful even. He stared straight into her eyes, the pressure on her palm getting stronger. When he spoke again, his voice was cold, threatening almost. ‘Think about it, Ally.’
3
Paris, FranceThree months later
Cécile Bouvier was late. She hurried down the rue de Rivoli, dodging tourists and taking furious drags on the Philip Morris cigarette dangling from her pillar-box-red lips. Everybody stared. A few tourists took pictures. No one could take their eyes off her.
Despite the heat of the day, she wore black drainpipe trousers with black brogues, and a Frankie Says Relax T-shirt that she’d slashed to her midriff so only the top half of the message was visible. At five foot four her frame was gamine, petite in that particularly French way, with her flat, porcelain-white stomach extending beneath the T-shirt, her small breasts jutting through the thin cotton fabric. She wore armfuls of bangles and Wayfarer sunglasses, while enormous earphones were clamped over her head, attached to a tiny iPod.
But the most striking thing about CeCe was her hair. On one side of her head it fell in a thick, dark curtain, straggly and gloriously unkempt. The other half was shaved in a severe buzzcut. The whole look was eccentric, edgy and individual. She’d been compared to early Madonna, Agyness Deyn and Alice Dellal, but as far as CeCe was concerned, the look was all her own. One hundred per cent original and impossible to replicate.
CeCe was twenty-one years old, and lived and breathed fashion. She was obsessed with clothes – and not in a superficial, Beverly-Hills-socialite way. CeCe saw clothes as an art form, a true expression of the individual. She was fascinated with the way they were conceived and created, the way they could alter moods, launch a star or destroy a career.
CeCe’s dream was to make it as a designer. She wanted her own fashion house, to be known the world over for her bold, glamorous designs. She’d sacrificed a lot to make it happen, but there was still a long way to go.
She came to a halt outside a large store at the less salubrious end of the rue de Rivoli, in the midst of shops selling tourist tat and cheap clothes. The sign above read ‘Rivoli Couture’,and the window display showed rail-thin, black plastic mannequins modelling ostentatious designer clothing. It was where CeCe worked as a sales assistant. The job was soul-destroying, but she had rent to pay.
She threw down her cigarette and burst through the door, pulling off her earphones and stuffing them into her bag. It was vintage Chanel tweed, and she’d customized it herself with ribbon and lace.
‘Bonjour, tout le monde,’ CeCe greeted everyone.
‘Morning CeCe.’
‘Buongiorno!’
‘Cześć, CeCe, how are you?’
A chorus of languages greeted her as she pulled off her sunglasses to reveal dark black circles under her eyes.
‘Christ, CeCe, you look like shit!’ exclaimed Maarit, a waif-like Finnish blonde, whose foul mouth belied her demure appearance.
‘I stayed awake until five a.m., designing,’ CeCe explained in her thick French accent. ‘I had an incredible idea that wouldn’t leave me, and I could not sleep until it was finished. Is Dionne here yet?’
‘Yeah, she’s out the back.’
‘Merci,’ CeCe smiled, as she made her way across the shop, past groaning shelves overflowing with garish clothing. Rivoli Couture bought up the dross from France’s top designers, last season’s pieces that those with taste and money found too hideous to actually buy. Yet the tourists seemed to lap it up, leaving with bagfuls of designer labels at heavily discounted prices.
‘CeCe!’ Dionne exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Girl, I am loving your outfit! But hell, look at your eyes – you’re exhausted, honey.’
‘I was up the whole night working on something new: a beautiful full-length dress made of crêpe de chine, with shoulder draping and an asymmetrical hemline.’ Her hazel eyes sparkled as she described it. ‘I have made the toile and I need you to try it, Dionne, I just know it will look amazing on you. But where were you last night? You did not come home, no?’
‘No,’ Dionne giggled. She was wearing an obscenely short, cherry-red bandage dress that clung to her incredible curves. CeCe realized she’d come straight to work from wherever she’d spent the night.
‘Are you still drunk?’
‘Maybe just a little,’ Dionne admitted, as she broke down in another fit of giggles. ‘Shit, that reminds me, help me get these back before Khalid notices them,’ she hissed, pulling a pair of neon-yellow peep-toe stilettos out of her bag.
‘You wore those?’ CeCe asked disapprovingly. ‘They’re vile.’
‘I thought they were kind of fun,’ Dionne disagreed, as she turned them over to inspect them. The soles were badly scuffed, and a cigarette butt clung to the bottom of the right one. Dionne quickly shoved them back on the shelf with a shrug. ‘If anyone complains, just say they’re shop-soiled and give them ten per cent off.’
The way Dionne saw it, there was no point working in a clothes shop if you couldn’t borrow the occasional item. It was one of the few perks to this job, and meant she was rarely seen in the same outfit twice.
‘So where did you go?’
‘David took me for dinner, then we went on to Bijou,’ Dionne gushed, naming the hot new nightclub that had just opened in the Marais. ‘I had so much fun – you should have come. The champagne was flowing, I was dancing on the tables all night long, shaking my booty … And the best part …’ Dionne paused for effect, ensuring she had CeCe’s full attention. ‘… The owner. Philippe Rochefort. Man, that guy is hot! Loaded too – like, serious money. David introduced me to him and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Very good-looking. Very French, you know what I’m saying?’
‘Poor David.’ CeCe smiled sympathetically. ‘He adores you.’
‘David’s a sweetie,’ Dionne conceded. ‘He’s a great guy but—’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know.’ Dionne sighed despairingly. ‘There’s just not that spark. I want totally intense chemistry where you can’t keep your hands off each other, where there’s an orchestra playing every time you’re together and you think you might die when you’re apart.’
‘Life is not like in the movies, Dionne.’
‘My life’s going to be,’ Dionne replied indignantly. ‘There’s gonna be drama and passion and—’
‘Ah, ladies, much as I hate to interrupt you, I had hoped you might get round to doing a little work today.’
