“I’m booked solid for the next two weeks, with magazine shoots,” Véronique told her. “I could come after that if you’re still there.”
“Let’s do that, and then go somewhere for a few days. It would do us both good.”
“I’d love it. I’ve got a shoot in Tokyo for Vogue after that, but I’ve got a window in between. It would be fun to get out of here and get some sun. I haven’t come up for air in a month,” Véronique said, glancing at her watch. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ve got a mototaxi waiting outside. I’ve got to be at my next show in half an hour for hair and makeup.”
“I wish you didn’t take those damn motorcycle taxis. They’re so dangerous,” Marie-Helene complained.
“It’s the only way I can get around on a tight schedule.” Her mother knew it was true.
“How’s Cyril, by the way? Is he here?” Marie-Helene asked her.
“Of course.” Véronique laughed. “He wouldn’t miss Fashion Week. We went to a party Chanel gave two days ago, and Dior is giving one tonight. I just want to go home and go to bed, but I know he’ll be upset if I don’t go.” He loved being seen and being in the press with her. It didn’t bother her. It was part of the territory, and came with who she was. He wouldn’t have been dating her if she weren’t a supermodel. It annoyed her mother, but Véronique didn’t care. They had a good time together. There was a carefree boyish side to him she thoroughly enjoyed. He acted like a kid at times.
“Well, try to get a little rest here and there, and eat occasionally. I’ll start thinking about where we can go for a few days. Maybe Miami. It’s easy to get to, and warm this time of year.” Saint Bart’s and the Caribbean were more of a scene and Véronique would be recognized everywhere, which wouldn’t be restful for her. Her face was well known around the world.
“I love you, Maman,” Véronique said hurriedly, put on a warm jacket, and rushed out, pushing her way through the still heavy crowd backstage. She left through a stage entrance, and saw the motorcycle taxi waiting for her, along with several others. He had driven her there earlier. All the models were in a hurry to get to the next show they were booked for. She rushed over to the driver, as a group of photographers pressed toward her. She put on the helmet the driver handed her and hopped on, and the photographers took rapid-fire photos of her as he started the bike and they made their escape through the Paris traffic. She was at her next location ten minutes later, in record time, and the madness started all over again with another fashion show.
Cyril was at the second one, seated in the second row. He helped her leave afterward in the chauffeur-driven Bentley he had hired to attend the show and was keeping for the evening, to take them to the Dior party. It was being held in a private mansion Dior had rented for the occasion.
Véronique was exhausted when they got back to her apartment after the show. She’d been running all day, and for weeks. She’d gotten to bed at three a.m., after fittings at Chanel. The sewers had worked all through the night on final touches, and she’d been up at six for fittings somewhere else.
“If I lie down, I might die,” she said to Cyril, as he handed her a glass of champagne. “I don’t suppose you’d want to stay home tonight,” she said hopefully, and took a sip.
“Of course not. Don’t be silly. We can’t miss the Dior party.” She would have been happy to, but didn’t want to disappoint him.
She wore a fabulous red satin gown they had lent her, which molded her body, and brushed her long chestnut hair loose down her back. She felt like she was sleepwalking by the time they left her apartment, and she almost fell asleep in the Bentley. But she came alive again when they got to the party. She had to admit, it was fun. She saw lots of people she knew, and she and Cyril were photographed constantly while they were dancing and he was delighted. They left the party at midnight, and he wanted to go dancing at a club.
“I can’t,” she said, stretching her long legs in the back of the limousine. “I have to be up again at six tomorrow.” Fashion Weeks were always like that, a mad dash of shows in the daytime, and an endless round of parties at night, and Cyril didn’t want to miss a minute of it.
“You work too hard,” he said. “My father called today. He wanted to know when I’m coming back. I almost told him ‘never.’ He’s getting cantankerous about my being here. I’ve only been in Paris this week for heaven’s sake.” He hadn’t been to Milan with her, although he had come to New York for the shows she was in there. “A boy’s got to have a bit of fun,” he said, kissing her lightly on the lips. But he usually had quite a lot of fun, much to his parents’ dismay. It was difficult to pretend he even had a job. Since he worked for his father, he felt he could do whatever he wanted. “What are you doing after the madness is over?”