Beautiful(3)
Marie-Helene’s parents had been straitlaced, old-fashioned aristocrats with very little money. The family chateau, art, and furniture had been sold even before Marie-Helene was born. Her mother had never worked, her father worked in a dignified, small private bank in Paris. They hoped Marie-Helene would marry well one day, one of their own kind, and were unhappy when their daughter chose law as a career, but it had been lucrative for her. They hadn’t lived long enough to know that she never married and had had a love child, which would have horrified them. Véronique never knew her grandparents. The only relative she had in the world was her mother and it was enough for her.
They didn’t live extravagantly, but they lived nicely. Their apartment was genteel but not luxurious, and big enough for the two of them. It was decorated mostly with Marie-Helene’s parents’ remaining antiques. Véronique had no hunger for the glamorous life her own career could have provided her, and although she attended major social events in the fashion world, and had an apartment of her own, she was just as happy spending a quiet weekend relaxing and watching TV with her mother in the apartment where she grew up, that had always been home. It seemed perfect to her, and a safe refuge from the fast-moving world where she worked. Her mother was pleased that Véronique’s success hadn’t spoiled her, and she was always happy to come home. Her own small apartment never felt like home to her.
* * *
—
Véronique undressed quickly as soon as she came off the runway, and pushed her way through the crowd backstage to a small changing room where she had left her jeans and T-shirt. She pulled on motorcycle boots and called her mother before she left the Grand Palais, which was a magnificent Victorian glass structure where many fashion shows were held, as well as antique fairs and art events.
Marie-Helene answered on the first ring, as soon as she saw Véronique’s number come up.
“How was it?” she asked, always pleased to hear from her. She knew how busy her daughter was during Fashion Week, and didn’t expect her to call. She never attended the shows herself, which were by invitation only to the fashion elite, but she watched the videos online of every show Véronique was in.
“It was fine, nothing unusual,” Véronique said. “How are you?” In the madness of Fashion Week, they hadn’t spoken in two days, which was rare for them. They normally spoke at least once a day.
“I’m fine, crazy busy too, though not as busy as you are.” Marie-Helene smiled. She had seen the madness of Fashion Week at close range while Véronique had still lived with her. She missed that now that Véronique had her own apartment, although she came home frequently, for a meal or to spend the night when she had nothing else to do. “I have to go to Brussels next week. I’ll probably be there for about ten days. You can come and see me if you have a break.” There was a fast train that got to Brussels from Paris in an hour and twenty minutes, and residents of both cities went back and forth with ease, for business or social events. Marie-Helene had several clients there, since many wealthy families had moved to Belgium and Switzerland when the socialists came into power in France, and the rich began to leave to avoid punitive high taxes. So she went to Belgium frequently to see long-standing clients there.
“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.