Page 74 of When Fashion Turns Deadly

“Now you’re talking.”

***

Isabelle was still recovering from Camille Allard’s announcement that she had moved Isabelle to third on the runway when she found Marit sitting in front of a mirror, a hair stylist teasing her blonde hair into a windswept look.

Marguerite, the makeup artist assigned to help Isabelle for this show, circled behind her. “Sit. Sit. We have work to do.” Marguerite pressed her hands against Isabelle’s shoulders and guided her to the chair beside Marit.

“What did Camille change in the order?” Marit asked.

“She swapped me and Nadia.”

Marit’s eyes widened. “In the opening series?”

“Yeah.” Isabelle swallowed hard. “How did I get myself into this again? I’m a banker, for heaven’s sake.”And a spy, Isabelle thought.

“You’re a good friend. You’ve already saved my life more than once because you’ve been willing to do this.” Marit reached out and put her hand on Isabelle’s arm. “Thank you for being here.” The sincerity in Marit’s voice eased Isabelle’s nerves slightly.

“Close your eyes,” Marguerite instructed.

Isabelle obeyed. Within seconds, Marguerite had applied eye shadow to Isabelle’s eyelids.

“Just so you know,” Marit said. “There is one good thing about going early in the lineup.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll get to take your shoes off sooner than the rest of us.”

“Only to have to put on a new pair a few minutes later.”

“Yes, but the first pair you’re wearing is an inch higher than the second.”

“True.”Concentrate on the positives. Isabelle repeated that thought over and over again. For the next twenty-five minutes, Isabelle continued to follow her stylist’s instructions: Look up. Look down. Purse your lips. Turn this way. Now the other way.

Her hair came next. First, the stylist used a curling iron to create ringlets in Isabelle’s long, auburn hair, followed by more hair spray than should ever be released in an indoor setting. The stylists then pinned white forget-me-nots into her curls, the white petals contrasting against the darkness of her hair.

“One hour!” one of Camille’s assistants shouted from the front of the backstage area.

The next forty-five minutes passed by in a blur, all the models getting dressed, Camille inspecting each of her designs. She reached Isabelle, and Isabelle lifted her chin slightly, the way Marit had taught her.

Camille stared at her creation, Isabelle little more than the hanger displaying it. After several seconds, she tugged at the edge of Isabelle’s sleeve. “Good. Very good.”

“Ten minutes!” came the next warning.

This was really happening. Isabelle was standing backstage at Fashion Week, in the Carrousel du Louvre, no less, wearing a beautiful gown that would take two paychecks of her bank executive’s salary to buy, and she was going third down the runway of her first fashion show ever.

She tried to wiggle her toes, unable to do so in the four-inch heels currently squeezing her feet. Maybe Marit was right about going early so she could take these off. She could already feel the blisters forming on her little toes.

“Five minutes!”

Isabelle’s stomach lurched uncomfortably.

Her assistant, Ellie, adjusted the sleeve of her dress again. “Breathe.”

“Right.” Isabelle drew in a deep breath. In her head, she repeated Marit’s many instructions. Chin up, eyes forward, one foot in front of the other, attitude, a little smile.

Lights flickered for several seconds, signaling the beginning of the show. Then the music started.

Isabelle’s chest tightened, her whole body trembled, and then suddenly, the two women in front of her were walking the floor, and it was her turn.

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