Beautiful(23)

“Oh my God, Véro, how bloody awful. I’m sorry about your mother. Are you okay? You didn’t lose anything vital? I had no idea you were there.”

“It was two weeks after Fashion Week. You’d already left, I guess. I’m okay. I’m full of shrapnel, but they say you can live with that, as long as nothing shifts. I had twenty-six surgeries. And all the moving parts still work and are still attached. A lot of people there weren’t as lucky.”

“Thank God, you’re all right. Is that why you’re not walking next week?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “And I won’t be anymore.”

“I don’t blame you, after something like that. It must shift your perspective about what’s important in life. When can I see you? Are you free for dinner tomorrow night, or is that little British lord still following you around like a puppy?” She was quiet for a second before she answered.

“He died in Brussels. He was with me.”

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. He was a sweet kid.” Doug was thirty-nine, and Cyril had seemed like a child compared to him. “What about dinner tomorrow?”

“I can’t do dinner.” She couldn’t eat with her surgical mask on, and she had no intention of showing him the right side of her face, or even telling him that part of the story. “Do you want to come to my place for a drink? I moved into my mother’s apartment.”

“Sure. Why not? I just want to see that you’re okay after all that.” She wasn’t, but she was feeling a little better and it would be nice to see him. “Six o’clock?”

“That’s fine.” She gave him the address, and he was shaken when he hung up. What if she had died in Brussels too? He had read about the attack, and it was brutal. It made him realize as he often did how quickly life could change, in an instant. And clearly, she had thought that too. He wondered if she’d go back to modeling, or if she was finished for good. Everyone got burnt out eventually. It was an ephemeral, narcissistic business, and she had more substance than that. But she was also one of the great beauties, and he hated to see her give it up so soon. He couldn’t wait to see her now. They had much to celebrate. She was alive. He was grateful that by some miracle she had been spared and survived the attack. You just never knew in life what would happen next. He had lived every day as though it were his last for years, and now she had learned that lesson too.





Chapter 7


Doug looked the way he always did when he showed up at Véronique’s apartment. His unruly black hair seemed as though it hadn’t seen a brush in a week, and he had a five-day growth of beard stubble on his face, which was the standard style for fashion photographers, and most men in the business. He was tall and thin, with lines around his eyes. He held her tightly in his arms when he hugged her, grateful that she was alive. She was wearing the surgical mask and he frowned when he saw it.

“What’s that for?”

“Germs. I can’t risk infection after all the surgeries.” He nodded and believed her and assured her he wasn’t sick if she wanted to take it off.

“I’m so relieved to see you. I couldn’t sleep all night, thinking about you in Brussels. What a god-awful thing. I lost a friend at the Bataclan in November. He went to the concert and was shot and killed. These are crazy times.” He glanced around after he said it. “I like your new apartment.”

“I grew up here. It still feels strange being here without my mother.” He nodded, sorry for her. From what he could see, she looked all right, but he noticed around the mask that she was very pale, and when she moved her arms, he could glimpse some nasty scars on her forearms and one wrist. He observed a big one on her ankle when she crossed her legs when they sat down. He poured a glass of wine for each of them.

“I ran into Stephanie today, by the way. I’m shooting for Vogue tomorrow, and she’s sending me some new girl they want. Steph says you’re traveling for a few months but you’ll be back soon. I didn’t tell her I talked to you. I was curious to hear what she would say.”

“She suggested we tell people I’m pregnant to buy some time. I was very clear with her.”

“Stephanie doesn’t give up easily. She says she’s had a million requests for you. She thinks being unavailable this time will only make people want you more. She’s probably right. Are you sure you want to quit?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitating, her eyes meeting his over the mask.

“That thing is very distracting,” he said, pointing at the mask. “It’s like talking to a woman in a burqa. I’m not sick or anything,” he reassured her again.

“I’m not supposed to take it off. An infection would be dangerous for me.” He couldn’t argue with that. But his practiced photographer’s eye noticed something unsettling at the edge of the mask near her ear, where the biggest scar started. He didn’t dare ask her about it, until his second glass of wine.

“Are you hiding something under that mask, Véro? You can tell me, if you are.” She hesitated for a second, as his eyes bore deep into hers. “You know I love you, even if you are smart enough not to go to bed with me. But I love you anyway.” She laughed, and didn’t answer his question. “What happened to you in Brussels?”