Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

through an arched doorway. One of the two long casino rooms had been cleared of gaming tables and a catwalk had been erected down its center. Around it were rows of gilt chairs. This room had a normal ceiling from which several impressive chandeliers hung. At one end curtains were draped around a doorway. We passed through these to find ourselves in a dressing room. The real models had arrived from Paris and were already occupying the room—tall thin girls with pouty red lips and black Marcel waved hair, with names like Chou-Chou and Frou-Frou and Zou-Zou. They eyed me with amusement and talked about me behind their hands, never once thinking that I understood French rather well.
    One look at them and it was obvious that I’d stick out like a sore thumb. But I couldn’t back out now. Chanel put us through a final rehearsal. The other girls strutted out, hips thrust forward and shoulders swinging, managing to look sexy and glamorous in whatever Chanel made them wear. My turn came and I managed to walk up and down the catwalk. But my feet felt like lead and I was sure I looked like an unsteady, ungraceful schoolgirl. The behind-the-hand giggles from the other models seemed to indicate that my suspicion was right.
    A light meal was served to us in a gloomy back room, but I was too nervous to eat. Then it was time to go back to the dressing room, where an elderly Frenchwoman waited to boss us around. Makeup was applied to my face—unfamiliar red lips and kohl-outlined eyes. My hair was styled with a curling iron. I was helped into my outfit. From beyond the door I could hear the buzz of conversation, the chink of glasses and in the background a piano playing. Vera came in carrying a leather jewelry case. We caught a glimpse of a large gendarme, whom Vera motioned to stay at the door.
    “Here we are. The famous necklace,” she said. She opened the case. It was stunning. Several rows of perfect pearls, interspersed with clusters of diamonds and teardrop diamonds hanging down at intervals. She made me turn around so that she could put it on me. It felt cold and heavy on my neck. I glanced in the mirror and reacted with surprise. The choker made me look haughty and—well—regal. I noticed the other models staring at me, as if they’d noticed who I really was for the first time. Now I knew exactly how Cinderella felt when she put on that glass slipper and it fit!
    Coco went past the curtains that had been rigged at the doorway and we heard thunderous applause. We couldn’t hear the words of her speech but then someone hissed in French, “Zou-Zou, ready, go.” And the first model strutted out of the room to be met with a burst of applause. She was followed by Frou-Frou and Nou-Nou and the others. They reappeared and changed with lightning speed before going out again. My turn was coming closer and closer. I found that I couldn’t breathe.
    “Allez, allez,” an elderly Frenchwoman hissed in my ear and pushed me toward the doorway. I stepped out and was blinded by spotlights shining on me and the crackling of flashbulbs from press cameras.
    “And for my pièce de résistance I give you the royal look, as modeled by a member of England’s ruling family, Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” Chanel announced.
    There was a gasp, and then applause. The catwalk stretched into darkness, looking about a mile long. I was conscious of upturned faces, sparkling jewels, champagne glasses. I forced one foot in front of the other, trying to walk as I had been taught. I was going to do this. I had done harder things in my life. I was not going to stumble. Step followed step. I was going to get through it.
    Then, suddenly, my foot wouldn’t move, as if something was holding it fast to the floor. I felt myself pitching forward, stumbling, trying to right myself. I might have done so, but I had reached the end of the runway. Flashbulbs went off in my face, blinding me. I vaguely heard gasps of horror as I staggered, then pitched forward into blackness. There were screams and shouts of alarm. I braced myself for the moment when I hit the ground. Instead I landed on something soft. There was a grunt, then an exclamation in what sounded like Russian. I opened my eyes and looked up to find that I really had done what my mother had predicted. I had landed in the lap of a large dowager.
    Hands grabbed at me.
    “Easy on. You’ll be all right.” A young man took hold of me and yanked me off the poor woman’s lap. She was now protesting loudly