A Crime of Fashion Read Free Page A

or neon lycra?). Of course, more often than not, Gran’s favourite solution consisted of a pot of tea and the latest episode of Midsomer Murders . “Come sit with me, Axelle,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye. “It’ll do you good to get your mind off school” (or my parents or whatever the problem of the moment was) “for an hour.” And she was right – I always left feeling better.
    Anyway, my decision was made – Paris it would be. Quietly I made my way to my bedroom, undressed, and slipped into bed beside Halley’s snoring warmth. Her sweet little West Highland white terrier eyes were shut tight. Halley, I thought ruefully, had been a much better birthday gift (for my 10th) than Paris Fashion Week. My last thought before closing my eyes was a silent prayer that I’d manage to survive both Fashion Week in Paris and my aunt – and that one day soon I’d find a case to solve that was so interesting, so big, so undeniably juicy that my parents would finally bow to the inevitable and give up in their efforts to change me.
    That wasn’t asking too much, was it?

“Mesdames et Messieurs, dans quelques instants, nous arriverons à Paris…”
    The train had slowed; we were on the outskirts of the city, gliding into our final destination, and I’d been dozing. By the time I was fully awake, half the passengers in my carriage were already standing with their luggage, forming a queue at the exit doors. Catching sight of my reflection in the large window, I quickly ran my hands through my bushy, brown hair (actually, without the aid of a wide-toothed comb or large fork, that’s an impossibility – let’s just say I made a last desperate attempt to artfully arrange my hair), and brushed the chocolate biscuit crumbs off my jumper.
    The conductor kindly helped me with my suitcase. I followed with a quick hop and alighted on French soil – my Fashion Week had officially begun. I turned to thank the conductor and relieve him of my baggage – but his head was swivelled to the side, a delicate smile of appreciation curling his lips. “ Merci, Monsieur ,” I said as I followed his gaze.
    It seemed everyone on the platform was gazing in the same direction as the conductor and, to be fair, it wasn’t surprising. My eye, too, was drawn to where the crowds were parting before the most impeccably tailored silhouette of black I’d ever seen. As this apparition made its unhurried way along the platform, I stood immobile. The jaunty set of the soft felt hat, the contrast between the deep black of her expensive-looking tweed coat and the white pallor of her skin, the long bare legs ending in an amazing pair of deep violet crocodile-skin platform stilettos, and the fine wisps of platinum hair framing her face, all conspired to serve the intended purpose of setting the wearer off to her best advantage. It also conspired to make anyone within her orbit feel hopelessly unstylish. And, while I’ve never been one to give much thought to the way I look, even I could sense, all the way down to my unpolished toenails, that compared with the vision on the platform, what I was wearing was nothing more than Neanderthal.
    Great… I hadn’t even made it out of the train station yet and already I was feeling fashion-impaired.
    Why couldn’t I just go back home? Couldn’t I just promise to be more discreet? I felt myself leaning in the direction of the long queues at the ticket booths, desperate to melt into the crowd and get myself on a train back to London. I could feel a sharp longing for the safety of my fashion-free cave on Westbourne Park Road coming on. Suddenly the thought of a week at London’s Vogue offices seemed like a cosy idea, my mum’s daily interrogations like fun.
    Too late, I sighed, as I locked eyes with the apparition and raised my arm in a quick wave.
    She was my aunt, Venetia White, fashion editor