Infamous Desire Read Free

‘Dirty Nelly’s’.
    Academie de Coiffure occupies an entire three-storey section of an 18th century gabled townhouse. The stylist is at the entrance to greet us himself.
    “Welcome, welcome,” he says with a French accent. He beams like the moon.
    “Her hair is flat, don’t you think, Monsieur Danton?”
    “Flatter than my mother-in-law’s chest.”
    OK, I think we have established that my hair needs a total makeover.
    As I walk in with Madame Fournier, the ladies in the rather full salon all look up. A hush ripples through the entire place.
    Uh oh. Is this really a good idea?
    I dart a glance at Madame Fournier, and she nods comfortingly. “Go on, take a seat. You can’t hide from the world forever.”
    I suppose she has a point. Since all this started, I really miss my freedom and anonymity, as much as I love Alex.
    “This way, please, Ms. Turner.” Monsieur Danton gestures to a chair in a corner, a little distance away from the cluster of now whispering women.
    I’m extremely self-conscious as I take my seat. I swear that all eyes in the room are upon me, and the remarks made in mostly French aren’t too kind either.
    Monsieur Danton himself works on me. He lathers my hair into a generous froth and rinses it. Then he gives me a layered cut that shortens my hair length by at least three inches. Next, he streaks it with honey and caramel highlights. He finally blow-dries it into a dazzling, shimmering cloud of silky and chunky tresses.
    “There now,” he says with a flourish, “you look like a zillion bucks, as you Americans say it.”
    I do. I really do.
    I’m beaming into the mirror myself.
    I will never be really beautiful, but I do believe that with this new hairstyle, I may swing heads.
    I glance at the entrance of the salon. I can peer through the glass doors, and what I see fills me with dismay. The paparazzi have arrived and are waiting for me.
    “Oh no,” I say to Madame Fournier in a low voice. “Do you think one of the women in here called them?”
    I’m wary of what happened the last time with Claire, of course.
    “Certainly not,” she replies. “It was I who called them.”
    “You?”
    OK. Color me stunned.
    “Of course. You need to present a good image to the public. Now walk with me outside. Hold your head up high.”
    I stumble to my feet. I’m wearing a new pair of pumps. Jimmy Choos, I believe. I make myself walk without tripping over my feet. My pulse is a hummingbird straining to get out of my neck.
    All eyes are upon us as I nervously trudge after Madame Fournier to go out of the door.
    “Remember, you look like a zillion bucks,” she murmurs, “so you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
    Monsieur Danton opens the door for us. With a cringing heart, I step outside, smiling as we practiced.
    The cameras all go off.
    *
    I stare at the newspaper headlines. I’m on the bottom half of the front page, my hair a glorious vision of mahogany and honey and caramel.
    The press has now given me a nickname: Dizzy Lizzy. I suppose it could be worse.
    The headlines say:
    ‘DIZZY LIZZY SPORTS NEW HAIRDO FROM FAMOUS MOLDAVIAN STYLIST.’
    Madame Fournier wears a smug look on her features.
    “Excellent,” she pronounces in satisfaction.
    “What’s so excellent about it?” I complain.
    “You’ll see.”
    *
    Rue Grenadiers is famous for its eclectic one-of-a-kind boutiques. Madame Fournier once again makes sure the paps are there when I step into Stella Catalan’s boudoir. Stella Catalan is an up and coming Moldavian designer, specializing in fluttery, asymmetrical dresses in wonderful fabrics.
    I step out again, armed with a host of Stella Catalan paper bags.
    Digital cameras busily click away.
    The headlines the next day show:
    ‘DIZZY LIZZY OPTS FOR MOLDAVIAN DESIGNER.’
    *
    Next, I’m actually wearing those Moldavian designer clothes, which are every bit as fabulous as something you’d get in Milan or Paris. I walk down Rue Grenadiers with Madame Fournier and Jasper (whose