reading

There was no backing out now, I thought as I slipped the two tickets out of their envelope for a last look before putting them into my tote bag. They looked harmless enough. Although why shouldn’t they? It was hardly their fault I was being shipped to Paris.

AXELLE ANDERSON

London St. Pancras – Paris Gare du Nord

Train 3309 Departure Time 15h05

Coach 12 Seat 35

Nope. No getting out of it – that was definitely my name printed there.

“Axelle, hurry up, would you? We don’t want to be late!”

And that was definitely my mum’s voice.

“Axelle?”

“Coming!” Quickly I lurched across my room to the wardrobe opposite my bed. I didn’t care what my mum said – I was taking it. As far as I was concerned, I needed all the good vibes I could get. From the back of the bottom drawer I pulled out my lucky jumper and shoved it into my tote.

“Your father has started the car!”

“Coming!” With a last look around my room and a quick kiss on the top of Halley’s furry white head, I bounded down the stairs.

It was sunny and bright that afternoon; a brisk spring breeze whistled through the St. Pancras terminal as, thirty minutes later, I waited for the boarding call for my train with Mum and Dad.

“Axelle, did you pack your new jumper?”

“Don’t forget to charge your phone.”

“And did you have to take your old tote bag? After I’ve just bought you a new one?”

“Forty-four, Axelle! Don’t forget to put a +44 before dialling any English number.”

“And for goodness’ sake, DO brush your hair while you’re away, Axelle. Every day.”

No, I hadn’t packed my new jumper, I’d packed my old and lucky jumper, but there was no point admitting to that now. Like, how old did they think I was? And hadn’t I been to Paris often enough that I knew how to dial out?

Parents. Honestly.

“And remember, Axelle,” said my mum, “this is your week. Enjoy yourself!”

Right, I thought. If this is my week then why am I going somewhere I don’t want to go to do something I absolutely don’t want to do?

“You might end up liking it so much you’ll never come back!” my dad said.

Yeah, ha ha, Dad.

The final call for my train was announced over the loudspeakers. I gave my parents a last hug, then turned, stepped through the automatic doors and queued for security. Minutes later I climbed into my carriage on Platform 5, one floor up from the entrance level. I could just see my parents near the Searcys bar next to the platform. My mum was walking along, looking into the carriage windows. She saw me just as the train began to pull out of the station.

I waved goodbye to my family as the train began its two-and-a-half-hour journey to Paris. I kept waving until they were nothing more than pinpricks of colour on the now distant platform and then, with the final turn out of the train station, disappeared from view altogether. I leaned back deeply in my seat and stretched my legs out in front of me, careful not to hit the stockinged ankles of the lady sitting across from me.

This wasn’t my first trip to Paris – I’d been many times before. But this was my first trip alone…and, contrary to what probably happens to most sixteen-year-old girls, I was being sent to Paris for Fashion Week as punishment.

I’ll start at the beginning: what I love most in this world is a mystery. Getting to the bottom of a story, finding a secret, following a riddle, solving a puzzle, that’s what makes me buzz. Discerning the differences between what people do and what they say is fun, a never-ending game of find-the-motive. My mum likes to say sleuthing is my “hobby”, but that’s like saying Lady Gaga likes to sing in her spare time. And despite my mum’s many delusional attempts to push me to do something else, all I’ve ever wanted to be is a private detective.

“I blame your gran,” she always says. “Every time I turned my back she’d switch off Sesame Street and pop in one of her Agatha Christie DVDs. Instead of Elmo and Big Bird you had Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.”

Then I always say, “It hasn’t done me any harm!” which makes my mum roll her eyes. “Besides,” I continue, “what’s so wrong with wanting to be a private detective?”

“Axelle, detective work is for old men shuffling around in trench coats,” she likes to remind me, “although, mind you, Burberry has some nice ones out right now – but, still, Axelle, is that really what you want to be?”

“What about Nancy Drew? She’s not an old man in a trench coat.”

“True. But she didn’t get that convertible by solving mysteries.”

“Maybe she didn’t, but I will.”

“Right.” Then, at this point there is always a short pause, after which my mum invariably starts with the one idea I’m absolutely allergic to: “Axelle, why don’t you give modelling a try?” This is my mum’s big wish, that I become a model (failing that she’d love me to take over her successful interior design business – but modelling wins by a long shot). “Your Aunt Venetia could help you and with your long legs—”

“I’m short, Mum, remember?”

“You’re not that short, Axelle, and if you cut your hair…” Blah, blah, blah.

It’s always the same, round and round we go. It’s the one story I never seem to get anywhere with.

At least my best friend Jennifer Watanabe is supportive – up to a point.

“I mean, you are good at finding stuff out, Axelle. Remember how you found Mrs Singh’s missing mail? And remember my mascara?”

“Halley found your mascara in the garden. That hardly qualifies as great detection.”

“Still. I wouldn’t have found it without you – I mean, she’s your dog.”

“Thanks, Jen.”

“Anyway, my point is, even if you are good at figuring things out – and you are – what could be the harm in, you know…trying to improve yourself a little?”

The problem with Jenny’s ideas for my self-improvement is that they always involve my appearance. Lying on her bed as we had this discussion for the hundredth time, I watched as she looked at me through half-closed eyes, like an artist before a lump of fast-drying clay. “Your silence is becoming ominous, Jenny,” I said.

Jenny herself left no room for improvement – she was perfect, as far as I could tell. Her straight black hair fell in a shiny sheet to the middle of her back, her face was devoid of pores and her delicate build never failed to make me feel gangly by comparison.

“If you’d just let your hair—”

“Don’t start with my hair, Jenny.”

“And your glasses—”

“I like wearing my glasses!”

Jenny shrugged her shoulders. “Fine. Have it your way. But you could easily look totally amazing. You’d have everyone at school eating out of your hand. I mean, look at you, Axelle, you’re slim and you’ve got the longest legs of anyone I know. Lots of people think you’re a model…”

Jenny left the rest unsaid – namely, that lots of people think I’m a model…until I turn around.

“It’s your hair, Axelle. It’s too overwhelming. And those glasses – do they have to be so big? And so heavy? And why can’t you let me do your make-up instead of—”

“You know why I do what I do. I mean, how am I supposed to be a detective if I walk around looking like some supermodel? Then I’ll have everyone staring at me and I’ll never get to the bottom of anything. As a private eye I’m supposed to blend in, remember?”

“You sort of have a point… ”

“I totally have a point.”

Sometimes talking to Jenny could be scarily similar to talking with my mum.

For the most part I think I’ve always managed to combine my detective work with school and home quite well. The investigative column I write for the school magazine gives me some good cover when nosing around and as long as I keep my grades up – which I do – there isn’t much my parents can say. But there have been a few incidents lately that, for whatever reason, seem to have exploded out of all proportion, like mushrooms after a rainy day. And, unfortunately, the worst one had to happen when I was with my mum…

A few weeks ago Mum and I went shopping together at her favourite department store. She loves shopping there so much that I would actually count it as a hobby of hers. Anyway, we were at a cosmetics counter and my mum was being given a facial by a woman with dark hair scraped back into a hard bun. She wore lots of jewellery and enunciated her words v-e-r-y c-l-e-a-r-l-y. She was telling my mum that she knew the products worked because just last night she had celebrated her fortieth birthday and see how fresh and youthful her skin looked. Needless to say that got me thinking because, honestly, her complexion did look fresh and youthful – suspiciously so. While my mum told her, “Wow, you look amazing for your age,” I slipped behind the counter and took a look around. Within thirty seconds I’d found what I was looking for.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but is your name Leanne?”

“Why, yes,” she answered, surprised. “How did you know?” I saw one of my mum’s eyes slowly open, panic beginning to register in it. With that green stuff slathered all over her face and her hair pulled back into a hairnet, she looked like an angry turtle. Anyway, I was hot on the trail of truth and wasn’t about to let my mother stop me.

“Right. So, Leanne, why did you just lie to us about your age?”

Underneath its layer of powder, the saleslady’s face turned white. My mum’s second eye opened, the panic changing into outright anger.

“According to your employee card you’re actually only thirty-two – or is that a lie too?” I didn’t want to get her in trouble or anything – I simply wanted the truth – but no sooner was it out of my mouth than a tight-lipped silence filled the air. The saleslady was not amused. Neither was Mum.

We had to cross the entire cosmetics floor and then walk along a good length of Knightsbridge in the glare of broad daylight with Mum’s face slathered in a bright green face mask. As Mum drove out of our parking space (a bit too quickly, I thought), she seemed stressed, so I said, “Mum, calm down. I’m sure that with a lot of warm water and some elbow grease that green guck will come off your face.”

Suddenly the car swerved, narrowly avoiding a few pedestrians and a bus. I thought Mum was about to have a heart attack. But no. “This has nothing to do with the mask on my face, Axelle! It has to do with you! You should calm down and STOP STICKING YOUR NOSE INTO OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS.” Mum was wiping furiously at her face with a tissue she had found in the glove compartment but she wasn’t having much luck – the mask had dried to a pretty hard consistency.

“I don’t do it intentionally – it just kind of happens. I get a feeling about something and then I need to follow it to its natural conclusion.”

Mum gave me a look that even the hardened streaks of the face mask couldn’t disguise the meaning of.

“‘Just kind of happens’? This time you’ve gone too far, Axelle, really TOO FAR. You have no limits when it comes to snooping around. None. Zero. You’ve got to start going out more, doing more, seeing more… I mean, you’ve spent more time in the last year working on your ‘cases’ for your school column or spying on our neighbours than most girls your age spend in the bathroom.”

“But, Mum, she was lying to you!”

“And so what, Axelle? Who cares? It was only a facial and the poor woman was only trying to do her job. She’s not Mrs Peacock in the conservatory with the candlestick! Life isn’t a game of Cluedo!”

“I was only trying to help. It’s not my fault if I felt something was off with what she said – and, by the way, I was right!”

“Axelle, that ‘I felt something’ line doesn’t work any more. It’s time you discovered there’s more to life than solving mysteries which don’t even exist.”

Needless to say, the ride home was quiet after that, although as we drove past Marble Arch my mum let slip (in the same way one lets slip a lion from its cage) that perhaps it was time that she and my dad helped me “take full responsibility for your actions”. Well, as time would prove, it wasn’t an empty threat. The seed of the idea must have already begun to sprout, and by the time we turned out of Hyde Park at Bayswater, I’ve no doubt that her plan was fully formed.

Four nights ago (and three weeks after the face mask incident) it was my birthday. And because it fell on a school night, we were to have dinner at home. Mum was going to make pizzas and Jenny and her parents were coming round. “We have a special surprise for you tonight, Axelle,” Mum told me that morning.

My mum’s idea of a special surprise tends to have sleeves. But maybe I’d get lucky and my parents would give me the periscope I’d been asking for. (“If they don’t give you one,” said Jenny, “then we can make one with mirrors from my supply of make-up freebies.”) Anyway, I crossed my fingers and hoped this was the surprise my mum was so mysteriously alluding to.

After dinner the cake was brought out. As the birthday girl I had the privilege of cutting it. Now all I had to do was sit back, eat my cake, and wait for my present.

WRONG.

As I was scraping up the last bits of cake with my fork, my dad decided to drop the bomb. He pushed his chair back and cleared his throat. “Axelle, your mother and I have a wonderful gift for you. We’ve put a lot of thought into this and we feel sure we’ve found a gift that will mean something special to you…”

Can I just say that at this point all of my alert systems were on. Any time my parents start using words like “wonderful”, “thoughtful” or “special”, I get nervous.

My dad cleared his throat again before continuing. “For your sixteenth birthday we have decided to send you – alone – to your favourite city…the city you know so well…” My dad paused, hand frozen in mid-air as he smiled at me and waited.

Paris was the only city besides London that I knew well. My aunt lived there. I’d grown up going regularly with my mum to visit her. I even had a French name. And while I liked Paris – really liked it, even – there was something about my dad’s frozen smile that made me nervous. “Uh…Paris?” I carefully asked.

“Exactly! Paris! And you’ll be there for Fashion Week.”

A haze of silence descended upon me as I digested this surprise. As if from the end of a long tunnel, I heard my mum say, “And you’ll leave on Sunday.”

How did we go from periscope to Paris? HOW? Even a surprise with sleeves would have been better.

I was in shock. My mouth just kind of hung limply open. My hair hung, too. I mean, PARIS? And FASHION WEEK? ME? Surely this was some kind of joke?

“And,” my father continued, “thanks to your Aunt Venetia, you will be spending your time there working as her personal fashion assistant at Chic: Paris magazine!”

Right. It wasn’t a joke.

After this last cruel bit, I was in a state of such anger and stupefaction that, honestly, it’s a miracle my hair didn’t spontaneously combust and just disintegrate off the top of my head. To make matters worse, the Watanabes (yes, et tu, Jenny) were oohing and aahing and making all kinds of aren’t-you-the-lucky-one comments.

“But I don’t want to go to Paris! I know nothing about fashion nor am I even the least bit interested in it! I LIKE WEARING A SCHOOL UNIFORM PRECISELY BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE TO THINK ABOUT FASHION!!!”

“Axelle, calm down, please. It’s only for a week and, besides, this is an opportunity any girl would love,” Mum chirped brightly.

“But I am not any girl! And I don’t want to go to Paris or work in fashion! And I don’t want to work with Aunt Venetia! She’s a dragon!”

“Listen, Axelle,” my dad said, “you know we wouldn’t ask you to do this unless we felt it was important. We feel you’ve been going a bit overboard with your ‘detective work’ lately, and, well, this could be a wonderful opportunity for you to see new things, expand your horizons…”

ARGH! PARENTS. How corny can they get? “Yeah, but—”

“No buts, Axelle,” my dad said sternly. “If you don’t go to Paris then Aunt Venetia is ready to set up a week-long internship at one of the magazines here in London.”

“I wonder if Vogue would have you…” my mum chimed in.

I felt my mouth fall open again. “You can’t be serious?”

“Actually, Axelle,” my parents answered in unison, “we are.”

“You decide,” my mum finished for them both. “Paris or London.”

I slumped into one of the living-room armchairs and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe this was happening! Jenny must have wisely decided I needed a bit of time to myself because she stayed at the table. Suddenly I felt claustrophobic. I heaved myself out of the armchair, grabbed my dad’s cardigan, climbed the stairs up to our tiny roof terrace and gave in to my anguish on my own. The one person in the world who would have understood how I felt – and who no doubt would have vetoed the entire Paris idea – was Gran. And she wasn’t here. How I missed her.

Wrapping the cardigan tighter around myself, I lay down on the chaise longue, looked up at the sky and took a deep breath. I told myself that a week wasn’t for ever. I’d go to Paris – that much was sure. There was no way I’d stay in London and submit to Mum’s daily interrogations on everything I’d been doing at Vogue or wherever. Besides, with a bit of luck my workaholic Aunt Venetia just might forget about me for long enough to let me do some exploring on my own. Seven days in Paris with my fashion editor aunt couldn’t be that bad…could it?

Actually…

Yes, it could.

I know I was angry when I called my aunt a dragon, but, honestly, my Aunt Venetia really is a dragon – and a dragon of the worst kind. She’s a fashion dragon – which means that instead of breathing plain old flames, she breathes silk and patent leather and address books filled with unpronounceable names.

I admit that after years of listening to my aunt bang on about fashion I know quite a bit about it. But still…that doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it – not even for a week!

I lay outside for some time, looking at the stars. Eventually, I heard Jenny and her parents leave, after which the house went quiet. Thankfully, I was left alone. Even Halley wasn’t scratching at the door to join me.

You decide: Paris or London.

My parents’ ultimatum continued to ring in my ears. Again my thoughts switched back to my gran. She would have known just what to tell me, how to make me see the bright side of things (is there a bright side to fashion that doesn’t involve sequins 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 supreme…and she was here to pick me up.

The distinctive scent of her perfume heralded her imminent presence (she’d been wearing the same perfume since before I’d been born), the click of those amazing stilettos confirmed it. But before she hugged me or asked me how the journey had been or even how I was feeling, out came the question that had haunted every visit with her since my childhood, the question I never had a suitable answer for, the one question she always asked. Like a rabbit caught in her headlights, I waited…

“Axelle, darling. What are you wearing?”

Ten minutes later, Aunt Venetia’s driver was zooming along the streets of Paris at a speed that would have made my parents think twice about sending me here. Furthermore I was sweating – an inevitable by-product of sharing a small enclosed space with Aunt V. I found myself suddenly wishing that I did have short hair – if only to keep me cooler in situations like this. I was feeling so hot, my glasses were beginning to steam up. I took them off and wiped them on my sleeve.

“Axelle, darling,” she tut-tutted. “Eww. Honestly. We’ve got to do something about those dreadful glasses. And they’re filthy. How can you possibly see anything? Anyway, one thing at a time. So how was the ride? I hope you were sitting on your own. There’s nothing worse than being surrounded by ghastly-looking people for two hours.” From underneath the soft black brim of her hat, Aunt V’s arctic blue eyes focused intently upon me. “Axelle, are you all right?” Her voice was low and smoky, nearly growling.

No, I wanted to say, no I’m not all right. Even my suitcase is probably sweating in the boot right now. Anyway, for once discretion got the better of me. “I’m just a bit tired…” I answered.

“Frankly, Axelle, you’re looking a bit pale. I certainly hope your mum didn’t send you here with a cold. If that’s the case, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’ll just have to remain quarantined in your bedroom. Carmen can take care of you. I cannot risk catching even the slightest cold during Fashion Week. We’ll take your temperature as soon as we’re home.”

“I don’t have a cold, Aunt V, nor do I feel unwell or ill in any other way…” Great, this is getting off to a good start, I thought. I mean, needless to say, while I’d love to get out of trailing behind my aunt from one fashion show to the next, the thought of being quarantined in my bedroom for a week was even worse.

“Yes, well, all forms of mass-transportation are chock-a-block with strange germs. You may have caught something, you know. Anyway, we’ll see.”

Out of the corner of my eye I stole a look at my aunt, while with my left hand I carefully reached into my tote bag and took out the notes for the story I was working on for my school magazine, The Notting Hill News. Aunt V had a pair of black professor glasses on. She was perusing her printed schedule for the upcoming week. Without looking up from her schedule, she said, “What are you doing, Axelle?”

“Just taking out some…uhhm…homework, actually…”

Taking her glasses off, she turned to look at me. Her hat was off, the black stripe that ran through the middle of her platinum hair prominent. My very own Cruella de Vil. “That homework wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your school column, now would it? What is it this time? The Case of the Missing Lab Rat?”

I knew it – I should have opted for the London internship. My mum was beginning to seem cute and fluffy – harmless, even – compared to Aunt V.

“I’m joking, Axelle. Don’t look so frightened,” she said curtly. Then, leaning her head back, she sighed. “Listen, Axelle…your parents have sent you here because they feel you spend too much time obsessing over your dream of being a private eye, and, after hearing about your latest transgression at the department store, I must say I am inclined to agree.”

“But, I promise you, the saleswoman—”

“Axelle, calm down. Forget about the saleswoman and forget about being a private eye, okay? You’re sixteen now, Axelle. Sixteen! It’s time you put your notebooks, lock-picking devices, endless theories and everything else you fool yourself with to rest. And this is the week to do it. You’ll be very busy as my assistant.”

“That’s fine, Aunt V. I’m more than happy to be your assistant, but, the fact is, I’m just not made—”

“Axelle, that’s enough. Your parents have wisely entrusted me with the broadening of your horizons – so let’s concentrate on that. I repeat: it’s time you left your childish fantasies behind. Here,” she said, handing me a slick folder made of black patent leather. “I’ve had the office put together brief biographies of the designers whose shows we’ll be seeing. A copy of our schedule is also included. You can start reading about the designers now – I’ll quiz you later. This information will come in handy after the shows, when we go backstage. I can’t have my niece not knowing a thing, now can I?”

Then, silence. I couldn’t believe it. Was that all Aunt V was going to say?

“And, by the way,” she said, as she slipped her glasses back on and turned a page in her notes, “if one day you really do become a private detective…you’ll definitely have to do something about your outfit.”

I had been waiting for that. As Gran used to say, with Aunt Venetia life is very circular: everything always comes back to clothes.

I leaned back against the plush cream-coloured leather seat and pretended to read the proffered notes. But actually I was still thinking about Gran.

It had started innocently enough. Quite simply Gran just loved a good mystery and thought it natural to share her hobby with me. “You’re going to become the best private detective this city has ever known, Axelle,” she’d tell me. Then, turning to my father, she’d add, “Don’t forget, Tom, it’s in her blood.” And with this last comment she’d end the discussion before it had even begun.

It was true. The bit about the blood, I mean. My grandfather (Mum’s father and Gran’s husband), whom I couldn’t remember, had worked out of Scotland Yard. He’d even solved some famous cases, but he’d died before I was old enough to speak – although that didn’t stop Gran from being convinced that his sleuthing blood coursed through me.

It also explained my mum’s resistance. “Your grandfather turned me off trench coats for ever, Axelle,” she’d say. “He was always away on some case. And so secretive. Trust me, it’s not a life for a woman.”

“So what do you think? Interesting, no?” Aunt V said, breaking into my thoughts. She didn’t get any further, however, before her phone rang. It had been ringing non-stop since she’d fetched me. “This time I have to answer,” she said, as Jean (her driver) handed Aunt V her phone. “Yes, Marie… Yes… Is that an elephant I hear in the background? Good. How light is its skin colour? I said light, remember. If they’re too grey, send them back to their tent or wherever they came from… Remember: think grey like light rain on the Normandy coast, NOT grey like a Kansas thundercloud. Okay? Good. And, by the way, I want more colour in the backgrounds. And I mean saturated colour – not just bright colour. Any questions?”

Just so you know, when Aunt V says “Any questions?” she doesn’t actually expect you to come up with any. She uses the phrase in the same way most people use full stops.

Turning to me as she cancelled the call, she said, “That was Marie calling from India. She’s there on a reshoot. Let’s hope they get it right this time around. Anyway, Axelle, we have a busy week of shows ahead of us. Dior, Chanel, Lanvin, Givenchy…”

As Aunt V reeled off more names, I slumped further into my seat. I’d only just arrived and already Aunt V had mentioned the names of about a dozen designers I’d never heard of – at this rate I really would have to read the notes she’d prepared for me! How was I supposed to survive the week as her assistant?

As if in answer to my silent question, she said, “And don’t worry – there’ll be plenty for you to do. For instance, as you’re so good at taking notes, I thought you could write something about the shows we’ll be seeing. If it’s good, I’ll feed it to Teen Chic. ‘Fashion Week Through The Eyes of a Teen Fashionista’. Something like that. Anyway, by the time this week is over,” she continued, “you’ll be more concerned with skirt length than you ever were with The Hound of the Baskervilles. Speaking of which, Axelle, you’re covered in white hairs. I thought terriers weren’t supposed to shed. Are you sure Halley is pure-bred?”

“It’s spring, Aunt V,” I answered as I watched her flick some hairs off the seats. “Halley’s changing into her summer coat.”

“Well, at least she has that much sense. Many people use the same clothes year round. Oh, good. We’re nearly home.” We were heading towards the Left Bank, which is where Aunt V lives and works. The Chic: Paris magazine offices, where Aunt V has been editor-in-chief for the last twenty years, are on the Rue de Furstemberg, a tiny, tree-filled square fifteen minutes away (by foot – not that her red-soled stilettos ever tread pavement) from Aunt V’s apartment.

As we made our way around the Place de la Concorde, the open square was suffused with the last of the day’s golden light. Everything glowed, from the well-worn cobblestones to the gilded tip of the obelisk adorning the middle of the square. On our left, the treetops in the park were ablaze with colour and far beyond I could see the Louvre museum. I turned quickly towards my right to catch sight of the Champs Élysées; looking this way I had the sun’s fading brilliance full in my face. Through the crimson haze I could just make out the clipped horse chestnut trees lining the boulevard, leading up to yet another monument.

“Cheesy samples,” my aunt said, as she folded her glasses and slipped them into their case.

For as long as I can remember my aunt has always carried an anagram puzzle book with her in her handbag. And cheesy samples, I quickly figured out, was an anagram of Champs Élysées. I was just about to say so when a loud siren bore down upon us from behind. Jean swerved the car hard to the right and stopped just short of the yellow stone balustrade of the bridge we were crossing. I saw Aunt V’s glasses fly out of their pocket in her handbag and land on the carpeted floor, as two black sedans, blue lights whirling on their roofs, sped past us.

“Jean, turn the radio on, would you, please?” Aunt V said. “It looks serious…” Jean duly found the news channel and just as he managed to untangle us from the other cars on the bridge, Aunt Venetia took a sharp breath. “Turn it up, Jean,” she demanded impatiently as she leaned forward, left hand held high to silence me. I listened just in time to hear the following announcement: “BELLE LA LUNE, FASHION’S TOP DESIGNER, IS MISSING!”

“Jean,” Aunt V commanded, “I don’t care what you have to do – just get us home. Now!”

I don’t know when Carmen had last seen her boss run, but it must have been a long time ago judging by the way her mouth dropped open when Aunt V bounded through the opened door at a gallop, flung her tweed coat at her and raced into her study to put the television on.

As I trained my ears to the rapid cadence of the newscaster, I silently thanked my mum for all of the private French lessons she’d insisted upon. “BELLE LA LUNE, FASHION’S FAVOURITE YOUNG DESIGNER, IS MISSING!” ran the news. “Belle, only twenty-three and already considered a fashion genius by her legion of young fans, was officially declared missing this afternoon. Last night – Saturday night – the La Lune family had dinner together with two family friends,” the newscaster continued. “However, since this morning, there has been no sign of Belle La Lune and no one in the family has seen or spoken to Belle since dining together last night. Her disappearance comes at an especially delicate time for the La Lune family and for Belle in particular. As overall creative director for the La Lune brand, Belle designs the brand’s fashion collections, the latest of which will be shown at the family’s fashion show this Friday. Furthermore, the family is launching their next handbag – the ‘Juno’ bag, also designed by Belle – on Wednesday evening, in the most anticipated event of this spring’s Fashion Week. The family is counting on successful sales of the Juno bag to help retain its position at the top of the cut-throat fashion world. More news as we receive it…”

Even I know who the La Lunes are – they’re the poster-family for French fashion: glamorous, colourful, and sophisticated. My mum can never resist asking Aunt V about them. And I actually met Belle a few years ago, here in Paris, at a show Mum dragged me to. Aunt V introduced us to Belle and I think Mum had hoped Belle would inspire me to dress better. But when my mum asked her what advice she could share with me, Belle said: “Just do what you love to do – nothing else is important.” Ha! Thank you, I said, and I told her I was planning to be a private eye, at which point Mum said we had to move on or we’d be late for the next show.

And while I don’t remember anything else about that show, I do remember Belle leaning in, blue eyes smiling, her long blonde hair catching the light as it tumbled over her slim frame. But that was only the half of it – you see, she’d actually seemed human (for a fashionista!) and so nice… Besides, as far as I’m concerned, that whole “just do what you love to do” thing was spot on.

“I cannot believe it,” Aunt V said as she flopped into a large armchair. “And I’m one of the ‘family friends’ who had dinner with them last night…”

I couldn’t believe it either. The only other time I’d seen Aunt V this much at a loss for words was at a family wedding when my father had worn brown loafers with a dark suit.

“She’s missing. Unbelievable. How is her family going to cope without her? It’s Fashion Week, for goodness’ sake! And they have to launch their new handbag this week too…”

Before Aunt V could say more, the normal broadcast was interrupted by another newsflash. The newscaster introduced Belle’s oldest brother, Claude La Lune, head of public relations at the family’s fashion empire. The camera panned to him standing in a vast, airy, white room. Tanned and slim, Claude was dressed in tight black jeans and a crisp white shirt, the cuffs poking out from a fitted black jacket. He was dark, with black eyes and dark brown hair that curled along his jacket collar. Forty seamstresses dressed in white uniforms stood silently behind him, their eyes swollen and red from crying. He was obviously in the La Lune atelier. As the camera panned back, the soaring ceilings of the design studio seemed to dwarf them.

“My family and I are devastated,” he began. “Unfortunately, the stresses of the fashion world can sometimes lead even the strongest among us…to…” Here his voice caught before he managed to squeeze out the word. “…disappear.” He looked down and pulled on his cuffs before continuing. “We ask anyone, anyone who could have any information on the whereabouts of my sister to please, please, contact us.”

He stopped again to collect himself before his emotions overtook him – at least, that’s presumably what it was meant to look like, although, to be honest, the entire gesture didn’t seem genuine to me. He held his right hand over his eyes for a moment while the seamstresses behind him all pulled white handkerchiefs from their sleeves and held them to their eyes. Then he turned back towards the camera, dropped his hand and carried on. “And I would like to add that my family has agreed to offer a reward of half a million euros for any information leading to the safe return of my beautiful sister…” After that the programme returned to the rest of the news.

If they had returned to showing Bigfoot, Victoria Beckham, and the Little Mermaid all doing a song and dance number together, I wouldn’t have cared. Because there was only one thing ringing in my ears at that moment: Belle La Lune was missing.

Now, finally, after following an endless trail of missing mail and lost pets, a real case had come my way. A case big enough and juicy enough to turn my mum around to my way of thinking. A case with enough glitz factor to forever banish the thought of even a hundred dirty trench coats.

And the case was mine for the taking.

Well, mine and the French police force’s.

I was going to solve this mystery before they did.

I didn’t know how…

But I was.