Gemma Halliday - Alibi In High Heels

He shot me a look.

"Okay, fine, some of us make more than others," I conceded. "But, come on. Nobody's perfect. You have to trust me when I say that this meant nothing."

"Trust you?" he said, throwing his arms up in the air. "Trust you? Right, the way I trusted you to still be in the room when I finished brushing my teeth?"

I bit my lip. "Okay, that was a dirty trick."

"Damn straight," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"But I only played it because you didn't trust me . It goes both ways you know. Trust is a 50/50 street."

He narrowed his eyes and growled deep in his throat.

"Okay, 60/40."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then shook his head. "Look, I've got to go. I'll miss my flight."

"So that's it?" I asked, feeling tears back up in my throat. "You're just leaving?"

He shot me a look. Almost sad. Almost regretful. Totally final. "Yes, Maddie. That's it."

And then he walked out the door.

I didn't have the heart to watch Ramirez's cab drive away. Instead I ducked into the cafe and ordered myself a decadent hot chocolate. A large. With whipped cream. And a chocolate pastry. It was shaping up to be that kind of day.

And the thing that upset me most as I dug into my chocolate indulgence was that even though it was me that had screwed up this time, Ramirez had been far from Mr. Perfect up until now. Hadn't I forgiven him when the captain had called interrupting our evening at the Venice pier last month, even when Jack had promised he'd take me on the giant Ferris wheel? I'd been bummed, but I'd understood. I'd forgiven him.

And when we'd planned a weekend getaway to Palm Springs and then at the last minute he'd had to cancel because of a murder/suicide by the Hollywood Bowl. All our plans, ruined. Our first vacation together. The non-refundable deposit on the time share condo, the brand new bikini that I'd shopped all day for to find just the right cut that made my legs look long, my tummy look flat, and my barely B's into something that resembled cleavage. But had I complained? Okay, fine I'd complained a little. I mean, it was a rocking bikini gone to waste. But I'd been understanding. I'd known that when he said he was really, really sorry about canceling, he'd meant it. I hadn't stalked off to sulk (much) and I certainly hadn't gotten on the first flight out of the country to avoid him.

I'd said I was sorry. I'd told him the kiss didn't mean anything. If he couldn't get past it… well, maybe he didn't deserve someone as understanding as me anyway. Besides, it's not like Ramirez had any claim on me. It's not like we were married or anything. I was a single girl. I could kiss whomever I wanted. Not that I wanted to kiss Felix, but, well, if I did I could. And I shouldn't have to grovel at Ramirez's feet for forgiveness.

Deciding that anger was a much more appealing emotion than grief I continued this train of thought all the way though the lobby and out to a waiting cab. By the time I arrived at the Carrousel de Louvre, I'd worked myself into a pretty nice indignant rage, even if I did say so myself. I hobbled out of the cab, making angry little divots in the grass with my crutches as I passed the tents, hobbled across the courtyard and into the workroom.

If Jean Luc had seemed stressed before, he was a stressed guy on crack now. He paced the length of the workroom, arms waving above his head, French, Italian and English all jumbled together as he spoke, antacids popping into his mouth one after another.

I slipped into the room, trying to get Ann's attention before Jean Luc drafted me to fit models.

"Pssst," I whispered in Ann's direction. She was standing next to Angelica, instructing the seamstress on just how high the hem was supposed to go on the leg. I noticed, with a pang of regret, that Angelica was already dressed in her makeshift replacement pumps. I'd done a key-hole design along the front and sprayed the heels a gold color to match the rim of her skirt. They were passable. But certainly nothing to write home about.

Or mention in your style column as the next best thing to hit feet since Jimmy Choos.

"Ann," I whispered again, waving my hand to get her attention. She finally looked up and saw me, clomping to the door in her clogs.

"You're early. Great. You can help with the girls in the back. We've got Polaroids of each outfit, if you can help get them on."

I nodded. "Sure. But, I was wondering if I could ask you something first?"

Her face puckered as if questions weren't on the schedule today, but she didn't say no.

"I was wondering if you had contact information for a Marcel Bertrand? He's a model in the area."

Her forehead puckered. "We don't do menswear again until spring."

"I know. I just…" I paused, racking my little brain for a plausible reason for calling him. Unfortunately, what with the dead bodies, dead career and dead relationship, my little brain had been through too much lately. "I, uh, think he's kinda cute." I cringed.

Ann cocked her head to the side. "Cute?"

I decided to run with it. "Uh huh. Do you know if he's already seeing anyone?" I asked. Like Maybe Gisella?

She shrugged. "Yeah, like I can keep up with their love lives, too. Hang on." She pulled out the BlackBerry. "What was his last name?"

"Bertrand," I repeated, looking over her shoulder. She scrolled through numbers until she got to the "B"s. "No direct number but his agent is David Callabra." She showed me the screen and I pulled out a pen and wrote down the agent's cell number on my hand.

"Thanks, Ann," I said, ducking back out the door.

"Hey!"

I froze. "Yeah?"

"What about the fitting?'

Oh yeah. "Uh, I'll be right back.

I slipped outside before she could protest, stepping a few feet away before pulling out my cell and making the call to Marcel's agent. It rang three times before he picked up and I could hear the steady pulse of loud techno music in the background

"Bonjour?" he answered.

"Hi, I'm with Le Croix designs," I said, fibbing only a little. "We're looking to book a male model next week for a shoot. I heard you represented Marcel Bertrand?"

"Oui, uh, un moment." I heard him cover the mouthpiece. When he came back on the music had faded some. "Pardon, Le Croix designs, did you say?"

"Yes. Marcel came highly recommended to us by Gisella Rossi."

There was a pause on the other end. "Gisella Rossi?"

"Marcel did know Gisella, didn't he?" I asked, crossing my fingers.

"Oui," Callabra said slowly. "But I'm surprised she would recommend him."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"Uh, why don't we talk about this in person? I am at the Gaultier show right."

"Perfect, I'll meet you there in ten minutes."

Gaultier was showing in a large venue in the Rue Saint-Martin. Unlike New York's Bryant Park, Paris's Fashion Week is spread between a variety of historically rich and architecturally gorgeous sites within a few blocks radius, with top tier designers showing throughout the week. When I arrived at the Rue Saint-Martin it was packed. We're talking Nordstrom's semi-annual clearance sale packed. My cab circled the block twice before double parking and letting me out at the curb, amidst the angry horns of the other drivers.

I threaded my way through a solid wall of photographers, columnists, and general fashionistas until I heard the tell-tale pulsating music of the Gaultier show.

I ducked my head in, not actually getting any further without a ticket. But even from there I could see that the folding chairs two and three rows deep were already long filled. The show was standing room only and I craned to see the last few models strut their stuff down the runway. I slipped between two guys wielding cameras for a better position and caught a glimpse of a long legged woman in a streamlined wool jacket and thigh high books doing a pose at the end of the runway before strutting away. Despite my reasons for being here, my heart gave a little leap at being among the very first to see the season's hot items.