Raw and Broken Ch. 05

The nightmares started my first night alone in Paris.

I'd been fine the four days I'd spent with Malcolm, Becca, Darryl, and Ginger in London. But that was due in part to the fact that I'd had the girls in the room with me. I was forever in Becca's debt for suggesting the sleeping arrangements be changed so I didn't have to get a room by myself. I knew each couple would have rather stayed in their private rooms. To say they'd been kinky in Europe.

Malcolm had wagered us females would make the best of the situation. We'd probably stay up all night talking kinky, girly things without the men around. He hadn't been far off. We had done quite a bit of story swapping. And giggling.

Becca had revealed during our tête-à-tête with Darryl after Drake's passing that the original plan was for my husband and I to attend the convention with the other two couples. They just hadn't approached us yet for fear that we might not be ready. Especially to have our own room.

In hindsight, I don't think I would have been comfortable with those arrangements. Even prior to Drake's accident, I hadn't decided how much kink I wanted to embrace again...if at all. And if the first time we would be sleeping in the same bed was in Europe at a BDSM convention? That had disaster written all over it. The temptation would have been too great, probably for both of us. Maybe Drake would have declined the invitation. I wondered if I would have gone without him. But that no longer mattered.

I'd expected to feel left out being the fifth person and without a partner. But Darryl had his booth to man most of the time. And the same went for Becca, who'd been given the booth next to Darryl's to advertise and sell her latest books. I had attended a seminar on switching; viewed a couple of demonstrations with Malcolm and one with Ginger; and walked around the hall with the full group. But despite the allure of the convention as a whole, I'd chosen to spend most of my time by the indoor pool or in the hotel lounge.

It was hard not to think of Drake. Of what it would have been like if we'd been here together. Especially a year or two ago. Although I met up with the group for meals, it felt more like I was on a private vacation. Seeing all the kinky couples openly embracing their fetishes in the convention hall and the demonstrations rooms had been difficult, to say the least. The time on my own had allowed me to relax, as I knew I'd be on the run the moment I set foot in Paris.

It would be lying to say I was sad when we said our goodbyes. I was ready for the next chapter. Anxious, even. I knew I'd always have Malcolm and Becca. I no longer felt like I couldn't reach out if I needed them. But I also needed to be on my own for awhile. To become more independent.

I'd chosen to take the Eurostar instead of flying. While it was over an hour longer, I'd known the view would be worth it. Becca had shed quite a few tears when we hugged at the St Pancras International train station. Malcolm had held me extra long but hadn't offered any words of encouragement like he was prone to do. I'd been glad because if he'd tried to talk me into going back to the states with them, I'd feared I might have said yes. And I believe he had known that, too.

Darryl and Ginger had wished me luck and safe travels. There had been the reminder to let someone know when I'd safely reached Paris. Promises to keep in touch with E-mail and Skype, both of which I could do with my early Christmas present from my in-laws: a new laptop. And then I'd walked through the security checkpoint to enter the next phase of my life.

Muriel had met me at the Gare du Nord station in Paris. We'd hugged. We'd cried. After I'd sent a text to Malcolm and Becca, we grabbed a bite to eat and set out to meet the other girls who had arrived the night before.

There were six of us models from the United States on this excursion. We'd been assigned two to a flat, and each of us had our own bedroom. The flats were all in a building that housed other models, although all of us Americans weren't on the same floor. And while the accommodations last time had been like staying at the Hilton, I couldn't complain about the quaintness of my temporary home. Especially, since my room looked out over a garden area that I imagined would be very welcoming regardless of the season.

We'd been allowed to get settled before we had a meeting in our flat since we were on the first floor. Of all of the girls, I was the only one who'd been here before. I'd also learned that Scott—the man who had recruited me last time—and Jerome—Muriel's assistant—were also on the team that had come over from the US. The fact that I was familiar with some of the people and the area had erased any remaining doubt that I'd made the wrong choice.

During our drive, Muriel had elaborated on the purpose of the trip. She'd entered into a partnership with the Parisian agency that had sponsored the group I'd been with on my previous visit. The building where us six girls were staying was actually owned by Claudette, Muriel's business partner. And some of Claudette's girls were living there as well.

While Muriel had been involved with sending girls overseas for several years to get the international modeling experience, she'd merely offered up prospective candidates. And it was usually only for a few weeks at a time. Now, she was one of the two people holding the reins. Getting her hands dirty in the foreign market.

At our meeting, she'd revealed she had two ulterior motives with this trip. First, in addition to regular photo shoots and attending Fashion Week in March—which the sister agency had arranged for us American girls—we would be in a fashion show for a local up-and-coming designer who was launching her spring/summer collection. And second, a French magazine had contracted Muriel and her partner to use models from both agencies in their spread of hot new winter collections for the next year. The goal was two-fold: to give the six of us the desired experience abroad that Muriel wanted as well as build up the reputation for the two agencies.

After dinner, we'd retired as we had to be up at six o'clock in the morning to start the day. I'd been exhausted and assumed I'd clock out right away. But I'd lain there staring at a strange ceiling wondering what my family and friends were doing in Europe. I had known they would stay another night before heading home. Had they been glad they'd gotten a chance to finally sleep with their significant other? Had they missed me?

When dreamland had finally come, I'd found myself running down the street from a dark shadow. The shadow had split into two. I'd been in chased into an alley, and then I'd screamed. The brick walls on either side had chains draped and crisscrossed like an intricate spider web. Arranged amongst the chains were floggers and whips, as if caught up in the web. I'd heard someone calling my name. Before I could turn and run the other way, arms had wrapped around me, and I'd screamed again.

I'd woken to find my flatmate, Bridget, shaking me. She'd said I was yelling the word 'red.' That I'd been tossing and turning with the sheets wrapped around me.

Somehow, I'd made it through the rest of the night and gotten up on time to meet the personal trainer Muriel had arranged for me. I'd gotten out of the habit of working out these past few months. Once I'd married, I had worked out at a local gym. But after Drake made me quit my job, I'd lost the will to keep in shape. Even for him.

The morning session was brutal, to say the least. But I persevered until I was covered in sweat. My stomach had growled several times throughout. It had been too upset from my restless night, so I'd skipped breakfast. Now, I wished I hadn't.

I took a shower at the private gym—which was conveniently located above the sister agency—and made it downstairs in time for the required morning meeting. We broke for lunch, and then a couple of us were off to our first photoshoots. It was a privilege and a relief of being here on a mission. Of having our agent in charge with arrangements already made for where and when we needed to be. The one part of the profession I'd always hated was the casting calls...wondering if I'd get a job each day.

The evening of my first full day, I crashed and managed to get some sleep before the shadows invaded again. Bridget woke me some time in the night. The next week was exactly the same. Wake up at dawn, breakfast, workout, meeting, lunch, photoshoot, dinner, sleep, nightmare, midnight waking, back to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The following Saturday, I was given a respite with nothing on the agenda. But my body was already on the new schedule, so I was up at six with nothing to do and nowhere to go. After I showered at home, I decided to go down to a nearby café since the weather was nice. I would let the day play itself out.

I'd already eaten my scone and was finishing my cappuccino when Muriel walked up.

"Bonjour, Daphne!"

"Bonjour!" I rose and kissed each of her cheeks as she kissed mine then sat back down.

"I see you've settled in quite well." Muriel took the seat across from me and loosened the scarf she'd tied around her neck.

I pointed to my cup, and she nodded. A waiter approached, and I said, "Puissions-nous avoir deux de plus, s'il vous plaît?"

He nodded and turned away.

"My, my, you do impress. I didn't know you spoke French."

I smiled at her over the rim as I took my last sip. "This isn't my first Paris rodeo. How about you?"

She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "Juste un peu. I took it in high school and college, but I've become rusty over the years. I've been blessed with a business partner who speaks fluent English. Although, she's been riding me quite a bit lately that I need to brush up on the language if I plan to spend more time over here."

"I think Paris fits us both well," I said with a laugh. "I'd forgotten how beautiful it is."

"Autumn on the Champs-Elyses is breathtaking. It was summer last time you were here, correct?"

I nodded. "I'll have to return in the fall since I'll see winter and spring this time."

"I'm really glad you were able to join us. You've always been on my mind since we parted ways."

"I've thought of you, too. I am so thankful for the opportunities you've given me. For this," I said, looking around. The outdoor tables were mostly full in the cool but unseasonably warm air. Holiday decorations were being placed on lampposts and in shop windows, reminding me that Christmas was only a few weeks away. Both locals and tourists walked past us to their destinations, chatting in various languages. Life here—at least near our flat—was unhurried. I took a deep breath. "I've missed it."

Muriel reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Bridget spoke to me."

I lowered my eyes and nodded, feeling the tears well up as I tried to swallow. I should have seen this coming. Not only had I been set up with a wonderful agent in a gorgeous city, I'd been given a very caring roommate.

"Daphne, is there anything I can do to help? I'm always here if you need to talk."

When I raised my head and blinked, a tear rolled down my cheek. I waited until the waiter set our steaming cups in front of us before I unloaded on Muriel. Once I started, I knew it would be hard to stop. And like the professional that she was, she quietly sipped her cappuccino, nodding occasionally as she listened. Waiting for me as I took a breath or a sip myself.

While I didn't get into the kinky details, I shared that I'd gotten married and moved to California. That although I'd loved my husband, his behavior had become questionable. I'd felt emotionally abused. I had known he'd cheated on me at some point before our marriage, and there had been times I'd wondered if he was still seeing another woman.

I explained that there had been a row between my husband and his sister prior to our move. It had not ended well, and that had caused a lot of undealt with tension between us. I'd also had a physically abusive boyfriend in the past. He'd gone to prison as a result. And for some reason, the stars had aligned to bring him back into my life by way of friendship with my husband.

All of that had caused me to run away to my in-laws because I'd recently found out I was pregnant and couldn't handle the stress. While my marriage seemed to be back on track with the help of a psychiatrist, I'd still felt distanced from my husband. I hadn't actually gotten the time I'd hoped to process everything on my own.

Then I'd had a miscarriage. My husband had an accident on his way to meet me at the hospital. As a result, we'd learned that he'd had a cancerous brain tumor. The final blow was just a few weeks ago when complications from the accident and the tumor had resulted in his death.

Muriel was crying with me by the time I finished. She squeezed my hand and handed me a tissue from her purse. "I'm so sorry, Daphne. You have been through a lot."

I was smiling at her now as I wiped away my tears. "This trip was just what I needed. To get away from the life I knew and go back to what I used to love."

"Jeannette, your most recent agent, said that she'd been quite surprised when you'd quit. You'd seemed so happy modeling. It had panged her to lose you."

"That had been Drake's doing. I hadn't wanted to stop. If I could have—"

"Shh. It's alright. You don't need to explain." Muriel cupped her other hand on top of our already joined hands. "I was overjoyed when I got the call from her that you were looking for work. I knew right away that I needed to touch base with you."

"I'm glad you did."

"Listen." She was patting my hand now. "I know you were probably planning to relax tonight. But I'm attending an event, and I wonder if you'd like to be my plus-one?"

I bit my lower lip and nodded, grinning like a school girl.

"Lovely. Stop by the agency around five o'clock and pick something out to wear. Georgia will do your hair and makeup. Sound good?"

"Yes. And thank you, again, Muriel."

"Of course, my dear."

We both stood, exchanged bises—the cheek kisses—once more, and then said, "A bientôt."

Muriel's event was a small dinner with a few designers and area modeling agents, including her business partner, Claudette, whom I'd met on my first morning. The meal was delicious, and everyone was quite friendly. Not once had I felt like I didn't belong. But maybe that was because I was speaking their language. When in France...

I slept that night without any nightmares. Without any dreams I could remember, actually. It was wonderful. When I woke in the morning, I felt refreshed.

The girls had decided we should all have lunch together and watch movies on Sundays. With our hectic schedules, it would give us a chance to unwind and feel like were back in the states. Today, we were watching a marathon of old black-and-white films on TV. Bridget and I made our contribution and rode the antiquated lift to one of the upstairs flats.

We spent the afternoon kicking back. They had been right. It was just like I would have done with Malcolm and Becca on any given weekend without plans. I excused myself after the third movie, though. It was Skype time, according to my watch. Every other Sunday if possible.

Back in my flat, I curled up on my bed with a blanket around my shoulders as the winter breeze filtered in through the window I'd cracked open. Then I started up the laptop and logged into the program.

Malcolm and Becca's faces flickered on the screen for a brief two minutes, but the audio never worked. I received a text from Becca saying there was a snow storm hitting the east coast, and they were unable to keep a connection. We texted back and forth instead until there was no response for five minutes to my latest message. I took it as a sign that I should call it a night.

I was a grown, independent woman. I should have been satisfied with seeing their faces. But the fact that I hadn't been able to hear their voices bothered me. Made me homesick.

Home. That word still seemed foreign to me. I missed Chicago. And now I missed Delaware. The ocean. My family.

Surprisingly, the one thing I didn't miss was Drake. That may have made me sound like a coldhearted bitch, but to be honest, I felt free. No one judging me—well, except Craig my trainer who said I needed to work on muscle tone—or punishing me when I didn't say or do something they expected. Not that Drake had done that recently, but right now, it's what I remembered most about him.

It was strange how for the past few years, I'd grown to believe I needed someone else controlling my life. That I really wanted it. I wasn't so sure about that anymore.

###

The next week was packed full with prepping for the fashion show on the upcoming weekend. We had daily morning meetings with the designer, Pauline, who went through what she wanted. I spent extra hours in the gym toning. And on top of that, I had two back-to-back photo shoots on Friday, so I had been cutting it close to get to the dry run for the catwalk.

Claudette raised an eyebrow at me as I slunk into the group of girls who were waiting for Pauline to determine the final order of the clothes to be shown. I just gave her a smile and waited for my name to be called. Muriel must have noticed because she said something to Claudette, who glanced at me again and gave me a slight nod. As if I was being forgiven for my tardiness. I wasn't the one who had scheduled a photo shoot so close to the rehearsal!

Thirty minutes later, we were in line for the first walk down the runway. One of Claudette's girls, Nikkole, was leading the pack, and I'd been chosen to bring up the rear. Both positions were coveted. I wondered if Muriel had any say in the matter. Regardless, I made a mental note to thank her later.

A thrall of people from both agencies were running the show in collaboration with Pauline. From wardrobe managers to the producers and PR representatives, there were more people in charge than actually modeling. Us twelve girls were divided into groups of two, and each group would share a joint hair-and-makeup stylist. I was paired with Nikkole. We were assigned to Georgia whom had come over with Muriel from the Chicago agency. Another blessing for me.

We'd also been told two specific men would be in charge behind the curtain: Patrick and Stefan. Stage manager and production manager, respectively. We were to listen to them and them alone once the show started Saturday night. So far, we'd not been introduced to either one. But I could have missed that with my late entrance today.

Even without the headset and clipboard, though, it was easy to pick out Patrick. He could have been Stanley Tucci's doppelganger. And like the actor's character in "The Devil Wears Prada," his job was to make sure us models went out to the catwalk in the right order...and in the right outfit.

Stefan, now he was a mystery. Especially, since I didn't see anyone fitting the description Muriel had given us at the meeting earlier this morning: tall, dark, and handsome. Laughable, but model qualities. Which was ironic since he'd not chosen that profession. His job was to make sure everyone else did their jobs properly. He should have stuck out in a room full of beautiful women, but all of the men I could see were short and balding.

I didn't have time to wonder who—or where—Stefan could be as we were being ushered one-by-one onto the stage.

For the next three hours, we ran through the show. They marked the time with costume changes. Then to the music. Made adjustments as necessary. Over and over again until Pauline was happy.

Throughout, I'd noticed Edward, the stagehand who cued each of us to go based on Patrick's directions, flirting with several of the girls. They'd giggled each time until Patrick gave them the evil eye. When the last run was announced and we were on the final costume change, Edward smacked the butt of each of the girls ahead of me when it was her turn to walk out.