“You must be smoking Dutch Cleanser if you think I’m going out there again.”

  “Qu’est-ce que Dutch Cleanser?” Geneviève asked her sister.

  Delphine shrugged. “Something for cleaning the Dutch?”

  "The Dutch?” Geneviève was even more confused. “Like Vincent Van Gogh?”

  “Christ,” Aric muttered before speaking up. “The point is that I’m not going out there again.”

  “I understand,” Franco said sarcastically. “Having women throw themselves into your arms must be quite trying. A true burden.

  Aric’s head flopped back as he sent his plea to the ceiling of whatever building they were standing in. He’d lost track of the names of the venues.

  “Is there anyone in Min who hasn’t heard what happened?”

  Geneviève and Delphine looked at each other for a moment.

  “I don’t believe so,” Delphine said as Geneviève shook her head in negative agreement.

  “Plus,” Franco continued, “It’s not like I just spent two hours picking out the perfect ensembles for the three of you. Oh, wait—I did.”

  “It’s alright,” Geneviève said as she worked up her false tears. The shudder in her voice was almost as good as the real thing. “I didn’t really want another show on my resume anyway.”

  Almost as good.

  “I know what’s going on here,” Aric protested. “I’m not that easy to fool.”

  “Since when?” Delphine asked innocently.

  A girlish ugh exploded from Geneviève’s mouth. It mostly covered Aric’s response.

  “For the love of—fine.”

  It was the smell of incense that triggered it, not the costumes. Those had involved a bit of discussion.

  “I’m already going to Hell for other stuff,” Aric had said as he viewed the two sets of outfits that made the final cut. Franco had beled them: Vatican Chic, and Surrealist Circus. It was the first of those that the designer himself preferred.

  For Delphine: A sleek modern reinterpretation of a nun’s habit—high fashion with sharp tailoring, a dramatic headpiece, and a leg revealing slit that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. Bck-and-white palette with a bold red accessory.

  Geneviève outfit was schoolgirl meets altar boy in a hyper-stylized cassock-inspired minidress, over-the-knee white socks, and a gilded prayer book clutch and a halo-like headband. Finally, Aric: A twisted take on the Pope’s regalia—white cassock-style tailoring, gold embroidery, mirrored sungsses, and a cheeky detail: a “Holy Chic” pin and gold ced sandals.

  “What could you possibly be going to Hell for?” Delphine asked him.

  “He smiled, but she could see the pain on his face. “We don’t have that much time. I’m more concerned about Geneviève.”

  He looked at the younger Moreau sister. She was positively giddy at the idea of walking out in that outfit. And the cospy that would follow.

  “Will any of this come back on her? Hurt her career?”

  “If I thought it would I’d never have suggested it,” Franco said. It was the most serious Aric had ever seen him. Delphine’s nodding head added to the effect.

  “Sister Cecile would tell you it’s just cloth and thread. There will be no symbols. No crucifixes. Nothing sacred.”

  She looked at Franco.

  “There had better not be.”

  The designer raised his hands in defense.

  That was how it came about that Aric stood back stage with Delphine and Geneviève memorizing his lines while the rest of the show was underway. They would be st—they required a small amount of set up, and rehearsal.

  “How are you?” Delphine asked him half way through the show.

  “If you’d told me earlier that walking out on a stage again would not be the thing that most terrified me I’d have asked you if you were high.”

  Delphine ughed, but stopped when she saw his face.

  “I’m sorry, my love. I know we bullied you into this. I wasn’t ughing at you.”

  “What were you ughing at?”

  Her smile broadened. “Have you ever seen someone who’s stoned try to walk in stilettos?

  He had to stifle his own ughter.

  He went back to memorizing his lines.

  Bless me Father, for I have sinned. Gene would say,

  Go forth, and sin no more. It was a simple line. How badly could he butcher it?

  But he hadn’t anticipated the incense.

  When their time came the room began to fill with sacred music. Two models in simple white robes walked the length of the runway with burning censers while a third walked to the end of the runway and pced a cushion on the floor.

  Geneviève took a deep breath and began to walk. It was not the walk of a model. It was a school girl’s walk, head bowed, hands in front of her, clutching her faux prayer book. She stopped in front of the cushion and look up ward for a moment. Then she hiked up her skirt slightly—revealing a glimpse of pale porcein skin—and knelt on the cushion. She stayed in that posture, her head tilted up as if praying to the heavens, while Delphine started her approach.

  If Geneviève’s outfit had caused murmurs then Delphine’s amplified them. With each step she took her leg fshed from thigh to ankle, a red garter prominently on dispy. She stopped by her sister and gently pced her hand on Gene’s head.

  Aric felt like he was going to be sick as he began to walk. He’d been in a fire fight with a terrorist and hadn’t been this scared. But there was also something else. A memory from well before that assault. Several memories. A church. Prayers for guidance, for succor, for some expnation of what was happening to him.

  The murmuring increased as he approached the two women. Clearly there were those who did not like the spectacle. He removed his sungsses just as Geneviève bowed her head and spoke.

  “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” she said.

  But in Latin, not in Italian. Delphine noticed it. Franco noticed it. But for Geneviève it had been instinctual. She’d repeated that a thousand times in the confessional at church.

  Aric didn’t notice it either. He probably wouldn’t have anyway, but in the moment he was thinking of something else. As his reply flowed from his mouth in Latin it was not the one he’d been memorizing. It was one from years before that had engraved itself onto his soul.

  “Domine, plena admiratione, extollimus virtutem amoris tui, et etamur salutem quae a te venit.” Lord, filled with wonder, we extol the power of your love, and procim our joy at the salvation that comes from you.

  He didn’t realize until it was too te that his barriers had become porous, and his emotion flowed out of him like water onto desert sand. It rolled across everyone seated in the room before reaching those standing in the back. None of the three could see the faces of the watchers, but everyone in the room could see theirs.

  Aric’s, as he looked at Geneviève, was the face of a man whose thoughts were far away as he remembered another teenage girl.

  Geneviève looked up at him with youthful innocent adoration. She’d been closest. Hers was the first heart to respond to his words, and his feelings, and she still burned brightly from both.

  The look Delphine gave him was one of a woman who knew what it felt like to have their damp skin pressed together, as their lips were pressed together, in the heat of adult passion.

  Those looks did not go unnoticed, or uncommented.

  In that moment the music changed. Aric held his hand out to Geneviève who used it to stand as every model in the show returned to the stage for one final appearance. The cushion was whisked away by someone as bodies rose from their seats and filled the room with thundering appuse. Franco’s face, as he stood and beamed at the boisterous attendees, radiated pure joy.

  They had a few afternoon hours to themselves, and Delphine had pnned to make the most of it. It just took them a little longer than expected to transform those pns into actions.

  They’d almost had to fight their way off the ptform. And Franco Moschino had given up the fight entirely. He was surrounded three deep when Delphine st caught sight of him. Each of them had a handful of business cards when they finally made it back stage.

  “Prendilo! Prendilo! E chiamami! Organizzeremo qualcosa!” was the jist of most supplicants who yelled to be heard over the crowd. Delphine knew that mixed in with Aric’s pile of cards were some of a more personal nature, with even more personal messages scribbled on the back. Delphine had seen more than one. Take it! Take it! And call me! We’ll set something up!

  I can’t resist you. Come to me tonight. Ask any price.

  She’d received more invitations like that than she could count. She’d developed a thick skin to being treated like an object—a sex toy. It was Aric’s first time experiencing this sort of bald request, and she could see it wounded him. Geneviève saw it as well. The joy on her animated face washed away when she looked at him.

  He’d been approached by dozens of women in Surrey. Some as brazen as the women who had handed him those cards.

  But he’d never been offered money.

  Before now.

  Delphine knew the feeling. He would have an overwhelming urge to take a shower.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said to him before putting her arms around him.

  “Except put myself on dispy,” he said before realizing who he was talking to. He pulled her closer and massaged her forehead with his lips before apologizing.

  “Sorry. I know you’ve had to endure this for years.”

  It was true. She had been. Once she’d reached a certain level of fame she’d stopped receiving them. Except for two or three heads of state. And one man—and two women—who had more money than was good for anyone to possess.

  “You have to learn to not take it personally. They don’t know you well enough for it to be personal. You’re a Monet hanging on a wall in the Louvre. An object to be possessed and admired until the novelty wears off.”

  “I don’t have to learn anything. I’m never stepping onto a runway ever again,” he said more seriously than he’d intended.

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I’m spoiling your gift to me, acting like a baby.”

  He smiled and rubbed her back to help his apology sink in faster. He felt her body react as Geneviève found a reason to look away.

  “Well, you have one more battle to fight before this campaign is concluded. But at least it won’t be in front of one hundred people,” Delphine said as she brought her face closer to his.

  Wednesday, 5 September 1984 — Surrey, Engnd

  They’d seen each other every day since the dinner at her father’s house. Restaurants. Walks along High Street, or by the River Wey where they’d shared their first kiss. And their second. And then more. Much more. They’d felt brave enough, given how secluded it felt—but Roz was sure more than one face had looked down from a window above, watching the two women make out like they were the only souls on Earth.

  Now she y on her side, spooned warmly against the woman beside her, reviewing how her not-so-innocent dinner invitation had led to making love in Tess’s four-poster bed—with a massive dog stationed just outside the closed door. Skye gave the occasional huff of protest at being excluded from his owner’s presence. Further away, a horse whinnied and a cow lowed in response, adding to the rustic charm of the pce.

  A person could get used to this, Roz thought, as she ran her fingers along the curve of Tess’s breast. Tess replied by gently massaging Roz’s leg with the palm of her foot. Roz kissed the nape of her neck, then traced a series of zy infinity symbols there with the tip of her nose.

  Tess smiled. She reached for Roz’s hand and brought it to her lips.

  Both women breathed in deep, slow satisfaction.

  Skye took that moment to sigh—still uncertain what was so special about his new friend that he wasn’t allowed to py a part.

  Tess Moreno and Rosalind Martell ughed at the sound, before Tess turned, wrapped her arms and legs around Roz, and rolled her onto her back.