FOLLOW THE MORNING STAR (47 page)

‘No, I think he’s doing some business deal,’ said Ria. ‘And he doesn’t want Dina to know about it, if you ask me. He’s been getting mail sent here too from various countries, tourism and consulate people. What do you suppose he’s up to?’

‘Arranging a surprise trip for Dina? Running away from Dina? Planning on robbing a bank? Who knows. So long as he keeps out of our hair and lets us get on with running this place, I don’t mind,’ said Bruce a trifle curtly. Colin’s charm had worn a bit thin with the Gadens. They had hoped he would mellow and blend into the lifestyle and philosophy of Harmony Hill, but they now realised he was still only interested in himself and he’d probably never change.

Bruce was right, Colin did have a lunch appointment but not in a trendy restaurant. He drove to a small terrace house in the Brisbane suburb of Paddington. He took his briefcase with him, locked the car and rapped the brass knocker, looking up and down the street as he did so.

Inside, Fredrico greeted him and called, ‘Bettina, bring us coffee’. He gestured to the chair. ‘So, how is Alfredo’s casino coming along?’

‘I’m not up to date with the latest developments,’ said Colin. ‘I’m involved in other business dealings.’

‘Just as well. I hear there are problems,
certain opposition from some quarters. Certain officials getting a little greedy . . .’ He paused as his red-headed wife, dressed in tight hot pants and a white T-shirt embroidered with colourful sequins and beads, carried in the tray with two cups of short-black espresso coffee. ‘Put it down there and leave us, Bettina, we’re talking business,’ said Fredrico gruffly.

She seemed unruffled at his tone. ‘Okey-doke, I’m going to the beauty parlour anyway. Byeee.’ She tottered out on the high gold heels of her clear plastic sandals.

Fredrico shook his head. ‘If I didn’t know the hairdresser was a fag I’d think she was having it off with him. She’s always down there.’ He noisily sipped his coffee and reached for a folder and slid it across to Colin. ‘I think you’ll be pleased. My man has excelled himself, even if I say so myself.’

Colin took out two sheets of paper and glanced from one to the other. He rubbed the paper between his fingers and held each sheet up to the light, even sniffing each one.

‘I believe the paper is an identical match. Worth the exorbitant sum he charged me.’

Colin glanced at him. ‘We had agreed on a price.’

Fredrico shrugged. ‘Subject to the man being able to do the job. He says it took more time and trouble than he anticipated. And considering the matter involved . . .’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture but his eyes were alert and hard.

Colin put the papers down. ‘You’re telling me the price has just gone up?’

‘It is negotiable.’

‘No, Fredrico, we had a deal.’ Inwardly Colin was cursing. It was perfectly obvious to Fredrico what Colin planned. He was wide open to blackmail now. He kept his expression unconcerned, knowing there was nothing else he could do. ‘All right, how much? Bearing in mind, I am not . . . er . . . inheriting cash money here. I am merely claiming what is rightfully mine in the first place.’

‘You and Dina plan to go back to the land? I don’t believe so,’ Fredrico smiled. ‘Come, come, we are reasonable men.’ He wrote a figure on a piece of paper and slipped it to Colin.

Colin glanced at it and recoiled. ‘This is outrageous, you’re a hustler, Fredrico.’

The other man drained his coffee cup. ‘I have an expensive wife. And I am very sure your lovely wife does not know of this transaction . . . and you would prefer to keep it so,
si?
’

He had Colin there. Dina was one of the reasons he’d decided to put this whole plan into action. ‘If I agree to this, it has to be on a deferred basis. I can’t come up with this sort of cash immediately.’

‘I trust you, Colin. Naturally we would like to put a reasonable time limit on your payment falling due. How long do you anticipate before you will acquire the necessary funds?’

‘Give me two months — and don’t even think of charging me interest.’ Colin was prepared for things to be tricky — he was taking a gamble and he knew it — but the money would be worth it.

‘Very well. We shall shake on the deal.’ As Fredrico leaned across the low coffee table between them, a small smile played around his mouth. ‘I have, of course, taken the precaution of keeping a photocopy of these . . . merely as collateral, shall we say.’

‘Yeah, I understand,’ said Colin, taking a mouthful of the now cold strong black coffee. He hated dealing with these people but he had to admit he’d have done the same thing. They shook hands and Colin knew the deal was as binding as signing in blood. He put the folder with the two documents in his briefcase, closed it and spun the dials on the combination lock.

He drove down to the Gold Coast and entered the flamingo pink building, whistling.

Sarah sat Queenie down and ran through the publicity and promotional plans for Tingulla fashions. Queenie grinned at her friend. ‘You’re amazing, Sarah. A whirlwind once you get your teeth into something. I also want you to go down to Kui House and meet everyone. I’ve asked Raylene to do some sketches for me — I think she could come up with some really innovative knitwear designs — and they’ve also lined up some knitters. I need more clothes though for this first collection.’

Sarah consulted her notes. ‘Queenie, I also took the liberty of making a few enquiries about a place to have the launch party and showing of the collection.’

‘Great.’

‘The Hilton ballroom would be terrific of
course. But I have talked to the NSW Art Gallery and we can have it there. It’s such a romantic setting, we’d need to set up a catwalk and a small stage but the lighting is great, we’ll fill it with Australian bush flowers and Australian art on the walls. The theme is going to be “Tingulla Wool — Naturally the Best”!’

Queenie gave her friend an affectionate hug. ‘Sarah, that’s a great idea. That’s a fantastic slogan too.’

‘There’s more,’ continued Sarah. ‘Sexy singer James Blundell has agreed to host the evening as well as sing and draw the door prize. I also think Dingo should launch it with a poem and one of his romantic little speeches.’

‘Good idea. Why don’t we also cadge one of Dingo’s paintings out of him to be raffled for charity — Kui House perhaps,’ suggested Queenie. ‘They’re fetching hefty prices these days.’

Sarah made a note. ‘Now, Queenie, my next suggestion is that we’ve earned some time off from all this crashing around town looking for office space and headquarters for Tingulla Fashions. So, tomorrow we’re going for a slapup lunch at David Jones.’

‘That’s a wonderful idea,’ said Queenie.

‘I read in the paper that DJs are having some whoopty-do fashion show that I think we should see. Countess Magda Vambery is unveiling her new collection.’

‘Countess who?’ exclaimed Queenie. ‘I’ve never heard of her. Not that I’m up with all the European couturiers.’

‘She’s a migrant of obscure Hungarian
nobility who’s been here for ten years, according to the paper,’ explained Sarah. ‘It doesn’t sound like our sort of thing, but it should keep us entertained through lunch.’

They were lucky enough to get a good table at the elegant sixth-floor restaurant, and they settled themselves close to the catwalk that had been erected down the middle of the room. A Hungarian gypsy violinist backed by a three-piece ensemble provided the music and once the main course had been served, the fashion show got underway.

The heavy drapes were pulled across the windows blocking much of the daylight, and special lights played across the stage. The fashion buyer for David Jones, dressed in a black Chanel suit and pearls, stepped to the microphone and in a clipped accent welcomed the guests and introduced the Countess Magda Vambery.

The countess made a dramatic entrance through a small curtained-off area, sweeping in with a flourish, standing centre stage and awaiting the applause, which came falteringly as diners put down their cutlery to give polite acknowledgement to the woman who stood before them.

She was in her early fifties with thick dark hair that had a silver streak blazoned through one side. Her dark eyes were wide black pools in a creamy face split by a wide scarlet smile and perfect teeth. Large green gems blazed at her ear lobes and around her throat was a gold band studded with gemstones. She wore a
dramatic red dress with a fabulously embroidered antique silk shawl draped over one shoulder.

After bowing her head to thank the audience she stepped up to the microphone and began speaking in a husky Hungarian accent. She described the inspiration for her collection which went back to her great grandfather Arminius Vambery who set out from Constantinople and travelled through the East and published a book called
Travels and Adventures in Central Asia
in London in 1864. Her brief tale had the audience immediately fascinated and the clothes lived up to their exotic origins. Queenie and Sarah studied them carefully, marvelling at the intricacy of the beading and embroidery; but, as they both noted, what set them apart was the striking use of colour and simplicity of cut and design.

‘Not one of them uses any wool, notice that?’ whispered Queenie.

‘They’re pretty fantastic just the same,’ replied Sarah,’ and her presentation is great.’

‘She could sell ice to Eskimos. I think she could sell these clothes even if they weren’t any good.’

‘But, Queenie, they are. Where has this woman been?’

‘Let’s find out.’

Immediately after the show when the models came out for the finale and the countess was presented with flowers, Sarah nudged Queenie. ‘She reminds me of a prima ballerina taking her bows.’

They went backstage and asked to meet her.
The countess was tenderly wrapping one of the bejewelled evening gowns in tissue as the models returned from the haughty heights of elegance to everyday busy career girls.

Queenie introduced herself and Sarah. The countess glanced at Queenie, taking in the beautiful and tastefully dressed woman and her smart and attractive friend. The countess drew herself up, flinging her shawl over her shoulder, holding out her hand in a regal gesture and flashing a dazzling smile. ‘Magda Vambery. I do hope you enjoyed my collection.’

‘Very much indeed. I have to admit I’m surprised we’re not familiar with your label. Have you been established in Europe?’ asked Queenie.

‘My family yes. I grew up in couture in Paris where my grandfather fled when things became difficult in Hungary after the war.

‘My father came here in the sixties. I stayed in Europe with my husband the Count Maximilan Frederick Muller, but despite a grand title he had little else — the estates were long gone as was the money. Poor Maxie, he lived in the past and never adjusted to having to sully his hands with commerce. We settled here ten years ago but he became very difficult to live with so we separated, he is much older than myself. He lives in Double Bay and we are better friends now than when we were together.’ She laughed, ‘So, darlings, now you know my life story. I have managed a boutique and been the European fashion consultant for exclusive shops and department stores plus I
created designs for private clients. But they always brought me European magazines and asked me to copy them, so two years ago I decided to go into business for myself. So here we are!’ She waved an arm around the crowded dressing room.

Sarah had been looking at several dresses hanging on a mobile rack beside them as the countess spoke. ‘These garments are superbly finished on the inside, you could virtually wear them inside out!’ Sarah exclaimed.

‘I insist on attention to detail. It is a European custom. My father and grandfather schooled me thoroughly in this. Was there something you were interested in . . . I would adore to see you in this gown Mrs Hamilton’.

‘No, we were more interested in you and your designs,’ smiled Queenie, though she agreed the shimmering jade chiffon gown was exquisite.

‘These are such extravagant clothes, surely they only appeal to a limited clientele. Don’t you make more . . . mundane clothes?’ asked Sarah bluntly.

The countess clutched her head in horror. ‘I do not do mundane! Never!’ Then calming herself she answered softly, ‘I cannot produce on a large scale, so I have carved a niche for myself which few others can fill. My designs are not for everyone’s pocket but you get value for money. These are classic and will last and look
au courant
for years.’

‘I can see that,’ said Queenie. ‘Would it be possible for Sarah and I to visit you at your business? We’d like to talk to you some more,
we’re venturing into a fashion enterprise of our own. Nothing like this,’ she hastened to add.

The countess hesitated. ‘My salon is very busy, I generally go to my clients for a private consultation.’

‘We would prefer to come to your premises,’ said Queenie firmly.

Countess Magda Vambery gave them a shrewd look then seemed to come to some decision. ‘Very well,’ she nodded, ‘I’ll make an exception.’

She took a card from her bag and quickly wrote an address on the back and handed it to Queenie. The cream card was simply engraved
Countess Magda Vambery. Couturier.
There was a post office box address in Vaucluse and a telephone number. On the back the countess had written in flowing script.

Queenie and Sarah looked more closely at each garment in the collection with the countess pointing out details and finish and explaining its inspiration. ‘Each garment has its own little story going back to the stories my grandfather told me from his father when he travelled to all those exotic places. For example, the pattern of that beading comes from Central Asia,’ said the countess. ‘This hooded cape is based on one worn by the desert tribes of Oxus he described when on his way to Khiva.’