Folly's Child (19 page)

Already Hugo Varna was a name to reckon with. He had a showroom on Seventh Avenue, appeared regularly in
Vogue
and
Womens Wear Daily
, and had been hailed as one of the most exciting designers in years, along with Bill Blass, who had transformed the ‘ fat lady' image of Rentner's into something more youthful and glamorous, and was now a vice-president of that company; Oscar de la Renta, Elizabeth Arden's stylish new designer; and Geoffrey Beene. At thirty-three years of age Hugo exuded an aura of success which somehow made those who met him forget that he was not a handsome man. Without it his unimposing height (five-feet-six in his stockinged feet, five-feet-eight in the high-heeled cowboy boots he liked to wear), his prematurely receding hairline and the slight flatness of features which he had inherited from his father might have made him appear ordinary. But he was also the possessor of a towering personality and energy powerful as a surge of electrical current and no one, not even his enemies, of which there were certainly a few, thought of Hugo as ordinary.

Although he spent his life surrounded by beautiful women Hugo had never married, and occasionally it was whispered that, like so many male designers, he might be AC/DC. But the simple truth was that he had never had time to form a relationship. To Hugo work came first, last and in between; he ate, drank, slept and lived fashion. Apart from the socialising which was a necessary part of building up a clientele, every waking hour was spent in the studio which he had found with the help of Greg Martin, his friend and financial adviser, and after the dinner parties and balls, which were more an exercise in public relations than a pleasure, he returned to his apartment and fell into bed alone.

Twice a year Hugo went to Paris to take a look at the best of the new seasons' designs, but otherwise he hardly ever left the United States, taking a rare holiday, when he felt the need for one, in the sunshine of Florida or the peace of the cottage he had bought as a hideaway in New England. But when the invitation to the Royal Showing had arrived in his morning mail he was sorely tempted.

Like all Americans Hugo was fascinated by the British heritage and the idea of spending an evening in the company of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother and a princess of the royal blood, even though he was unlikely to see them except at a distance, appealed to his romantic nature. Perhaps he should accept, and have a look at what the British designers were doing, he thought, inventing excuses so as not to admit, even to himself, that he was starstruck. And besides, the House of Oliver was amongst those showing this year. Hugo had met Gary Oliver when he had visited New York as a Student of the Royal College and the two had become friends. It would be interesting to see how he had turned out.

Hugo accepted the invitation and flew into Heathrow on the morning of 1st December. The skies through which his plane descended were grey and lowering and when he emerged from the airport buildings a cold wind whipped swirls of dust into his face. He must have been mad to come, Hugo thought, pulling his neat dark overcoat around his thin frame. He would have been better advised to go to Florida and soak up some sun to set him up for the biting winter expected in New York. But it was too late now to duck out and he might as well make the most of it.

Hugo took a taxi to the London Hilton where he had booked a room. Tomorrow he would do a little sightseeing and then get a flight back to the States. Perhaps he would still be able to manage a few days in Florida before returning to the grindstone.

He watched the dull grey London streets unfold outside the windows of his taxi and little knew that by the time he left London everything in his ordered world would have turned on its head and nothing would ever be the same again.

Paula sailed down the sweeping staircase into the Crush Bar wearing the first of Gary's outfits – a beautiful After Dark Suit in midnight blue lurex brocade entitled Premiere – to a burst of applause. Behind the scenes all was still organised chaos but not a hint of this had been allowed to intrude into the Crash Bar where the guests, all in evening dress, were assembled and not a trace of the nerves that had her strung taut as a greyhound were allowed to be apparent either. This was the most important show she had ever done and she must carry it off perfectly for Gary's sake as well as her own.

Sally had slipped in at the back. She held her breath as Paula appeared, as excited by her sister's glamour as she had been the very first time she had watched her work, but nervous now too, for the build-up to the great occasion had got to her and she was also terrifyingly aware of all the things that could go wrong.

In his seat in the fifth row Hugo had also stopped breathing and he knew it was not the shimmering beauty of the suit that caught his attention. All the clothes that had preceded it had been striking, each of them designed with a certain social event in mind – and each stunning in its own way. But not one of them had made him feel as he felt now – as if his chest had constricted beneath the weight of a stone slab.

No, it was not the suit that had affected him so – it was the girl modelling it. Hugo watched, unable to take his eyes off her until she was lost to view, then began to leaf through his programme. The models were listed, all forty of them, but there was no indication as to which was which. Several of the names he was familiar with but the others … Renatta, Julie, Diana, Christine, Virginia – two Virginias – she could have been any of them. He closed his programme, willing himself to concentrate on the next outfit – a cloque evening dress by Norman Hartnell entitled Crush Bar – but he could think of nothing but when would the girl appear again, see nothing but her lovely, clear-featured face and shining cap of golden hair.

You have taken leave of your senses! he told himself. You are thirty-three years old and you are behaving like a school boy! But it made no difference. The palms of his hands were damp and the blood was pounding at his temples. He couldn't remember feeling this way about a woman ever – unless it had been the little Italian girl – what was her name? Maria something? – back home in the Bronx when he had been twelve years old. Hell fire, he had forgotten all about her until now, when a wave of emotion unexperienced for more than twenty years brought it all rushing back.

The models entered, paraded, posed in an ever-changing kaleidoscope pattern of colour and glamour but Hugo found himself existing only for the reappearance of his mystery girl. Here she was now in a tomato red wool coat which flattered that lovely gold hair so that she reminded him a little – though he had no idea why – of a rainbow, and now in a sharp green cocktail dress, topped by a coat of ranch mink. With a falling away of his stomach Hugo realised he would not see her again – or not on the catwalk anyway. She had done her job. In a trance he watched the final spectacular ‘ The Big Top', when models dressed as everything from clowns to circus palaminos paraded, each sponsored by an Associate Member of the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers – the milliners, the furriers, Berlei foundations and Aristoc stockings – and barely noticed one of them. He could think of nothing but the girl – and thank his lucky stars that she worked for Gary. Because he knew him an introduction would be that much easier but whoever she worked for Hugo's mind was made up – nothing would stop him setting out to win her. For the first time in his adult life Hugo was in love. It was a strange and somewhat disturbing experience.

‘Paula, there is someone who is dying to meet you, lovey,' Gary said. He was flushed with success – and with the free-flowing champagne.

‘Oh – who?' Paula sipped her own champagne, unsurprised by the statement. There was always someone who wanted to meet the models after a show.

‘Hugo Varna. He's over here from the States.'

‘Oh, right.' Paula had heard of Hugo. Who in the world of fashion had not?

‘Just be careful,' Gary warned. ‘He seems very smitten. I don't want to lose you, lovey, and I think he may try to poach you and whisk you off to model for him in New York.'

‘Wrong,' said a voice at Paula's elbow. ‘I don't want to poach her, Gary. I want to marry her.'

‘This is getting beyond a joke, Paula,' Sally said severely as she staggered into the tiny bedsit with yet another armful of red roses. ‘
More
flowers! We ran out of vases the day before yesterday and anyway there's not a square inch left to put them. Even the delivery boy has had enough. He says he's fed up with climbing all these stairs three times a day and will you
please
put the poor man out of his misery and agree to go out with him.'

‘Why should I? He's obviously crazy,' Paula said coolly.

‘Crazy about you. Paula, you'll have to see him if only to tell him to stop it! This place is like Chelsea Flower Show gone mad.'

‘It's hardly my fault,' Paula said crossly. ‘I can't be held responsible for every nut case in London.'

‘No – but what a nut case!' Sally took the latest consignment into the kitchen, dumped them in the sink and turned on the tap. Deep down she knew that part of her irritation stemmed from envy – no one had ever sent her flowers, not so much as a single carnation – and here was Paula practically drowning in the most exotic blooms imaginable, Singapore orchids, delicately perfumed white freesias and armfuls of long-stemmed red roses – in December! ‘Aren't you even going to read the card?' she asked.

‘No.'

The doorbell shrilled.

‘Oh my God!' Paula whirled round in exasperation. ‘ That's the front door now. You'll have to go, Sally.'

‘Why? It's bound to be for you.'

‘I can't go down like this.' Paula was wearing her old checked woollen dressing gown and she had not yet put on any make-up. ‘Get it, Sally, there's an angel. And if it's more flowers, tell them to take them round to the hospital or something.'

Sally sighed. ‘ What did your last servant die of?'

But she ran down the stairs anyway. Minutes later she was back.

‘Not more flowers?' Paula asked.

‘No. Special delivery. But for you – of course.' She handed Paula a small square package, gift wrapped. Paula glanced at the card.

‘It's him again. What this time?' She tore off the paper, opened the box and gasped. ‘Oh my God!'

Inside the box a pair of diamond ear studs lay on a bed of midnight blue velvet, each perfectly cut facet catching and reflecting the light from the overhead lamp.

‘I don't believe it,' Sally said, stunned. ‘He really is crazy!'

‘And obviously very determined.' There was a strange new light in Paula's eyes; it seemed almost to reflect the glitter of the diamonds. ‘I suppose you're right. I really will have to see him now. If only to tell him I can't possibly accept his extravagant presents.'

‘I guess you won't believe me if I tell you I don't make a habit of this sort of thing,' Hugo said. They were having dinner at the Savoy – the box containing the diamond earrings lay on the table between them.

Paula smiled. ‘Actually I do believe you. Not even a millionaire can afford to go around throwing presents like this at every strange woman he meets. Well, maybe a multi-millionaire could …' she added looking at him speculatively over the rim of her champagne glass.

‘I'm certainly not that,' Hugo said firmly. ‘One day maybe, but not yet. But the flowers didn't seem to be working so I thought – well, time for something a little more personal.' His mouth quirked and she caught some of the force of his personality.

‘Of course I can't possibly keep them,' she said, steeling herself not to weaken.

‘Why not?'

‘Why not? Because …' She broke off, unable to think of a single good reason.

‘Beautiful women have accepted presents from their admirers throughout the ages. Enjoy it.'

‘I can't be bought,' Paula said firmly.

‘I never thought you could. Heaven forbid I should insult you by trying.'

‘Then what …?'

‘I wanted you to have them.'

‘But why?'

‘This may sound damned stupid but it suddenly occurred to me there's not much fun in making a lot of dough if you haven't got anyone to spend it on. You're a beautiful girl, Paula. You should have beautiful things. Now admit it, I don't suppose Gary pays you enough for you to be able to buy this kind of thing for yourself. So – let me buy them for you. Where's the harm in that?'

‘Well …' Paula hesitated, pretending reluctance.

‘Let me put them on for you.' He leaned across the table, reaching out to unclip one of the paste sapphires she was wearing and replacing it with the diamond. His fingers were cool and steady. ‘Now doesn't that feel good, knowing you're wearing the real thing?'

A tiny smile played about Paula's mouth. It certainly did feel good – even better than the feeling of power that came from working for Gary for a pittance. And there was something intoxicating about being pursued with such lavish determination too.

‘I'm afraid I can't reach to do the other one,' he said. ‘You'll have to put that in yourself.'

Her smile broadened. It was a game, all a game, with the diamonds taking the place of chess pieces. If she picked the earring up now and put it on she would be signifying her willingness to play.

Slowly, almost languidly, her eyes never leaving his, she slipped off the other paste sapphire and laid it on the table beside her plate. Then with the same deliberation she clipped on the diamond.

For a long moment they sat motionless, their eyes still locked, and Paula was aware of a quiver of excitement deep within. The diamonds, the champagne, a man to cosset, spoil and care for her – they were all there now within her reach – everything she had ever wanted.

On the table Hugo's hand covered hers and she did not attempt to draw it away. His eyes still burned into hers.