Goodbye, Janette (30 page)

“I want it to be right,” Janette had said. “I want it to be elegant and Hollywood all at the same time.” And that’s exactly what it was. There had never been a collection with as elegant an audience and there had never been a collection with a setting as pure Hollywood as this.

He was about to open the door when he saw John Fairchild gesturing toward him. He hesitated a moment, then went to their table. The publisher gestured to an empty chair. He shook his head. “I’m working,” he said.

“This party must have cost a bundle,” Fairchild said. “At least fifty thousand dollars.”

“Something like that,” Jacques said.

“Isn’t it a little heavy for Janette?” Fairchild asked. “She doesn’t do that kind of business.”

Jacques shrugged without answering.

“I got a cable from New York,” the publisher said. “There’s a rumor on Seventh Avenue that she’s selling out to Carroll.”

“That’s not true,” Jacques said firmly. “There’s no way Janette would sell her house.”

“Could be she’s planning to go
prêt á porter
with him,” Fairchild guessed shrewdly. “Carroll is sitting at a pretty important table with her father.”

“Carroll belongs to Twin Cities,” Jacques said. “And you know that Johann Schwebel, president of that company, has many personal and business ties with the Beauville family. And for a long time he was P.D.G. of Janette’s company—from the time her mother died until she was of age.”

“That’s not answering my question,” Fairchild said. “If she’s not going
prêt á porter
, why is Carroll at so important a table?”

Jacques gestured toward another table nearby. “Bidermann is over there at an even more important table. Why don’t you ask if she’s not going with him?”

“Bidermann already has Cardin,” Fairchild said. “And I heard he was interested in St. Laurent.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the lady herself what her intentions are. I have not been made privy to them yet.”

“Where did she get the money for this party? I heard she was pretty strapped when she junked the whole line to begin a new collection.”

Jacques held out his hands in a typically Gallic gesture. “She has other assets. Perhaps from her friendly banker. I see the Rothschilds are here in force.”

Fairchild glanced around the room. “And so is half the
haute monde
of the world. Christ, I don’t know if I’m seeing a collection or a Hollywood premiere.”

Jacques laughed. “Janette will be pleased to hear that. It is exactly the ambiance she wanted to create. But make no mistake about it. You’re at a collection. A collection like no other you have ever seen or will ever see. In this world—or the next.”

Fairchild laughed. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Jacques said. Quickly he left the table and went backstage before any other members of the press could stop him. He stepped carefully over the cables lying on the floor just inside the door and made his way to the rear of the giant stage, which had been set up as a temporary dressing room for the models. It had been decided not to use any of the regular dressing rooms because they were located on various floors above the stage and too far away to allow the models time enough to make all the dress changes. In addition, Janette didn’t want to take any chances that a model might fall or even catch her heel in her dress and tear it as she ran down the narrow staircase.

A black curtain had been hung completely around the dressing area. Jacques pulled the curtain and looked in. For the moment it was calm enough. The girls sat in front of their makeup tables, the lights on around the mirror, casually applying their makeup, still in their loose, casual kimono-like wraps. Tacked to a small corkboard in an upper corner of each mirror were small notes of paper, each with swatches of material stapled to it, each note containing all the information necessary to complete each model’s costume down even to the color of her panty hose and jeweled accessories. Next to each girl was a rolling clothes rack on which the costumes were hanging in the order they were to be worn. The hairdresser and two makeup artists who would do the final touchup on the models for each change of costume were sitting at the end of the dressing room, looking somewhat bored and vaguely out of it, while Mme. St. Cloud and her assistants anxiously checked every costume on every rack to make sure that they were all in order. Later, just before the show would begin, Philippe would come and make a personal check of each girl and each costume, and once again, after the show had started, each girl would have to pass Mme. St. Cloud and him before she went out on the stage. But at that moment, neither he nor Janette was there.

Jacques let the curtain drop and continued on behind the stage, the faint sounds of the orchestra drifting back to the stage manager’s office that Janette had taken over for the night. He opened the door and went in without knocking.

Philippe was seated on the couch, nervously smoking a cigarette, Marlon, as usual, deadpan and unconcerned. Jacques was seated behind the desk, staring down at the typewritten list of the costume presentation order. She glanced up. Her voice was calm. “How is it out there?”

“It’s everything you want,” Jacques said. “You couldn’t ask for more.”

“Good.” She glanced down at the list again, then turned to Philippe. “I think it might be a good idea if we show Twenty-five before Seventeen. It’s a mid-length gown and would be better before we go into the full-length gowns. Right now it’s in the middle of all of them and would stick out like a sore thumb.”

Philippe rose from the couch and stood behind her. He opened his folder and flipped through the sheets of designs. “You have an idea,” he said. “I’ll tell St. Cloud to change the order. Time I went in there to check anyway.”

He left the room, Marlon followed him. Jacques slipped into the chair in front of her. “I think we can use some help,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

“You have to be a mind reader,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, passing the vial and gold spoon to her. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I’m not worried about it,” she said with a half smile as she carefully spooned two snorts. “I’m just trying to figure a way to stay alive through the night. I’m beat.”

“Do it again,” he urged. “Then you’ll have enough energy to live forever.”

She took his advice, then handed the vial back to him and took a deep breath. He could see the color coming back into her cheeks and the brightness into her eyes. “That was good,” she said. “You know, you may be right.”

He just had time enough to do two snorts and put the vial away before Philippe came back into the room.

“Have either of you seen Lauren?” Philippe asked.

“No,” Janette said. “Isn’t she out there?”

“Madame St. Cloud hasn’t seen her. She’s getting worried.”

“She must be somewhere around,” Janette said. “She came here with me.”

Jacques rose from the chair. “I’ll check with the concierge at the stage door. No one can make a move in this place without him seeing it.”

Philippe sank back on the couch as Jacques left. “All I need is for your stupid sister to fuck up on me,” he grumbled.

“You wanted her,” Janette said flatly. She lit a cigarette and they sat there in silence until there was a knock at the door and Jacques returned with Lauren behind him.

“Where were you?” Philippe asked, leaping to his feet. “I almost had a heart attack.”

“I was getting nervous,” Lauren said. “So I went out in the alley behind the theater and had myself a few tokes.”

“Jesus! Next time at least let us know where you are,” Philippe said. “Come, it’s time we got you ready.”

Lauren smiled. She looked at Janette. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

Janette shook her head.

Lauren laughed. “I feel good now.” She turned and followed Philippe through the door.

Janette looked up at Jacques, who was still standing there. “Oh, shit,” she said.

Jacques smiled. “
Merde
to you too.”

***

Despite the late start, dinner was finished at ten to midnight and the tables were cleared. The orchestra began to mute and the dancers returned to their tables as the theater gradually darkened. There was a rustle of chairs as the audience made themselves comfortable, and an air of hushed expectancy began to be felt as the theater went to black.

Softly from somewhere behind the stage the overture to
Faust
was heard. It was an almost eerie sound in the blackness. Then, suddenly, there was an explosion, almost like a thunderclap, an invisible spotlight picked up a plume of smoke in center stage before the closed scrim, and out of the puff of smoke came the devil.

He leaped high into the air, his red metallic Lurex body tights like a second skin reflecting tiny sparkling lights around him. Holding his jewel-tipped trident in one hand, he danced toward the center stage as the runway moved out into the audience on giant silent rollers, then he was out on the runway in leaps and bounds, fixing the audience with a baleful gaze and thrusting, threatening gestures of the trident. When he reached the end of the runway, he turned suddenly, knelt and aimed his trident at the curtain of the stage behind him.

A thunderous roll of drums shattered the air, then all was silent as from the projection booth high at the back of the theater came the image reflected on the translucent scrim.

Janette de la Beauville
présente
La Collection de l’Enfer

When the lights came up again the devil was gone and the curtain was rolling back to reveal a giant diorama the whole length of the stage on which had been painted in red and black an impressionistic view of Inferno as Dante might have seen it. A moving backlight gave it a strange feeling of life and reality and in the center of the diorama was an archway over two giant doors. As the doors began to open, the music softened, and the number 1 began to glow as if on fire on top of the arch.

The mannequin stood motionless for a moment, revealed by the opening doors, then stepped slowly forward, down stage toward the runway, as a voice echoed in the sound system around the theater: “
Costume en laine, rouge de sang.
”

A polite wave of applause went through the auditorium as the model walked down the runway, paused, took off her jacket to show the blouse, turned in model’s stylized fashion and began making her way back up the runway as the glowing number over the arch changed to 2.

Jacques, standing at the back of the theater, nodded to himself. He was pleased. The claque he had hired was also professional. He had told them to begin softly and not to really turn loose except for certain numbers and the finale.

He glanced down at the stage. The second mannequin was already on the runway and the first girl was making her exit. He looked around the audience. They watched attentively. But then, they too were professional. A great deal more would have to be seen before they would pass judgment.

He lit a cigarette. So far, so good. All had been done that could be done. The rest was in the hands of the gods. Then he looked at the stage and smiled to himself. Or the devil.

***

By the time they were two thirds through the collection a strange, controlled pandemonium had taken over the dressing rooms. Discarded costumes were being picked up from the floor where the models in their frantic need to change threw them and the dressers and makeup girls were frantically trying to maintain the image the mannequins had at the beginning of the show.

Philippe was white, nervous and perspiring as he checked a mannequin and sent her out on stage to wait her turn. “I’m going to be sick,” he said dramatically. “I’m going to faint.”

“You’re okay,” Janette said. “Everything’s going well.”

“You should never have permitted them to come,” he said. “They all want to destroy me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Janette said. “It’s really a tribute. You don’t see them turning out for each other.”

“They’re going to walk out on me,” he said. “I feel it. That way they will show everyone how little they care about me.”

“They’re all still there,” Janette said. “St. Laurent and Berge have not budged since the show began. The same with Bohan and Boussac. Givenchy, Cardin, they’re all still there.”

“They’re planning something,” Philippe said. “I feel it.” He threw his hand to his forehead. “I feel faint.”

Janette glanced at Marlon, then back at Philippe. “Come into my office for a moment.”

“I don’t dare leave,” Philippe said. “Something will go wrong. I know it.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” she said soothingly. “We’re five numbers ready. You can take a few-minute break.”

“Okay,” he said. “But I want them to start Lauren’s body makeup first. It will take a good fifteen minutes.”

Janette watched him as he went to Lauren, who was seated at her dressing table, calmly smoking a cigarette, seemingly unaware of the panic and tension around her. He whispered something in her ear and Lauren nodded casually and, rising to her feet, dropped her dressing gown around her and stood nude in the center of the floor. The makeup girl came up quickly and began to spray a base body makeup on her. Philippe said something to the girl, who nodded and continued walking around Lauren with the spray can in her hand.

Philippe came back to Janette. “Okay. I can take five minutes. But I must be back when she applies the gold flecks. I don’t want too much, just enough to hint at the life beneath the sheer dress.”

They went down to the room that Janette used as an office and Philippe threw himself on the couch. “Never again,” he swore. “Never again.”

Janette gestured to Marlon to close the door. She opened the desk drawer and came out with a small vial of cocaine. Quickly she spilled some on the glass desk top, then separated it into lines. She picked up the straw and turned to them. “
Allons, mes enfants,
” she said. “We all need the strength.”

Philippe was the first at the desk. Expertly he went through four lines before she could stop him. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

She did two lines, then Marlon did the rest as Philippe went back to the couch. This time Philippe did not sprawl out. The color came back into his face. He stared at her for a moment, then smiled suddenly. “Mother,” he said.