Indiscretions (19 page)

“Hats.” He hit his brakes and swerved to the left down a side street. “I said we’d be there before five and we’re late.”

“Oh, Didi, I hope Jean-Luc has got them right.”

The hats were the most important of the accessories, and vital to her “look.”

Didi double-parked again while Paris hared up the
stairs to Jean-Luc’s workroom. He was a young man, discovered by Didi, straight out of design school. His imaginative samples had delighted her, but now she was anxious. After all, this was his first commission; what if he wasn’t as good as they thought?

Jean-Luc’s young wife answered her urgent ring. She held a baby in her arms and smiled a welcome to Paris.

“Come in, mademoiselle, Jean-Luc is waiting for you. Can I offer you some tea—or a glass of wine?”

Paris made a conscious effort to calm herself as she followed the girl into the shabby room. The baby grinned toothlessly at her from his mother’s shoulder and she grinned back, touching his chubby hand with her finger. He was sweet.

“Everything is ready for you, Paris.” Jean-Luc shook her hand and took her across to the long work-table that filled one wall. Her hats sat on little stands looking like a row of summer flowers in the winter landscape of this drab room.

Jean-Luc had created a pert, veiled pillbox to be worn tilted over one eye in a thirties cocktail mood, a rakish Spanish hat for the suits, and a wide-brimmed straw, trailing with ribbons, for the romantic day dresses. Paris needn’t have worried—they were perfect.

“More than perfect,” she added, throwing her arms around him, “they’re heaven—and you are a genius, Jean-Luc. These hats will be so successful that I won’t be able to afford you next year.”

Jean-Luc smiled modestly. “I hope you’re right, but I’m happy that you are so pleased with them.”

“You must come to the show—all three of you,” she said, including the baby in her invitation.

Didi hurried into the drab room, his white suit as outrageously out of place as her hats.

“Didi, look—aren’t they beautiful?” Paris tried on the hats for him.

“Fantastic. Wonderful work, Jean-Luc. I knew you could do it. They are superb, thank God. Come on, Paris, we must be off.”

He rushed her back down the stairs, put the hats in their boxes in the back of the car, and drove off to the next showroom for the shoes, and after that the jewelry, and then the hair ornaments.

By eight o’clock they were sitting side by side in Didi’s Mercedes, exhausted but happy.

“I’ve only one complaint,” said Paris, stretching, “and that’s that the blue sandals weren’t as good a match for the fabrics as they might have been. Apart from that,
perfect
. Don’t you agree, Didi?”

“Thank God, yes.” For novice couturiers, thought Didi, they were doing surprisingly well. “Just one thing left,” he said. “The salon for the show. Do we see it before or after a drink?”

A drink sounded about right to Paris. But there was still that most important decision to be made.

“I would like,” she said slowly, “a very large, very cold champagne cocktail. With a cherry.”

“Wonderful,” said Didi, starting the car.

“
After
we’ve seen the salons.”

He sighed. “Somehow I knew you’d say that!”

Paris sipped her breakfast coffee and pondered on her decision. There was no doubt that the Art Nouveau hotel was out of the way, but designers were showing their lines out at the racetrack or in marquees in parks now, and the hotel had exactly the right atmosphere for her clothes. Her designs were influenced by the styles of the glamorous Hollywood musicals of the thirties, and she could just imagine Fred Astaire dancing his way down that wide, curving staircase in the entrance. Didi had fought her on it, saying that she should be in the center where the action was and that they would bank the place
with flowers so that it wouldn’t matter what the room looked like, and she had almost given in, but they had finally decided that the room was too big anyway for her small show. What if only half the invited guests showed up? They’d rattle around in there. So Art Nouveau it was.

Next time, she told herself, putting down her cup and climbing out of bed, next time I’ll take an enormous suite at the Ritz and hold a reception and we’ll have the show in one of their grandest salons. I’ll recapture the spirit of Chanel. Meanwhile, this was what they could afford. Almost afford!

A glance at the window told her it was raining again. Would this miserable winter never end? And God, was it seven-thirty already? She had so much to do before Finola came at twelve. Everything was going well—and on schedule. It was just so hard doing
everything
, though Didi did as much as he could, and between them they were doing the work of five. But what she really needed was someone to coordinate the accessories and someone else to take care of each section of the show, the sportswear, the day wear, and the cocktail and evening wear. Oh, well—she smiled to herself—this time next year it’ll all be different. I shall be a huge success, I’ll be in my exquisite apartment rising at nine while my assistants and their minions take care of the boring details. I might even go off to my villa in Marrakesh just to “create.” … The daydream was a pleasant one and she lingered on it while she showered. It was the only nice thing that happened that day.

By one-thirty Finola still hadn’t shown up—nor had she telephoned. Paris fussed with the six evening dresses hanging on the rail, each one tailored to Finola’s bony curves.

Paris had insisted on having her, despite the high price she commanded, because Finola had the long-legged,
wide-shouldered, tapering body of a thirties star and was perfect for the clothes. There were to be four other models in the show, hired just for the day, and their clothes were normal, made in showroom size; any slight adjustments would be made the day before the show. Four girls weren’t really enough, she knew it. It would mean a very rapid change for the models, but she couldn’t afford any more—because of Finola. And now the bitch was late.

“Didi,
where is she?
”

“Didn’t she say she might have a lunch date?”

“Yes—but she said she’d phone.”

Didi dialed Finola’s number again, listening to the ring. There was no reply. He strode toward the door.

“Where are you going?” called Paris, following him.

“To find her. You wait here.” He ran down the stairs to his car. And when I do find her, he thought murderously, I’ll wring her bloody neck.

Finola emerged from the startling new salon of the young Japanese designer who had swept the board with his outrageous and innovative collection just two years previously and had gone on from success to success. She felt very pleased with herself; she’d played a waiting game with them and now they had offered her an enormous sum to do their show. It just went to prove, she thought, hurrying down the steps, that if you held out for what you wanted, then you’d get it in the end. They
needed
her. Of course it was tough luck on Paris Haven, but hers was a little collection and she could get someone else easily enough, although naturally all the best models were already booked.

Didier grabbed her arm as she came down the steps and hurried her toward his car, waiting at the curb.

“Let go of me,” yelled Finola. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Doing? I’m taking you to an appointment that apparently you’ve forgotten.”

Finola stared at him guiltily. “What appointment?”

Didi let go of her arm and put his hands in the pockets of his white jacket. It had begun to rain again and his black hair was plastered wetly against his skull. His dark eyes glittered in his pale face and he looked strangely menacing.

“What are you up to, Finola?”

She stepped backward hastily. “Oh, I remember. I was supposed to phone Paris … I was just on my way to do that now.”

“And what were you going to tell her? That you couldn’t make her show? Is that it, Finola? Mitsoko has offered you star position and more money?”

Finola tossed her head angrily, thrusting back her long blond mane. Goddamn, she was getting wet!

“That’s right, mister—and I’ve accepted his offer. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do Paris’s show. You can tell her to call the agency and get someone else.”

Didier wanted to hit her; the urge sneaked the length of his arm and he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to control himself. The bitch had used them to stall Mitsoko for more money—and to become star of his show. In a way he couldn’t blame her, a model’s life was a short one, but, Jesus, he could kill her for what she’d done to Paris!

“Fuck you, Miss Texas,” he snarled, turning away.

Finola reddened. “And fuck you too—
faggot
,” she screamed, oblivious to the stares of passersby.

“Didi, what am I going to do!” Paris’s voice held all the despair of Sarah Bernhardt in
L’Aiglon
, and Berthe lifted her eyes from the oyster satin blouson jacket across which she was sewing the thinnest strips of diamanté.

Didier shifted miserably from foot to foot. “We’ll call the agency and get someone else.”

“There
is
no one else! Everyone, absolutely every single model in Paris, is already booked for the entire two weeks of the collections. My God, Didi, only the dregs are left—showroom models, that’s all!”

Berthe listened with interest. So fancy Miss Finola had left them in the lurch, had she? Berthe wasn’t surprised; she’d wondered how such a new and struggling enterprise had managed to secure one of the top models, but had imagined that she must be a good friend doing Paris a favor. In her opinion they were better off without her, though of course she
was
a good model and God knows they needed one. Of the four people in this room—herself, Paris, Didier, and the other fine seamstress, Madame Lescort, Berthe was the most experienced and the most professional. There were several things she considered they were doing wrong, but she was only here in her capacity as a needlewoman and no one had asked for her opinion. Still, she wondered what they would do now.

Paris slumped onto the old sleigh-bed and began to cry. “Oh, it’s too much, Didi, it’s just too much. What can I do?”

Didi perched next to her, feeling helpless. For once in his life he didn’t know what to do.

“It’ll be all right, Paris, it’ll all work out, you’ll see. Finola’s not indispensable.”

“She is, you know she is—for these two weeks, anyway.”

Didi knew she was right.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” he suggested, “or a brandy?”

Paris turned her head into the cushions and sobbed.

Berthe could stand it no longer. Putting down the delicate garment she had been sewing she walked toward them. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, m’sieur …”

Didier stood up. He was unfailingly polite to the workpeople. “Yes, Berthe.”

“I heard what happened with that American model, m’sieur, and I must tell you I’m not surprised. I’m very sorry, m’sieur, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you, Berthe, that’s very kind of you.”

“If you’ll permit, m’sieur, a suggestion. I’ve worked in salons since I was a girl—almost forty years. I have experience, I’ve seen hundreds of shows—good ones and bad ones—and I’ve seen all the battles that led up to them. I have an idea, m’sieur. I think we could save your show.”

Paris’s skeptical glance met Didi’s and they both turned to stare at Berthe.

“Sit down, Berthe.” Didier took her arm and steered her into a chair. “Now. Tell us. What is this idea?”

8

The red Ferrari was parked prominently outside Paroli’s showrooms, its wet paintwork gleaming in the light from the windows. Two young men leaned casually against the masterpiece of luxurious machinery, oblivious to the chilling rain drifting along the slick cobbled street, waiting,
cameras tucked protectively beneath battered trenchcoats, for Fabrizio Paroli to emerge. Rumor had it that he was more than a little involved with the Haven daughter and twice they’d caught them leaving the showrooms together, and each time he’d driven her to her apartment and each time he’d merely dropped her off there. However, the rumor was a good story and the paparazzi were eager hounds on the scent of illicit romance, ready to do all they could to fan its flames. It wouldn’t take much—two people caught in the glare of an unexpected flashbulb could look startled, and startled could be interpreted as “guilty”—if the caption held the right innuendo.

Fabrizio turned up his coat collar protectively as he emerged from Paroli’s staff entrance in the alley at the back of the showrooms and mingled inconspicuously with his home-going employees. Head down, he hurried through the alley, cutting along a darkened back street to where the taxi waited on the corner.

India pushed open the door and he stepped inside, shaking the rain from his hair. His cold lips met hers as the taxi set off into the anonymous night.

It was odd, thought India, as Fabrizio’s kiss of greeting became more passionate and his hands slid under her fox jacket, how the sudden interest of the paparazzi since Jenny’s death had stimulated Fabrizio’s romantic interest in her. He seemed to want her all the time, wherever they were, in the office, in the car—even here in the taxi he couldn’t wait. His hands were beneath her shirt, caressing her breasts, and India sighed with pleasure. Fabrizio lifted his mouth from hers. His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he took her hand and placed it on his erection. She could feel the heat of his body through the fine tweed of his pants as she caressed him automatically.