Indiscretions (27 page)

The door swung shut behind her and a dark young man in a white suit appeared. His smile was strained as he asked if he could help.

Didi recognized her of course—but what was Olympe Avallon doing here?

“Would you care for some champagne?” he asked as Olympe took a seat near the door, watching the brilliantly
lit runway intently. These weren’t even models, she realized as Naomi danced across the runway, followed by the other girls, swirling their gauzy capes over oyster-colored gowns. But whoever they were they were terrific—and so were the clothes. Damn, she wished she’d been here for the beginning. Paris swept onto the runway in a steel-gray outfit that was a knockout—stunning! Olympe’s professional eye noted the cut, the fit of the jacket, the superb ruffled detail on the slit skirt. And Paris was beautiful, a great model for her own designs.

Flashbulbs popped at the back of the room and Olympe turned quickly to check them out—she hadn’t noticed photographers when she came in.

Three young men were being pushed back through the doors by Didi, who was gesticulating angrily. Of course, they were paparazzi from the gossip magazines, here to gloat about the death of Jenny Haven’s daughter’s fashion show. Olympe shifted uncomfortably on her tiny chair. Oh, dear, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be around for the wake.

Paris stalked from the runway, her cheeks blazing and her mouth tight with anger. The models, changing rapidly into their bright chemises, glanced anxiously at Paris as Naomi glided past in her bridal gow, flanked by her handsome escort. Sliding their feet into their little scarlet high-heeled shoes, they thrust through the curtains after Naomi—all together in a burst of movement and color just as Paris had shown them.

Paris ripped off her jacket and skirt and flung them on the floor. “Dear God,” she said over and over, “dear God, what did I do wrong? What happened? Why did no one come?” Throwing on her black sweatshirt and jeans, she tugged frantically at her boots. It was over—finished. She’d lost and she didn’t know why!

Olympe slid quietly past Didi at the door.

“Dazzling,” she whispered in his ear, “fabulous … tell Paris I’ll call her later this evening.”

Didi watched as she hurried away down the corridor. He didn’t know why Olympe Avallon had been there, but she was the only person of any consequence who had come to Paris’s show—the rest were the sort who would show up anywhere for a free drink. And could he use a drink! The girls were posing on the runway smiling at their sparse audience and the scatter of applause. It was over. There was just time for a couple of quick Scotches over the road at the Bar Buenos Aires—and then he’d have to face Paris. He had five minutes to think of what he was going to say.

Olympe had meant to call Paris, she really had, but as it turned out there had been so little time. When she got home the flowers were waiting, masses of early jasmine and spring blossoms from the south. And the note from Bendor. He had taken a villa in Barbados and planned to fly out a group of friends that night on a chartered jet. Without her it would be meaningless. Would she come?

It was a good feeling knowing she had so much power over him, thought Olympe, throwing resort wear into her battered Vuitton bag. All she’d done was suggest Julie’s—and he’d taken the bait. He’d recognized that the two of them alone was a “no go” area and had arranged this discreet house party as a bribe. And it was fair enough, she thought, zipping up the bag on the few clothes it contained—they were all she’d need, because she could always buy anything else she wanted there. This was her chance to find out if Bendor’s intentions toward her were strictly honorable—or not. She hoped they were.

13

Myra Kaufmann was giving one of her Sunday-morning brunches and she was annoyed because the day had turned cloudy with a chill wind blowing. She hoped the men would be able to get in their tennis game before it rained.

The big round table in the dining room was arranged with platters of roast beef, salami, Jarlsberg cheese and cream cheese, lox, smoked sturgeon, bagels, bialys, and rye bread. Bill was fixing the champagne and orange juice—mimosas he called them—and the urn was perking with good strong coffee. On the sideboard keeping hot were scrambled eggs with lox, and buttermilk pancakes with a giant jug of maple syrup.

Enough cholesterol to kill the lot, she thought, assessing the average age and fitness of her guests. Imagine her, Myra Kaufmann, singlehandedly wiping out half the industry with her Sunday brunch—producers, heads of studios, lawyers, fellow agents; no writers or directors, though: Bill couldn’t stand “creative” people on Sunday mornings, said he had enough of them all week!

Jessie Reubin came in with Stan—the front door was open to indicate “open house” and the wind was whipping through the hall; she’d have to close it, maybe just leave it open a crack, so people didn’t have to ring.

“Hi, Jess, how are you?”

They pecked each other on the cheek. Jessie was a thin woman, very “into” smart clothes. She probably starved poor Stan at home and that’s why he always ate so much here. They all did, including Bill. It was probably the one time their wives let them forget the diet and their own forebodings about being left alone and widowed and destined, like horses to pasture, for Palm Springs or Palm Beach.

“I’m great, Myra. Stan’s taking me over to Paris next month. We usually go about this time of the year. He likes to eat and I like to shop, it’s a mutually satisfying vacation. The others never are. You know, Myra, I like to sit by a pool somewhere in the sun—not my
own
pool, of course—but Stan hates that. He gets all restless and twitchy, says he can’t even get a good card game in those resort hotels.”

“I know just what you mean,” agreed Myra, handing her a mimosa. “I like the Mauna Kea or the Kahala myself. Hawaii’s always nice.”

Jessie sighed. “Maybe you and I should go and leave those two to fend for themselves for a while. Don’t you think it would do them good?”

Myra laughed, imagining Bill trying to cope on his own.

“No chance,” she said. “I’d be gone ten days and he’d have gained ten pounds. If I don’t watch him like a hawk he’ll be sitting in front of the TV set, drinking beer, eating peanuts and popcorn, and smoking two packs. You should watch Stan, too, Jessie, he’s gaining. Have you tried the Stillman?”

Stan piled his plate with salami and cheese, adding a
little potato salad and a spoonful of hot mustard for good measure, listening to what Bill was saying.

“So I figure that all in all it’s best to keep the kid happy—we both know what happens when stars get irritated, the work goes to hell and the studios don’t want to know any more. I talked with Myron and he tells me the most they can do is five more per episode—that brings him to thirty-five thousand dollars, Stan, and that’s
good
money. I said okay, but what about a few perks—you know, a sweetener, a new car, a trip? Myron said they’d been planning on doing some foreign locations, they’ve got a good story line for a three-parter, each episode to be shot in a different place—New York, London, and the islands—probably Barbados. He’s willing to move the whole thing up and do the location shooting fairly soon—it’ll give Rory a break, you see, Stan. Get him away from here, let him play the star somewhere else, where people think stars are really stars.” Bill put a mimosa in Stan’s free hand.

“Sounds good.” Stan finished his salami on rye and headed toward the scrambled eggs and lox. “How soon is soon?”

“Couple of weeks’ time for Barbados—while the weather is still good. Then New York and London.”

“Good. Keep him happy, Bill. He’s been onto me about buying that big place on Benedict Canyon, but I’ve told him he’s not ready for it yet, he has to wait at least a year to make sure the series is sticking, then he can have whatever he wants. Within reason, of course. And after my fees and your commission, and his taxes …”

They were laughing as their wives joined them.

“Come on, you two,” said Myra, “you’re supposed to mingle with the other guests, not talk business.”

“We’re mingling, we’re mingling,” murmured Stan, turning away regretfully from the pancakes and maple
syrup. “Did Jessie tell you I’m taking her to Paris next month? She’ll cost me a fortune, of course, always does.”

“She’s worth it, Stan,” said Myra loyally; after all, the wives had to stick together in this town, there were enough gorgeous young girls undermining their confidence without backstabbing each other. “Okay, then, who’s for tennis?” She cast an anxious eye at the weather again, hoping it wasn’t going to let her down.

14

Marisa Paroli was a regular at the Paris collections. She was always placed on one of the gilt chairs at the front where photographers could see her, she was always kissed afterward by Yves or Karl or Marc personally—and she always placed an order at each house. This year she had her young cousin Renata with her and had found herself even more popular, since Renata was coming on like one of the last of the big spenders. Of course, Renata had the money and it was the first time she’d been let loose at the collections—and Marisa was certainly the one to show her how to spend it. It had been fun, even the Mitsoko show, though she despised the shapeless garments
that had been paraded like a dirge on severe models in gray and black without so much as a streak of color to lighten the effect. Marisa shuddered at the memory—it was alien to her Italian soul that any woman should choose to hide her shape under formless clothes, and in such harsh, drab colors.

She and Renata were breakfasting in their suite at the Bristol, sipping coffee and scanning the morning papers for photographs of Mitsoko’s show the previous day, and the jet-set gossip of people, parties, and places. It was Renata who spotted the item about Paris Haven—just a single paragraph, tucked away at the end of a column.

“But this must be the sister of Fabrizio’s India!” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” Marisa took the paper and read the brief obituary of Paris’s unattended showing.

It was the last item in the “Daily Diary” of a scandalously vicious gossip columnist:

“Hollywood yesterday tried to outdo the masters of haute couture when Paris Haven—daughter of the lately indiscreet Jenny Haven—showed her collection at the out-of-the-way Hotel de l’Abbaye, timing it on the same day and at the very same moment as Mitsoko’s fabulous show. Poor Paris—her collection, unattended and unapplauded, sank like a stone beneath the Seine. Her Momma should have told her not to take on the giants without first checking her dates … and perhaps she should have invested a little more of Momma’s movie millions in better champagne and a better hotel.…”

The photograph underneath showed Paris glaring haughtily at the cameras from the catwalk.

Renata, though no beauty, was as attractive as her family’s money could make her. She had had a cute new
nose to replace her long family one when she was thirteen, a severe diet to shed the family tendency to portliness when she was fourteen, and, ever since, the attentions of the best hairdressers and makeup artists, until she was one of the best-groomed, best turned-out young women in Italy. It had been hard work. She stared intently at the picture of Paris. “She’s really beautiful,” she commented. Renata was also nice, and her tendency to honesty occasionally annoyed Marisa.

“I suppose so.” She shrugged. “Better than her sister, anyway.”

Why must Marisa be so bitchy? wondered Renata. She was always getting at someone, and no one ever managed to get to her.

“Do you mean India? But she’s so attractive, Marisa. I’ve often wondered how you dared let her be so close with Fabrizio … I mean, don’t you ever wonder—just wonder a little bit—if Fabrizio finds her attractive?”

“Fabrizio and
India?
Renata,
cara
, don’t be ridiculous. Now, if you’d said Luciana or Graziella … Fabrizio knows so many sophisticated attractive women. What on earth would he see in someone like India Haven?”

“She’s young—my age, isn’t she?” Renata, noticing the frozen expression on Marisa’s face as she caught the implication that she was getting older, added hastily, “I mean, young like American girls are—so energetic and vital. I can’t imagine India just lazing around like I do, waiting for something to happen. And you must admit she has a very sexy figure, Marisa—look at her from a man’s point of view, not just from fashion.”