Lace (22 page)

The approved guests surged into the main salon, where every gilt chair was numbered. Nevertheless, reporters argued over seats; neither the
chambre syndicate
(the couturiers’
association) nor the fashion houses knew the relative importance of foreign journalists and they were too arrogant to find out; journalists were dragged ten thousand kilometers to stay at the Plaza
Athénée, then treated like pickpockets on the New York subway; there were angry arguments when high-powered, syndicated columnists found their seats—booked weeks
beforehand—occupied by Little Rock magazine reporters with six-week deadlines. The syndicated writers were prepared to struggle ruthlessly as they claimed their places, fighting with kamikaze
desperation.

It was different in the front row, which was always reserved for film stars,
Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Women’s Wear Daily. . . .
“Who’s that little blonde? How did
she
get there?” someone asked Judy.

“That’s Empress Miller, she’s the new fashion writer for the
New York Clarion”
Judy had met Empress at one of Aunt Hortense’s parties.

The mob behind the front row were quieter now, all notebooks ready. The miasma of a thousand new perfumes grew more sickly. It was getting hotter and it would be worse when the arc lights were
turned on.

The lights went on and there was an immediate hush.

Behind the scenes Judy felt she was witnessing a kaleidoscope of hissed queries, anxious eyes, strained faces and general chaos in the model dressing rooms. Naked to the waist,
stockings snapped to their girdles (no models wore panties because the line would show through the clothes), the young women sat before their mirrors. The shelves below were a jumble of coloured
grease, half-empty pots, grubby sticks of makeup and stumps of lipsticks. The models stuck on immense eyelashes while hairdressers stabbed at their coiffures. Then the models were helped into their
clothes by dressers—zippers zipped, snaps snapped and buttons buttoned. The head dresser checked that accessories were correct, hems straight, clothes properly pressed and immaculate.

Holding the accessories ready, Judy watched the models leave their
cabines
, ready to go. Timing was by stopwatch and military-precise. The presentation had been planned to contrast and
counterpoint the colour, cut and line of the new collection, and the clothes were grouped so that the press could see a new line or colour develop. Judy had seen it all decided at the first
rehearsal. Instructions were then transferred to the big pinboard outside the dressing rooms; rows of cards with each model’s name and the number of garments were listed vertically in
appearance order. That pinboard was the blueprint of the show: 22, 13, 71, 49, 32, etcetera; the numbers were not according to appearance but had been allocated to the garments months ago, when
they were first designed.

The models were as nervous as greyhounds at the gate, fiddling with the necklaces that Judy clipped on them, pulling down jackets and smoothing their hair. There were six house models and eight
freelancers—cinnamon-stick thin—had flown in from overseas; they were even skinnier than the Dior house models because it was essential that they fit every designer’s clothes.
They lived on Dexedrine and yogurt and frequently collapsed after the collections from exhaustion, malnutrition and stress.

The first model was announced by an oddly high, breathless voice. “Peking,
numéro trois
, nombair sree.” The model wore Oriental makeup, her doe eyes
lined with black crayon. The loose white linen jacket, straight black skirt and straw coolie hat were carefully calculated pointers to the theme of the whole collection—the Chinese influence.
Pencils leaped, the working audience concentrated. Journalists were allowed to take notes but not to write complete descriptions or to sketch. Some journalists were incessant scribblers, but
Empress Miller only noted, “No change skirt length/Chinese/b & w coolie look/fluid/no stiffening/no padding/easy move/hats straw big brim/suits sailor navy & w/skirts pleated &
flat.”

It was getting even hotter. A girl in a lynx coat collapsed and was swiftly carried out. A raven-haired house model in a scarlet strapless net formal gown noticed a journalist sketching; the
model paused, touched her left earlobe and smiled directly at the journalist.

Annie pounced.

Sketches and notes were confiscated and the journalist’s name put on the
syndicale
blacklist. Two other journalists were expelled later. Rage, threats, pleas, tears—all were
useless.

An hour afterward, in the dressing room, Judy heard a sudden roar of applause. Monsieur Dior, in an immaculate pale gray suit, his face glistening with heat and fatigue, had stepped forward to
bow his thanks. Judy paused as she unfastened a gold necklace from a model wearing only a feather hat and garter belt. The head dresser visibly relaxed. “Not so loud as ‘47 but louder
than last July,” she pronounced. Slowly they all grinned; then Monsieur Dior appeared in the dressing rooms and an orgy of kissing started.

“I feel like a broken spring,” Judy said gloomily, five days later.

“Cheer up,” said Guy, who was lying on her bedroom floor with his bare feet propped on the bed. “You always knew that your job at Dior was temporary.”

“Yes, but I
hoped
they’d keep me on.”

“You’ve still got a job until the end of February when Annie’s assistant returns,” he pointed out, “and you’ve got your gray flannel Dior dress, which would
have cost over eight months’ salary if you’d paid for it. If you’re willing to go anywhere and do anything for the same pathetic salary as Dior paid you, you can work full time
for me. The hotel says I can’t continue working from here; they say it’s not a sweatshop. So your first job is to find us two workrooms somewhere near here. No, don’t kiss me
while I’m drinking.”

Judy found an adequate, skylit studio two streets away from the hotel. She was now responsible for all nonmanufacturing work, saw clients, answered the telephone, did the
bookkeeping and handled dispatch.

Guy designed, bought materials and supervised the workshop staff. The faithful José had now been joined by another seamstress; the new sewing hand’s mother was a first hand at Nina
Ricci so Marie had been trained since childhood to sew to a professional standard.

Judy was busier than she’d ever been, and happier. The buyers liked her because she didn’t stand blankfaced, order book in hand, but talked and joked with them. She had a keen sense
of the ridiculous and liked to make people laugh, even if she could only do it by making them laugh
at
her. A few people found this exuberance exhausting, and some found it difficult to
accept her forthright attitude, for she was direct and said exactly what she thought. After watching her scold a buyer for not ordering one of their new jackets, Guy said, “You might
cultivate a little tact, Judy. Why can’t you behave with the buyers as you do with Aunt Hortense’s crowd—with a little more respect?” He was annoyed. “I know
you’re just being straightforward, but the French do not understand it. They interpret you as ‘tough,’ which you aren’t.”

“More’s the pity,” said Judy, scowling at the clip of invoices marked “overdue” that she held in her hand, “and here is where I start. I’m going to be
tough about payments. You can’t afford to give these people credit. In the future they’ll have to pay when they sign the order, and we won’t process it until the check is in our
account.”

“Selling on cash terms is a nice idea, but nobody in the garment business does it. I’ll lose all my customers.”

“And a lot of bad debts,” said Judy. “But cash was the way you started, remember? Your mother and all her Avenue George V friends paid in advance. If people want your stuff,
why
shouldn’t
they pay for it when they order it? Now is the time to find out whether they
really
want you
—before
you go bankrupt.”

Judy earnestly tried to look older than her age. She and Guy found their youth a grave disadvantage in business because nobody took the young seriously. “I suppose it’s just a
nuisance to be endured,” Guy complained, “like a breaking voice or General de Gaulle; in time it will pass.” In the meantime, Judy didn’t wear teenage clothes; she grew her
hair and wore it twisted up in an unbecoming French knot; she lived in her gray flannel Dior dress and wore big hornrimmed spectacles, hoping to project an air of age, distinction and
respectability.

“Ma chère
, you quite frighten me,” said Maxine. She had returned from her two years’ training in London the day before and they were catching up on each
other’s news over breakfast in the Deux Magots. Maxine planned to ask her father for a loan to start a business.

A touch envious, Judy said, “You’re damn lucky to have a rich father.”

Maxine, dunking a croissant in her
café au lait
, said, “Papa isn’t rich; I couldn’t have gone to Switzerland if Aunt Hortense hadn’t paid. Papa is
comfortable.
I hope he’ll guarantee a bank loan for me. I don’t think he can afford to give me the money, but he’ll still be taking a risk on me.” She took a large
bite and flakes fell on the table as she mumbled, “Guy is the one with a rich father.”

Judy put her cup down. She was astonished. “Then why is Guy always so short of money?”

“First, because he wants to make it on his own and second, because, as you know, his papa disapproves of designers. He made it plain he wouldn’t help Guy. So Guy wants to show his
old man he can get along without him.”

Judy went straight back and asked Guy for a raise. Then they plunged into work for the July collection; they were showing a range of separates—jackets, skirts, pants and suits—each
in three alternative colours, with one overcoat and one raincoat. Judy loved the colours of the new collection: subtle, seductive grays in pewter, silver, oyster and pearl blended with pale rose,
burgundy, burnished chestnut, copper and bronze. Narrow toreador pants were worn with brilliant taffeta tops that had huge puffed sleeves. Judy’s favourite was geranium taffeta worn with
saffron velvet pants. Their smoke-gray overcoat, bias-cut like a cape, was also lined with geranium silk; the raincoat, of similar cut, was dark green gabardine lined in pink silk.

With this show Guy hoped to establish himself as a serious businessman, not just a young design prodigy playing at fashion. So this time they planned to present it in style, at the Plaza
Athénée again, but with a professional stage manager in charge. It was expensive, but worth it.

For Guy, this collection was make or break.

F
IVE DAYS BEFORE
the show, Guy burst into Judy’s bedroom. Too tired to work for another minute, she had decided to have an early night
before the inevitable last-minute rush of the show. She was leaning with her elbows on the window frame as a hot July breeze stirred the white lace curtains. The couple opposite had just started
their nightly fight.

“They’ve been stolen! Everything’s gone! Even the accessories! They’ve cleared every damn thing off the racks, six months’ work has just
disappeared!
My
whole collection has vanished from the workroom.”

“Have you told the police?” Judy demanded, after she realised he wasn’t joking.

“Of course. Immediately. They sounded uninterested. Then I telephoned you, but the hotel phone was out of order so I ran around. Every damn thing has disappeared, but only clothes;
what’s odd is that the thieves didn’t take my little silver coffee set or the typewriter or the bales of cloth or anything else valuable. Only the clothes.”

Together they ran back to the empty workshop. “We’ll have to get this door fixed tonight,” Judy said. “We can’t leave the cloth here for anyone to take.”

“I’ll sleep here tonight,” Guy said wretchedly. Then the telephone rang and they both jumped. A man’s voice asked for Judy.

Surprised, she took the receiver from Guy. “Judy Jordan here.”

“If you want your clothes back by Friday it’ll cost his dad eight million francs in cash,” the man said in French.

The line went dead. Judy looked at Guy. “It’s blackmail!” She repeated the man’s message and added with awe, “That’s nearly twenty-nine thousand dollars they
want.”

“How does he know we’re showing on Friday?”

“Plenty of people know we’re showing on Friday; everyone we’ve invited, in fact. Better call the
flics
again.”

They spent the rest of the evening with the police. Only Parisian police could appreciate the disaster that would result to a couturier from the absence of the forty-two missing garments that
constituted Guy’s entire collection. If he didn’t show his clothes when the buyers were in Paris and buying, then he wouldn’t get any orders for them. Apart from that, there was
the question of Guy’s prestige. Without doubt, all the important buyers and all the important press would be turning up at Guy’s next show; Guy would look like a careless amateur to a
group of important people with not a minute to waste during the fortnight of the collections. And—most important of all—there was the vital question of Guy’s reliability. If he
couldn’t produce his own collection on time, then the buyers certainly wouldn’t risk his being unable to deliver their orders on time. The rumour that he was “unreliable”
would be Guy’s professional death knell.

Again and again, the police questioned Judy. Was mademoiselle sure that she had heard correctly? Could she describe the voice? Did either of them have any enemies? What was the business value of
the collection, as opposed to the value of the clothes? And so on.

Eventually Judy and Guy returned to their hotel. A shopping bag hung on Judy’s white china doorknob; inside was a geranium taffeta blouse slashed to ribbons. Horrified, she was holding the
rags in her hand when the telephone by her bed rang.

“Got the red blouse? Good. Be at the café Rubis, by the meat market, at four tomorrow afternoon. They’ll have a parcel for you.”

Two floors down, Guy had also found a shopping bag hanging on his door handle. Inside was a pair of saffron velvet pants roughly bisected.