Indiscretions (24 page)

Lydia gazed in surprise at the telephone—of course, she was still holding the receiver.

“Hello?” she replied.

“Am I speaking to Mrs. Lancaster?”

The voice was deep and pleasant and totally unknown to her.

“Yes, this is Lydia Lancaster.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Lancaster. This is Fitzgerald McBain.”

“Mr. McBain! Good heavens … well, how nice.” Lydia was surprised. “Of course, we’ve come to know Morgan very well, he often drops in to see us.”

“He told me about that, Mrs. Lancaster, and I’d like to thank you and your family for your hospitality. It means
a lot, when you travel as much as Morgan, to be rescued from the loneliness of hotels and restaurants and taken into someone’s home.”

“Not at all. And needless to say we were all terribly grateful for your help to Venetia and her sisters.”

Lydia glanced at Kate and Venetia’s expectant faces as they hovered at her shoulder. So this was the call, was it?

“
Fitz
McBain?” mouthed Kate.

Lydia nodded, listening.

“It’s Fitz!” Kate hugged Venetia excitedly. “He’s going to offer you the job
personally!
”

“I see. Yes, I’m quite sure she’d be safe with you. And, yes, Morgan is right, she’s a splendid cook—and an imaginative one. I’m quite sure you’d be pleased with her. That sounds remarkably generous. Yes, she would have my permission, Mr. McBain, but perhaps you’d better talk to Venetia yourself. Of course, thank you, that sounds wonderful. Good-bye, Mr. McBain.”

Lydia handed the receiver to Venetia. “Fitz McBain has called personally to offer you the job on his yacht for the rest of the season—if you want it.”

Venetia was smiling as she said, “Hello, Mr. McBain.”

“Venetia, I’ve been hearing about you long distance for some time. It seems that we are now to meet—that is, if you would like the job?” The deep voice had a relaxed, easy accent—American southern that had crossed international barriers somewhere along the way. It was attractive.

“It sounds too good to be true,” Venetia replied.

“Don’t you believe it. Work is still work, though you may find yourself with time on your hands now and again. I don’t manage to get down here as often as I’d like. Morgan suggested I call to overcome any idea you might have that this was a put-up job. You can take my word for it that it’s not. Our present chef has been offered a post in New York and he feels it’s important to his
career to accept. I’m not one to hold any man back from his ambitions, and I’ve said he can go. So, will you come to us, Venetia?”

“I’d love to—and I promise to do my best. I
am
quite good.”

“Morgan tells me you are more than that, and so does Mrs. Lancaster, but we’ll see.”

“Mr. McBain …”

“Yes?”

“I wrote thanking you for all you did for me—us—when my mother died. I just wanted to say thank you again.”

“I have your letter, Venetia. I was happy to help. Now”—his voice became brisker—“let us know how soon you can be here and someone in my office will take care of the travel details. Good-bye, Venetia. My regards to your sisters.”

Venetia put down the receiver, turning to face Kate and Lydia, both gazing at her expectantly.

“What,” she said, beaming, “do you suppose the chef on a luxury yacht is expected to wear?”

12

Paris’s new models fluttered down the runway as vivid as a flock of tropical birds in the briefest little frocks—mere slivers of silk chemise cut dead straight to the hip with the shortest, flirtiest puffball skirts of ruffled tulle in magenta, fuchsia, shocking pink, violet, and sapphire. Paris had dreamed up the dresses yesterday afternoon, inspired by the whipcord bodies and eager youthful beauty of Berthe’s daughter Naomi and her dancer friends.

Berthe’s idea had turned out to be a brilliant one; not only had it saved her show, it had added a new physical dimension. Naomi was a dark, slender sprite with Oriental eyes and long legs who would look wonderful in a sack but looked stunning in Paris’s clothes. Her friends all had the quality of elegance that ballet imparts through its disciplines, and all were moderately tall, had dark hair, and were almost frighteningly slender. They were more than perfect—they were custom made for Paris’s show. These dresses, which she and Berthe had stayed up all night sewing, were meant as a quick, zippy eye-opener to grab her audience right from the start and let them
know that this fashion presentation was going to be different, that the world of design had a vital new force on its hands.

Jean-Luc had risen to the occasion, fashioning bunches of fragile silk camellias into tiny, veiled hats worn tilted provocatively over the eyes, in the same hot colors as the dresses and dyed overnight by his poor young wife, who had magenta hands to prove it.

The girls looked fantastic, thought Paris as their long, strong dancers’ legs in sheer black tights and the highest-heeled scarlet suede shoes paced the runway challengingly. And a little bit naughty, like a bunch of wild contemporary Carmens absconded from the opera. The look was totally theatrical, totally new, and was one of those spur-of-the-moment inspirations that could be picked up and transformed into a whole new trend, copied internationally—something that could make her name immediately, the way Montana’s space-age wide-shouldered suits had, or St. Laurent’s tuxedos.

As she watched, Naomi and the other girls dropped their arrogant model-girl attitudes and broke into an improvised samba-strut to the carnival music that Didi was controlling from the tape decks backstage.

God, there was still a crackle on the speakers, Didi hadn’t got it right yet! Her eyes searched the chaotic salon for an electrician. How, she wondered, would it ever all be ready by tomorrow? Deliverymen were still trekking in and out bringing the uncomfortable little gilt chairs essential to every Paris show, electricians fiddled endlessly with the footlights, while someone at the back constantly dazzled them with pinspots and flickering strobes. Florists were busily banking the sides of the runway with the enormous creamy lilies that Paris had insisted were in keeping with her thirties mood, though Didi said they reminded him of funerals and were playing havoc with his hay fever. Berthe and her assistants sat at
tables in one corner sewing up hems and adjusting sleeves, while backstage the clothes and appropriate accessories were being arranged on racks, each with a girl’s name on it, by the dancers who weren’t to do the show and who had volunteered to act as dressers. Two makeup girls hovered amid clouds of face powder and glitters of blusher, and the hairdresser and his assistant frantically blow-dried and experimented, trying to capture the exact effect Paris demanded.

The carnival music blasting from the speakers had nothing to do with what was happening on the runway, and the girls hadn’t quite got the feel of it.

“Here, like this,” Paris called. “I want you to stride onto the stage all together in a burst of color and movement.”

She watched approvingly as they got it right the first time, but that music had to be changed. She stuck her head behind the curtains looking for Didi.

“Didi? I don’t think that carnival music works. I want something sexy as well as just ‘up’—find something a bit rougher, some Stones or Joe Jackson.”

Naomi danced back down the runway to some phantom music in her head, capturing exactly what Paris needed.

“That’s it, that’s it,” she called. “Didi, find music to fit that.”

Didi was having a rough day. He’d been at the Hôtel de l’Abbaye since six that morning supervising the workmen as they arrived, preventing the electricians from going on strike because Paris said there was no time for a coffee break, quelling the panic when by noon the chairs still hadn’t arrived, sneezing his way past the lilies and fighting a losing battle with the crackle on the speakers. He’d had one cup of black coffee and it was now twelve-thirty.

“Why can’t you stick with what we’ve got?” he hissed, glaring at Paris.

“Because we can do
better!
Didier de Maubert, you’re not going to let me down
now
, are you?”

Paris’s grin was full of elation. She was thriving on sleepless nights and hard work, enjoying the chaos and the action. He’d never seen her like this before, on such a high she was almost flying, and her energy was driving them all before it. Anyone else and he’d have wondered what she was on, but knowing Paris it was pure adrenaline and determination. Still, he was afraid that adrenaline and energy wouldn’t be enough to carry her through tomorrow as chief model in place of Finola, as well as supervising things backstage and keeping an eye out front for reactions.

“I’ll get changed,” said Paris. “The music’s ‘Avalon’—right, Didi?”

“Right, Paris.”

With just slight adjustment by Berthe, Finola’s dresses fit Paris perfectly and Didi had to admit as he helped her on with the steel satin jacket that the severe ice-colored dresses looked as good on her as they had on Finola.

“I still think it would be better to let Naomi do this, or else get a girl from the agency,” he said.

Paris barely heard him. She slid her feet into the matching pumps, keeping one eye on the girls who were crowding back through the curtains and one on herself in the mirror.

“Into the linen skirts and blouses and then the pants and suede jackets,” she called, checking her watch and smoothing down her skirt. “You’ve got exactly ninety seconds. And remember to change the blusher and the lipstick—we don’t want magenta with the peach and amber suede. Didi, the music. Let’s get going.”

“Paris, are you sure you can handle all this? You’re needed back here to make sure all the models look exactly
as you mean them to, and out front with the press and the buyers.”

“Handle it?” Paris stared at him in surprise. “Of course I can handle it—as long as I don’t stop to think about it! Come
on
, Didi, we must get through the whole show
once
in sequence to get the timing right and then we can use the rest of the day to iron out the details. We’re not leaving tonight until I get one perfect dress rehearsal—just
one
, and then I’ll be sure.”

“Sure of what?” called Didi over the strains of Bryan Ferry singing “Avalon.”

“Of success.”

Paris loped down the runway, exaggeratedly elegant in the steel satin, visualizing the contrast it would make with the wedding dress which would follow it at the end of the show, another of the tiny, very short puffball tulle chemises in white with white silk stockings and a long, long veil and train of gold embroidered lace. It would be a sensation, the whole show would be a sensation—she could feel it in her bones.

Didi never wanted to hear
any
of this music again, you could keep Roxy and the Stones and Jerome Kern, and all the rest of it. His head was throbbing. It was after two-thirty. Someone had dashed out at one and brought back sandwiches and milk for the models, and at three they were expecting the six male dancers who, in rented white suits or white tie and tails, would escort the girls on the runway.

To hell with it, they’d have to manage without him for half an hour. He needed a drink. He glanced around the room looking for Paris. She was over in the corner arguing with the electrician about the pink gel he insisted on putting over the lights when she wanted them stark white without even a bit of yellow, never mind pink. Didi left her to it.

The Bar Buenos Aires opposite the hotel offered a comforting old French zinc counter, good Scotch whisky, and a selection of Argentine tangos played over speakers that didn’t crackle. Didi could have lived without the tangos but a couple of Scotches later he was feeling much better.

“There you are, Didi!” Paris, in elaborate model’s makeup and the green fur coat, appeared at his side. “You’re not hitting the bottle are you?” she asked suspiciously. “All I need is to discover that you’re a secret alcoholic.”

“
Merde!
All I’ve had is two whiskies and I’m considering the plat du jour. I’ve been hard at it since the crack of dawn!” Didi controlled his temper. It was just fatigue, he told himself, he was tired, that’s all. Who would have thought that Paris would turn out to be such a single-minded slave driver?

Paris ordered a glass of wine. Damn, she thought irritably, is Didi going to crack now, just when I need him the most? Am I going to have to do
all
the work?

“What’s the plat du jour?” she asked icily.

“Argentine rice and beans.”

Paris began to laugh. “Oh, Didi, here I am—the famous couturier-to-be, on the very eve of her success, eating rice and beans at a
zinc!
”

Didi grinned. “You want rice and beans, then?”

“Of course I do—I’m starving. I just realized I’ve had nothing to eat today. And you, too, I suppose.” She patted his shoulder and leaned forward to kiss him. “I’m sorry, Didi. I didn’t mean to be difficult, I just feel so … wound up. I’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now it’s here I’m determined that nothing shall go wrong. Am I being very hard on everyone?”

“Not when you put it like that.” Didi grinned, wiping the fuchsia lipstick from his cheek. “We’re all a bit tired, that’s all.”