Indiscretions (25 page)

“Tired?” Paris dug into her rice and beans. “I’m not tired. I could go on all night—and if necessary that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“Okay, okay. Just allow us lesser mortals to ease up a bit now and then—the odd ten-minute break, a sandwich, a drink … you know, the staff of life.…”

“Right!” Paris put down her fork and signaled the bartender. “I want to order some champagne,” she said as Didi stared at her in surprise.

“Of course, madame.”

“A dozen bottles of the best you’ve got,” said Paris grandly, “and trays of hors d’oeuvres—to be sent over the road to the hotel at eight o’clock this evening.”

“Twelve bottles of the best … you’ll ruin us, Paris!” groaned Didi.

“We are already ruined. We’ve spent our money—and more besides. What difference does a few bottles of champagne make? And it’s got to be decent champagne—I’m not going to give my models a headache before the show. Oh, Didi, tomorrow we’ll be successful and you won’t give twelve bottles of champagne a second thought. That reminds me,” she added, sliding off the stool and heading for the door. “Have the drinks arrived for tomorrow?”

“Not yet.” Didi paid the bill and followed her. “But they will. I’ll call as soon as I get back.” You had to admit, she didn’t forget a thing.

Paris felt elation zing through her veins as the dancers swung down the catwalk behind Naomi, outrageous in her tiny wedding gown. Six dancers, elegant in white tie and tails, formed her handsome escort, the lighting man had the pinspots perfectly, and at last the crackle had gone from the speakers. The voice of Fred Astaire singing “Night and Day” added romance to the scene as Naomi, smiling demurely, paused at the end of the runway. The lights zapped up suddenly as the music switched to something
by the Eurythmics and the other models strode back onto the runway in the brilliant chemises they had worn at the beginning.

God, they looked fabulous—just fabulous. Leaping from her chair where she’d been checking the timing and each outfit to make sure everyone wore the right accessories with the right garment, and that their makeup and hair was as perfect as they could get it, Paris burst into applause.

“Bravo, bravo,” she called, “you are all wonderful. I think we’ve finally got it right. Now, I know you must all be
exhausted
.” Groans followed her words. “All right, all right. As soon as you get out of those clothes, champagne will be served.”

Cheers and whistles came from the runway and Paris laughed again. She’d forgotten that they were so young and—unlike the professional models—so
un
blasé. They’d worked bloody hard and the champagne was only a small return. After tomorrow, she thought, stretching her aching back, I’ll be able to give them all a bonus.

The bottles had been standing in their ice buckets for over an hour since the waiter had delivered them at eight o’clock. The ice had turned to water, but the wine was still cold as Didi eased out the corks and poured.

“The first one’s for you,” he said, handing Paris a glass. She took his hand, smiling fondly at him.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, you could,” said Didi, “but thank you anyway.” He lifted his glass. “Success, Paris,” he said.

“Success,” she echoed.

It was almost ten o’clock when Didi dropped Paris off at the atelier, and even then she’d only left under protest.

“I’m not tired, you know,” she said, leaning into the car window to kiss him good-bye. “I could have stayed to
help clear up and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.”

“No need,” said Didi cheerfully. “I’m going back there to check, and anyway, it’s all under control.”

“Well … if you’re sure.” She kissed Didi again and stepped back onto the curb.

“Didi!” She was back again.

“What now?”

“I’ve just had a terrible thought. What if there were a fire?”

“My God, Paris, of course there won’t be a fire,” cried Didi, exasperated. “There’s never been a fire at the Hôtel de l’Abbaye in all these years, why would they have one tonight? Anyway, the security guards are there. Nothing can go wrong, I promise you.”

“Well, all right then.” She looked at him doubtfully.

“Okay. What is it now?”

“You did remember to send out the invitations, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did, you idiot! Go to bed, Paris Haven, and get some sleep, and
stop worrying!
”

“Right, right, I’m going.” Paris retreated across the pavement as Didi waved a final farewell and drove off into the night.

It was odd how she didn’t feel the least bit tired, she thought, taking the stairs two at a time, especially as she’d been up most of last night sewing those little tulle chemises. God, the girls looked so terrific in them. They’d turned out to be more than just a peppy opener, they were an inspiration.

The atelier looked strange without its shroud of white sheets and clutter of half-finished garments, shoe samples, jewelry, and hats. How much longer, she wondered, shall I live here? Just a few months until I can find something larger—and lighter. I want enormous windows, maybe overlooking the river or a park. With a sigh she
flung herself onto the sleigh bed and examined her home. The familiar opaque skylight, the pipes that ran across the ceiling that she’d painted a bright green, the apricot velvet curtains rescued from some sad old theater, the big mirrors on the wall, her drawing table—that was a present from Jenny—her secondhand cutting table, the sleigh bed India had found for her. It was funny, but she’d miss this place. So much had happened while she lived here. Well, she wasn’t about to think of that now! She couldn’t possibly feel sad tonight. What she felt was lonely, and she didn’t like being alone, not with this kind of elation flowing in her veins. She wanted to be with people, to laugh, to dance. What she needed was a party. That was it! She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway. Picking up her phone book she flicked through the pages. Who would be the best bet? Of course, Jules Santini, he was always giving parties—and if he wasn’t, then he’d surely know who was.

Olympe Avallon was enjoying Henri’s party for several reasons. First, she loved his gray stone minimanor, tucked away off the Bois de Boulogne, filled with the prettiest things and, more often than not, the prettiest people. Second, Henri always served excellent food and Olympe was notoriously hungry at parties. The quality of the wines served depended on the size of the party—better for small numbers—and tonight there was quite a crowd, sixty or seventy. That meant it would be the “house white” from Henri’s own vineyard, which wasn’t bad, or the red, which was poison. Thirdly, she was looking sensational tonight in her new winter suntan and the white Valentino, just a supple slink of jersey that slid off one golden shoulder tantalizingly and clung to her beautiful buttocks as closely as it dared. Catching a glimpse of herself reflected in the big hall mirrors, Olympe knew she was the best-looking woman there tonight—white in winter
was always a knockout, especially with her big gray eyes and tawny blond hair. She looked, she decided, giving herself the benefit of her own generous smile, beautiful, interesting, and expensive. Of course, Barbara Dumont looked pretty good, but everyone knew she’d just had “the big F.L.”—not a line on her face and she was at least forty-two. Quickly Olympe checked her own face in the mirror again; no, thank God, at thirty-five she was still all right. Forty was the right time for a facelift and she had a long way to go yet. Still, she wished she were twenty-six again and that her face—and her body—could be flawless forever. Which led to her fourth reason for enjoying the party tonight. There were at least two men here she was currently very interested in, again for different reasons.

Bendor Grünewald was titled—only a papal title, but a very old one, and it
was
“Prince”—and he was very, very rich and currently very interested in her, though she was keeping him guessing. Bendor was well known in all the places where the beautiful people gathered and his reputation as a playboy had lasted for almost thirty years, ever since he emerged from under his German family’s thumb as inheritor of the family industrial empire. He was really keen, she could tell. Now he was getting close to fifty and reaching the marriage market. It was time to start a dynasty—every rich man of fifty wants a son.

Then, of course, there was Hugo Reresby, who was just about the sexiest man she’d met in at least a year. You’d never know it to look at him, she thought; Englishmen were so deceptive with their ruddy-cheeked glow of good health and the polite blue eyes of well-brought-up schoolboys. It wasn’t until you got them in bed that you knew where they were really at!

Hugo caught her glance and waved hello from across the room. Olympe debated whether she should go over to him, or make him come to her, as he would, of course,
eventually. She scanned the room quickly to check if his wife were here. No, not tonight. Good.

She loved this room; the big square tiles of black-and-white marble scattered with party guests in brilliant colors looked like an exotic chess game for giants.

“Olympe!”

She turned as her name was called. It was Henri, looking amazingly “gay” in a caramel silk shirt and leather pants worn tucked into American cowboy boots.

“You don’t mean to tell me you’re alone?” he asked, kissing her. “Everyone knows there are a dozen men lined up at your door for the pleasure of your company—some of whom I wish would line up at mine!”

Olympe tucked her arm through his, wandering with him across the hall. A rhythmic thudding came from the disco in the cellar below.

“I’m alone,” she agreed, “for a while.…”

“Say no more.” Henri smiled. “Just tell me … which one is it, Bendor or Hugo?”

“It all depends on how I feel tonight … what my secret desires are,” she teased.

“Your secret desires are always for steak and strawberries,” replied Henri, leading her toward the dining room and the lavish buffet. “You’re a simple girl at heart, Olympe.”

“Why does no one see that but you, Henri? I
am
simple, I like nothing more than to eat, to drink wine, to lie in the sun, to dance, and to make love. Behind this exotic façade is a true bourgeoise.”

Bendor had spotted her from across the room and appeared at her side.

“Don’t destroy my illusions, Olympe,” he said. “It’s the other woman I’m after, the exotic one, the beauty who lives on fresh air and rose petals.”

“Take my word for it,” said Henri, “it’s steak and
pommes frites
. God knows why she doesn’t put on weight. If it were me I’d gain five pounds overnight.”

“Now, that girl,” said Olympe, pointing to Paris, who was poised just inside the door, wrapped in her green Fende mink, “must eat rose petals. Who is she, Henri?”

“I’ve no idea.” Henri assessed Paris rapidly. “But I
love
that coat!” He drifted off in Paris’s direction.

“Olympe,” said Bendor pleadingly.

“Well?”

“Will you come out to dinner with me—alone?” Bendor put a possessive finger under her chin. “Steak and
pommes frites
if you like?”

Olympe considered. Her opaque gray eyes met his, speculatively. Bendor leaned closer. She had a mouth that any man would want to kiss, to bite even … and if he ever got her alone he would do just that. And then he’d have her walk for him—up and down the room like when she was a model, because everyone knew that Olympe had the sexiest walk ever.

Olympe took a baton of celery from a dish on the table. Her square white teeth crunched it with a crisp firmness that sent chills down his spine.

“Do you know,” she said, taking a second bite, “there’s just one place in the entire world I’d really like to have dinner tonight.”

“Where is it? Tell me,” demanded Bendor.

“Oh, it’s just a little place.” Olympe took a piece of carrot and dipped it in the aioli sauce. “Nothing grand, but the food … ah, Beny, it’s wonderful.”

“Yes, yes?”

“Of course”—she sighed—“it’s impossible.…”

“
Merde
, Olympe, where is it?” demanded Bendor. “Let’s go.”

Olympe looked at him doubtfully. “It’s called Julie’s, Beny. They serve seafood—lobster with fresh garlic mayonnaise,
and crab and swordfish steaks, fresh from the sea. The Caribbean Sea … off Barbados.”

“We’ll go,” said Bendor, gripping her arm tightly, “—you and me, Olympe. We can go now, tonight.”

Olympe burst into laughter. “Oh, Beny, how boring! I
knew
you would say that. Couldn’t you see I was just
teasing
you? I’m quite happy here, you know, with the asparagus and the celery—and a strawberry or two.” She drifted along the table, picking a morsel here and a morsel there.

“Olympe,
when
will you have dinner with me?”

“Didn’t we just have this conversation?” Bendor was very keen, thought Olympe, pleased.

Hugo smiled from across the room and Olympe smiled back, secretly, so that Bendor didn’t see.

Over by the door Henri took Paris’s cold hand in his.

“Do I know you?” he asked, putting up a finger to stop her as Paris began to explain. “No, no, don’t tell me. I’m just glad you came to my party. I’m Henri Santier. And you are?”

“Paris.”

“How appropriately named—a stroke of genius on your mother’s part? Paris who?”

“Paris Haven. I’m a friend of Jules Santini, I’m supposed to meet him here.”

Henri helped her off with her coat, enjoying its softness.

“I haven’t seen Jules yet,” he said, tossing the coat on the big chest in the hall, “but I must tell you I
adore
your coat.”

“It was my mother’s,” Paris explained automatically, and then wished she hadn’t.

Henri noted the initials embroidered on the lining: “
JH
.”

“I see.” He smiled. “
That
Paris. Well, your mother
was
a genius, my dear.” He put a friendly arm around her
shoulders. “Now, come with me. There are some people I’m sure you’d like to meet.”

Paris had meant to avoid Olympe Avallon. She’d spotted her, of course, as soon as she walked in the door. Olympe was so damned gorgeous and flamboyant it was hard not to—no woman had the right to look that good
all
the time. There were always pictures of Olympe in the European magazines. In
Hola
and
Oggi
and
Tatler
you’d find Olympe, sunbathing in the very minimum thong on some yacht in St. Tropez, with no makeup and her hair pulled back, half naked and quite spectacular; or socializing at the racetrack in a chic little St. Laurent and a perfect hat, discreetly made up and well bejeweled; or at some charity ball at the Savoy in London, outclassing the English in their frills, just by sheer elegance. No wonder Amadeo Vitrazzi had run off to keep his appointment with her after their little “episode.” Olympe was a woman no man would want to lose.