Indiscretions (45 page)

“Venetia? Mysterious?” Paris couldn’t think of anything less likely.

“Well maybe I’ll tell you that story later.” Olympe’s smile was mischievous as her opaque gray eyes checked Paris out from head to toe. “You look wonderful, Paris, but then—you always do. Come and sit by me.” She patted the chair next to hers and leaned back, stretching her arms above her head lazily.

Paris settled on the cushions, averting her eyes from Olympe’s lavish display of smooth, suntanned flesh. A different kind of heat from that of the sun burned her as she remembered the night with Olympe and Hugo … she pushed away that memory hurriedly.

“I owe you an apology,” said Olympe. “I was going to call you after your show, Paris, I promise I was, but I was called away suddenly that same night—swept off my feet you might say—by Beny.” She laughed. “Well, not
quite—
you know
Beny. But I am sorry, Paris,” she added seriously, “that it didn’t work out. It was bad luck.”

Paris shrugged. She wasn’t so sure about that anymore. “I’m beginning to doubt that I had enough talent in the first place.”

“But how can you say that? I wish I had half your talent.” Olympe seemed genuinely shocked by her statement, and Paris looked at her in surprise. Did Olympe believe in her, then? If so, she was the only one.

Venetia appeared carrying a tray of iced coffee. She stopped as she saw Olympe sitting with Paris. “Oh, I didn’t realize there was anyone else. I thought you’d all gone on a picnic.”

“I loathe picnics,” said Olympe, “and I’m really glad I didn’t go because now I’ve met Paris again. We know each other quite well,” she added wickedly, “don’t we, Paris?”

Venetia avoided looking at Olympe. “I’ve rather a lot to do … you know where to find me, Paris, if you want me.” She hurried away and Paris stared after her in surprise. What was the matter with Vennie?

“Are all the Haven women beautiful, then?” asked Olympe lazily. “There is another one, isn’t there?”

“India. She got married a few weeks ago.”

“Lucky her. I hope he’s successful—and can keep her in her old age.” Olympe sighed exaggeratedly. “It’s beginning to worry me, you know, this marriage business. I don’t know if I
could
marry Beny—even though I
should
. But perhaps he won’t ask me after my little flutter with Fitz McBain.”

Paris stared at her. “
Your
flutter with Fitz?” She remembered Venetia’s story of the woman in his cabin … Olympe …

“A very nice flutter. I’d hoped for more, but I’m afraid your little sister may have beaten me to it. In fact young Venetia has hit the jackpot—
two
McBains! Morgan was
here the other week bearing gifts and with a gleam in his eye. He left a couple of days later looking brooding and chastened. I had the feeling that little Venetia had turned him down because she had something more interesting going with his father.”

“I think that’s Vennie’s business,” said Paris coldly.

Olympe laughed. “Of course it is. You mustn’t be upset, darling, I adore this sort of guessing game … who is doing what with whom. Come on, Paris, don’t be angry with me. We are the same, you and I, you know we are.” Her soft, long-nailed hand stroked Paris’s bare shoulder. “You mustn’t blush,” she murmured. “That night was one of those delicious moments.… I haven’t forgotten you.”

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Whyever not? Sharing a man—and each other—is fun, now and again. You shouldn’t deny that to yourself. Sex is so simple, really, it’s just a question of what you enjoy, and it shouldn’t be taken seriously.” Olympe laughed. “It’s all so ridiculous when you think about it.”

It was true, thought Paris, and she had enjoyed that night. She had made love to them both because she had wanted to—was that any more shameful than making love with Amadeo Vitrazzi so that she could get him to back her financially? She thought not.

“Well, then,” said Olympe. “Tell me about yourself. Are you planning a new collection?”

She was so easy, so companionable; Paris felt suddenly that Olympe would understand. “I can’t afford another collection,” she admitted, “and besides, who would come to a show of mine after the last fiasco? I’ve had to change my approach. This ‘great couturier’ has been trying to sell her designs to the boutiques of the Côte d’Azur—with her usual resounding lack of success.”

Olympe sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees, listening interestedly. “But of course the boutiques
wouldn’t buy them,” she said. “They all buy in December for the summer. Didn’t you know that?”

“I didn’t think of it,” admitted Paris glumly. “I’ve no head for practical details. I just assumed that if you had something pretty and exciting people would buy it anyway.”

Olympe considered what Paris had said. “In a way you’re right. There is always a market for something fun and new here on the Riviera. Most women I know would kill to be different! It’s just that your timing was off. Perhaps you should have opened a shop here instead of trying the couture line. It would have been a hell of a lot easier way to begin. You’ll probably hate me forever for saying this, Paris, but your fashion show was doomed before it even got on the runway—no matter how great the clothes. It’s a harsh world, my friend, and if you’re going to succeed you’re going to have to become a little more street wise. The first rule is publicity. No one can make it without the right publicity—no matter how good the designs are. And to get that you need to be on first-name terms with every fashion editor from
Vogue
and
Women’s Wear Daily
to every newspaper. And—on top of that—you need an international public relations company to make sure that your name is there every time a woman picks up a magazine in the hairdresser’s or on a plane.”

“But I couldn’t afford a public relations company—I barely had enough to cover the cost of the clothes. As it was, I had to model for Mitsoko for three months before I had enough to pay off the bills for the show—the rent of the salon, the chairs, the speaker systems, and all the other ‘little details’ that seem to have added up to a fortune. The clothes I’d hoped to sell to the boutiques were put together on a shoestring, and even so, I’m broke.”

Broke? How could she be? Perhaps Jenny’s money was
all tied up in trust, or something. “Forgive me asking, but what about the money Jenny left?”

“There is no money.” Paris stood up abruptly and began to pace the deck. “It’s a long story.”

Olympe’s eyes rounded in surprise. In Olympe’s terms you were broke when you were down to your last diamonds and only one fur. If Jenny Haven had left her daughter no money, for whatever mysterious reason, then the situation was serious. My God, Paris had meant it—she was broke!

“Tell you what.” Olympe stretched lazily. “Let’s go and take a look at these clothes. Maybe we’ll come up with some ideas.” What the hell, she thought, taking Paris’s arm, she could use a few new things herself—and maybe she could persuade a few friends to take some. It sounded as though every little bit would help.

Paris flung open the six suitcases and spread garment after garment across the bed, brief little dresses meant for evenings spent in lazy cafés and summer discos, soft flowing gossamer gowns for romantic nights, baggy shorts to be worn rolled high on the thigh, cropped pants, wide at the waist and cinched with a chunky belt, enormous masculine shirts for the beach—they were innovative, witty, and different, and, on Olympe, who was trying them on as fast as she could, they looked terrific.

“Fantastic! Great! Oh, I
must
have these, Paris,” cried Olympe, squirreling aside a hoard of favorites. “I adore them—I wish I could buy them all!”

Olympe was being kind, but Paris didn’t want her charity. “Take anything you want.” She shrugged. “I can’t sell them anyway. They are a gift from me.”

“Paris!” sighed Olympe, exasperated, “you’re just
too nice!
Of course I won’t take them as a gift—why should I? I’m
buying
them from you. I’m a customer, damn it—don’t you recognize one when you see one?”

Despite herself Paris laughed. “I’m just not used to it,”
she said. “You’re the first, Olympe—and you may be the last.”

“However,” said Olympe craftily, “if you really don’t mind giving some away, I have an idea. I know several top models who are down here on holiday—they would go wild for these clothes. What if we gave some to them, Paris? I can guarantee they’d be worn in all the smartest places and to all the very best parties—and I’ll make sure they tell everyone
whose
designs they are. It would be a start—your name would be getting around.”

“Really, Olympe?” Paris sounded hopeful. “Will anyone really care whose designs they are?”

“These women live and breathe fashion—the newest, the latest, the most innovative, interesting, avant garde—crazy even—and with a name like Haven to add spice …”

“Haven?” said Paris, surprised. She’d always made a point of
not
using Jenny’s name. “I thought about the name ‘Chanel,’ ” she added with a grin, “but it’s been done. And Jenny didn’t do me any favors, you know, calling me Paris.”

“But we’ll need a name for the boutique.”

“What boutique?”

“Why,
our
boutique—the one we must open next season. I’m not going to let your talent escape me—and with my contacts, and of course a little hard work—how can we miss? Now, how do you feel about having me as a partner?” Olympe held up her hand. “No, before you answer, let me tell you a secret. Behind this pretty face and model’s body lies the soul of a true bourgeoise. My mother—a very
wise
woman—has run the Bistro Corsaire in Marseilles for more than forty years—as my grandmother did before her. She rules that place from her high stool behind the cash register like Napoleon at Moscow, only more successfully. My mother has probably made more money than she’s ever let me know about—and,
Paris, there’s nothing more exhilarating than making money. You know, she never approved of my being a model—she always told me that if a woman wanted to get on in the world she should use her brains—and her contacts! If she knew I was serious about becoming a businesswoman, she’d produce the money in an instant! So what do you say, Paris? Are we partners?”

“Could we really do it?” wondered Paris. “I mean, would you really want to be partners with me? I can design great clothes, I know I can—despite my failures. But I have no contacts to offer, and no money.”

“Ah, the money! This advice may be a little late, as you’ve already learned your lesson. Never, but
never
, invest
your own money
in a speculative venture, even one as good as this.
You
are investing your
talent
. What we need to do next is to take our idea and make it a reality. First we find the premises. At the end of the season there are sure to be shops that have had a bad season and are going out of business. I know all the best locations. We’ll snap up something while the price is low, we’ll have your designs—and then we’ll get our backer. I guarantee it. Oh, Paris, how exciting!”

Olympe looked like an exotic bird of paradise as she pranced up and down the tiny cabin in one of Paris’s hot-pink silk chemises, with the brief ruffled skirt. Who would have guessed the bourgeois background? Paris could almost see their boutique now, in St. Tropez or Antibes, a bright white façade, its window displaying her latest sensual temptations. Inside, the shop would be cool and arched, cavelike after the hot sun outdoors, hung with her summery garments and spiced with gorgeous fake jewels. Oh, Jenny would have
loved
it! But Jenny would never see the boutique, never wear a dress designed by her, never share her pleasure—and hopefully, her success. Yet it was always Jenny who had encouraged her to believe in her own talent, who had sent her out
alone—to win. Perhaps she had sought a little bit of immortality through her daughter’s success, a continuation of the Haven name? But Paris had steadfastly denied her that privilege, refusing to use her mother’s name, wanting to “make it on her own.” Poor Jenny, thought Paris, poor, darling Jenny.

“How would this look in the magazines?” she asked Olympe with a grin. “Paris Haven, daughter of the fabulous and lovely star, Jenny Haven, designer of delicious clothes for the innovative Haven Boutique in St. Tropez—owned with her beautiful partner, supermodel Olympe Avallon—frequent visitors to the McBain yacht. The beautiful partners are already planning the opening of their second shop next season in Porto Cervo, on the Aga Kahn’s Costa Smerelda.…”

Olympe shrieked with delight as Paris collapsed on the bed, laughing.

“You’re learning,” laughed Olympe, “you’re learning fast, Paris Haven.”

“Jenny was clever enough to send me out into the world to find my own opportunities,” said Paris, more soberly, “and I stupidly thought that meant I must do it all alone.
Now
, I see what she meant! Find your opportunities—and seize them, she said. I was just too selfish to realize that one of my assets was my name—
her
name.”

“It’s a name to be proud of,” said Olympe.

“Then can it be the Haven Boutique?”

“Correction”—Olympe grinned—“the Haven
Boutiques
—after all, we are opening one in Sardinia, too, aren’t we? Wait here,” she called, disappearing through the door. “I’m going to find some champagne to celebrate.”

The smile lingered on Paris’s face as she contemplated her turn in fortune. Olympe was exactly the catalyst she needed. It was stupid—impossible—to try to do everything alone. Two heads were better than one—and when
one of those was Olympe’s, it was better than four! They’d make it, she knew they would. She was already thinking of new colors, fabrics, designs … she could just see that pretty boutique with its tempting windows and, across the top, the Haven name in lights once more. How pleased Jenny would have been.

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