Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [149]
“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 Cote 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