Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [15]
She wondered for a moment whether it was Fabrizio she wanted to look pretty for, or whether it was because his wife would be there tonight. Marisa had never shown even the smallest scrap of jealousy. In fact, she barely showed any interest in India at all, and somehow it made India feel as though she were too insignificant to threaten Marisa Paroli’s security. And Marisa was right; India knew it.
A string quartet seated on futuristic chairs that seemed to be carved from blocks of translucent topaz was playing Vivaldi very delicately in the foyer and already the showroom was crowded. Several hundred smartly shod cosmopolitan feet were treading Fabrizio’s pastel carpet, and India eyed it with Dismay. Spilled champagne, crushed hors d’oeuvres, and cigarette ash were scattered over its newness. She had begged Fabrizio to put down the black just for today, but he’d said that it would defeat the purpose. “They must see the place and the designs as a whole,” he’d told her. “Putting in the black would ruin the effect. They’ll go back to their papers and write that Paroli has lost his touch, or they’ll go on to the next party and tell each other that it was a fiasco, that the colors were all wrong.” Hesitating by the door, India wasn’t at all sure that he was right this time. After the first dozen, how many had even noticed the carpet?
There was no gentle hum of conversation; it was a full-throated roar, and as she pushed her way through to the bar set up against the right-hand wall, India kept her ears open for snatches of conversation, eager to pick up any comments. Hardly anyone seemed concerned with Paroli Studios or its wonderful interior; all the snippets of talk she heard were of summers on the Costa Smeralda or plans for skiing in Gstaad from women as glossy as any of Paroli’s lacquered tables, or of the state of the lire and the latest Wall Street average from bronzed and handsome men who looked as though they need never worry about either.
Fabrizio Paroli watched her elbowing her way through the crush with the unfazed American assurance that always made him smile.
“Look how pretty our little India looks tonight,” he murmured to Marisa.
Marisa looked. Her cool glance assessed India Haven’s appearance, deduced the name of the designer and cost of her new outfit, and wondered if Fabrizio had given her a raise. The process took her approximately fifteen seconds and there was no malice in it; it was simply the reaction any Italian woman of her wealth and stature made about every other woman in the room, an automatic placing of the girl into a precise economic and social bracket. The only time Marisa ever failed was with the English. It was almost impossible to tell where they were at because they wore what they bloody well pleased and often it would be Marks and Spencer or something run up by their local dressmaker in some odd though possibly expensive fabric cut so badly that any “line” was lost. Only their jewels gave them away, and the size of those dusty sapphires and emeralds had to be seen to be believed, but then of course they were probably heirlooms from colonial days and most likely were owed to the tax collector.
India Haven was a different matter. Alone, she didn’t merit a seat at their table at tonight’s dinner after the opening. Yet she couldn’t be dismissed altogether. Now, if Jenny Haven were with her, then of course tonight would be a different matter. Marisa was only rich and social. Jenny Haven was a star.
“I’m going to introduce her to some people,” called Fabrizio, already pushing his way through the crowd toward India, smilingly accepting the compliments of his guests as he made his way toward the bar. He liked India. He liked the way she looked, her wide-boned face with its flashing smile that lifted from her mouth with its wonderfully even teeth to her sparkling