Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [150]
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 cafes 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