Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [3]
Oh, my God, she was wasting time, it was now five minutes to eight, she must take a shower and get herself together. Amadeo Vitrazzi was Italian and hopefully he would run true to type and be late. She fled through the velvet curtains, casting off her working gear of jeans and sweatshirt as she went. The tiny bathroom gleamed with white tiles she had laid herself, fitting them into place laboriously one by one with a grout mixture that hadn’t been quite sticky enough, so that now she constantly seemed to be replacing one or another of them. Paris had infinite patience when it came to design; she just wasn’t so good at the practicalities.
The water was almost hot enough tonight and the shower felt good as she soaped her spare, elegant body, pleased with its long leanness. Thank God she had inherited Jenny’s legs, and Jenny’s deep blue eyes, but Paris had thick dark lashes and her skin was creamy—like her father’s, she supposed.
The bell sounded sharply through the atelier, startling her. Could Amadeo be here already? Oh, no, it was the telephone—God, wouldn’t you know it, just as she’d got in the shower. Flinging a towel around herself, she ran dripping across the wooden floorboards to her desk, reaching for the phone. The ringing had stopped. Oh, damn it, who could it have been? Amadeo saying he couldn’t make it? Oh, no, please let it not be that. Amadeo was important, she needed him. Or at least she needed his silk—the fabulous, softest, most luxurious silk from his factories near Lake Como. Satin-backed silks and Charmeuse silks and crepe de Chine and slithers of satin that would feel like molten light on the body of a woman wearing Paris’s new designs. If only she could get it at the right price—and on credit. Oh, Amadeo Vitrazzi, she thought clutching the towel around her and still hovering near the phone, you don’t know how important you are to me!
Now she was really late. And so nervous! To hell with the phone, she must get dressed. Her wardrobe filled one wall and held everything she’d ever designed, and as she had never yet afforded the luxury of a model to fit them on, they were all her own size. It was a good thing she was the right shape for this business, Paris thought, flinging on a sapphire silk shift. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons and she paused and stared at herself in the mirror—no, not this. It wasn’t made from his silk, and she didn’t want him to think she’d ever use anything else. And not this color; she wanted him to see the color in her new designs, not be distracted by what she was wearing. The full khaki skirt and the black crunch-knit vest top were pulled together with a wide belt and her slender feet pushed into khaki canvas boots that rumpled around her ankles. Paris surveyed the result. Chic but not sexy—exactly right. A glint of yellow and apricot on her eyelids, an expert fluff of coral blusher across the cheeks, a thin guava gloss on her lips, and she was ready. Oh, almost. A quick spray of Cristalle—mmm, it was heaven. One day she’d have her own perfumes just like Chanel. Paris stared at the poster-sized blowup of “Mademoiselle” hanging on the wall, the ancient crumpled face lit by that indomitable smile, the chin uptilted arrogantly, and the wide hat at the exact uncompromising angle—still enticing at over eighty. Her idol. She could be like Chanel, an influence, a force, in the fashion world. She knew it. It was just that no one else seemed to recognize it. Yet, Paris added firmly.
Ah, there was the bell. He was here. Taking a deep breath and casting a last glance at herself in the long triple mirror, Paris Haven lifted her chin and glided across to open the door, Jenny Haven’s smile lighting her lovely face.
ROME, 24 October
India Haven