Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [62]
Jean-Luc smiled modestly. “I hope you’re right, but I’m happy that you are so pleased with them.”
“You must come to the show—all three of you,” she said, including the baby in her invitation.
Didi hurried into the drab room, his white suit as outrageously out of place as her hats.
“Didi, look—aren’t they beautiful?” Paris tried on the hats for him.
“Fantastic. Wonderful work, Jean-Luc. I knew you could do it. They are superb, thank God. Come on, Paris, we must be off.”
He rushed her back down the stairs, put the hats in their boxes in the back of the car, and drove off to the next showroom for the shoes, and after that the jewelry, and then the hair ornaments.
By eight o’clock they were sitting side by side in Didi’s Mercedes, exhausted but happy.
“I’ve only one complaint,” said Paris, stretching, “and that’s that the blue sandals weren’t as good a match for the fabrics as they might have been. Apart from that, perfect. Don’t you agree, Didi?”
“Thank God, yes.” For novice couturiers, thought Didi, they were doing surprisingly well. “Just one thing left,” he said. “The salon for the show. Do we see it before or after a drink?”
A drink sounded about right to Paris. But there was still that most important decision to be made.
“I would like,” she said slowly, “a very large, very cold champagne cocktail. With a cherry.”
“Wonderful,” said Didi, starting the car.
“After we’ve seen the salons.”
He sighed. “Somehow I knew you’d say that!”
Paris sipped her breakfast coffee and pondered on her decision. There was no doubt that the Art Nouveau hotel was out of the way, but designers were showing their lines out at the racetrack or in marquees in parks now, and the hotel had exactly the right atmosphere for her clothes. Her designs were influenced by the styles of the glamorous Hollywood musicals of the thirties, and she could just imagine Fred Astaire dancing his way down that wide, curving staircase in the entrance. Didi had fought her on it, saying that she should be in the center where the action was and that they would bank the place with flowers so that it wouldn’t matter what the room looked like, and she had almost given in, but they had finally decided that the room was too big anyway for her small show. What if only half the invited guests showed up? They’d rattle around in there. So Art Nouveau it was.
Next time, she told herself, putting down her cup and climbing out of bed, next time I’ll take an enormous suite at the Ritz and hold a reception and we’ll have the show in one of their grandest salons. I’ll recapture the spirit of Chanel. Meanwhile, this was what they could afford. Almost afford!
A glance at the window told her it was raining again. Would this miserable winter never end? And God, was it seven-thirty already? She had so much to do before Finola came at twelve. Everything was going well—and on schedule. It was just so hard doing everything, though Didi did as much as he could, and between them they were doing the work of five. But what she really needed was someone to coordinate the accessories and someone else to take care of each section of the show, the sportswear, the day wear, and the cocktail and evening wear. Oh, well—she smiled to herself—this time next year it’ll all be different. I shall be a huge success, I’ll be in my exquisite apartment rising at nine while my assistants and their minions take care of the boring details. I might even go off to my villa in Marrakesh just to “create.” … The daydream was a pleasant one and she lingered on it while she showered. It was the only nice thing that happened that day.
By one-thirty Finola still hadn’t shown up—nor had she telephoned. Paris fussed with the six evening dresses hanging on the rail, each one tailored to Finola’s bony curves.
Paris had insisted on having her, despite the high price she commanded, because Finola had the long-legged, wide-shouldered, tapering body of a thirties star and was perfect for the clothes. There were to be four other models in the show, hired just for the