Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [63]
“Didi, where is she?”
“Didn’t she say she might have a lunch date?”
“Yes—but she said she’d phone.”
Didi dialed Finola’s number again, listening to the ring. There was no reply. He strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?” called Paris, following him.
“To find her. You wait here.” He ran down the stairs to his car. And when I do find her, he thought murderously, I’ll wring her bloody neck.
Finola emerged from the startling new salon of the young Japanese designer who had swept the board with his outrageous and innovative collection just two years previously and had gone on from success to success. She felt very pleased with herself; she’d played a waiting game with them and now they had offered her an enormous sum to do their show. It just went to prove, she thought, hurrying down the steps, that if you held out for what you wanted, then you’d get it in the end. They needed her. Of course it was tough luck on Paris Haven, but hers was a little collection and she could get someone else easily enough, although naturally all the best models were already booked.
Didier grabbed her arm as she came down the steps and hurried her toward his car, waiting at the curb.
“Let go of me,” yelled Finola. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Doing? I’m taking you to an appointment that apparently you’ve forgotten.”
Finola stared at him guiltily. “What appointment?”
Didi let go of her arm and put his hands in the pockets of his white jacket. It had begun to rain again and his black hair was plastered wetly against his skull. His dark eyes glittered in his pale face and he looked strangely menacing.
“What are you up to, Finola?”
She stepped backward hastily. “Oh, I remember. I was supposed to phone Paris … I was just on my way to do that now.”
“And what were you going to tell her? That you couldn’t make her show? Is that it, Finola? Mitsoko has offered you star position and more money?”
Finola tossed her head angrily, thrusting back her long blond mane. Goddamn, she was getting wet!
“That’s right, mister—and I’ve accepted his offer. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do Paris’s show. You can tell her to call the agency and get someone else.”
Didier wanted to hit her; the urge sneaked the length of his arm and he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to control himself. The bitch had used them to stall Mitsoko for more money—and to become star of his show. In a way he couldn’t blame her, a model’s life was a short one, but, Jesus, he could kill her for what she’d done to Paris!
“Fuck you, Miss Texas,” he snarled, turning away.
Finola reddened. “And fuck you too—faggot,” she screamed, oblivious to the stares of passersby.
“Didi, what am I going to do!” Paris’s voice held all the despair of Sarah Bernhardt in L’Aiglon, and Berthe lifted her eyes from the oyster satin blouson jacket across which she was sewing the thinnest strips of diamante.
Didier shifted miserably from foot to foot. “We’ll call the agency and get someone else.”
“There is no one else! Everyone, absolutely every single model in Paris, is already booked for the entire two weeks of the collections. My God, Didi, only the dregs are left—showroom models, that’s all!”
Berthe listened with interest. So fancy Miss Finola had left them in the lurch, had she? Berthe wasn’t surprised; she’d wondered how such a new and struggling enterprise had managed to secure one of the top models, but had imagined that she must be a good friend doing Paris a favor. In her opinion they were better off without her, though of course she was a good model and God knows they needed one. Of the four people in this room—herself, Paris, Didier, and the other fine seamstress, Madame Lescort, Berthe was the most experienced and the most professional. There were several things she considered