Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [80]
Paris’s grin was full of elation. She was thriving on sleepless nights and hard work, enjoying the chaos and the action. He’d never seen her like this before, on such a high she was almost flying, and her energy was driving them all before it. Anyone else and he’d have wondered what she was on, but knowing Paris it was pure adrenaline and determination. Still, he was afraid that adrenaline and energy wouldn’t be enough to carry her through tomorrow as chief model in place of Finola, as well as supervising things backstage and keeping an eye out front for reactions.
“I’ll get changed,” said Paris. “The music’s ‘Avalon’—right, Didi?”
“Right, Paris.”
With just slight adjustment by Berthe, Finola’s dresses fit Paris perfectly and Didi had to admit as he helped her on with the steel satin jacket that the severe ice-colored dresses looked as good on her as they had on Finola.
“I still think it would be better to let Naomi do this, or else get a girl from the agency,” he said.
Paris barely heard him. She slid her feet into the matching pumps, keeping one eye on the girls who were crowding back through the curtains and one on herself in the mirror.
“Into the linen skirts and blouses and then the pants and suede jackets,” she called, checking her watch and smoothing down her skirt. “You’ve got exactly ninety seconds. And remember to change the blusher and the lipstick—we don’t want magenta with the peach and amber suede. Didi, the music. Let’s get going.”
“Paris, are you sure you can handle all this? You’re needed back here to make sure all the models look exactly as you mean them to, and out front with the press and the buyers.”
“Handle it?” Paris stared at him in surprise. “Of course I can handle it—as long as I don’t stop to think about it! Come on, Didi, we must get through the whole show once in sequence to get the timing right and then we can use the rest of the day to iron out the details. We’re not leaving tonight until I get one perfect dress rehearsal—just one, and then I’ll be sure.”
“Sure of what?” called Didi over the strains of Bryan Ferry singing “Avalon.”
“Of success.”
Paris loped down the runway, exaggeratedly elegant in the steel satin, visualizing the contrast it would make with the wedding dress which would follow it at the end of the show, another of the tiny, very short puffball tulle chemises in white with white silk stockings and a long, long veil and train of gold embroidered lace. It would be a sensation, the whole show would be a sensation—she could feel it in her bones.
Didi never wanted to hear any of this music again, you could keep Roxy and the Stones and Jerome Kern, and all the rest of it. His head was throbbing. It was after two-thirty. Someone had dashed out at one and brought back sandwiches and milk for the models, and at three they were expecting the six male dancers who, in rented white suits or white tie and tails, would escort the girls on the runway.
To hell with it, they’d have to manage without him for half an hour. He needed a drink. He glanced around the room looking for Paris. She was over in the corner arguing with the electrician about the pink gel he insisted on putting over the lights when she wanted them stark white without even a bit of yellow, never mind pink. Didi left her to it.
The Bar Buenos Aires opposite the hotel offered a comforting old French zinc counter, good Scotch whisky, and a selection of Argentine tangos played over speakers that didn’t crackle. Didi could have lived without the tangos but a couple of Scotches later he was feeling much better.
“There you are, Didi!” Paris, in elaborate model’s makeup and the green fur coat, appeared at his side. “You’re not hitting the bottle are you?” she asked suspiciously. “All I need is to discover that you’re a secret alcoholic.”
“Merde! All I’ve had is two whiskies and I’m considering the plat du jour. I’ve been hard at it since the crack of dawn!” Didi controlled his temper. It was just fatigue, he told himself, he was tired, that’s all. Who would have thought that Paris would turn out to be such a single-minded