Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [82]
“Success,” she echoed.
It was almost ten o’clock when Didi dropped Paris off at the atelier, and even then she’d only left under protest. “I’m not tired, you know,” she said, leaning into the car window to kiss him good-bye. “I could have stayed to help clear up and make sure everything is ready for tomorrow.”
“No need,” said Didi cheerfully. “I’m going back there to check, and anyway, it’s all under control.”
“Well … if you’re sure.” She kissed Didi again and stepped back onto the curb.
“Didi!” She was back again.
“What now?”
“I’ve just had a terrible thought. What if there were a fire?”
“My God, Paris, of course there won’t be a fire,” cried Didi, exasperated. “There’s never been a fire at the Hôtel de l’Abbaye in all these years, why would they have one tonight? Anyway, the security guards are there. Nothing can go wrong, I promise you.”
“Well, all right then.” She looked at him doubtfully.
“Okay. What is it now?”
“You did remember to send out the invitations, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did, you idiot! Go to bed, Paris Haven, and get some sleep, and stop worrying!”
“Right, right, I’m going.” Paris retreated across the pavement as Didi waved a final farewell and drove off into the night.
It was odd how she didn’t feel the least bit tired, she thought, taking the stairs two at a time, especially as she’d been up most of last night sewing those little tulle chemises. God, the girls looked so terrific in them. They’d turned out to be more than just a peppy opener, they were an inspiration.
The atelier looked strange without its shroud of white sheets and clutter of half-finished garments, shoe samples, jewelry, and hats. How much longer, she wondered, shall I live here? Just a few months until I can find something larger—and lighter. I want enormous windows, maybe overlooking the river or a park. With a sigh she flung herself onto the sleigh bed and examined her home. The familiar opaque skylight, the pipes that ran across the ceiling that she’d painted a bright green, the apricot velvet curtains rescued from some sad old theater, the big mirrors on the wall, her drawing table—that was a present from Jenny—her secondhand cutting table, the sleigh bed India had found for her. It was funny, but she’d miss this place. So much had happened while she lived here. Well, she wasn’t about to think of that now! She couldn’t possibly feel sad tonight. What she felt was lonely, and she didn’t like being alone, not with this kind of elation flowing in her veins. She wanted to be with people, to laugh, to dance. What she needed was a party. That was it! She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight anyway. Picking up her phone book she flicked through the pages. Who would be the best bet? Of course, Jules Santini, he was always giving parties—and if he wasn’t, then he’d surely know who was.
Olympe Avallon was enjoying Henri’s party for several reasons. First, she loved his gray stone minimanor, tucked away off the Bois de Boulogne, filled with the prettiest things and, more often than not, the prettiest people. Second, Henri always served excellent food and Olympe was notoriously hungry at parties. The quality of the wines served depended on the size of the party—better for small numbers—and tonight there was quite a crowd, sixty or seventy. That meant it would be the “house white” from Henri’s own vineyard, which wasn’t bad, or the red, which was poison. Thirdly, she was looking sensational tonight in her new winter suntan and the white Valentino, just a supple slink of jersey that slid off one golden shoulder tantalizingly and clung to her beautiful buttocks as closely as it dared. Catching a glimpse of herself reflected in the big hall mirrors, Olympe knew she was the best-looking woman there tonight—white in winter was always a knockout, especially with her big gray eyes and tawny blond hair. She looked, she decided, giving herself the benefit of her own generous smile, beautiful, interesting, and expensive. Of course, Barbara Dumont looked pretty good, but everyone knew