Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [88]
At four o’clock she found it. She spent five minutes trying to squeeze the Citroën into a parking space that was just big enough and finally abandoned the car with the back wheels sticking out into the road. Wrapping her full-length Revillon fox around her to keep out the chill, she sped across the road, ignoring the traffic and the whistles of the workmen on the building site opposite. Thank God, she thought, pushing open the engraved plate-glass doors, I’ve made it.
The strains of Roxy’s “Avalon” mingled with the scents of calla lilies and cigarette smoke in the corridor, and she smiled as she pushed open the door—Paris was even playing her song. The hundred little gilt chairs were sparsely filled with people who looked to her like friends. On the front row a half-dozen girls sat with open notebooks, sipping champagne and gossiping together. Olympe knew every buyer and fashion editor from Rome to New York, and she didn’t recognize any of these. She assessed them accurately as assistants to the assistant fashion-editors of magazines and newspapers, maybe even just secretaries enjoying the free show and champagne on tickets passed on to them by indifferent women who had more important things to attend, like Mitsoko’s show and the lavish party he would throw afterward—it was at Versailles this time. Olympe wished she’d gone too. There was no doubt that this was a disaster.
The door swung shut behind her and a dark young man in a white suit appeared. His smile was strained as he asked if he could help.
Didi recognized her of course—but what was Olympe Avallon doing here?
“Would you care for some champagne?” he asked as Olympe took a seat near the door, watching the brilliantly lit runway intently. These weren’t even models, she realized as Naomi danced across the runway, followed by the other girls, swirling their gauzy capes over oyster-colored gowns. But whoever they were they were terrific—and so were the clothes. Damn, she wished she’d been here for the beginning. Paris swept onto the runway in a steel-gray outfit that was a knockout—stunning! Olympe’s professional eye noted the cut, the fit of the jacket, the superb ruffled detail on the slit skirt. And Paris was beautiful, a great model for her own designs.
Flashbulbs popped at the back of the room and Olympe turned quickly to check them out—she hadn’t noticed photographers when she came in.
Three young men were being pushed back through the doors by Didi, who was gesticulating angrily. Of course, they were paparazzi from the gossip magazines, here to gloat about the death of Jenny Haven’s daughter’s fashion show. Olympe shifted uncomfortably on her tiny chair. Oh, dear, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be around for the wake.
Paris stalked from the runway, her cheeks blazing and her mouth tight with anger. The models, changing rapidly into their bright chemises, glanced anxiously at Paris as Naomi glided past in her bridal gow, flanked by her handsome escort. Sliding their feet into their little scarlet high-heeled shoes, they thrust through the curtains after Naomi—all together in a burst of movement and color just as Paris had shown them.
Paris ripped off her jacket and skirt and flung them on the floor. “Dear God,” she said over and over, “dear God, what did I do wrong? What happened? Why did no one come?” Throwing on her black sweatshirt and jeans, she tugged frantically at her boots. It was over—finished. She’d lost and she didn’t know why!
Olympe slid quietly past Didi at the door.
“Dazzling,” she whispered in his ear, “fabulous … tell Paris I’ll call her later this evening.”
Didi watched as she hurried away down the corridor. He didn’t know why Olympe Avallon had been there, but she was the only person of any consequence who had come to Paris’s show—the rest were the sort who would show up anywhere for a free drink. And could he use a drink! The girls were posing on the runway smiling at their sparse audience and the scatter of applause. It was over. There was just time for a couple of quick