Indiscretions - Elizabeth Adler [90]
“Sounds good.” Stan finished his salami on rye and headed toward the scrambled eggs and lox. “How soon is soon?”
“Couple of weeks’ time for Barbados—while the weather is still good. Then New York and London.”
“Good. Keep him happy, Bill. He’s been onto me about buying that big place on Benedict Canyon, but I’ve told him he’s not ready for it yet, he has to wait at least a year to make sure the series is sticking, then he can have whatever he wants. Within reason, of course. And after my fees and your commission, and his taxes …”
They were laughing as their wives joined them.
“Come on, you two,” said Myra, “you’re supposed to mingle with the other guests, not talk business.”
“We’re mingling, we’re mingling,” murmured Stan, turning away regretfully from the pancakes and maple syrup. “Did Jessie tell you I’m taking her to Paris next month? She’ll cost me a fortune, of course, always does.”
“She’s worth it, Stan,” said Myra loyally; after all, the wives had to stick together in this town, there were enough gorgeous young girls undermining their confidence without backstabbing each other. “Okay, then, who’s for tennis?” She cast an anxious eye at the weather again, hoping it wasn’t going to let her down.
14
Marisa Paroli was a regular at the Paris collections. She was always placed on one of the gilt chairs at the front where photographers could see her, she was always kissed afterward by Yves or Karl or Marc personally—and she always placed an order at each house. This year she had her young cousin Renata with her and had found herself even more popular, since Renata was coming on like one of the last of the big spenders. Of course, Renata had the money and it was the first time she’d been let loose at the collections—and Marisa was certainly the one to show her how to spend it. It had been fun, even the Mitsoko show, though she despised the shapeless garments that had been paraded like a dirge on severe models in gray and black without so much as a streak of color to lighten the effect. Marisa shuddered at the memory—it was alien to her Italian soul that any woman should choose to hide her shape under formless clothes, and in such harsh, drab colors.
She and Renata were breakfasting in their suite at the Bristol, sipping coffee and scanning the morning papers for photographs of Mitsoko’s show the previous day, and the jet-set gossip of people, parties, and places. It was Renata who spotted the item about Paris Haven—just a single paragraph, tucked away at the end of a column.
“But this must be the sister of Fabrizio’s India!” she exclaimed.
“What is it?” Marisa took the paper and read the brief obituary of Paris’s unattended showing.
It was the last item in the “Daily Diary” of a scandalously vicious gossip columnist:
“Hollywood yesterday tried to outdo the masters of haute couture when Paris Haven—daughter of the lately indiscreet Jenny Haven—showed her collection at the out-of-the-way Hotel de l’Abbaye, timing it on the same day and at the very same moment as Mitsoko’s fabulous show. Poor Paris—her collection, unattended and unapplauded, sank like a stone beneath the Seine. Her Momma should have told her not to take on the giants without first checking her dates … and perhaps she should have invested a little more of Momma’s movie