Читать книгу Legacy of Lies - JoAnn Ross - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Alex didn’t sleep all night. As she dressed for work, running one pair of black panty hose and pulling a button off the front of her dress in her fumbling nervousness, all she could think about was the upcoming moment of truth. When Debord would view her designs.

When she entered the salon, Alex was met with the cold, unwelcoming stare of Marie Hélène.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Alex said with far more aplomb than she was feeling.

Marie Hélène did not return her greeting. “Debord is waiting in his office.”

Taking a deep breath that should have calmed her, but didn’t, Alex headed up the stairs to the designer’s penthouse office.

As she paused before the ebony door, with its Défense d’Entrer sign, Alex had a very good idea how Marie Antoinette must have felt on her way to the guillotine. Sternly reminding herself that a faint heart never achieved anything, that this was what she’d always wanted, she knocked.

Silence. Then, Debord’s deep voice calling out, “Entrez!”

Squaring her shoulders, clad in an uplifting, confidence-building scarlet hunting jacket she’d defiantly worn over her black dress, she entered the designer’s sanctum sanctorum.

Debord was talking in English on the phone. After gesturing her toward a chair on the visitor’s side of his desk, he spun his high-backed chair around and continued his conversation. From his tight, rigidly controlled tone, Alex sensed that the telephone call was not delivering good news.

She took advantage of the delay to study the office. Like the workrooms, everything was pristine. The desk had such a sheen Debord was reflected in its gleaming jet surface. On the stark white wall behind the desk, Debord appeared in triplicate in Warhol portraits.

“Of course, Madame Lord,” Debord was saying. “I understand your reluctance to commit funds just now.”

Alex watched his fingers twist the telephone cord and had an idea that the designer would love to put those artistic fingers around Madame Lord’s neck.

She’d heard about the possibility of Debord designing a line of ready-to-wear for Lord’s, the prestigious department store chain. After last week’s debacle, the gossip around the atelier was that the designer was desperate for such a deal in order to salvage a disastrous season.

Now, unfortunately, it appeared that Eleanor Lord, like everyone else, had deserted Debord.

“Certainly. I will look forward to seeing you at the fall défilé in July. We shall, of course, reserve your usual seat. Certainement, in the first row.”

That statement revealed how important he considered the American executive. Seating was significant at couture showings; indeed, many fashion editors behaved as if their seat assignments were more important than the clothes being shown.

“Au revoir, Madame Lord.”

The designer muttered a pungent curse, but when he turned toward Alex, his expression was bland. He did, however, lift an inquiring brow at her jacket. When he failed to offer a word of criticism, Alex let out a breath she’d been unaware of holding.

“Americans,” he said dismissively. “They cannot understand that risk-taking is the entire point of couture.”

“Mrs. Friedman bought your entire collection.”

“True. However, I cannot understand why she chose my designs when they are so obviously inappropriate for her figure.”

“She told me she likes your work.” Alex was not about to reveal Sophie’s actual reasons for buying Debord’s collection. “And Lady Smythe seemed pleased with that black cocktail dress.”

That particular purchase had been viewed as a positive sign, since Miranda Smythe not only happened to be Eleanor Lord’s niece and style consultant for the Lord’s London store, but was rumored to be the person who’d brought Debord to the department store executive’s attention in the first place.

Unfortunately it appeared that when it came to business Lady Smythe had scant influence with her powerful aunt.

“I would feel a great deal better about the sale if Miranda Smythe had actually paid for the dress,” he countered. “I cannot understand Marie Hélène. The discounts she allows that woman are tantamount to giving my work away.”

Alex was not about to criticize Debord’s formidable sister. “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have the wife of a British peer wearing your designs,” she said carefully.

“Such things never hurt. But the British are so dam-nably tightfisted, they seldom buy couture. The average Englishwoman would rather spend her money on commissioning a bronze of her nasty little dogs, or a new horse trailer. Besides, Lady Miranda is about to get a divorce.”

Alex had heard Marie Hélène and Françoise, Miranda Lord Baptista Smythe’s personal vendeuse, discussing the socialite’s marital record just yesterday.

“Let us keep our fingers crossed,” Debord decided. “Perhaps, with luck, this time the fickle lady will wed a Kuwaiti prince. They never ask for discounts.”

Alex laughed, as she was supposed to.

At last she couldn’t stand the suspense a minute longer. “I know you’re very busy, Monsieur. Would you like to see my portfolio now?”

“In a moment. First, I would like to know why such a beautiful woman would choose to labor behind the scenes when she could easily be a successful model.”

“I’m not thin enough to be a model. Or tall enough. Besides, I’ve wanted to be a designer forever.”

“Forever?” he asked with a faintly mocking smile.

“Well, ever since I watched Susan Hayward in Back Street. That’s an old American movie,” Alex explained at his questioning glance. “She plays a designer. The first time I saw it I fell head over heels in love.”

“With Susan Hayward?” He frowned.

“Oh, no.” Alex laughed as she followed his train of thought. “Not the actress. I fell in love with the glamour of the business. It became an all-encompassing passion.” Her grin was quick and appealing. “Some of my friends would tell you that designing is all I think about.”

“Really?” Debord’s eyes, so like his sister’s, but much warmer, moved slowly over her face. “I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful young woman such as yourself must have some other interests—parties, dances...men. Perhaps one particular man?”

He was watching her carefully now, the blue of his eyes almost obscured by the ebony pupils. Alex swallowed.

“Let me show you my designs.” The portfolio was lying across her knees. She began to untie the brown string with fingers that had turned to stone. “I should probably tell you right off that most of the teachers at the institute didn’t really like my style,” she admitted. “But since I believe this is my best work, I’d really appreciate a master’s opinion.” Her words tumbled out, as if she were eager to get them behind her.

“I do not understand why Marie Hélène did not tell me about your talent,” Debord said as Alex continued to struggle with the thin brown fastener.

Personally, Alex had her own ideas about that, but knowing how close Debord was to his sister, she kept them to herself.

“She’s very busy.” Finally! Cool relief flooded through Alex when the maddening knot gave way.

Yves Debord took her sketches and placed them facedown on the desk. Before looking at them, he pulled a gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket. After lighting a Gauloises, he turned his attention toward the colorful presentations.

Alex was more anxious than she’d ever been in her life. She kept waiting for him to say something—anything!—but he continued to flip through the sketches, front to back, back to front, over and over again.

Did he like them? Hate them? Were her designs as exciting and modern as she perceived them to be? Or were they, as one of her instructors had scathingly proclaimed, clothes for tarts?

Time slowed to a snail’s pace. Perspiration began to slip down her sides.

“You are extraordinarily talented,” Debord said finally.

“Do you really like them?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “They are the most innovative designs I’ve seen in years.”

Alex beamed.

“They are also entirely unmarketable.”

The words hit like a blow from behind, striking her momentarily mute. “You have flown in the face of tradition,” he said in a brusque no-nonsense tone that didn’t spare her feelings. “This is costuming for the theater. Not the real world.”

She’d heard that accusation before. But never had it stung so badly. “I was trying to be innovative. Like Chanel in the twenties with her tweed suits. And Dior’s postwar New Look. The sixties’ revolution, when Yves Saint Laurent introduced the pantsuit. And of course, Courreges’s minidress.”

She took a deep breath. “You just said that couture was about risk. All the great designers—Norell, Beene, you yourself—have gained fame by insisting on having a spirit of their own.”

“You have talent, but you do not understand couture,” he countered. “A designer must see women as they want to be seen.”

“That’s true,” Alex conceded, even as it crossed her mind that, instead of telling women what they want, designers should ask them what they want.

Patience, she could hear her mother warning her.

“This design, for example.” He held up a sketch that happened to be one of her favorites. An evening gown of tiered gold lace over black chiffon, cut like a Flamenco dancer’s dress. “This gown would make a woman look as if she were dressing for an American Halloween party.”

That hurt. “I can’t see what’s wrong with thinking of life as a party.” Patience. “Besides, I thought it was sexy.”

“The first thing you must learn, Alexandra, is that husbands want their women to look like ladies. Especially American husbands, who have a habit of marrying younger and younger brides without really knowing their pedigree.”

He ignored Alex’s sharp intake of breath. “Since the husbands are the ones paying the bills, a wise couturier designs with them in mind.”

“That’s incredibly chauvinistic.”

“Perhaps. It is also true. The British have a saying,” Debord continued. “Mutton dressed as lamb. Never forget, Mademoiselle Lyons, that is precisely what we are paid to do.”

“But what about celebrating the female form—” Alex couldn’t help argue “—instead of focusing on androgynous, sexless women?” When he physically bristled, Alex realized she’d hit uncomfortably close to home with that one. After all, Debord’s disastrous new line had carried androgyny to new extremes.

His stony expression would have encouraged a prudent woman to back away. Unfortunately caution had never been Alex’s forte.

“You say we must design for the husbands,” she said, leaning forward. “I can’t believe any man really wants his woman looking like a malnourished twelve-year-old boy.”

“Not all men do,” Debord acknowledged, his steady gaze taking in the softly feminine curves her stark black dress and scarlet jacket could not entirely conceal. “But the fact remains, Alexandra, wives should look like ladies. Not sirens.”

In Alex’s mind, there was absolutely nothing wrong with looking like a lady in the daytime and a siren at night. After all, this was a new age. Having proven they could do men’s work, Alex believed it was time women started looking like women again.

“May I ask a question?” she said quietly.

“Certainement.”

“How can you consider me talented when you hate everything about my designs?”

“On the contrary, I don’t hate everything about them. I love the energy, the verve. I think your use of color, while overdone, is magnifique.”

“Well,” Alex decided on a rippling little sigh, “I suppose that’s something.”

“It’s important.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It is time we found a proper outlet for your talents.”

“Do you mean—”

“I’m promoting you to assistant designer,” Debord confirmed. “I shall inform Marie Hélène that you will be moving upstairs. Immediately.”

Joy bubbled up in Alex. It was all she could do to keep from jumping up and flinging her arms around Debord’s neck. She knew the broad grin splitting her face must look horrendously gauche, but couldn’t keep herself from smiling.

“I don’t know how to thank you, monsieur.”

“Just do your best. That is all I expect.” Debord walked her to the door.

Feigning indifference to Marie Hélène’s cold stare, Alex moved her colored pencils and sketch pads into the design office located above the showroom floor.

She was hard at work at her slanted drawing table later that afternoon when Debord entered the office. He made his way slowly around the room, offering a comment on each designer’s work. Some were less than flattering, but all were encouraging. Until he got to Alex.

“A zipper is inappropriate,” he declared loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. His finger jabbed at the back of her evening gown design. “This gown lacks spirit.”

He plucked the slate pencil from her suddenly damp hand and with a few deft flourishes, sketched in a row of satin-covered buttons. “There. Now we have passion.”

The buttons running from neckline to hem were admittedly lovely. They were also highly impractical. Alex wondered how a woman would be able to wear such a dress without a maid to fasten her up. And then there was the little matter of getting out of the gown at the end of the evening.

“It would seem to me,” she countered mildly, “that trying to deal with fifty tiny, slippery satin buttons running down the back of a dress would tend to stifle passion.”

There was a gasp from neighboring tables as the others in the room realized that this newcomer had dared argue with the master. Debord shot her a warning look.

“The way couture differs from ready-to-wear is in the decorating,” he said shortly. “Specialness comes from the shape, the cut, the workmanship.

“Embellishing. Some fringe here.” He ran his hand over her shoulder. Down the notched black velvet lapel of her scarlet hunting blazer. “A bit of beading here.

“We all must eat, Alexandra. Yet who among us wouldn’t prefer a steak tartare to one of your American hot dogs? A glass of wine to water? A crème brûlée to some diet gelatin mold?”

“Are you comparing the designs of Debord to fine French cuisine?” Alex dared ask with a smile.

“Bien sûr.” He rewarded her with an approving smile of his own. Alex could have spent the remainder of the day basking in its warmth. “I knew you would be an adept pupil, Alexandra.”

As he leaned forward, his arm casually brushed against her breast. “Now, let us review your interpretation of a Debord dinner suit.”