AllFreeNovel
Share Us
His face set in grim lines. “That son of a bitch.”
“The good news is that he doesn’t seem to have figured out his plans went awry.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number from memory. “Michel, it’s Jake. I’m heading for the hotel with Wonder Woman and your collection. I’ll tell you the whole story when I see you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said when he hung up. “I can handle this.”
“Humor me.”
The men arrived, and Jake did everything but frisk them before he let them in the house. He kept guard as they loaded up the racks, then rode in the back of the truck with her to the hotel. When they got there, he stood off to the side, but he never let her out of his sight, and once she saw his hand creep into the pocket of his parka. Although he tried to look inconspicuous, it wasn’t long before one of the hotel workers recognized him, and he was soon surrounded by autograph seekers shoving everything from packing slips to parking tickets in front of him to sign. She knew how much he hated this kind of public attention, but he stayed where he was until all the racks were set up.
After that, she didn’t see him for a while, but each time she decided he’d finally gone home, she’d catch a glimpse of him lounging in the shadows by a stairwell or a service entrance, a ball cap pulled low on his head. His presence comforted her, and she d
idn’t like that. Once this was over, she needed to have a long, hard talk with herself.
In the midst of all the backstage chaos, she made herself exude a confidence she didn’t feel. So much depended on what happened during the next few hours. There had been an overwhelming demand for invitations, so they were showing the collection twice, both early and mid-afternoon. Each model had a separate dress rack with all her pieces arranged in order, along with the proper accessories. Customarily the racks were set up the day before, but since Fleur wouldn’t let the dresses out of her safekeeping until that morning, everything had to be organized in very little time. There were last-minute hunts for missing accessories and a nearly disastrous mix-up with shoes, all of it accompanied by dark glances in her direction. In the meantime, a camera crew set up to videotape the collection for boutiques and department stores.
An hour before the first show, Fleur changed into the dress she’d brought along. It was one of the first pieces Michel had designed for her—a lacquer-red sheath with a center slit that ran from her neck to breasts, and another that descended from above the knee to the mid-calf hem. Beaded jet butterflies perched on one shoulder, and miniature versions sat on the toes of her red satin heels.
Kissy appeared at her side backstage, looking pale and tense. “This was the worst idea you ever had. It’ll never work. I think I’m running a temperature. I bet I’ve got the flu. I know I do.”
“You have butterflies. Take a deep breath. You’ll be fine.”
“Butterflies! These are not butterflies, Fleur Savagar. These are giant turkey buzzards.”
Fleur hugged her, then went out to mingle with the crowd filling the ballroom. By the time she’d finished talking to fashion editors and posing for photographers, the ends of her fingers had gone numb from nerves. She took the small gilt chair that had been reserved for her near the front of the runway and squeezed Charlie Kincannon’s hand.
He leaned over and whispered, “I’ve been eavesdropping, and I’m getting worried. People think Michel’s designs will be froufrou, whatever that means.”
“It means he makes women look like women, and the fashion press doesn’t know how to deal with that, but they’ll come around.” She wished she felt as confident as she sounded, but the truth was that any new designer who thumbed his nose at current fashion trends was in danger of being slaughtered by the powerful fashion arbiters. Michel was the new kid on the block in a tough, territorial neighborhood. The Women’s Wear Daily reporter looked hostile, and Fleur understood exactly what Kissy meant about turkey buzzards.
The house lights dimmed, and sad, bluesy music began to play. Fleur dug her fingernails into her palms. Complicated theatrics at couture showings had gone out of style right along with ruffles and lace. The trend was simplicity—the runway, the models, and the clothes. Once again, they were bucking the tide, and it was all because of her. She was the one who’d talked Michel into this stupid idea.
The chatter in the ballroom began to die. The music grew louder, and the lights on the stage behind the runway came up on a moody tableau vivant set behind a filmy gauze curtain that made the scene dreamlike. Silhouettes of scenery—a wrought-iron railing, a lamppost, the shadow of palm fronds and broken shutters—suggested a shabby New Orleans courtyard on a steamy summer night.
Gradually the figures of the models became visible. They draped the set in their filmy dresses—their breasts, elbows, and knees jutting out in exaggerated angles like the figures in a Thomas Hart Benton painting. Some held palmetto fans frozen in midair. One bent forward, her hair trailing toward the floor like the branches of a willow, a hairbrush poised in her hand. Fleur heard whispers coming from the audience, sidelong glances to gauge the reaction of others, but no one seemed anxious to commit until they knew which way the tide was turning.
Suddenly one figure moved away from the others, growing visibly upset as she stepped into a pool of blue light. She looked at the audience for a moment, then blinked her eyes as if she were trying to make up her mind whether or not to confide in them. Finally she began to talk. She told them about Belle Reve, the plantation she’d lost, and about Stanley Kowalski, the subhuman her dear sister Stella had married. Her voice was agitated, her face weary and tortured. Finally she fell silent and lifted her hand toward them, wordlessly begging for understanding. The bluesy music began again. Defeated, she faded back into the shadows.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then the audience began to applaud, slowly at first, but gradually growing stronger. Kissy’s extraordinary monologue as Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire had stunned them. Fleur felt Charlie sag with relief. “They love her, don’t they?”
She nodded, then held her breath, hoping they loved Michel’s designs as much. No matter how inspiring Kissy’s performance had been, the afternoon was ultimately about fashion.
The tempo of the music picked up and one by one the models broke their poses and moved out from behind the gauze curtain to walk down the runway. They wore filmy summer dresses that called up memories of scented flowers, hot Southern nights, and a streetcar named Desire. The lines were soft and feminine without being fussy, delicately fashioned for women who were tired of looking like men. New York hadn’t seen anything like it in years.
Fleur listened to the murmurs around her and heard the scratch of pens on notepads. The applause was polite for the first few dresses, but as one followed another and the members of the audience slowly began to absorb the beauty of Michel’s designs, the applause built until the sound engulfed the great ballroom.
As the final dress cleared the runway, Charlie let out his breath in a long, tortured exhalation. “I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in the last fifteen minutes.”
Her fingers cramped, and she realized she’d been digging them into his knee. “Only one?”
Two more tableaux followed, each greeted more enthusiastically than the last. A steamy Night of the Iguana rain forest showcased Kissy in a second monologue and also served as a background for informal wear in wildly colorful jungle blossom prints. Finally Kissy performed her dazzling Maggie the Cat against the shadowy outline of a huge brass bed as an introduction to an exotic collection of evening gowns that evoked images of delicious decadence and brought the house to its feet.
When the show was over, Fleur watched Michel and Kissy take their bows. Life would never be the same for either one of them. She couldn’t have found a better way to thank Kissy for her unwavering friendship and Michel for all those years of misplaced hatred than by making sure they each received the public recognition they deserved. As she hugged Charlie, she realized the success of her two clients would impact her own career, too. This afternoon had given her a giant shot of credibility.
The audience began to swarm around her, and she caught sight of Jake at the very back of the ballroom. Just before he slipped away, he gave her a silent thumbs-up.
The next week passed in a whirlwind of telephone calls and interviews. Women’s Wear Daily did a cover story on Michel’s collection, calling it the “New Femininity,” and fashion editors lined up for news about his future plans. Michel sailed through the press conference Fleur scheduled for him and afterward took her to dinner. They grinned at each other over their menus.
