Folly's Child (35 page)

Christ but she was beautiful! he thought, and the love and all-consuming desire she had always excited in him was there once more, undiminished by the years. How he had loved her! – loved her still, in spite of everything.

Paula, oh Paula, so desirable and yet so infuriating, driving him crazy with adoration, reducing him to wild corrosive jealousy. Paula, whom he had never for one moment owned, in spite of being married to her. Paula, taking everything she wanted as she moved through life with never a thought for the consequences of her actions, yet still with the power to make him her slave.

The white-coated figures had disappeared now; he was no longer aware of them at all. Only Paula was real and it seemed to Hugo that he had moved into the past with her, not just remembering but living again the events of twenty years ago.

‘New York, New York – I'm gonna wake up in the city that never sleeps!' sang Paula, and Hugo, emerging from the shower wrapped in an enormous monogrammed towelling robe, smiled and turned away before he could be tempted to make love to her yet again. There was no time for that now – any interruption to Paula's toilet would certainly mean they would be late for work. The length of time she spent on preparing herself to face the world was one of the tiny irritations that had begun to niggle at Hugo in four blissful months of marriage – she was quite lovely enough to go out without a scrap of paint on her face in his opinion. But it was a minor aggravation only and Hugo dismissed the thought as quickly as it arose. Paula was used to earning her living by her looks. And he was much too ecstatic at having won her to allow any hint of censure to mar the idyll.

And idyll it certainly was, for Paula adored New York. The moment she arrived she had fallen head over heels in love with the glittering, zinging city and her eyes had shone like the myriad of lights reflected in the dark waters of the East River that circled Manhattan. He had taken an almost childlike pleasure in showing her around, though the bitter February wind still blew the dust into swirls on the sidewalks beneath the skyscrapers, the seagulls rode the gusts over the river and the cabs made bright sunshiny splashes of yellow against the uniform grey. She loved the department stores, especially Bloomingdales, and the shopping malls, she loved the glittering jewels she saw at Van Cleefs, where Hugo had promised to buy her a piece for each and every anniversary, she loved the glamour of Broadway and the air of purposeful relaxation of Central Park.

The one thing she had not loved had been sharing a house with Hugo's mother, the redoubtable Martha, and Veronica, the youngest of his three sisters who was, at thirty-five, still unmarried. With the first fruits of his success Hugo had moved them all from the Bronx to a fine old town house in the East Sixties and it had quite simply never occurred to him to find a place of his own. They were a family – it had made sense for them to stay together, for although he was doing well he was not yet so flush that he could run two houses and employ two sets of servants without considering the cost. When his father had died the previous year Hugo had been glad he had been on hand to be of comfort to his mother, who was devastated by the loss of the gritty little man with whom she had fallen in love almost fifty years earlier, and she had clung fiercely to Hugo, her only son, who reminded her so poignantly of his father.

Paula, however, had been appalled by the idea of sharing a home with her in-laws, even if Hugo did have his own suite of rooms. Spacious though the duplex was it reminded her of her childhood when she, Sally and their parents had been forced to live with her grandparents. She had not the slightest intention of returning to such an arrangement, especially since she did not much like either Martha or Veronica and they did not seem to like her. Veronica did little to disguise the envy of a plain woman for a beautiful one and Martha resented the fact that she no longer had first call on her son's attention. Living in such close proximity to them made Paula edgy; she begged, pleaded and cajoled, and to please her Hugo had taken a suite at the Waldorf Towers whilst they searched for a home of their own.

At last they had found just the place – a huge house of pale grey marble on East 70th Street and the moment she had seen it Paula had forgotten what she considered to be its greatest drawback – that it was only just around the block from Hugo's old home. She had almost gasped aloud in delight as she went in through the impressive front door and saw the sweeping staircase, shipped out from England and lovingly reconstructed by the previous owner, and she had run from room to room like a child. Her London flat would have fitted into a corner of just one of the floors and there were three of those, not to mention a huge garden which would keep one man busy on a full-time basis and might require extra help at certain times of the year.

There was even an indoor swimming pool, constructed in a vast room that had once been a ballroom. Paula could scarcely believe her luck and for the hundredth time she thought how glad she was she had married Hugo – in England it might have been years before she could aspire to a home like this, for ever. Even the titled gentlemen she knew would have some difficulty finding the wherewithal to keep up such a place.

Hugo had employed one of the best interior decorators in New York and Paula revelled in poring over the fabric samples and ‘pasteups' that the designer brought for her approval and spent hours leafing through catalogues and touring antique shops to find pieces for her new home – everything from a beautiful Meissen fruit bowl to an imitation Chippendale bureau-bookcase. Hugo was a little disturbed by the size of the bills that appeared on his desk but he said nothing, treating them with the same indulgence that he showed towards everything where Paula was concerned. Furnishing a new home was bound to be a costly business and he could afford it. Business was booming, orders were flooding in, and he needed a home that reflected his success. Even more important – Paula was happy. That was his first and only consideration.

Would she have married him if he had been a penniless immigrant like his father? It was a question Hugo preferred not to ask himself, for deep down he was quite sure she would not. She had told him that night in the restaurant that she could not be bought but he suspected it had been the diamonds and the promise of more where they came from that had persuaded her – just as he had intended they should. But knowing it did not make him love her any the less. If allowing her to spend his money was the price he had to pay for possessing even a part of this delectable creature then he would pay it, and gladly.

What worried him more was Paula's insistence on attending every social event to which they were invited – and there were far too many of those. Nowadays fashion designers had broken through the barrier of social acceptability – in fact it was quite a cachet to have one's charity ball or restaurant party, benefit or fund raiser graced by at least one of the big names – Bill Blass, Oscar de la Renta – or Hugo Varna. Hugo was delighted at the opportunity to show off his bride and everyone was eager to meet her – perhaps that was why the invitations were coming so thick and fast, he thought shrewdly. But he was not really one for a great deal of socialising, necessary though a certain amount was. Too many late nights, too much rich food and a constantly refilled glass did not suit him – he needed a clear head and a refreshed system in order to work properly. But again he was prepared to bear with Paula for the moment. Obviously she was eager to meet people and form a circle of friends, but he hoped she would soon tire of the endless round once they were settled in their new home.

In any case they were due to leave on a two-week ‘trunk show' tour in the Mid West soon, taking samples to major department stores in several cities where potential customers who would never travel to New York to shop could see the collection in its entirety, try on any piece that took their fancy and order without the restriction imposed by a middle-man store buyer who might be overcautious about choosing some of the more revolutionary lines. Hugo disliked trunk shows almost as much as he disliked excessive socialising but knew they were an economic necessity and for maximum effect he always went along in person together with one of his most experienced sales ladies and two hand-picked house models. On this trip Paula was to be one of the models – he had not been able to bear the thought of leaving her at home and she was anxious to see as much as possible of America, though he had warned her there would be little time for sightseeing – a trunk show in one city was very like a trunk show in another – arriving, unpacking, showing, selling, packing and moving on again, all in the claustrophobic atmosphere of almost identical department stores. Hugo knew of old what an exhausting business it was – at the end of it, he thought, Paula would be only too glad to settle for a quiet life. And if not, well, he would just have to explain quietly but firmly that if she wanted to be able to continue to spend his money with the same lavish abandon then she would also have to be prepared to allow him enough early nights to be able to create with a clear brain.

Yes, all in all Hugo was more than happy with his new way of life. And judging by the way she was singing to herself as she prepared to go with him to the showroom, Paula was happy too.

The honeymoon lasted precisely six months. Hugo, employed his favourite trick of burying his head in the sand, managed to ignore the first warning rumbles of the storms ahead, but one morning in early July he was unable to ignore them any longer.

He was in his office, hard at work, when there was a knock at the door and Laddie Mitchell looked in.

Laddie was Hugo's assistant and had been from the time Hugo had moved into the big time and was no longer able to produce his collections unaided. Like so many designers, Laddie was homosexual, unlike some he did not parade the fact. In many ways he looked more like a clean-cut college boy than a gay fashion designer; in his Shetland crew neck sweaters and immaculate white yachting trousers he also looked ridiculously young. It was only at close quarters when the deep creases in his tanned face and the grey streaks in the close-cropped light brown hair were visible that one realised that he was years older than he first appeared and would certainly never see thirty again, and perhaps not thirty-five.

Laddie was everything Hugo could have wished for in an assistant. He was hard working and reliable and most important of all he had been able to adapt and channel his talent so that it mirrored Hugo's own. Hugo could leave him to work on a sketch or choose a fabric knowing full well that it would be in keeping with his own style and the finished item would be instantly recognisable to the trained eye as a Hugo Varna original. But for all his obvious talent Laddie was perfectly happy with his role as assistant. He never seemed to mind that his name did not, and never would, appear on the label, or resent the fact that his own ideas had to be subjugated to the Varna line. In truth he lacked the confidence and the drive to branch out on his own – he much preferred to let someone else take the bouquets – and the brickbats – enjoy his fat salary cheque and leave the financial worries to others.

‘Could I have a word with you, Hugo?' Laddie asked.

‘Of course. Come in,' Hugo said, a little disturbed by Laddie's serious expression. ‘Sit down, Laddie.'

Laddie sat, then jumped up again, nervously prowling around the office and the fear that is every designer's nightmare raised its ugly head to leer at Hugo. ‘Nothing has happened to the new designs, I hope. They haven't been stolen, have they?' he asked.

Laddie looked almost surprised. ‘No – nothing like that.'

‘What then? For goodness' sake, man, I can tell just by looking at you that something is wrong.'

‘I don't quite know how to say this,' Laddie began, ‘but there is a lot of unrest amongst the staff.'

‘Unrest? Don't tell me they want their wages reviewed. Heaven knows I already pay them more than any other designer in New York to ensure I have only the best.'

‘No, it's not wages.' Laddie shifted uncomfortably. ‘It's Paula. She has been upsetting them.'

Hugo's brows came together. ‘ Upsetting them? Who? How?'

‘It started with the models. I didn't take much notice at first. I thought it was just that their noses were put out of joint – what with Paula doing the truck show and all the big benefits …

‘What do they expect?' Hugo interrupted. ‘She's my wife, for Chrissake. Of course I took her along.'

‘But it wasn't just that,' Laddie persisted unhappily. ‘ She has started carping at them. Now I don't have to tell you, Hugo, American models are the most professional in the world. They pride themselves on it. They resent an English girl coming in and throwing her weight around.'

‘Simple girlie bitchiness!' Hugo snapped. ‘They
are
professional, I agree with you, I'd never hire them otherwise. But they are also hellishly insecure. And most of them are on ‘‘uppers'' to cut their appetites and stay thin – thank God Paula has no problem with her weight! That makes them edgy. They'll take offence at the smallest thing – you know that as well as I do.'

‘I think in this case they have a point,' Laddie went on doggedly. ‘And it's not just the models. Paula seems to be overlooking everyone in the workrooms, criticising and changing things. She's even had a go at me a couple of times. The staff don't know how to react. They are used to taking their orders from you, me and Maura Hemingway.' (Maura was the chief sales person, an immaculate blue-rinsed matron who had also been with Hugo from the early days). ‘They are not used to being bossed around by one of the house models. But she is your wife, which makes it difficult to ignore her. I tell you, Hugo, if you don't do something about it you will have a mutiny on your hands.'