Goodbye, Janette (25 page)

Janette didn’t answer.

“Even if it were all gone, it wouldn’t matter,” Lauren continued. “I could still manage. I don’t need very much.” She caught a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower as they turned off the Boulevard Périphérique and she broke into a smile. “There it is!” she said like an excited child. “Now I really believe I’m in Paris!”

***

The Rolls pulled to the curb in front of the salon on avenue Montaigne. The doorman in his formal uniform opened the door. “
Bon jour
, Madame.”

“
Bon jour
, Louis,” Janette answered as he reached in and took her attaché case from the car. She turned to Lauren. “Try to get some rest this afternoon. I’m having a small dinner party at home this evening. There are so many people who want to see you.”

Lauren looked at her. “You really don’t have to do anything. I’m happy just to be here.”

“Don’t be silly,” Janette said with a smile. “It will be fun to see their faces when they meet you. They all still think of you as a child.”

She crossed the sidewalk and went up the few steps to the private entrance next to the salon. As usual, she stopped at the top of the steps and looked up and down the street.

It was early July and the street lay smoldering in the heat and the humidity left by the early-morning showers. A quick check. Christian Dior was on the corner, Nina Ricci across the street. Farther up the block was the Plaza Athéneé. The street was empty; only a few early-morning tourists were coming out of the hotel to begin their pilgrimage. But there was no one in front of the salons, quiet and somnolent in the summer heat.

But she knew better. That was just the facade. Inside of each salon the pressure was building. Collections. Now, less than three weeks away. They all had to be going crazy. The scramble was on, the rumors were flying, and each house was working day and night to counter what they thought the others were doing. All were intent on grabbing the limelight, attracting the most attention from the newspapers and the publicity that resulted from the excitement. Hems up, hems down, shoulders broad, shoulders narrow, hips flat, hips round, colors bright, colors somber, silks, satins, wool, acrylics. Nobody really knew what would work, so all were going crazy.

Louis opened the door for her and she went inside. He opened the tiny elevator door, gave her the attaché case, pressed the button for the third floor where her office was and touched his cap in a salute as the door closed in front of him. Her office was at the end of the corridor. It used to be Johann’s. But she had had it done over when she moved in.

The frenzy was in the air as she moved through the large general office in which the desks of the bookkeepers and secretaries and clerks ringed the walls and the doors to the private offices. A quiet murmur of “
Bon jour
, Madame” trailed her way to her own office, which was on the farthest end.

There were only three offices which had private rooms for their secretaries. Her own, Jacques’ and Philippe’s. She opened the door to her secretary’s office and for a moment felt a twinge of annoyance at seeing a girl sitting at Robert’s desk. Then she remembered that Robert was bringing Lauren’s luggage home.

The girl got to her feet. “
Bon jour
, Madame.”

“
Bon jour
, Sylvie,” Janette answered, moving to her own door as Sylvie opened it for her. “Any urgent messages?”

“Monsieur Jacques wanted to see you as soon as you came in,” the girl answered, following Janette into the office and placing the mail and other telephone messages on the desk.

Janette placed her attaché case on the desk and walked behind it. “Tell Monsieur Jacques that he can come right in.”

The girl nodded and left the room. Janette sat down and began to leaf through the messages. Nothing that could not hold. She looked up as Jacques came into the room.

They wasted no time on greetings. “You met Lauren?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“What is she like?”

Janette smiled. “Beautiful. What did you expect? American vitamins never miss.” She changed the subject. “Is that what is so important?”

Jacques dropped into the chair opposite her. “Philippe’s hysterical again. He’s screaming there’s no way he can make this collection with the budget we’ve given him. He says that Dior, St. Laurent, Givenchy have three times as much to spend as he does.”

“That’s right,” Janette said.

“He wants to see you right away.”

“I’ll see him,” she said calmly. “In my own time. Right now, he’ll have to wait. We have other things to do.” She opened the attaché case and took out some papers. “I want you to go over these and tell me what you think.”

He glanced down at them, then back at her. “Designs? Who did them?”

“It doesn’t matter for the moment,” she said. “I just would like your opinion.”

“I’ll study them,” he said. “Meanwhile what about Philippe?”

She rose to her feet. “Let’s go. We might as well get it over with.”

They could hear Philippe’s voice as soon as they entered his secretary’s office. Even through the closed door it had a shrill hysterical ring. Jacques glanced knowingly at her as he opened the door.

A mannequin was standing on the small pedestal in the middle of the room, a bored distant look on her face that only a mannequin could have while a tempest raged around her. She was draped in pieces of cloth that would later become a dress but right now were only swatches held together with pins. Two
midinettes
, their frightened faces and shaking hands reflecting their nervousness, and Mme. St. Cloud, the chief seamstress, were standing around the mannequin while Philippe was pacing back and forth in front of the girl, ranting and raving. The only person in the room who seemed unaffected by anything was Marlon, who was seated on a couch against the far wall. He was out of it.

Philippe turned toward them, throwing up his hands in a gesture of despair. “Everything’s wrong,” he screamed. “The material’s not what I ordered, the factory said that’s the best they could do with the money we’re paying them, the colors are all wrong, and when the dress is cut nothing falls in the place I designed for it. Mme. St. Cloud said that she needs more money for seamstresses, what do I expect when we have only three seniors and all apprentices? I’m going mad, I tell you, stark raving mad. I can’t take it anymore. I am going to kill myself. That’s what I’ll do. Kill myself!”

Janette looked at him for a moment, then gestured to Mme. St. Cloud. A moment later, the mannequin and the others had gone. She waited until the door closed behind them before she spoke. “What you need is to calm yourself.”

“What I need is more money to be able to realize my designs,” Philippe retorted angrily.

Janette stared at him. Her voice was cold. “What you need isn’t more money, what you need is more creativity. Money doesn’t make designs. Your problem is that you’re in a rut and you’re using money as an excuse.”

“You saw the designs,” Philippe snapped. “You thought they were great.”

“They were,” she said, “until you started fooling with them, reaching for materials that weren’t practical—and you know it.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Philippe shouted. “Have all the others making a horse’s ass out of me?” You know the materials that St. Laurent is using, that Bohan and Givenchy are coming out with. We’ll look cheap by comparison.”

“Dull!” Philippe snapped. He went to his desk and pulled out some folders and threw them across the desk at her. “Look at those,” he said. “I paid five thousand francs to get them. Samples of materials that they’re using. Every one of them cost more than twice what we’re paying.”

Janette picked up the folders and glanced through them silently, then passed them to Jacques. She felt a tightening in her stomach. He was right. The materials made theirs look cheap. But nothing of the way she felt showed on her face. “When did you get these?” she asked. “Why didn’t you show them to me before?”

“I just got them last night,” Philippe said. “I came in here at five this morning trying to work something out.” He slumped into his chair. “But there’s nothing we can do. We’re fucked. It’s too late to change now.”

Jacques placed the folders back on the desk without comment. The expression on his face did nothing to encourage any of them.

Her voice was controlled. “I want to think about this.” She walked toward the door, Jacques following. “We’ll meet again in my office in one hour.”

***

The house was as Lauren had remembered it. Everything was the same until she got to her room. The child’s room was gone. In its place was a beautiful boudoir that seemed furnished for a princess. For a moment she stood in the doorway looking in, a twinge of regret for a memory long gone. Then she went into the room and walked directly to the window. At least the view had not changed. She still looked out at the park in which she used to play as a child.

A knock at the door turned her from the window. The door opened and Janette’s secretary came in carrying her bag. Behind him were the butler and a maid, both carrying large vases of flowers. Robert put the valise down as the flowers were placed, one vase on the small coffee table next to the chaise lounge, the other on the side of the dresser so that it did not block the mirror in the center.

“Claudine will help you unpack,” Robert said.

“I can manage myself,” Lauren answered.

“She will be hurt if you don’t let her help you,” Robert said in English.

“Okay, then,” Lauren answered. “But I’m afraid that she’ll be disappointed. There’s nothing much in there.”

“Madame asked me to help you if there’s anything you need,” Robert continued.

“That’s very kind, but I can’t think of anything.” She had a thought. “Janette mentioned some kind of dinner party tonight. How do I dress?”

“A simple cocktail dress would be all right.”

Lauren laughed. “I don’t have one. Nothing but jeans and slacks.”

“No problem,” Robert answered. “Madame has a large wardrobe. I’m sure we can find something in there that will be satisfactory.”

The butler came toward her with two cards that had come with the flowers as the maid opened her valise. Lauren took the cards and glanced at them.

One was the card of the Marquis de la Beauville. The writing was in English. “Welcome. I look forward to seeing you this evening.” The other was from Jacques, also in English. “Happy you are here. With affection.”

She gave the cards to Robert. He looked at them without speaking. “Are there many people coming tonight?”

“About twenty.”

“Am I supposed to know them?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “They are mostly friends and associates of Madame.”

“Why do you call her Madame?”

“It is customary,” he answered. “After all, she is the
chef
.”

“I didn’t know that she was friendly with the marquis.”

Robert looked uncomfortable. “She is on speaking terms with your father.”

Lauren looked at him. There was no point in asking any further questions. It was obvious that he had no answers for her. She glanced past them to where the maid was taking out a man’s dop kit from her bag. “Put that on the bureau,” she said in French. “I’ll take care of it.” The kit was filled with vials containing a careful selection of Harvey’s grass, cocaine and assorted other pills.

“
Oui
, Mademoiselle.” The maid placed the dop kit on the dresser and continued to hang Lauren’s clothing in the closet.

“I know you must be tired,” Robert said. “So if you would like to rest now, I can come back later to help you select something to wear this evening.”

“We can do it now while she’s still unpacking.”

“Very well,” he said. “Come with me.”

She followed him out into the corridor and into Janette’s room. It was the room that had been her mother’s but that, too, was now changed. Everything was now modern. White, black, bright red and polished stainless steel. It was a sybaritic room, feminine, to be sure, but with occasional hints of subdued masculinity. He led her through the room into a large walk-in wardrobe. There had to be at least two hundred dresses and outfits hanging in there. She looked at Robert in bewilderment. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

He smiled. “I’ll help you. The cocktail dresses are over here.”

She watched while he flipped through the rack. He looked questioningly at her. She shook her head. “Not my thing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in any of them.”

“‘They’re very smart,” he said.

She smiled. “Maybe that’s why. I never dress like that.”

“Perhaps an afternoon frock,” he said, turning to another rack and starting to move the dresses apart so that she could see them.

But still she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not of much help, am I?” she asked. “The only dress I had on in the last three years was my white graduation dress. And you don’t know what we went through until I found one that I would wear.”

“Did you bring it with you?” he asked.

“What for?” she replied. “I didn’t think I would need it.”

“We have some white summer dresses,” he said. “But they’re long.” He crossed to the other side of the closet where the gowns were hanging. Quickly he flipped through them until he came to the one he remembered and took it from the rack. He held it toward her. It was white eyelet cotton with white cap-shoulder sleeves, square-cut décolletage low in front, even lower in back. “This would look good on you.”

“I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “I don’t wear a bra, my breasts would fall out.”

“Why don’t you try it on and see?”

She took the dress from him but stood there still looking at the racks. One section was all suits. A group, all in shiny black, caught her eye. “What are those?”

“Smokings,” he answered.

“Smokings?” Her voice was puzzled.

“Tuxedos, you Americans call them. They’re man-tailored especially for Madame. She wears them often. Even St. Laurent admits he got the idea from seeing her wearing one.”

She moved them slowly along the rack so that she could look at each one. “It’s a hell of an idea,” she said. “But don’t you think it’s a little dikey?”