Goodbye, Janette (38 page)

That had been her own idea. Buying a bankrupt manufacturing company in the south of France, she immediately entered into another distribution agreement with Kensington. Scaled at popular prices and aimed at the same market as the jeans, the bathing suits were another immediate success. The net income from that division was almost half a million dollars a year.

The last billboard coming up represented, in its own peculiar way, the biggest gamble of all. This, too, was all her own. For many years she had toyed with the idea, but it was the tremendous success achieved by Yves St. Laurent in launching his new perfume, Opium, during the last three years, that finally convinced her to move on her own.

Carefully analyzing the results of a market study she had ordered, she discovered some surprising facts. Of all the perfumes sold, and there were hundreds of known brands, only two were widely enough known to be recognized by name as perfumes by the general public. The first was Chanel No. 5 with an 88 percent recognition factor. None of the others came close, but the closest to them proved to be Opium, with a 29 percent recognition factor, and that, as the market study pointed out, was due to the major and still current advertising and ongoing promotion. Two other interesting facts came to light. Both Chanel No. 5 and Arpége had been created in the twenties and belonged to the aldehydic floral group of scents, while Opium, a modern perfume launched in 1977, had its roots firmly in the oriental group, tracing its lineage almost directly from Tabu, launched by Dana in 1931, and Youth Dew by Lauder, marketed first in 1952. While Tabu had become something of a perfume classic, neither of the two had achieved the market recognition of Opium. But then, when they were introduced, they hadn’t had the benefit of modern marketing techniques to create the kind of recognition that television could give them today.

Another interesting fact the study revealed was the importance of package design—both the bottle that contained the perfume and the package in which it was sold. That as well as the perfume itself had to tell its own story. And the story had to be embodied in the name of the perfume. It had to be simple, yet with a quick recognition factor.

She believed she had the name.
Soie
. The word for silk in French. The most intimate, most sensual fabric a woman could wear could also apply to her perfume. The other problem was not so easily resolved. Her original aromatic was too strongly based in the oriental and she felt that it could be regarded as an imitation of Opium. Working closely with the “noses,” as they were called at the perfumery, she managed to combine the scents of both the floral, aldehydic group of Chanel No. 5 and Arpége and the sensuality of the oriental group. The result was a fragrance that was extraordinarily female yet feminine, sensual yet fresh and mossily floral. And the first decision she made was not to call it a perfume.
Soie
would be a fragrance, something that was a part of a woman, not a perfume she wore.

This last billboard was perhaps the most eye-catching of all. Upon seeing the bright sparkling bottle with the nude statue of a girl in Lalique crystal as the bottle stopper, one was not aware at first that in the shadows behind was another nude portrait of Janette. Painted many years ago by Dali, the artist had caught and exposed the many erotic facets of her body and personality. The shadowy pool of her dark eyes, the flush-red lower lip, the thrusting nipple tips of her swelling breasts, the curve of her belly falling into the shadow of her pubis almost lost in the swelling of her white hips and thighs. Almost by shock would come the realization that the portrait of the girl had been translated into the nude Lalique statue on the bottle. The name was etched into the cut crystal of the bottle in script,
Soie
. Beneath that in lettering almost too small to read, “de Janette.” As on the other billboards, the advertising message ran down one side.
Le plus intime. Le plus sensuel. Le vrai aromate de la femme. Soie. L’aromate de Janette.

And in its own way it was that perfume which led to her present situation. Determined to outperform St. Laurent in the market, she had committed more than five million dollars in cash to launch the perfume in the last six months, virtually stripping her own companies’ cash reserves. Television advertising in America alone had run more than three million, the balance going to magazines and newspapers. And none of this money took into account the discounts and incentives given to the retail trade to gain their support. Their calculations had taken into account that it would be at least two years before the investment would be recovered and three years before they could realize a profit. To her satisfaction, the results were even more encouraging than had been predicted. An almost immediate market acceptance had led to a revision of the projected figures that cut their recoupment time in half.

But, as it turned out, it wasn’t quick enough. The unexpected happened. The Reardon Group had been offered a tremendous profit for their controlling interest in Kensington Mills by a Japanese company anxious to get a foothold in the American market and had accepted.

At any other time this could have been the greatest opportunity she had ever had. For under the clause inserted at the last moment by her sagacious American attorney, Paul Gitlin, she had the option to buy back her contracts and agreements with the Reardon Group at the book value carried on its balance sheet should they sell or otherwise dispose of their interest in Kensington. And the ten million dollars at which it was carried was less than two times annual earnings. Ten times annual earnings would have been considered an equitable figure. But no matter how cheap, it did her no good. All the cash she had in her companies had been invested in the perfume. Now she was scrambling again. It was as if nothing had changed. Independence was as elusive as ever.

Maurice met her at the door to his apartment. He was visibly excited. “I was right,” he said. “I knew all the time I was right.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “You’re not making any sense.”

“The money in the Swiss bank,” he said. “Maybe now you won’t have to fuck with the Greek for it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ll see,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the library. “You’ll see.”

He opened the door and a young man seated inside the room rose to his feet. Maurice introduced them. “Monsieur Thierry, my daughter, Madame Janette de la Beauville.” He looked at Janette and explained. “Monsieur Thierry is with the Swiss Credit Bank in Geneva.”

Janette extended her hand. “A pleasure, Monsieur Thierry.”

The young banker kissed her hand politely. “An honor, Madame. I did not realize when I sought this meeting I would meet so famous a woman.”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Janette said. “Now, if I may ask, why did you want to see me?”

The young banker looked at Maurice. He was obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Monsieur le Marquis, but my instructions from the bank were very explicit. What I have to say is for her ears alone.”

“I understand,” Maurice said quickly. “Of course.” Quickly he went to the door and closed it behind him.

“Now, Monsieur,” Janette said, looking at the banker.

“If I may be permitted, Madame,” Thierry said, taking a paper from his pocket and glancing at it. His voice took on a formal tone. “In accordance with the instructions given to the bank by your late mother, we have the obligation to inform you at the end of a period not less than twenty-five years after her demise that on October 10, 1944, she became the lessor of a certain group of safe-deposit boxes contained in the vaults of our bank.” He stopped reading and handed the paper to her. “There are two copies of that information. If you will be kind enough to sign this copy, which acknowledges that you have received the information according to the instructions, we will have completed our business.”

Janette took the paper and glanced at it. It was exactly as he had read it. She looked at him. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Does it mean I have access to those boxes?”

“If you have the key in your possession, certainly. If not—you do not.”

“Then what is the purpose of telling me about it?”

“I do not know, Madame. We are only following instructions.”

“Then who has the key?” she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Under the Swiss banking laws protecting the confidentiality of our client relationship, I am not permitted to give that information.”

“Then how do I go about establishing my rights to those boxes and their contents, as my mother obviously wanted me to have them?”

“You may file a claim in the Probate Court of Switzerland, which has the ultimate jurisdiction in matters of inheritance.”

“How long would that take?”

“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I do not know. Sometimes years.”

“Damn!” she said, looking down at the paper again. “Do you have any idea of the contents of those boxes?”

“No, Madame, what the clients place in their boxes is no concern of ours. I’m afraid I’m not being of much help. But there’s nothing else I could do.”

“What if I refuse to sign the paper?” she asked.

“Then you would have no right to lay claim to the boxes because you have not legally been informed of them and, again, under Swiss banking laws, we do not even have to acknowledge their existence.”

She shook her head hopelessly. “Then I might as well sign it.”

“Yes, Madame,” he said, holding out a pen.

Quickly she signed the copy and gave it to him. “Thank you, Monsieur Thierry.”

“You’re welcome, Madame,” he said, handing her the other copy.

She smiled suddenly. “It’s late and I haven’t had dinner as yet. Would it be a violation of Swiss banking laws if I asked you to join me for dinner?”

A slow smile came to his lips. “I think that is permissible, Madame. But I’m afraid I must refuse. I have a previous engagement.”

“Then break it.” She laughed.

“As much as I would like to, Madame, I’m afraid I cannot. My wife is waiting for me at the hotel.”

She laughed again and held out her hand. “Monsieur Thierry, you’re a gentleman. I hope we will meet again.”

He kissed her hand politely. “So do I, Madame,” he said, walking to the door.

A moment after he left, Maurice came back into the room. He stared at her face. “Well?”

“You were right,” she said quietly, handing him the paper. “But merely knowing about it gives me no right to it.”

He read the paper quickly. “Then who has the right?”

“Whoever has the key,” she said. “And he wouldn’t tell me who that was.”

Maurice stared at her. “He doesn’t have to tell me,” he said. “I know who has the key. And so do you.”

She was silent.

“You’re going to have to do something about it now,” he said. “Or remain a beggar and a whore the rest of your life.”

She looked at him, still silent.

“You’re going to have to bring Lauren into it,” he said.

“Do I have to?” she asked.

“You know Johann,” he answered. “Whatever is there is half hers. He won’t do a thing unless he feels that she is protected. The only way you’ll get anything is if the two of you approach him.”

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Lauren doesn’t give a damn about money. She never did.”

“She’s twenty-three now,” he said. “She has to be getting tired of living on that stupid beach in California with no one except a five-year-old child to keep her company.”

“That’s the kind of life she likes.”

“Then it’s up to you to convince her that her daughter deserves a better chance in life than growing up to be a beach bum,” he said. “Even if she doesn’t want it for herself she has no right to deprive her child.”

“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Sometimes I think I’ve fucked too much with her head.”

He laughed. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do, Janette. The one thing your mother and I had in common was our selfishness. We both wanted everything we could get.” He went to the sideboard and took down a bottle of cognac. “You don’t regret what you did. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer as he poured the cognac into two glasses and came back to her. Still silent, she took a glass from him and sipped it.

He swallowed half his drink in one gulp, then put his glass down. “There’s just one thing I never understood,” he said. “Why you pushed Patrick off on Lauren. Wouldn’t things have been simpler if you had married him yourself?”

She took another sip of the cognac before she answered him. “That’s exactly what I intended to do when they came back from Sardinia.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“She said she was in love with him.”

He looked at her. “She was just a child. You could have blown that up.”

“I suppose I could have,” she answered, meeting his gaze. She took another sip of the cognac. “Maybe I should have.”

Deep inside herself she always had known the marriage was doomed. And even while they exchanged wedding vows in the garden of Patrick’s mother’s home in Devon and Patrick’s eyes searched her out as he looked over his bride’s white veil, she knew it was doomed. And that she would be the cause of its destruction.

***

From her window on the second floor of Reardon Manor, Janette could see the first of the wedding guests arrive. She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. The ceremony was scheduled for noon.

She glanced up at the sky. It was clear blue, not a cloud in it. Happy the bride the sun shines on today. She smiled at the thought. Especially on an English Sunday, she added. She went back into the room and picked up the guest list from the dressing table.

It wasn’t going to be a large wedding, only sixty guests, but the list read like a Who’s Who of British society and industry. Headed by the royal family represented by Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden, there were enough lords and ladies to fill the audience chamber at Buckingham Palace. The Lord Mayor of London would be there. France was represented by the Comte de Paris, her stepfather the marquis, and the French ambassador to the Court of St. James. Johann and Heidi had come from America and the American ambassador would also be there.