Letter from Paris (22 page)

India made her way backstage, whispering her apologies as she squeezed past the models crushed together waiting nervously for the opening signal. She reached the green room as the house lights went down.

“Close the door,” Henry said.

“What’s going on? Do you know where she is? Is she okay?” India whispered.

“She’s okay,” he said. “It’s Peter, her husband.”

“What about him?”

Henry lowered his voice. “He tried to commit suicide.”

India’s mouth fell open in horror. “How awful. Is he okay?”

“I can’t say. India, we mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Of course. I won’t say anything, even to Annie.”

“Good. Luella was on her way to the airport when she got the call. She changed for a later flight. When she got to the hospital and found out how serious things were, she couldn’t leave.”

“So why didn’t she tell us sooner?”

“India, I don’t think she’s thinking straight.”

“Of course. Of course not. How stupid of me. Sorry, I’m still a bit shocked myself. What an awful thing. I do hope he’s okay.”

“I haven’t had any more news through yet.”

“So what do we do?”

“This is what’s going to happen. You are going to make the speech and give the award on Luella’s behalf.”

India looked at him, stunned. “I’m what?” she gasped. “No way. Why me? There must be someone else. Why not YOU?”

“I’ve talked to Ron and he agrees. You know what Luella was going to say. You helped her draft the speech. We’ve adapted it here,” he said, handing her a sheet of paper from the table next to him.

India began to feel queasy. Henry continued. “Annabelle will explain why you’re standing in and introduce you. Ron has already given her the wire. She’ll be there with you. You won’t be on your own onstage.”

“Henry, there are almost seven hundred people out there. I am terrified of public speaking. I’ve not had a rehearsal. I couldn’t possibly.”

“Come on, India. It’s only a student fashion show. It’s not the Oscars.”

“But it’s being filmed. It’s being streamed to LA and to Paris and London.”

“So?”

“Apart from anything else, I’m not dressed for it.”

“That’s easily fixed,” he said. “I’m taking you through to wardrobe right now. Come on, India. You can do it. You haven’t any choice. We need you, I need you,” he said pulling her out of the chair and leading her by the hand down the corridor.

India felt distinctly-light headed. This can’t be happening, she thought. Please tell me this isn’t happening.

Jean-Luc was holding the microphone and still speaking as India slid into Luella’s seat at the end of the front row a little while later.

“As you know, this event…to promote the innovation of young fashion students is the culmination of months of…and the collaboration…with…the students who produced that last incredibly creative collection. Please give them another round of applause…Now welcome the…”

India barely heard his remarks. She was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. The whalebone corset in her gown was cutting into her ribs and was altogether too tight around her middle. Her hair had been caught up in a tight topknot with tendrils and her toes were squashed into wrongly sized pumps.

Aiming her cell phone light at the crumpled piece of paper on her lap, she blew on a ringlet and attempted to familiarize herself with what had been written for her. This is agony. I’d rather do another fire-walk, a bungee jump, anything other than stand up there and make a speech. I think I’m going to die, she thought as the electronic dance music heralded the eveningwear collection.

India watched the students stomping to the rhythmic beat of Paul Van Dyke’s
Purple Haze
modeling asymmetric designs, biker boots and balloon gowns made from recycled wood fibers. I can’t see these at a Beverly-Wilshire gala anytime soon, she thought. What’s next?

Scrutinizing her program, she saw that it was the men’s collection…the men’s collection…men’s collection? Why did that ring a bell? Shit, she thought. Ah! Yes. Luella was supposed to be onstage right after the men’s collection.

The pulsing rhythm gave way to a solitary Indian flute and six male students, their faces invisible behind Native American war paint, walked across the stage against images of the Appalachian mountain range.

Okay. What did Alex tell me? she thought, gripping the sides of her seat. Okay…carpet, backstage, seated…speech, then she hands out LIFT award, stays onstage until they all get signal to leave stage left.

India saw Ron crouched down and coming toward her from the side aisle. I can’t do this. I can’t do this, she thought.

“India,” he whispered. “Come with me. Annabelle is going to introduce you in about five minutes.”

These are going to be the worst five minutes of my life, she thought struggling to stand up and then smoothing down her gown.

Standing in the wings, Annabelle caught her eye. “You’ll be great,” she mouthed.

I will, won’t I? she thought. India Butler, you walked on fire, you went on
The View…
shit, you froze on
The View.
You died…but you DID walk on fire.

India took a deep breath. She could feel an elbow steadying her and then suddenly she was onstage, blinded for a moment by the Klieg lights, her heart pounding in her chest. Where was the audience? She couldn’t see anything beyond the edge of the stage.

Annabelle smiled at her. “Take a breath, darling. Smile. You’ll be fine,” she whispered as the measured beat of
Mon Legionnaire
filled the room and the models began to cross the stage and strut up the central aisle of the theater. Black and white images of a chain-smoking Serge Gainsbourg flashed up on the screens as half- clothed male dancers performed a stylized routine against the backdrop of a derelict warehouse. The audience rose to its feet and began clapping along to the music and, after a rousing applause, took their seats again as the house lights went up.

India saw the sea of expectant faces in front of her. I think I preferred the dark, she thought.

Annabelle stepped forward. “I think you will all agree with me that this has been a spectacular evening.”

This was greeted by thunderous applause.

“As you know, this design work has been inspired by a novel written by the much loved writer Luella Marchmont. Sadly Miss Marchmont is unable to be with us tonight to give the LIFT Award.”

India was trembling now. She leaned on the side of the podium, clinging onto her script.

“Stepping in for her tonight is the education consultant to the project. She is Luella’s friend and most important of all, she is my sister.” She paused. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the beautiful India Butler.”

Annabelle hugged India and kissed her on the cheek. “You’ll be great,” she whispered.

India stepped forward as the applause died down.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice aquiver. “Miss Marchmont is extremely sorry she can’t be with us tonight. She was honored to have been asked to present the LIFT award and delighted that
Faux Fashion
has inspired this stunning show.”

She hesitated and looked around her, reminded of the many presentations she had made at school productions. I can do this, she thought, putting her notes down on the podium and looking at the tense faces of the students assembled at the foot of the stage waiting to hear the name of the winner. She smiled.

“Over the last few months it has been my privilege to get to know many of you and to see the incredible work you have all produced.” Her voice was steady now.

“Your discipline, innovation, and creativity have inspired me. I salute your talent. I am looking at design through new eyes. We have all learned so much about ethical, cruelty-free fashion. All the work here tonight deserves the utmost praise. Let me read Luella’s message of congratulations to you all.”

India picked up her notes again and read Luella’s closing remarks. Pausing, she looked up. “And now, I would like to announce the winner.”

She opened the envelope, pulled out the card, and waited. The room was deathly silent, tense with expectation. India paused again, deliberately extending the suspense of the moment.

“Georgia Pullman.”

A whoop of delight and a shriek came from the stalls.

“Well, that must be Georgia,” India quipped. “Please give it up for Georgia Pullman. Congratulations, Georgia. Come on up.”

There was much stomping applause from the students as Georgia accepted the figurine. Annabelle took India’s arm and they stepped back a few paces as Jean-Luc returned to the stage.

“Well done, darling. That was perfect,” Annabelle whispered under her breath.

Jean-Luc bowed to the audience. “Thank you. And so to close, I will announce zee name of the student who will intern with me next spring in Paris,” he said. The room fell silent again.

“Before that I would like to address all of the students here.” He looked at the assembled group with fierce intensity. “Winning awards is wonderful. I have been fortunate to win many. But awards are not the lifeblood of an artist. If any of you thought that a career in fashion would be an easy ride, think again. Leave now unless you are prepared to tunnel the depths of your soul, to take risks for your creativity, to carve a unique path. As Martha Graham once said…”

Here he flicked through his notes and read,
“‘There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it.’

“Get a copy of that and paste it to your workstations. Never forget –
if you block it,
the world will not have it
.” He paused. “You have chosen this creative path; make sure you give your work every fiber of your being.”

The room was enthralled.

“And now,” he continued, “for outstanding innovation and design, would Evan Johns please step up?”

India heard very little of Jean-Luc’s speech. Pumped with adrenalin, she was looking forward to the after party and to the very large glass of wine she would be having.

Within minutes of curtain-down, the backstage area was crowded with students and models hugging and high-fiving each other and making plans for the rest of the evening. India lost sight of Annabelle, whom she had last seen chatting with the student assigned to look after her. She was making her way toward the green room when Annabelle appeared at her side.

“Quick. My dressing room,” she said. “This way. Now.”

India ran behind, trying to keep up. “What’s the rush, Annie?”

“I’ll tell you when we’re somewhere quiet and you can hear yourself think.”

“Is everything okay?”

“In a minute,” she muttered, squeezing behind a rack of clothes and opening the door of her dressing room.

“Okay,” she said once they were inside. “Damien’s been trying to reach you. Sarah gave him my number. She’s gone into labor early and there are some complications but right now, she’s stable. They’re on their way to the hospital. He said she keeps asking for you.”

“She’s not due for another two weeks,” India said. “Ron has my phone. Where is he? I have to get back to London. What time is it?”

“Nine thirty. I’ll call Tess, see if she can get you on a red eye,” Annabelle said. “Here, use mine. Call Damien.”

“God, I hope she’s going to be okay,” India mumbled pressing the keys. “Hello. Hello. Is that you Damien?”

“India?”

“Yes. What’s going on? I’m in New York. What’s happened?”

“We’re at Ealing Hospital.”

“Is Sarah okay?”

“I think so. I hope so. They’ve taken her into surgery. They’re giving her an emergency caesarian. The baby has the cord wrapped around its neck. I’m outside the ER.”

“Oh Damien, I’m sorry. I’m sure she’ll be okay. I’ll get there as soon as I possibly can. This must be so awful for you. I’ll text in a minute, when I know when I can get there.”

She gave the phone back to Annabelle to call her assistant.

“I’ll hold,” Annabelle said, then mouthing to India. “She’s checking now. Oh. Okay. Tess says the first direct flight is at seven twenty tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? There’s got to be something sooner. I need to get there NOW.”

“You’ve missed the last flight tonight. You have to be there two hours ahead. Next one leaves at seven twenty; shall she book it?”

India looked defeated. “Okay. If she’s sure that’s the only option. What time does it get in?”

“With the time difference, seven fifteen tomorrow evening.”

“Shit. Okay.”

“Go ahead and book. Yes, first class. Thanks, Tess. One way. Yes.”

“I’ll text Damien and let him know. I feel so sorry for him. He sounds awful,” India said taking the phone from her sister.