Spring Collection (40 page)

Over the top? Of course she was over the top, Peaches thought in delight, smiling her famous good-time smile into the mirror and shaking her freshly blond head approvingly. It was her damn party, wasn’t it? She rapidly replaced the lapel pin as she heard the first guests arrive.

Peaches had expected that the girls would probably all show up together, in a gaggle, for moral support; that the French, as was their way, would be on time and the Americans late. She was delighted and surprised when many of the French and Americans arrived almost simultaneously in one party-hungry, luxuriously black-clad, importantly jeweled group and her party started out in that explosively exciting confusion every hostess dreams of. For a half hour her large sitting room was filled with excited conversation as people who hadn’t seen each other for a few months delighted in renewed acquaintance, kissing, laughing, catching up on the latest scandal, and drinking champagne as quickly as it was offered by the many busy waiters. Suddenly a hush descended on the crowded room. Peaches turned toward the door, expecting to see the three girls making their entrance together. But it was Jordan who stood
there alone, Jordan who had reduced the room to this tribute with the fire of her unexpected presence.

Peaches collected herself and her smile and advanced toward the girl, who, unpardonably, was also wearing white, a totally unadorned, sleeveless white satin mini-dress with black satin pumps and a fresh white gardenia pinned in her hair. Jet button earrings were her only jewelry. As her compatriot, LBJ, was known to say, Peaches thought, looking at the murderously chic girl, she felt like shittin’ a squealin’ worm.

She guided Jordan around the room to meet the other guests, feeling that she must resemble a short, glittering tugboat leading a sleek yacht. A part of Peaches’ brain noticed that Jordan greeted the natives in a French that caused them all to express the immediate appreciation the French reserve for those who speak their language with the right melody.

The instant she spotted Jacques Necker enter the room, Peaches unceremoniously abandoned Jordan.

“Jacques, I didn’t dare to believe you’d really show up! The most infamous hermit in Paris! I’m absolutely thrilled,” she told him, kissing him on both cheeks and throwing back her head to look up at him in barely concealed covetousness.

He looked down at her with a tolerant smile. “Am I such a total recluse that you think I’d miss a party for my own models?”

“You’ve missed most of my others,” she pouted.

“And everyone else’s—to be fair. You’re looking gorgeous, Peaches, it’s a treat to see you.”

“Come with me and I’ll introduce you to some of the Americans who are here—all future Lombardi supporters,” she said, taking him by the arm.

“Thank you for watching out for my interests,” Necker replied, his eyes rapidly taking in the room, “but I think I’ll go rescue Jordan first. Those men look as if they’re about to eat her up alive.”

Peaches found herself standing momentarily alone at the entrance to her big sitting room, watching Jacques Necker’s back as he cut through the crowd,
waving at the people he knew, and headed directly for Jordan. “Rescue Jordan?” she muttered in offended surprise. “What the fuck from?”

“Since when have you started talking to yourself at your own party?” Dart Benedict asked, grabbing her and spinning her around.

“Dart, darling! Welcome!”

“My God, Peaches, you’ve never looked better! Mary Beth told me to be sure to send her love. What’s new in your life, beautiful girl?”

“This and that, and quite a bit of the other,” Peaches said, giving him as subtly insinuating a smile as she could summon up. “Nothing” was not a possible answer, even when it was true.

“Hmmm, some lucky guy agrees with you, and don’t think I won’t find out who he is. Now tell me, where are the guests of honor? I’m panting with curiosity.”

“Two of them haven’t shown up yet, if you can believe such rudeness, but that’s Jordan Dancer, over there, having her little triumph.”

“Hmmm … the politically correct inclusion. Necker’s instinct is good,” Benedict admitted. “I’d say there’s room for one, or at the most two, more top black girls in the business.”

“Could Jordan be one of them?”

“I’d have to study her carefully to answer that. But as far as attracting a crowd goes, she’ll win that prize any day. Has Marco arrived yet?”

“I haven’t noticed,” Peaches answered vaguely. “Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

“Don’t bother, love, I know lots of these people. I’ll take care of myself.”

Dart Benedict melted away in Jordan’s direction as Peaches expected he would. Professional curiosity was something she could understand. Quickly Peaches found herself caught up in the next wave of guests. Maude Callender, in a formal frock coat of black cut velvet and a ruffled, white, lace-trimmed shirt, was the only one Peaches felt was enough of a stranger to be
introduced to a few groups before she could be left on her own.

“Aren’t the girls here?” Maude asked as they moved through the noisy room, from one group to another.

“Only Jordan.”

“I can’t imagine what’s happened to April,” Maude said, mystified. “She said she was going shopping but she should have been back hours ago.”

“And what about Tinker—can’t they tell time? Guests of honor should always be early, damn it, everybody knows that.”

“Why didn’t Frankie round them up?” Maude asked.

“Even Frankie isn’t here,” Peaches said, sharply annoyed. “What a joke of a chaperone she’s turned out to be.”

“But Peaches, her mind’s on more important things, surely you’ve made allowances for that.”

“What’s more important?”

“Mike Aaron of course. Where have you been not to have heard?”

“Oh, Maude, don’t be absurd, Mike can have anybody he—”

“Would you care to bet cash on the line against it?” Maude asked. “Oh, Kiki, here you are! I have a million things to tell you.… Peaches, I’ll just stay here with Kiki, don’t bother about me.…”

Peaches took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and drained it. She looked around the room with a feeling of unreality. Who were all these loud, gesticulating, gossiping, hand-kissing, cheek-kissing, eating, drinking, shriekingly elegant people; what were they all finding so amusing, why had she invited them in the first place?

“Mrs. Wilcox, I’m Tom Strauss. Tinker told me to meet her here. Thanks for inviting me.”

“So you’re the mystery man!” Peaches said, recovering quickly from her moment of self-doubt. “Well, it’s about time! We’ve all been dying to lay eyes on you.
Hmmm … I can certainly see why Tinker went missing so fast.”

“You’ll make me self-conscious,” Tom said, grinning down at her easily. He liked a genuine, all-American, flirtatious broad as well as the next man.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Peaches said wryly. “I suppose you want to know where your girl is?”

“She promised me that for once she’d get here on time. Lombardi’s been working her so late that I barely see her, and when I do, she’s whimpering with exhaustion. She falls asleep while she’s soaking her feet. It’s pathetic.”

“Don’t worry, they’re probably on their way over this minute—you, of all people, must know how artists get carried away.”

“Of course I do. I’ve worked into the next day myself, a hundred times, but I didn’t have to get up every morning for tango lessons.”

“If she wins, it’ll all have been worth it.”

“And if she doesn’t, Mrs. Wilcox? Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you that, I shouldn’t even think it.”

“Call me Peaches. If she doesn’t, at least she’ll know that she gave it her all. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

“Yeah, I’m giving it my best shot. Say, that must be Jordan Dancer.
Wow!
I can certainly see why Tinker’s so nervous about her. Who’s the older guy hovering over her?”

“Hovering?”

“Right, a big blond type, greying at the temples, hovering protectively, as they say.”

“You can’t mean Jacques Necker?”

“That’s the guy. I should have recognized him from Tinker’s description. Now
that
doesn’t look too good for Tinker’s chances, does it?”

“You’re imagining things, Tom. It’s out of the question.” Peaches turned to look in the direction of his eyes.

“Why? I hope you’re right, but who’s going to make the decision anyway? As I understand it, nobody
really knows, but it seems to me that the man who owns the business would make it his personal choice.”

“Tom, use your head. Would a hardheaded businessman build a new couture house’s image on a black girl, no matter how lovely?”

“You’re probably right … but that isn’t stopping him from hovering.”

“Well, yes indeed, so he is,” Peaches said slowly, as if to herself.

“Peaches, we’re so sorry we’re late!”

“Oh, Peaches, there just weren’t any cabs!”

She turned to confront Frankie and Mike, their arms intertwined, both of them glowing with a visible aura of romantic excitement and satisfied sexuality that was as good as an engraved announcement.

“I’m glad I didn’t make that bet with Maude,” Peaches said slowly. “When did you two happen, Mike?”

“I thought everybody knew. You ought to hang out in the Relais more, that seems to be where all the rumors start,” Mike said laughing.

“Only I assume this isn’t a rumor?” Peaches asked him.

“It certainly doesn’t feel like one to me. Does it to you, darling?” he asked, turning to Frankie.

“I can’t answer that,” she said, hesitating as she saw the look of fury in Peaches’ eyes.

“Well, Frankie, that’s wise of you,” Peaches drawled. “I wish I had a ten-dollar bill for every poor deluded girl I know who’s thought Mike Aaron was going to stick around. I usually give him two months before he loses interest, a few weeks more at the outside. I rated three full months, didn’t I, Mike? I’ve always considered that a major compliment, considering your notorious hit-and-run habits.”

“It was seven years ago, Peaches,” Mike said quietly. “You weren’t a bitch then. And I wasn’t in love. I never claimed to be, if you remember. Come on, sweetheart, let’s get a drink.” He turned away, taking Frankie with him.

Peaches bit her lip. This was turning out to be the worst fucking party she’d ever given. Everybody was having a superb time and she was hating each minute of it more and more.

As she looked at the retreating figures of Mike and Frankie, Peaches spotted a girl paused in the doorway, posing for effect. Obviously she had to be a model, for she stood at least six-feet-four in her exaggeratedly high platform-soled shoes, but a model such as Peaches had never seen. Her face was dead white, her lipstick was a dried-blood red that looked black, her eyes were rimmed thickly with sooty black charcoal, her platinum-white hair was no more than four inches long and teased out every which way as if it had been electrified instead of cut. The ribs on her amazingly elongated torso could be counted through a dress that looked like a whore’s tattered nightgown. It was made of black satin and mousseline, sheer and deeply cut, revealing her breasts to the top of her nipples, torn here and there, its hem vanishing in jagged shreds high on her thighs. Her astonishing long and exquisite legs were visible almost to the crotch and the white skin between the top of her black stockings and her black lace panties was framed in the ribbons of a bright red garter belt. She looked utterly dissolute, depraved and totally divine.

Silence descended on the party as every head turned.

“Oh, Peaches, I feel awful about being so late, but that genius hairdresser took forever,” the girl said, her voice issuing with incongruous sweetness through her carnivorous lips. She strutted through the room with every eye on her until she reached her hostess. She was like an alien form of life, utterly fascinating in her vampirelike, decadent allure, a New Age Shanghai Lil.

“April!”

“Makeover city, darling. I couldn’t stand being a nice girl for another minute. You like?” April struck a pose, with one lean hip jutted forward, her exposed legs scissored wide apart, her neck and head thrown back as
if in the moment of orgasm. “I think it’s heaven! You’d never believe how much this dress cost, almost as much as these blissful shoes.”

The silence of the room turned into a hubbub as dozens of voices rose at once, each one with an opinion. The only people who weren’t talking were Maude, who was paralyzed by shock; Frankie and Mike, who’d stopped in their tracks and returned to Peaches’ side; and Dart Benedict, who had instantly made his way to April and turned her toward him.

“April,” he said hastily, “I’m Dart Benedict.
You’re the New Thing
. Brilliant! Sheer genius! Congratulations! But you’ve gone a tad over the top, love, just a tad. I’ll help you perfect that great look. My Paris affiliate can get you the next cover of French
Vogue, Elle
, Italian
Vogue
, maybe even American
Vogue
next month, and just about everything else you want, but we have to work quickly. I can pick you up first thing in the morning.”

“But … but what about Justine? … I mean, that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“Of course not. You work for yourself, April. Justine only has you for Lombardi. You’ve got to strike out now, and I mean immediately. She doesn’t have the expertise to handle you the way I—”

“Don’t talk to this man, April,” Frankie said, elbowing him aside. “He has no right to be soliciting you. You’re under contract to Loring Model Management. What’s more, when the Lombardi show is over you may be tied up for the next four years—”

“In the next few
days
I’m going to make April famous,” Dart interrupted, pushing past Frankie and standing between her and April. “Loring can’t. April, you’re not a slave. Justine isn’t even here. And you, Frankie, good as you are, you can’t possibly have my contacts. April, tomorrow at nine?”

“Well … sure, why not?” April said excitedly, “I don’t see the harm in testing the waters. Does anybody know where Maude is?”

“Right here,” Maude said, as she joined the group.

“Darling!” April reached out, put her arms around Maude’s shoulders and, bending down, looked her in the eyes for a long minute before she kissed her full on the lips. “I hope you realize this is all your doing, if it weren’t for you I’d never have had the courage.”