Spring Collection (46 page)

“Poor Tom,” I said remorsefully, as soon as I joined him in the sitting room. “Tinker must be going crazy with curiosity. I was sure I’d be up earlier so I didn’t set my alarm. No sign of anybody else, not even Mike?”

“Nope. I’ve been sitting in her doorway, halfway into the corridor so I couldn’t miss any of you. The only
person I saw to speak to was Peaches and she couldn’t tell me anything.”

“How much sleep did you get?” I asked.

“I don’t think I got any. I lay on top of the covers with Tinker’s arm tied to mine by the belt of her bathrobe co she couldn’t get out of bed without my knowing it, but I kept myself awake so I wouldn’t roll over on her.”

“Enjoying the fashion business?”

“It wasn’t the worst ordeal in the world.”

“How’s she feeling?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

“She insists that she’s totally recovered. She’s raging because I won’t let her out of bed except to go to the bathroom.”

“No more crazy talking?”

“Not crazy … well maybe a little crazy but more like compulsive impatience,” he sighed.

“Tom, listen, you’re the only one who’s seen anything of her. Tell me if you think Tinker’s on any sort of drug—she’s in really weird shape.”

“It can’t be speed, that’s for sure. I knew lots of people on speed in the ad business and they didn’t totally fall apart after work the way Tinker does, like a rag doll. She doesn’t unwind, she drops in her tracks. And if she’s getting any other drug from that shitfaced little creep she’s working for, I haven’t noticed it. Señora Varga? No, why would she be giving Tinker anything? It might disturb her concentration on the sacred fucking tango. If you ask me the drug she’s on is pure raging ambition, that crazy feeling she has that getting a runway walk and winning this contest will give her an identity. What she keeps saying is, ‘I just want to get up there, that’s all, just get up and do my stuff’—over and over again.”

“That’s natural talk, Tom. The best runway girls are like racehorses, they can’t wait for the show to begin. If someone didn’t control them they’d all come swarming out at the same time, tripping each other up on purpose.”

“If that’s the case, she’s got it made. Please,
Frankie, take pity on me and go tell her every last detail about last night. I’m falling asleep talking to you.”

“Take the couch. I’ll go see Tinker and have something to eat with her.”

I wrapped a coat around my bathrobe and rushed down the corridor of the hotel. Tinker was lying back on the pillows, one leg lashed firmly to the bedpost, the phone too far away for her to reach it, looking like the heroine in a comic book who’s been tied down on the train tracks and is about to be run over.

“You’ve got to admit that he’s thorough, that Tom,” I said as I untied her, trying not to laugh at her expression of fury.

“I’m going to
kill
that motherfucker.” Tinker’s voice sounded like an out-of-tune harpsichord with shredded velvet strings. “You have no
idea
what he subjected me to all night. He’s criminally insane.”

“Now be fair. He was only doing what we asked him to do. Don’t have a hissy fit, Tinker, Tom was good, loyal and true.”

“Every last one of you is overreacting,” Tinker moaned, rubbing her leg and then jumping up and pacing around the room. “There’s nothing wrong with me, you can see that, can’t you? Nothing! Nothing!
What cunt wore my dresses?”

“Gee, Tinker, I remember when you wouldn’t even say ‘damn’—in fact I think you spelled out ‘darn.’ ” Cunt! No wonder Tom said she was talking a little crazy. “As it happens, the lady who wore your dresses was Janine, a former house model Marco had fired. She’s chic but dull-looking, but she still managed to look fabulous because your clothes are far and away the best in the show.”

I was trying to reassure her, of course, but everything I said was a fact. “Marco’s really done you proud, Tink. And your dresser has everything lined up, totally accessorized, just waiting for you. Of course your skirts were way too long on Janine, but it didn’t matter. Even without them the show would have been a total sensation. An absolutely genuine smash, the kind of turning-point
show fashion people talk about for years. Everybody’s sky high about it. Everything you said is true—Marco’s a genius, much as I hate to admit it.”

“I told you!”

“There was a real breeze of fresh air—no, make that a tornado—and it didn’t stop all night.”

“I knew it! Tell me more!”

“The clothes had that thing editors always pray for … I guess it’s a quiver of something genuinely new. Nothing was reminiscent of any other designer, and his color sense—my God, Justine and I were fighting to try on April’s and Jordan’s clothes. They made me feel that no matter how expensive they were, they were worth it—transfiguring, flattering, luscious,
edible
—yet everything was so basically wearable that it’s hard to believe that not a single piece was dull. It was
awful
—I
bad
to have them and I knew I couldn’t possibly afford even one. I’ve never felt that way about clothes before. It was like sex! No,
better!”

“What about April and Jordan?” Tinker asked sharply. “How did they look?”

“Well …”

“Tell me, Frankie! Damn it!
I have to hear the truth
,” Tinker demanded roughly.

“Extraordinary. Each in her own way—of course, in those clothes they couldn’t miss.”

“I’ll look better.”

“Damn right.” It wouldn’t be a good idea to disagree with her, I thought, looking closely at Tinker’s essential magic. If she
was
on drugs I knew she couldn’t have had access to any since early yesterday and she hadn’t changed all that much even after a good rest.

Tinker’s normal expression was a tender, somewhat brooding joy, attentive to the world around her, rather than to herself. Today, as she quizzed me, she blazed with attention and impatience, all turned inward toward a vision of how she would look tonight. Her pale skin had more color in it than I’d ever seen, her eyes glittered harshly, almost dangerously, even the flags of her hair seemed a brighter shade of red than
usual, as if she were on fire. Overrehearsed, I thought, trying to calm my fears, overrehearsal followed by frustration, followed by first-night nerves. But she’ll settle down once we get to the Ritz, once she’s back on the job. She had to.

“I’m ordering from room service, Tinker. What can I get you?”

“Nothing, damn it … what the fuck makes everybody think I’m hungry? Tom’s been force-feeding me ever since I got here. I
know
I’ve gained two pounds,” Tinker said angrily.

“Nobody can gain two pounds in twenty-six hours,” I said in my most reasonable voice. “Two pounds of fat equals eight thousand extra calories.”

“But how can I burn calories normally when I’m imprisoned in this fucking bed with my muscles atrophying? Listen, Frankie, there’s still time for another tango lesson before tonight! Call Señora Varga and tell her I’m practically on my way.”

“Tinker! If there’s one thing you don’t need it’s another tango lesson. You could tango in your sleep.”

“It’d warm up my muscles,” Tinker pleaded, rapidly stripping naked and hunting for her clothes.

“We have to be at the Ritz in a little more than two hours, for hair and makeup,” I said, sternly. “What you need is to take a long shower, have something to eat and calm down, you’re not as rested as you think you are and it’s going to be a long night. You’re not leaving this hotel until we all go together. I’ll sit here until you’ve finished in the bathroom. Then we’ll go to the suite and play poker, like last night.”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“No, I’ll wait for you.”

Tinker glared at me and slammed the bathroom door behind her. I called my suite and got Tom to wake Justine.

“Tinker’s in a rage … wanted to take another tango lesson … asked ‘what cunt’ had worn her dresses.”

“Is she tripping out like yesterday?”

“Not quite as bad, she’s not raving, but she’s not like herself either. But Tom doesn’t think she’s on anything—I just can’t tell.”

“Damn this timing! It’s driving everyone around the bend. She’ll calm down once the show starts.”

“You honestly think so?”

“Frankie, what’s the choice? As long as Tinker’s upright, she has to have her chance.”

“Wake everybody, will you, Justine? And get out the cards. We’ll be along as soon as she gets out of the shower.”

“Frankie … how nervous are you about tonight?”

“Not more than you are, kiddo.”

“And we’re not even
doing
the show. Come back soon. It’s worse when you’re not here.”

T
he two chauffeured cars drew up to the employees’ entrance of the Ritz. A group of burly young men, clad in sober dark blue suits, each sporting a dark red tie, guarded the door.

“Where’d they come from?” Frankie asked.

“They’re called Les Cravates Rouges,” Justine answered. “Upscale bouncers who keep out the unwanted and uninvited. Everybody uses them. They weren’t here last night. There’s undoubtedly another, bigger mob of them in front of the main entrance. Gate crashers are a nightmare at every collection.”

Justine led the way to the door. One of the Cravates Rouges approached her, his arms filled with magnificent bouquets of spring flowers.

“Madame Loring?”

“Yes?”

“There is a bouquet for each of the mannequins, and these envelopes are for you, Madame Severino, Madame Callender, Monsieur Strauss and Monsieur Aaron.” He handed her five square white envelopes. She opened one and discovered an engraved dinner invitation and a card indicating a table number.

“We won’t be needing these,” Justine told the stolid young man. “We’re going with the girls.”

“I regret, Madame, but Monsieur Lombardi has insisted that no one but the mannequins be allowed backstage tonight.”

“When did you get this order?”

“This morning, Madame.”

“Who sent the flowers?”

“I don’t know, Madame, they were waiting with the concierge when we arrived.”

“April, is there a card with your bouquet?” Justine asked sharply.

“Wait … yes … it’s from Mr. Necker. It says, ‘Good luck tonight.’ Oh, what heavenly flowers! This is so sweet of him … I feel like a ballerina.”

“I demand to speak to Monsieur Lombardi,” Justine told the Cravate Rouge.

“I can do nothing, Madame. I regret, but it is impossible. My orders are formal. Monsieur Lombardi cannot possibly be disturbed at this time.”

“Where’s your boss?”

“I’m the senior man here, Madame Loring. The office is closed until tomorrow. All complaints will come to me. I regret Madame, I wish I could accommodate you, but it is impossible.”

“Girls, go on down,” Justine ordered. “I’m going to find Gabrielle. We’ll be there as soon as possible. Tinker, your rack is right next to April’s, just follow the others.”

Justine hurried off, followed by Frankie, Maude, Tom and Mike. Within an hour of frantic searching and futile telephoning it became evident to all of them that Marco Lombardi had effectively shut them out of the spring collection except as spectators. Gabrielle d’Angelle, even if she had agreed to take up their case with Marco, was already downstairs, out of range of any message. The only concession Justine had been able to ring out of the chief Cravate Rouge was a promise to inform the girls of what had happened. He came back from his mission to tell them that Mademoiselle Osborn had sent a message that they were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

“Christ!” Tom exploded. “That’s aimed at me.”

“No, at me,” Justine soothed him. “She’ll be her usual sweet self tomorrow, Tom. This isn’t an unusual reaction. It’s like a feisty kid on the first day of school
who doesn’t want to be kissed good-bye in front of the others.”

“Why don’t we all wait in the bar?” Mike suggested. “I’m the one who’s been treated worse than anybody, unable to shoot backstage. Doesn’t anybody realize that?”

“Poor darling,” Frankie jeered at him. “Trust a photographer to feel sorry for himself first.”

“Children, children,” Maude said soothingly, “we’re all in the same boat. Let’s not shove each other overboard quite yet. There’ll be plenty of time to do that later. I’m with Mike, we need a drink. And it’s at least an hour before we can go down as guests.”

“Assuming the Cravates Rouges let us into the bar,” Justine snapped.

The group from Loring Management and
Zing
sat gloomily in the Ritz bar, at the table with the best view of the entrance, drinking Evian and herb tea, except for Maude Callender who ordered her usual Scotch. They barely spoke to each other, watching the invited guests arriving, each one of their invitations carefully checked by the swarming corps of Cravates Rouges, who were wearing dinner jackets with dark red bow ties in honor of the occasion.

As far as Maude was concerned, this contretemps was all wonderful grist for her mill, infinitely better than it would have been to be downstairs taking notes on the oddly well-ordered hysteria associated with any fashion show. She’d picked up more than enough backstage stuff last night, and most of it was unusable anyway. How many ways can you describe a superbly functioning, yet incredibly sloppy, madhouse of careening girls, aided by their nerveless dressers, changing with ripping speed from one outfit to another, throwing the most delicate garments on the floor once they were finished with them, any normal concepts of modesty, assuming they’d started with such an outmoded idea, checked at the door? How many times can you describe the self-important ministrations of hairdressers, bending
over the girls with their rollers and combs like so many Pygmalions, or makeup artists wearing clear-plastic tool belts to hold their favorite brushes and tubes of color? After a few minutes the only thing that made it interesting was the beauty of the girls, and that had already been captured in Mike’s pictures of last night.

“Listen,” Frankie said, suddenly, “do we want to be the last people to arrive at this party? Are we just going to sit here—hey! Hold up there. Do you all think you’re sticking me with this check?”