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But Sophie Friedman had already proved herself to be one of Debord’s more eccentric clients. Unwilling to accept the idea that man was meant to fly, Sophie eschewed airline travel. The first day in the fitting room, she’d explained how she’d taken a private Pullman from Los Angeles to Grand Central Station, then the QEII to Cherbourg, thence to the Avenue Montaigne by Rolls-Royce.
The woman might be eccentric, Alex thought. But she was no fool. “Madame is correct about black being slimming,” she hedged.
“So I won’t look fat?”
Alex didn’t want to alienate Marie Hélène. Those who dared question the directress were summarily dismissed. Without references.
A tendril of unruly hair escaped the chignon at the back of Alex’s neck. Buying time, she unhurriedly tucked it back into place. “You’re certainly not fat, Madame Friedman.”
Actually, that was the truth. So far as it went. If she was to be totally honest, Alex would suggest that Debord was not the right designer for this middle-aged woman. The designer believed women came in two categories: polo ponies—those who were short and round—and Thoroughbreds—tall and slender. He prided himself on designing for the Thoroughbreds.
Using Debord’s criteria, Alex decided he would probably consider the tall, robust Mrs. Friedman to be a Clydesdale.
“I’ve always had big bones,” Sophie agreed. “But I still think this dress makes me look fat.”
Alex’s innate sense of honesty warred with her common sense. As she’d feared, honesty won out.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, ignoring Marie Hélène’s sharp look, “if we were to use a softer material than satin, perhaps a matte jersey. And draped it, like this.” With a few quick changes she concealed the woman’s short waist and broad hips and emphasized her firm, uplifted bustline.
Sophie Friedman’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s just what it needed.” She turned to the directress. “Would Monsieur Debord be willing to make the changes?”
“Of course.” Marie Hélène’s words were tinged with ice, but her tone remained properly subservient. “It is Madame’s prerogative to alter anything she wishes.”
“Then Madame wishes.” That settled, Sophie looked down at her diamond-studded watch. “Madame is also starving.”
“We will take a break,” Marie Hélène murmured on cue. “It will be my pleasure to bring you lunch, Madame Friedman.”
“No offense, Marie Hélène,” Sophie said, “but I could use something more substantial than the rabbit food you serve around this place.” She looked down at Alex. “How about you?”
“Me?”
Startled, Alex dropped the box of pins, scattering them over the plush gray carpeting. Marie Hélène immediately knelt and threw three handfuls of pins over her shoulder. Alex had grown accustomed to the superstitions accompanying the business. Baste with green thread and you kill a season. Neglect to toss spilled pins over your shoulder and you’ve guaranteed a dispute. Lily Dache, legendary hat designer, would show on the thirteenth or not at all. Coco Chanel would wait for Antonia Castillo’s numerologist to schedule Mr. Castillo’s shows, then schedule her own at the same time. The irate designer was rumored to have used a Coco doll and pins for retaliation. Debord himself was famous for not shaving before a show.
“I could use some company, Alexandra,” Sophie announced. “It is Alexandra, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Madame Friedman,” Alex answered from her place on the floor as she gathered up the scattered pins.
“Well, then,” Sophie said with the no-nonsense air of a woman accustomed to getting her way, “since I hate to eat alone and you need to eat, why don’t you let me buy you lunch?”
Alex could feel the irritation radiating from Marie Hélène’s erect body. “Thank you, Mrs. Friedman, but I’m afraid—”
“If you’re worried about your boss, I’m sure Monsieur Debord wouldn’t mind.” Sophie gave Marie Hélène a significant look. “Considering the dough I’ve dropped in his coffers this week.”
Marie Hélène got the message. Loud and clear. “Alexandra,” she suggested, as if the idea had been her own, “why don’t you accompany Madame to déjeuner. Monsieur Debord has an account at the Caviar Kaspia, if Russian food meets with Madame’s approval,” she said to Sophie.
“Caviar Kaspia it is,” Sophie agreed robustly.
Ten minutes later Alex found herself sitting in a banquette at the legendary Caviar Kaspia. The Franco-Russian restaurant, located above a caviar shop, had long been a favorite of couture customers with time to kill between fittings.
Across the room, Paloma Picasso, wearing a scarlet suit that matched her lipstick, was engrossed in conversation with Yves Saint Laurent. Nearby, Givenchy’s attaché de presse was doing his best to charm a buyer from Saks Fifth Avenue. Renowned for her no-nonsense, hard-as-nails approach to the business, the buyer had walked out midway through Debord’s showing.
“You’re an American, aren’t you?” Sophie asked as she piled her warm blini with beluga caviar.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So what the hell are you doing here in Paris, pinning overpriced dresses on women with more money than sense?”
Not knowing how to address the last part of that question, Alex opted to focus on her purpose for coming to Paris. “I’ve wanted to be a designer for as long as I can remember.
“My mother had her own dressmaking business for a time, but she was a single mother—my father left before my twin brother and I were born—and since taking care of two children took up too much time to allow her to continue designing, she ended up doing alterations for department stores and dry cleaners.”
Alex frowned as she fiddled with her cutlery. “I’ve always felt guilty about that.”
“Oh, I’m sure your mother never considered it a sacrifice,” Sophie said quickly, waving away Alex’s concerns with a plump hand laden down with very good diamonds.
“That’s what she always insisted whenever I brought it up,” Alex agreed. “Anyway, she taught me everything I know about sewing. When I was little, I designed clothes for my dolls. Eventually I worked my way up to creating clothes for her.”
“Lucky lady,” Sophie said. “What does she think of you working for Debord?”
“She died before I came to Paris.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She was ill for a long time. In a way, her death was a blessing. After leaving school, I worked on Seventh Avenue for a few years.” Alex continued her story, briefly describing her work at the design firm.
“I’ll bet you didn’t come clear to France to be a draper,” Sophie said as she topped the glistening black caviar with a dollop of sour cream.
Alex shrugged, unwilling to admit to her own impatience. Her mother had always cautioned her that destiny wasn’t immediate. But Alex couldn’t help being in a hurry.
“All my life I’ve wanted to work in couture. Paris is couture.” In Paris, entering a house of couture was taken as seriously as entering a convent; indeed, in French, the expression to enter une maison was applied to both cases. “And Debord is the best.”
When she was in high school, Alex had pinned pictures of Debord cut out of fashion magazines on her bedroom wall, idolizing him in the way other girls had swooned over rock stars.
Although the photographs had come down years ago, she still harbored a secret crush on the designer.
“He was the best,” Sophie corrected. “This season his stuff stinks to high heaven. In fact, I’d rather suck mud from the La Brea tar pits than wear one of that man’s dresses in public.”
Secretly appalled by the direction her idol had taken, Alex found herself unable to defend his current collection. “If you feel that way, why are you buying so many pieces?”
“My soon-to-be ex-husband is buying those clothes,” Sophie corrected. “And since your boss is the most expensive designer in the business, he was the obvious choice. Even before last week’s disastrous show.”
Alex realized that Sophie Friedman had come to Paris to buy “fuck-you clothes.” Although haute couture’s clientele traditionally consisted of wealthy clients linked together in a solid-gold chain that stretched across continents, mistresses and angry discarded wives made up a remarkable percentage of Debord’s customers.
American women were infamous for borrowing couture. The always thrifty French purchased modèles—samples. Only the Japanese, along with shadowy South American drug baronesses and Arab brides paid full price. In fact, a recent Saudi wedding was all that was keeping the house from going bankrupt.
“Of course, I’m giving the stuff to charity as soon as I get back to L.A. It does my heart good to think about that two-timing louse buying couture for some Hollywood bag lady.” Sophie grinned with wicked spite. “Although, you know, the changes you made on that evening dress made a helluva difference,” she allowed. “I think I’ll keep that one.”
She chewed thoughtfully. “What would you think of having it made up in red?”
Alex, who adored bright primary colors, grinned. “Red would be marvelous. Coco Chanel always said that red—not blue—was the color for blue eyes.”
Sophie nodded, clearly satisfied. “Red it is.”
The woman appeared in no hurry to leave the restaurant. Finally, after a third cup of espresso that left her nerves jangling, Alex reminded the client of her afternoon fitting.
“First, I want to see your designs,” Sophie declared.
“My designs?”
“You do have some examples of your own work, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but...”
Ambition warred with caution in Alex’s head. Part of her knew that Marie Hélène was waiting for them to return. Another part of her was anxious to receive someone’s—anyone’s—opinion on her work.
She had given Marie Hélène her sketches, hoping they might find their way to Debord. For weeks she’d been waiting for a single word of encouragement from the master. Undaunted, she’d begun a new series of designs.
Giving in to her new friend’s request, Alex took Sophie to her apartment. It was located two floors above a bakery in a building that boasted the ubiquitous but charming Parisian iron grillwork, dormer windows, a mansard roof and red clay chimneys. She’d sublet the apartment from an assistant to an assistant editor of Les Temps Modernes, who’d taken a year’s sabbatical and gone to Greece to write a novel.
The first time Alex had stood at the bedroom window and stared, enchanted, at the Jardin du Luxembourg across the street, she’d decided that the view more than made up for the building’s temperamental old-fashioned cage elevator that more often than not required occupants to rely on the stairs.
Alex could have cursed a blue streak when the unpredictable elevator chose this day not to run. But Sophie proved to be a remarkable sport, though she was huffing and puffing by the time they reached Alex’s floor.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, looking around the apartment. “This is absolutely delightful.”
“I was lucky to find it.” Viewing the apartment through the older woman’s eyes, Alex saw not its shabbiness, but its charm.
Near the window overlooking the gardens, a chintz chair was surrounded by scraps of bright fabric samples; atop the table beside it was a box of rainbow-bright Caran D’Ache colored pencils and a portfolio. The Swiss pencils, the very same type Picasso had favored, had been an extravagant birthday gift from her mother. Two days later Irene Lyons had died.
But her memory lived on, just as she’d intended; Alex never sat down to sketch without thinking of her.
Drawn as if by radar, Sophie picked up the portfolio and began leafing through the sketches.
“These are wonderful.” The fluid lines were draped to emphasize the waist or hips, the asymmetrical hemlines designed to flatter every woman’s legs.
Alex glowed. It had been a long time since anything she’d done received recognition.
Sophie paused at the sketch of a long, slip-style evening gown of ebony silk mousseline with midnight lace and a low, plunging back. “This would be perfect for Angeline.”
“Angeline?”
“She’s a character on The Edge of Tomorrow,” Sophie revealed absently, her attention captured by a clinging silver gown reminiscent of films of the thirties and forties. “A former hooker turned movie star turned romance writer.”
“Oh, I remember her. I watched that show all the time when I was going to fashion school.”
“You must watch a lot of old films, too,” Sophie guessed.
“I love old movies.”
“I figured that. Your artistic vision definitely has a cinematic scope. So, although television admittedly isn’t the big screen, how would you like to come to work for me?”
“For you?”
“I’ve currently got three soaps in production. Since my shows are famous for their glamour, we keep three costumers shopping overtime to supply outfits for each one-hour drama. The after-six wear and lingerie is the toughest to find, so I’ve been considering hiring someone to design specifically for us. From what I see here, you’d be perfect.”
The idea was tempting. Especially after all the months trying to land a job, then these past weeks laboring away in obscurity. But Alex was not yet prepared to let go of her dream.
“It’s not that I’m not flattered,” she began slowly, choosing her words with extreme caution. “Because I am....”
“But you’re hoping that one of these days, that idiot Debord will open his eyes and realize what a talented designer is toiling right beneath his nose.”
Alex felt herself blush. “That’s pretty much it.”
Sophie shrugged her padded shoulders. “Well, if that scenario doesn’t happen, just remember, you’ve always got a job with me.” She opened her bag, pulled out a business card and a pen and scribbled a number on the back.
“Here’re the phone numbers for my office at the studio, my car, my home and my pager. Give me a call sometime, even if it’s just to talk, okay?”
Alex took the card and stuck it away in a desk drawer. “I’d like that. Thank you.”
When Alex cast another significant glance at her watch, Sophie sighed with ill-concealed resignation. “All right, I suppose we’d better get back before Marie Hélène sends the fashion police looking for us.”
When Alex and Sophie returned to the salon, they found Debord waiting in the cabine. Clad in his smock, his sable hair pulled back into a ponytail to display his Gallic cheekbones to advantage, he looked every inch the temperamental artist.
Dior and Balenciaga had started the tradition of the white smock; Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy continued it. Debord, always pushing against the boundaries of tradition, had altered it to an anthracite gray. Brightening the breast of the gray smock was the red ribbon of the Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur. Although he was not tall, beneath the smock, Debord possessed the broad chest and shoulders of a Picasso etching of a bull.
“Ah, Madame Friedman,” he said, greeting her Continental style with an air kiss beside each cheek, “it is a pleasure to meet such a discerning woman.”
“I like your stuff,” Sophie lied adroitly, “although I have to admit, it was a toss-up between you and Gianni Sardella.”
The room went suddenly, deathly still. The only sound was the soft strains of Vivaldi playing in the back-ground. Marie Hélène, normally a paragon of composure, blanched.
Alex’s dark eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Friedman knew of the antipathy between the two designers! Stories of their mutual loathing were legion. Not only did Debord not permit his rival’s name to be spoken in his presence, last spring he allegedly pushed a client down the grand staircase of the Paris Opera for wearing one of Sardella’s beaded evening gowns.
All eyes were on Debord. The back-and-forth motion of his jaw suggested that he was grinding his teeth. His eyes had narrowed to hard, dark stones; a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Just when Alex thought he was going to explode, he forced a flat smile.
“I am honored you chose me,” he said between clenched teeth.
That, more than anything, displayed to Alex how far her employer had fallen. Before this season’s showing, he would have shouted something about philistines and demanded Mrs. Friedman leave these hallowed halls and never darken his doorway again.
Sophie appeared undaunted by the tension surrounding them. Indeed, Alex considered, from the twinkle in her eyes, she appeared to be having the time of her life.
“Your reputation is equaled only by your prices, monsieur,” she said. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to have Alexandra working for you.”
He looked at Alex, as if seeing her for the first time.
“What I can’t understand is why she isn’t a designer,” Sophie declared. “With her talent, along with her Seventh Avenue experience, I would have thought you’d have wanted her creative input on this season’s collection.”
“A designer?” Yves looked at his sister. “You did not tell me that Mademoiselle Lyons was a designer.”
