Heirs Book Two: American Lady (27 page)

“And good luck to you, Miss Nikki.” She
reached out to shake her hand. “I hope this next collection is a
bang up success. I’d like to leave on a high note.”

Nikki clasped her hand warmly. “I’ll do
everything I can, Irene, I promise.”

It was close to midnight when Nikki and
Griffin finally said goodbye to the last employee. Everybody had
stayed and stayed, not wanting the wonderfully euphoric atmosphere
to end. What had started as a wake had turned into a birthday party
as they celebrated the re-emergence of “a great dame” as Griffin
kept reiterating throughout the evening.

Griffin slapped Lyric on the back. He was
hiding his yawns behind his hand. “It’s been a great night and you
can count the cost later,” he chided.

The three of them sat on rickety, unmatched
chairs amongst the covered sewing machines and mannequins,
unwilling to let the evening disappear.

“That was a great speech. You really pulled
people on board tonight. I think you missed your calling. Dayam,
you could have been America’s first female president,” Griffin
complimented Nikki, stretching his long legs out comfortably.

Nikki laughed. “No thanks. If you think the
fashion industry’s full of pressure just try the White House. But I
certainly heard enough inspiring speeches from Alex to get the gist
of it. I just didn’t know if I could pull it off myself.” Nikki
paused reflectively. Irene’s conversation had been plaguing her all
evening, trundling manure around a promising idea.

“Listen, Griffin, now that everyone’s gone
let’s be honest with ourselves. Even if you pull a miracle out of
the hat and we get a collection together for an August showing,
what are the odds that the fashion magazines, I mean the big names
like
Vogue
and
Harpers
, are going to attend and write
us up?”

Griffin pulled apart a champagne cage,
twisting the wires in his fingers for a moment before he spoke.

“Truthfully, I don’t know. It depends on how
much damage Giancarlo has done and will continue to do over the
next few months before we hit the runway.” Griffin now sounded
pessimistic.

“That’s what I figured,” Nikki nodded.
“Having inspired everybody to work their hardest, knowing we’re
going to be pulling out all the stops, and yet we won’t even get a
fair trial – that’s what I hate the most about this situation.
There’ll be no recognition of all the blood and guts that will have
gone into the collection. American Lady will fade away without a
whimper.”

Lyric looked distressed. “You’re my only
client. Please don’t tell me you’re sinking like the Titanic!”

“Should I phone the Pope for a miracle?”
Griffin tried to sound upbeat. “Or have you got a rabbit you can
pull out of the hat?” He looked enquiringly at Nikki.

“I’m not sure,” said Nikki slowly. “I was
talking with an old staffer tonight, Irene Collins, who was
recalling the old Press Weeks from the forties and fifties. What if
we reinvented it with a modern twist?”

“How do you mean?” Griffin sounded
perplexed.

“Right now designers do a free for all.
Individual companies hire a venue, send out invitations and put on
a show for their collections. What if we organized a venue and
brought New York designers together for one massive week of fashion
shows? We could bill it as the People’s Fashion Week. That way the
editors, journalists and publishers can view collections in one
place, no rushing here, there and everywhere to cram everyone’s
show in.”

Griffin paused thoughtfully. “It could
maximize coverage for small and new designers who don’t have the
name to pull in all the publications which would come to view the
big name designers. Participating in a Fashion Week would give them
a chance. On the other hand, the major designers will probably
resist the idea because it could detract from their prestige and
what do they have to gain by participating?”

“We’d have to offer to pick up the tab for
the venue and the production costs for the shows – hopefully the
big names will leap at the chance to save money.” Nikki saw Lyric
cringe at the prospect of more cash outlays. “It’s the only way I
can think of pulling in the publishers and editors to view American
Lady’s collection because I’m afraid that Giancarlo’s bad publicity
and the horrendous reviews we’ve had for the last few collections,
will keep them away from us in droves. There would be nothing worse
than sending out our invitations and having a room full of
no-shows,” Nikki winced.

“If we could pull it off, get enough
designers together, this could really work in our favor!” Griffin
shouted excitedly.

He ran into Nikki’s office, where the door
was still hanging on its hinges from his scuffle with Giancarlo,
and rifled through the papers on her desk to pull out the pink and
red fashion calendar that was the industry’s gospel. He flicked
through the pages intently. “The first week in September is the
busiest week for fashion shows.” And was the reason American Lady
had decided to show in August when there wouldn’t be as much
competition. “If we could persuade them of all the advantages, like
cutting their costs by combining into a gigantic show, they might
fall into line. We’d only need a few names to get the ball
rolling.”

“We can’t afford to put on something of this
size,” Lyric protested.

“Dayam, stop sniveling, Lyric. We’ll get
sponsorship to cover the costs,” Griffin said. “If we can guarantee
a few big names we should be able to pull in enough sponsors to
fund the whole event. My God!” Griffin was frenziedly ruffling his
hair. “This has so many possibilities!” He pulled Nikki and Lyric
to their feet and began waltzing around the room with them. “This
is the best rabbit anyone’s come up with!”

Nikki threw her head back and laughed.
Griffin’s enthusiasm was contagious. She hadn’t felt this thrilled
and energized about her business in years. Perhaps American Lady
could be saved after all.

* * *

Throughout the next week Griffin and Nikki
worked feverishly. Griffin worked his right arm off completing an
entire season’s sketches, while Nikki launched a round of phone
calls to get participants for their proposed People’s Fashion Week.
Stock from overseas arrived daily at the American Lady workrooms
and needed sorting out. Griffin’s sketches were being interpreted,
patterns were cut, samples produced and workflow needed
coordinating. Often Griffin would not leave the office at all. He
installed a foldaway bed and when exhausted he would lie down for a
few hours.

Nikki insisted on working in the office with
him, calling in favors and cajoling, coaxing and wheedling her
contacts throughout the fashion industry, people that she had
neglected over the last few years and who were now responding
coolly to her overtures.

Their other problem was in finding a
suitable venue. Every hotel that Nikki contacted was already booked
out for the summer months and she had to resort to checking with
smaller hotels less centrally located.

As a balm to her confidence, however, she
found her presence in the office served as a constant morale
booster for the staff. Griffin said she “spurred staff support for
their new collection into a rock solid foundation garment,” which
made her chuckle. Everyone believed they were sitting on a winner
and there was no complaint about the long hours.

Nikki was so involved with her business that
she even lost track of her forthcoming engagement and only when
Paddy Cassidy called did she guiltily remember that she had
promised to make the party arrangements herself.

“What is it, Paddy?” Nikki was annoyed at
having to give up even few minutes when she could be making
business calls.

“Just calling to let you know that Lorenzo
De Angelis’ annulment has now been officially granted. You can
start sending me the bills for your engagement party and even an
invitation. The Cassidy family is happy to acknowledge your
forthcoming union,” Paddy chortled over the phone.

“Very gracious of you,” she said with only a
trace of asperity.

“Far be it from an old man like me to expect
gratitude for performing miracles. I hear you’re a very busy woman
these days,” Paddy retaliated and Nikki was again amazed at the
detailed intelligence he seemed to garner about the family. “But my
advice to you is to spare some time for your son. Rory has asked
him to participate in his campaign and young Declan hasn’t got the
enthusiasm that we need.”

“Well he’s busy with summer school,” Nikki
objected. “What do you expect?”

“I expect Declan to have the support of his
family, especially if he’s having difficulty with his studies,” he
retorted acerbically.

“Keep out of my affairs, you old meddler.”
Nikki was stung by the criticism that she wasn’t being a good
mother.

“I am indeed an old man, my dear, and I have
seen it all. So take my advice that all’s not well with that young
pup,” Paddy cautioned caustically and hung up.

With the Motorola DynaTAC clamped to her ear, Charley
wandered towards the pool where Declan was frenziedly swimming
laps. Finally he came up for air, flipping up his goggles and
hauling himself out of the water, shaking his body like Oscar after
a bath.

“A hundred laps,” he puffed, toweling
himself dry. “Not bad for someone who hasn’t done a lick of
training since I broke my leg,” he complimented himself. “What are
you doing with my new cell phone?” He indicated the foot-long
DynaTAC standing on the tabletop that Lorenzo had purchased for
Declan’s birthday, careful not to drip water on it.

“Lorenzo called,” Charley replied
laconically. She was lounging in a bikini working on her tan. Oscar
lay panting beside her on the ground, his black coat soaking in the
sun so much more effectively than his mistress.

“What did he want? And shouldn’t you put it
back on recharge? It only has a thirty minute shelf life.” He was
ridiculously pleased with the gadget. Even Newt didn’t have one
yet, although Charley had quashed some of his enthusiasm when she
told him that their banker neighbor George Winthrop took his with
him everywhere and had almost got himself thrown out of the Federal
Reserve Bank because the security guards thought the lump in his
pocket was a bomb.

Since Declan’s return to Rosedale to attend
summer school he hadn’t seen Lorenzo, who was staying in Europe
after the Queen’s Cup to work out the details of the documentary
deal with King Henri and oversee production matters for Eurock TV
which, after a shaky few weeks, was now beginning to clock up the
viewers. He had hardly seen his mother either as she left for the
office before he came downstairs and often didn’t return until late
at night. His twenty-third birthday had passed almost unnoticed
except for a cake baked by Poppy and the delivery of Lorenzo’s
ostentatious gift. Newt and Charley had tried to take him out
clubbing but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Lorenzo wanted to talk to mom. He probably
thinks she’s off having an affair because she’s so hard to catch at
home these days.” Charley absently stroked Oscar, whose drooling
tongue was leaving a puddle on the sandals she had left beside the
banana lounge.

Declan grinned, shaking his head. “It’s
bizarre isn’t it? I feel like I’m back in grade school when mom was
just starting out the business and used to spend every free minute
at the American Lady offices.”

“Or else drag us down there with our
homework and expect us to enjoy the long hours!” Charley added. “It
is strange – a few weeks ago when she was hanging around the house
putting pressure on me about Maixent I used to pray that she would
find something to occupy her attention. Now I wouldn’t mind having
her around to talk to about Maixent,” she said wistfully.

“Yeah, I feel like an abandoned orphan,”
Declan agreed, flopping down in the deck chair beside her. Newt had
promised to come over later to help him study and in anticipation
he had brought out a stack of law books. Ignoring them, he asked,
“What’s up with you? I thought everything was mint between you two
when I left Altobello? Lorenzo was even teeing up the documentary
for your trousseau.”

“You mean dowry,” Charley corrected
absent-mindedly. “Lorenzo told me on the phone just now that he’d
arrived in Altobello to sign the contract with the palace.
Apparently both the palace lawyers and Lorenzo’s have nutted out
the final details to their satisfaction and it’s a done deal.”

“So what’s the problem? Are you having
second thoughts about Maix?” Declan threw his wet towel over Oscar
to cool him off and put on a pair of Raybans.

“You two look like you’re cooking better
than my fried chicken,” Poppy chuckled as she handed round a tray
of mint juleps.

“You certainly look after us better than
mom,” Declan said approvingly, slurping on the drink.

“Do you two want any snacks brought out
before I get started on dinner?”

“Now, Poppy, you know I’m not going to say
no to a proposition like that,” Declan grinned.

“That’s good news, ’cause I’m just about
finished with a key lime pie and maybe a batch of buffalo wings.
How about you, Miss Charley? Shall I bring you out something?”

Charley sipped daintily at the long cool
drink, running a finger slowly up the side to wipe a bead of
moisture. “Not for me thanks, Poppy.” She waited until Poppy had
retreated out of earshot before returning to her conversation.
“What would you do, Declan, if you thought someone wanted to marry
you because of your money and your status?”

“Well there have been plenty of those,”
Declan snorted, mentally reviewing the beauty pageant of
girlfriends he’d had since his high school days, most of whom had
been angling for some sort of commitment ever since he’d started
dating. “It’s not always easy avoiding the hardcore gold diggers or
fame seekers. That’s why mom is always advising us to get hitched
to someone of similar social standing so we can be sure that it’s
not those two factors that are influencing their feelings.” Declan
flipped up his Raybans to give her a long hard look. “Surely you
don’t suspect Maixent is marrying you to get his hands on your
Trust Fund? Anyway, I thought you’d signed it over to the
beleaguered dogs society.”