Authors: Maggie; Davis
Finally it was Mindy Ferragamo who said, “Okay, Sammy, so what do you know about Paris fashion houses?”
Along the tree-lined avenue Montaigne not far from the Étoile and the boulevard of the Champs Élysées one found St. Laurent, Christian Dior, Pierre Cardin, Balmain, Givenchy, Fendi, Ted Lapidus, Hanae Mori, Jean-Louis Scherrer—the emperors and kings of the multimillion-dollar corporate structures of French high fashion. Glittering, dazzling and exclusive, the big designers’ regular afternoon showings were as artfully staged as Broadway spectaculars in modern salons hung with mirrors, greenery, and crystal chandeliers, and where stereophonic pop music, beautiful models who could dance as well as wear clothes, and special lighting effects stunned the ear, the eye and the mind as much as the astronomical price tags.
In contrast, what could be called the Old Guard of the Paris fashion world was located above the ancient Place Vendôme off the rue de la Paix, where
haute couture
had developed under the Empress Eugénie more than a century ago, in a quiet center of conservative, classical designers patronized for generations by royalty and wealthy, upper-class Parisiennes. The older houses’ clothes were just as fine, perhaps even finer from an aesthetic point of view, the atmosphere was restrained, almost stubbornly old-fashioned, and exclusivity was more a matter of bloodlines and exquisite manners than an excessive amount of cold cash.
“Paris couture houses are temples, shrines to the art of making beautiful clothes,” Jean Ruiz had told Samantha. “And the people who run the old houses around the rue de la Paix are the essence of French conservatism. No razzle-dazzle, no tricky lighting, no pop music. The models show the clothes in absolute cathedral-like silence, holding little pasteboard cards in front of them with the number of the design, so the customers can jot it down on their order cards. And there’s always a
vendeuse,
a very refined lady who wears black and who usually goes around kneeling by the side of customers’ chairs answering their questions in whispers. The old rue de la Paix crowd is Paris
haute couture
the way it used to be. The only thing that’s kept up with the times are the prices. Don’t expect anything much under five thousand dollars, even for a day dress.”
Samantha burst through the doors into the Maison Louvel and skidded to a stop just inside. This particular temple of conservatism and high-fashion art happened to be, at that moment, a madhouse.
The redhaired girl in the bloody satin nightgown had careened into the room, colliding with a short, middle-aged woman who had a tape measure around her neck and had been carrying a glass of water. Both of them lurched into the way of a bizarre, witchlike figure in black rags who was brandishing an ebony cane. In the collision the glass of water arced through the air, spraying them all, and rolled away over the carpet.
As the redhead and the seamstress went down in a tangle, there was a dismayed burst of screams from all three. The old crone in black tatters and a shawl that hid most of her face lashed out with her cane indiscriminately, howling like a steam calliope. It was this voice, Sam realized, she’d first heard on the stairs.
The salon of the Maison Louvel was sparsely furnished with several spindly-legged white and gilt
bergères
flanking a worn-looking Louis Quinze sofa. The morning sunlight fell dimly through tall, grimy windows onto a marble table cluttered with a display of lingerie in a froth of ivory silk and lace. A general air of neglected grandeur made the place seem larger and emptier than it was, in spite of the small riot that seemed to be taking place.
“Good lord!” Sam cried. It was obvious her first look at a Paris couture house was not going to be exactly the way Jean Ruiz had described it.
“
Merde! Merde!
” the redhead was screaming hysterically. “
Aidez moi! Ah, mon Dieu, c’est une catastrophe!
” Her toe caught in the hem of the satin gown as she got halfway to her feet. She lost her balance, pitching headlong onto the floor.
At the center of the confusion a burly young workman in jeans and work boots was on his knees holding a fragile, white-faced girl. His right hand held the girl’s wrist at shoulder height, while a thin trickle of red ran down the girl’s forearm and dripped off her bare elbow in a steady stream. As the redhead fell, the workman looked up and barked something at her in French, holding his free arm out to keep her from falling on top of them.
The only quiet spot in the room seemed to be where a tall, good-looking man wearing a jogging suit held up an expensively dressed, middle-aged blonde, who appeared to be in a deep swoon. For a moment, as the man lifted his sun-gilded head, his amber eyes met Samantha’s and registered surprise at seeing her standing in the doorway and then quick, male admiration. In the next second he gave a rueful shrug. Whatever was going on, his face said, he wasn’t any part of it.
“Bloody hell,” the baritone voice shouted, “don’t just stand there, lend us a hand!” The workman on his knees was trying to hold off the hysterical redhead, who had now grabbed his arm. “Christ, Sophie, will you shut up?” he told her. Then, his black eyes darting to Sam, “Yes, you by the door—Calamity Jane. You understand English, don’t you?”
The old woman in the black tatters had lifted her gargoyle face to the ceiling and now, with both arms outspread and waving the ebony cane in one hand, was fervently imploring
Il Dio
to do something in a language that sounded vaguely Italian.
The black-haired workman glared at Sam irritably. “Mind what you’re doing, the old ducchessa’s out of her head. And mind the bloody cane.” He saw Sam’s eyes slide to the man in the jogging suit and he growled, “No, not him, he’s busy.”
Sam dropped the duffel bag at her feet. There’d been an accident, from the looks of it. The girl in the workman’s arms was bleeding. She stepped cautiously around the frenzied old woman and started toward them. The girl in the satin nightgown extended her arms piteously, screaming in French. As Sam bent over the man with the girl in his arms, the redhead promptly wrapped her arms around Sam’s knees tightly and wailed.
“What’s the matter with her?” Sam said. With her free hand she tried to unwind the redheaded girl’s clutch on her legs.
“I need a rag, hanky, anything,” the workman snapped. “Can’t seem to get anyone to go for a towel.” He said something to the fragile girl in fluent French and shifted his weight to one knee. “Let’s see if we can get her to a chair.” His big, blunt-fingered hand held a blood-soaked cloth to the girl’s wrist, but the lap of her black dress was dark with bloodstains. Spidery lines of red snaked down the calf of one thin, shapely leg.
“All I’ve got is Kleenex,” Sam offered.
The man holding the girl was tall, even as he knelt, and had broad shoulders like a professional athlete. “Give it here. Think you can keep pressure on it while I carry her?”
Sam stared down at the moaning girl in his arms, wondering what these strange people were doing there. The old woman and the bleeding girl looked like they’d wandered in from the streets, the Paris version of shopping-bag ladies. The kneeling workman was probably a janitor or handyman. And the man across the room in his jogger’s sweat-suit and the fainting blonde looked like passersby.
The girl stirred, and the big workman opened Sam’s package of Kleenex, loosening his grip on her wrist only long enough to slap the tissues against it. In that brief second Sam could see there was only a small scratch on the girl’s blue-veined skin, yet it was pouring like a fountain.
The redhead grabbing Sam’s knees had seen it, too. “
Elle se meurt, vraiment!
” she promptly screamed.
“No, she’s not going to die, dammit,” the workman snarled. He told Samantha, “Grab it tight, keep pressure on it, I’m going to lift her.”
“Listen,” Sam began, “I don’t know who these people are, but I’m from Jackson Storm, in New York, the new owner.” She took the girl’s wrist between her fingers, feeling the stickiness of warm blood already oozing through the pad. “Somebody should go—”
“Jesus God, pay attention, will you? The one over there,” he indicated the blonde woman with a jerk of his head, “is a stupid hysteric who faints at the sight of blood. And this one’s a chronic bleeder, gushes like a river over a scratch.” He got to a half crouch, carefully cradling the girl in his arms, his biceps bulging under his short-sleeved shirt. “Are you with me?”
Sam was with him, thinking it was a situation that didn’t exactly enhance her image as a Jackson Storm executive just in from New York. Where were the people who were supposed to greet her, take her bag, show her to her living quarters, welcome her to Paris? In fact, they were supposed to have met her at the airport. The only ones who looked like Maison Louvel employees were the seamstress with the tape measure around her neck and a girl in slacks and a blue apron who had just rushed in. She didn’t know about the rest, especially the half-naked redhead in the satin nightgown, who was still flopping around on the floor.
The workman carried the limp form of the girl the few feet to the sofa and lowered her, propping her in a half-reclining position. They saw her blue-veined eyelids flutter. Bending over her, the man said something softly and the girl opened her eyes.
The fragile girl was pretty, and like the old woman she was dressed all in black, a silk dress with a high neckline that might have been expensive. But there was a run in one of her stockings and the toes of her black kid pumps were worn and scuffed. The blood from her wrist was running down Sam’s palm and into the sleeve of her jacket. The wraithlike girl moaned again. The red stains from her dress had made smudges across the sofa’s damask upholstery.
“What happened?” Sam whispered. “Did she cut herself?”
“Cut her hand on a pin in a dress.” The man in jeans straightened up. “And suffers from malnutrition. And hysteria. And a half a dozen other things.”
She looked up at him, a big, macho hunk—with black curly hair and wearing tight, faded jeans and work boots—who looked more Italian or Greek than English. He spoke with what sounded like a terrible Cockney accent. “Sophie,” he bellowed. He swiveled his head. “Where the hell’s the bloody mannequin?” The redheaded girl was now sitting on the floor with her back propped against the sofa, sobbing quietly. “Get your brainless ass over to the ducchessa,” he ordered, indicating the howling old woman, “and see if you can shut her up. And whatever the hell Nannette’s doing—” His eyes found the Frenchwoman across the room and shouted something again, this time in French.
The redhead obediently crawled to her feet and started for the wandering old woman in black. The girl in the bloody nightgown, Sam realized suddenly, was probably the house model. The back of the sofa was draped in a length of white chiffon that looked like a robe, and a peignoir and a large pasteboard card with a number on it lay on the floor. Had she been showing the satin nightgown when the girl and the old woman had come in? she wondered. Or had they been brought in from the street by the workman? And the man in the jogging suit and the blonde—had they just wandered in, too? She stared down at her own bloody fingers. Had somebody thought to call the doctor? Or, even better, an ambulance?
The big, muscular workman stroked his free hand against the girl’s forehead, soothing her in a curiously low, gentle voice. The frail girl was looking up at him with absolute trust in her velvety eyes.
Sam had had a sleepless night, having come several thousand miles on her first transatlantic jet flight, and her nerves were frayed. “Look,” she said. The first thing was to get them all out of there. “Has somebody called an ambulance?”
The model was circling the bedraggled old crone, speaking in a limp, wheedling voice intended to calm and reassure her. The seamstress and the girl in the apron were clustered around the elegant blonde and the man in the jogging suit. The blonde was now sitting up in the chair with her eyes open, staring at them uncomprehendingly.
The moment the words were out of Sam’s mouth they all seemed to freeze. Then their faces turned to her with various expressions of surprise and disbelief.
The old woman in black stopped dead in her tracks, her walking stick raised shoulder height. The elegant blonde woman closed her eyes and slumped again in her chair. Even the frail girl on the sofa suddenly came to life and gave a weak, anguished cry.
“
No ambulancia!
” the old witch trumpeted. She raised the ebony cane over her head, the other gnarled fist clutching at the shawl around her face. “
No ambulancia!
” She staggered a few steps dramatically. “
Dio mio—no dottore! No ambulancia!
”
Emotion overcame the old crone completely. While Sam watched open-mouthed, the figure collapsed on the floor and lay stretched out full length, black silk rags flattened against the green carpet, old-fashioned high-buttoned shoes with their toes pointed ceiling-ward. The girl on the couch screamed and tried to sit up.