Authors: Michele Drier
I came close to losing it at that crack.
“I’m not vain, I just want to do things for myself.” I slapped my hand down on the table we were using as a desk, then curbed my rising anger. They were right, we needed to go in with a solid show of strength, otherwise the news that a small Polish fashion house had faced down the mighty Kandeskys and SNAP would be around the circuit faster than the discount knock-off designs.
“I’m taking Hermann and Ludwig; they both know the city and the Poles.”
“Thank you.” Some of the tension went out of Jean-Louis’ face. “Please let me know as soon as you find anything out. And take care of yourself, you know I worry.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The Ludvoc Design group had taken over a Baroque building around the corner from the Main Market for the duration of the three-day show and it was barely controlled chaos that morning. Hair and make-up people swarmed, models stood around in their underwear smoking, photographers shouted at assistants for better light, aides trundled long racks of clothes and one poor guy kept yelling for shoes.
I led my little parade of demons, one carrying my cane and one carrying my briefcase, to the offices at the back. I’d unwrapped my ankle and was wearing my Gucci flats, so I acted as though our entrance was just business as usual and the designers’ staff took us at our word. I was ushered into a small office and given a chair. The demons stood behind me. We looked formidable.
The head of the Ludvoc Design Group, Victor, reached over to shake my hand and ordered coffee for us. “I am happy to meet you Ms. Gwenoch. I have long been an admirer of SNAP.”
My right eyebrow arched. “Hummmm, that’s interesting, Victor. I’ve been told that our press passes for your Spring Show have been cancelled. Would you care to tell me about that?”
He didn’t expect my directness. Business wasn’t usually done so bluntly, and seldom by a woman, so Victor was slightly out of his element. He turned as a minion brought in coffee and fussed a bit about getting it served, an interruption that gave him a few minutes to compose himself and find excuses.
“It’s true, we did cancel your press passes, but that’s because we were told you would be part of pool coverage this year.”
Good save. SNAP was
never
part of pool coverage, and I suspected Victor knew this. Pool coverage was when a group of end-users, tabloids, smaller magazines and newspapers together hired a photographer and then shared the images. This was not something that SNAP ever did. If the event was small, we would buy from freelancers, but if we ever found that the freelancer had sold to another outlet as well, he or she was banned from SNAP forever. Not a price that most freelancers were willing to pay.
“Who told you that we were part of a pool this year?” I picked up my coffee and sipped, surprised that it was so good.
“We got an email and a phone call. I can show you the email.” He picked up a cell and gave a paragraph or so of order in Polish. Within a minute, another staffer came in with a piece of paper, what looked like a copy of an email.
Victor was right in one regard. The email was headed with the SNAP logo and sent from the L.A. office. Or what looked like the L.A. office. Looked at carefully, it was clear that our account had been hacked.
“Didn’t you wonder about this? Didn’t you follow up?”
“We did. We called the number in the email and were told that it was correct. That someone in your French office had approved it.”
“Well, this is all fake. No one approved pool coverage. And the head of our Paris office is here right now, working with our photographers to finalize shooting sites.”
Victor almost swallowed his tongue with his coffee. “Oh, you can’t do that! I’ve, I mean, we’ve put out notices that SNAP won’t be shooting. Oh, they’ll ruin us!”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know who they are. They’re the ones who sent us the email and made the phone call!”
I just sat there, staring at him. Not only was it clear he was lying, he was beginning to figure out that we knew he was lying. Finally, one of the demons, Hermann, I think, leaned over and handed me my briefcase. I opened it, pulled out a sheaf of papers and began leafing through them.
Visibly shaken, Victor began stammering in earnest. “They told us you wouldn’t find out. They said you’d just assume there was miscommunication between your offices. They said that they’d make sure you got copies of the pool pictures.”
“And again, who is this ‘they’?”
“I really don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure. The phone call did come from Paris, caller ID showed the right city code. I never got a call from SNAP before, so how was I to know it wasn’t from you?”
“Did you ask for any verification?”
“No! They, the man, said he was calling for Maxie Gwenoch. I didn’t question. And then...” his voice trailed off.
“And, then...?”
“I got another call. This time the voice had an accent, not a French accent, an Eastern accent, maybe Slavic.”
“And the voice said?”
Victor shook his head, his skin gray. Clearly this was a conversation he didn’t want to remember.
“The voice said if I wanted our design studio to continue, we had to do what they said. We had to cancel your press passes and make sure you were only given pool pictures. You, SNAP, weren’t to be allowed to cover the show in any way. No runway seats, no backstage passes, no model or designer interviews. And by keeping you away from the runway, you wouldn’t even be able to know who was there and who ordered.”
This was interesting. Not only were the fashion pictures taken away, a big pain, but we’d have no idea who was there. Our vaunted celeb coverage would be out the window.
And this could be from a wide range of interests. What leapt to mind first was the Huszars trying to move in on our cash cows, part of the skeleton of our success. Next, were the oligarchs, who wanted their privacy kept private. Then, and this was scary to think about, a pact between them. Or even the Chechens, thinking they could sell their muscle to either or both groups, and doing it on spec. They didn’t need to have a contract, they could peddle the results to the highest bidder.
We seemed to have stirred up every baddie in Europe and they all wanted a piece of us. The price of success!
I watched Victor. He was quivering. “What are you going to do?”
“I think the question is ‘What are YOU going to do?’ We’re going to cover your Spring Show.”
Victor closed his eyes. I thought he was going to vomit. He managed to take a few deep breaths.
“We’re done, then. I just wanted to start a fashion house. Do some great designs, carve out a place for us in the new Eastern economy. I thought this would help Poland gain stature and respect in the West.” I could almost hear him moan.
“What are you talking about? Why do you think you’re done?”
“They’ll kill us. Or they’ll take us over. They’ll send in thugs to make sure our orders never get shipped. They’ll scare off our suppliers...”
Victor was listing a tale of mayhem that made even me nervous. “We’re going to be your partner. SNAP will provide some guards,” I waved my hand toward the demons, “to watch your shipments, if need be. We’ll put the word out that, in the interests of U.S. and European harmony, we’re going to bat for struggling businesses in the former Eastern Bloc. You can say that you have a contract for SNAP to cover your shows for the next three years.
“That alone will ensure that all the fashion and gossip outlets will cover you and should make your shows sell-outs. If the fashionistas think they’ll be on the pages of SNAP, they’ll turn out.”
I couldn’t have made Victor any happier if he’d been on the Titanic and I’d thrown him the last life preserver.
“Do you mean that? Will SNAP really do that?” Sweat was beading his forehead. “Why would you do that after I pulled your press passes?”
“Because you acted in what you thought was the best way to protect your business. You were threatened by very bad forces and you didn’t see any way out but to obey them. This was not of your doing.”
“Thank you, Ms. Gwenoch. I couldn’t see beyond the threats and didn’t know what else to do.”
I stood up, more to stretch out my ankle then to walk out. “The next time you get what looks like an email or fax or letter or phone call from SNAP, you call either Francois or me. I will send you our cell phone numbers on a secure line. Do not EVER give those numbers out. And only use them to verify that we’ve been in touch with you. Keep all conversations to less than a minute.”
“Will you attend our party after the show tonight?”
“Yes, Francois and I will be there. I hope everything goes well.”
Hermann, Ludwig and I walked out of the office and back into pandemonium, which seemed to have increased in volume and tone.
Once back in the limo, I asked them to give me a better tour of the city, so for a couple of hours we crossed and re-crossed the Vistula River while watching tourists, locals and some of the more than 100,000 students who attended the universities of this city.
We did not go to Auschwitz . The Poles hadn’t built that death pit and it wasn’t a part of their history I wanted to see.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Well done, Maxie!” Jean-Louis’ voice was buoyant. “That should send a strong message we’re not backing down. Are you all right?”
I was all right. I was more than all right. For the first time in months I felt powerful and that I was actively guiding my actions. Until now, I hadn’t acknowledged that being a victim, or being seen as one at least, had sapped me. I hadn’t fought back, except with Jean-Louis, and that was such a mixture of personal and professional concern that I felt paralyzed much of the time.
“I’m fine. And even my ankle’s fine. It really gave Victor heart to hear that we considered him a partner. When I saw the ‘email’ from SNAP I knew we’d been hacked. It looked like our logo and had our L.A. address. I suppose if you’d never done business with us, you might not know we never use pool coverage. I couldn’t totally fault Ludvoc designs.”
“Who do you think sent it?”
Wow, Jean-Louis was asking my advice? Naw, he was just checking to see if my assumptions were the same as his.
“I’m not sure. The list of folks we’ve riled up is the size of the Krakow phone book. Could be the Huszars, wanting to discredit us. Could be the Chechens, wanting themselves to look good. Could be some combination.”
“That’s where I’m going, too, although I’m detecting the hand of the Huszars, Matthais, ultimately behind this. Are you going to the runway show?”
“I am. Victor has reserved front row seats for us. I’m taking Hermann and Francois will meet us later at the party. That’ll put the wind up Matthais’ nose, to see our coverage and me right in his face!”
We shared a laugh, but his voice got wary. “Please don’t take any chances. And keep Hermann and Ludwig close. Know that I love you.”
All of my work trying to explain how I felt when he “took care of” me hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. We were now partners in this deathly war.
I pulled myself together with a Chanel business suit for the runway show. I’d come back later, change into the gown and pick up Francois for the party. Hermann and I headed out. I didn’t think I needed both demons. This was a big event, all invited guests, Ludvoc Designs would have their own security and we’d be deep in the crowd in the first row off the runway.
The design studio did itself proud. The dresses and casual clothes for spring were floaty, gauzy pastels, very romantic. Prints looked like Impressionist watercolors, soft-lined and indistinct, just waiting for an invitation for a picnic on the river. Of course, any woman who’d wear one of these creations for a picnic was either crazy or incredibly wealthy. The simple dresses would be running close to $5,000 at the studio.
If the mass market followed Ludvoc Designs though, knockoff versions would be available at big department stores for around $150 right after Christmas.
We were just standing up after the last of the bows and applause when a commotion broke out where guests were streaming out the exit. I couldn’t see with all the people crowding around, plus Hermann was keeping himself between me and anything interesting, and the shouts were in yet another language I didn’t know—probably Polish.
Hermann swiveled his head around, almost yelling Hungarian into his communicator, while looking for another exit. He spotted a path around the runway and through the backstage into the dressing area, grabbed me around the waist and half-carried me out of the audience. Once in the dressing area, Victor rushed over.
“Please don’t be alarmed. This was just a student protest. There are many students, Poles and others, who think what we do is frivolous and not worthy of interest. There are so many other issues we’re facing. The economy, membership in the European Union, the loss of our heritage, and loss of the zloty.”
I knew there was an undercurrent of angst in many of the EU countries over the euro becoming the currency and Britain refusing to give up the pound. These were old and proud nations who’d fought bitterly with one another for centuries and now were yoked together, so flashes of discontent were bound to erupt now and again.
“Thank you. I am a little on edge. I’m going to the hotel to change and meet Francois, who’s going over some images that we’ll use tonight. We’ll be back for the party.”
Hermann moved the crowd aside and as we headed back to the limo the security forces had pushed back a group of young people holding placards and shouting some slogan. I raised my eyebrows and in rusty English, Hermann said, “My Polish is not so good, but I think they say ‘Keep zloty’.”
How wonderful to find a ruckus that had nothing to do with the Huszars!
At the hotel, I managed to get myself into the long Chanel gown, put my hair up and redo my makeup without Elise, but I didn’t like it. I was getting way used to the luxe life.
The party was a rush of noise, sweaty bodies, happiness, Champagne and over-amped club music. Hermann and Ludwig stuck to me like glue, leaving Francois to manage on his own. I felt too old for this young, hip group and I flagged down Francois to tell him I was leaving.