Legacy of Lies. JoAnn Ross

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ