JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

As the plane had reached cruising level thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic, she’d collapsed and to the distress of the flight attendants, who’d tried their utmost to uphold the Air France tradition of esprit de service—even bringing her a glass of the cognac strictly reserved for first-class passengers—she’d wept like a baby.

For the first time in her life, she’d been truly alone. And though she’d been raised to be independent, deep down inside, Alex had been terrified.

Now, against all odds, she’d achieved the first part of her goal. She’d gotten her boot in Debord’s black glass door. Next, all she had to do was prove to the designer she was worthy of the opportunity. Once Debord recognized her talent, she’d be bound to win a promotion.

Could she do it?

Her full lips curved into a wide grin. Her amber eyes, touched with golden facets that radiated outward, lighted with Alex’s irrepressible lust for life.

“You bet,” she decided with a renewed burst of her characteristic optimism.

Chapter Two

Paris

February 1982

Alex’s knees were aching. She’d been kneeling in the close confines of the cabine for hours, laboring under the watchful arctic eye of Marie Hélène.

Alex was grateful to still have a job. Last week, at the season’s défilé de mode held in the gilded splendor of the Salon Impérial of the Hôtel Intercontinental, Debord had experienced the fashion media’s ugly habit of chewing up designers and spitting them out.

“Fashion for nuns,” American Vogue had called his totally black-and-white collection. “A tour de force of hideous taste,” Suzy Menkes of the International Herald Tribune declared, attacking the designer’s androgynous black jersey for its dismal, breast-flattening style. “A cross between Grace Jones and Dracula,” Women’s Wear Daily said scornfully. Its sister publication, W, gave the collection a grade of S—for scary—and said Debord’s depressing black shrouds looked as if they came right out of the comic strip Tales from the Crypt.

After the disastrous showing, the femmes du monde, accustomed to making twice-yearly pilgrimages to this revered salon, deserted the French designer, rushing instead to Milan and Debord’s long-detested rival, Gianni Sardella.

Surprisingly, Sophie Friedman, daytime television producer and wife of Hollywood mogul Howard Friedman, paid no heed to the fashion mavens. On the contrary, she amazed even the unflappable Marie Hélène by ordering six evening dresses and twice that number of daytime suits.

Considering that each garment was literally built onto the client, Mrs. Friedman and Alex had spent most of the past week locked in the cramped fitting room together.

“I think it makes me look fat,” Sophie said, raising her voice over the classical music played throughout the building.

“It is only the white toile that makes it appear so, Mrs. Friedman,” Marie Hélène assured her smoothly. “Once it is worked up in the satin, you will discover that black is very slimming.”

“Do you think so?” Sophie ran her beringed hands over her substantial hips, tugging at the material. Alex bit back a curse as the pins she’d just inserted pulled loose. The zaftig woman looked unconvinced. “What do you think?” she asked Alex.

Alex was unaccustomed to being addressed by a customer. A mere draper, she was in the lower echelons of the profession.

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.