JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

“Angeline?”

“She’s a character on The Edge of Tomorrow,” Sophie revealed absently, her attention captured by a clinging silver gown reminiscent of films of the thirties and forties. “A former hooker turned movie star turned romance writer.”

“Oh, I remember her. I watched that show all the time when I was going to fashion school.”

“You must watch a lot of old films, too,” Sophie guessed.

“I love old movies.”

“I figured that. Your artistic vision definitely has a cinematic scope. So, although television admittedly isn’t the big screen, how would you like to come to work for me?”

“For you?”

“I’ve currently got three soaps in production. Since my shows are famous for their glamour, we keep three costumers shopping overtime to supply outfits for each one-hour drama. The after-six wear and lingerie is the toughest to find, so I’ve been considering hiring someone to design specifically for us. From what I see here, you’d be perfect.”

The idea was tempting. Especially after all the months trying to land a job, then these past weeks laboring away in obscurity. But Alex was not yet prepared to let go of her dream.

“It’s not that I’m not flattered,” she began slowly, choosing her words with extreme caution. “Because I am....”

“But you’re hoping that one of these days, that idiot Debord will open his eyes and realize what a talented designer is toiling right beneath his nose.”

Alex felt herself blush. “That’s pretty much it.”

Sophie shrugged her padded shoulders. “Well, if that scenario doesn’t happen, just remember, you’ve always got a job with me.” She opened her bag, pulled out a business card and a pen and scribbled a number on the back.

“Here’re the phone numbers for my office at the studio, my car, my home and my pager. Give me a call sometime, even if it’s just to talk, okay?”

Alex took the card and stuck it away in a desk drawer. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

When Alex cast another significant glance at her watch, Sophie sighed with ill-concealed resignation. “All right, I suppose we’d better get back before Marie Hélène sends the fashion police looking for us.”

When Alex and Sophie returned to the salon, they found Debord waiting in the cabine. Clad in his smock, his sable hair pulled back into a ponytail to display his Gallic cheekbones to advantage, he looked every inch the temperamental artist.

Dior and Balenciaga had started the tradition of the white smock; Yves Saint Laurent and Givenchy continued it. Debord, always pushing against the boundaries of tradition, had altered it to an anthracite gray. Brightening the breast of the gray smock was the red ribbon of the Chevalier de la Légion d’honneur. Although he was not tall, beneath the smock, Debord possessed the broad chest and shoulders of a Picasso etching of a bull.

“Ah, Madame Friedman,” he said, greeting her Continental style with an air kiss beside each cheek, “it is a pleasure to meet such a discerning woman.”

“I like your stuff,” Sophie lied adroitly, “although I have to admit, it was a toss-up between you and Gianni Sardella.”

The room went suddenly, deathly still. The only sound was the soft strains of Vivaldi playing in the back-ground. Marie Hélène, normally a paragon of composure, blanched.

Alex’s dark eyes widened. Surely Mrs. Friedman knew of the antipathy between the two designers! Stories of their mutual loathing were legion. Not only did Debord not permit his rival’s name to be spoken in his presence, last spring he allegedly pushed a client down the grand staircase of the Paris Opera for wearing one of Sardella’s beaded evening gowns.

All eyes were on Debord. The back-and-forth motion of his jaw suggested that he was grinding his teeth. His eyes had narrowed to hard, dark stones; a vein pulsed dangerously at his temple. Just when Alex thought he was going to explode, he forced a flat smile.

“I am honored you chose me,” he said between clenched teeth.

That, more than anything, displayed to Alex how far her employer had fallen. Before this season’s showing, he would have shouted something about philistines and demanded Mrs. Friedman leave these hallowed halls and never darken his doorway again.

Sophie appeared undaunted by the tension surrounding them. Indeed, Alex considered, from the twinkle in her eyes, she appeared to be having the time of her life.

“Your reputation is equaled only by your prices, monsieur,” she said. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to have Alexandra working for you.”

He looked at Alex, as if seeing her for the first time.

“What I can’t understand is why she isn’t a designer,” Sophie declared. “With her talent, along with her Seventh Avenue experience, I would have thought you’d have wanted her creative input on this season’s collection.”

“A designer?” Yves looked at his sister. “You did not tell me that Mademoiselle Lyons was a designer.”

Marie Hélène looked as if she could have eaten an entire box of Alex’s straight pins and spit out staples. “She designed day wear. Little polyester American dresses,” she tacked on dismissively, her tongue as sharp as a seamstress’s needle.

“They may have been polyester, but if they were like any of the designs I saw this afternoon, they must have sold like hotcakes,” Sophie shot back.

Debord turned to Alex. “You have sketches?”

“Yves...” Marie Hélène protested.

The designer ignored his sister. “Do you?” he asked Alex again.

Alex finally understood why her sketches had been rejected without comment. Debord had never seen them. Alex shot a quick, blistering glare Marie Hélène’s way. The directress responded with a cool, challenging look of her own.

Knowing that to accuse his sister of treachery would definitely not endear herself to the designer, Alex bit her tongue practically in two. “My portfolio is at my apartment.” Anger and anticipation had her heart pounding so fast and so hard she wondered if the others could hear it.

“You will bring your sketches to my office first thing tomorrow morning. I will examine them then.”

Ignoring his sister’s silent disapproval, Debord turned again to Sophie. “I hope you enjoy your gowns, madame. As well as the remainder of your time in Paris.”

“If the rest of my trip is half as much fun as today has been,” Sophie professed, “I’m going have one helluva time.” She winked conspiratorially at Alex.

For the first time in her life, Alex understood exactly how Cinderella had felt when her fairy godmother had shown up with that gilded pumpkin coach.

Her idol was finally going to see her sketches!

And when he did, he was bound to realize she was just what he needed to instill new excitement into his fall collection.

Alex indulged in a brief tantalizing fantasy of Debord and herself working together, side by side, spending their days and nights working feverishly to the sounds of Vivaldi, united in a single, brilliant creative effort.

As she returned Sophie Friedman’s smile with a dazzling grin of her own, Alex decided that life didn’t get much better than this.

Chapter Three

Alex didn’t sleep all night. As she dressed for work, running one pair of black panty hose and pulling a button off the front of her dress in her fumbling nervousness, all she could think about was the upcoming moment of truth. When Debord would view her designs.

When she entered the salon, Alex was met with the cold, unwelcoming stare of Marie Hélène.

“Bonjour, Madame,” Alex said with far more aplomb than she was feeling.

Marie Hélène did not return her greeting. “Debord is waiting in his office.”