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Danielle Steel: Fine things

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Danielle Steel Fine things

Fine things: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Her name was Isabelle Martin and she was twenty-four years old. She had grown up in the south of France and gone to Paris at eighteen to work for Saint Laurent and then Givenchy She was absolutely tops, and she had been a huge success in Paris. It was no surprise when she had been asked to come to the States and had done extremely well in New York for the past four years. He couldn't imagine why they hadn't met before.

“Usually I do only photography, Monsieur Fine.” She had an accent that enchanted him. “But for your show …” She smiled in a way that melted the seat of his pants and he would have done anything for her. And suddenly he remembered her. He had seen her on the cover of Vogue more than once, and Bazaar and Women's Wear …she just looked very different in real life, more beautiful actually. It was rare for models to cross over between runway modeling and photography, but she was skilled at both, and she had done beautifully in their show and he congratulated her lavishly.

“You were marvelous, Miss …uh …” His mind suddenly went blank and she smiled at him again.

“Isabelle.” He thought he would die just looking at her, and he took her to dinner that night at La Caravelle. Everyone in the room turned to look at her. And they went dancing afterwards at “Raffles” and Bernie never wanted to go home again. He never wanted to give her up, to let her out of his arms. He had never met anyone like her before, he had never been as swept off his feet by anyone. And the armor he had built after Sheila walked out of his life melted at her hands. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and more extraordinary, it was natural. He thought her the most beautiful creature on earth, and it would have been difficult for anyone to disagree with him.

They had an enchanted summer in East Hampton that year. He had rented a small house, and she spent every weekend with him. When she had arrived in the U.S. she had immediately become involved with a well-known fashion photographer and after two years she had left him for a real-estate mogul. But all men seemed to fade from her life when Bernie appeared. It seemed like a magical time to him as he took her with him everywhere, showing her off, being photographed, dancing till dawn. It all seemed very jet set, and he laughed when he took his mother to lunch, and she leveled her most motherly gaze at him.

“Don't you think she's a little rich for your blood?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she reeks of 'jet set,' and when all is said and done, how do you fit in, Bernie?”

“You're never a hero in your own home town, isn't that what they say? I can't say it's very flattering though.” He was admiring his mother's navy blue Dior suit. He had bought it for her the last time he was abroad and it looked lovely on her. But he didn't particularly want to discuss Isabelle with her. He hadn't taken her home to meet his parents, and he wasn't planning to. The two worlds would never have met successfully, although he knew that his father would have loved seeing her. Any man would have. She was spectacular.

“What's she like?” His mother wouldn't let go, as usual.

“She's a nice girl, Mom.”

His mother smiled at him. “Somehow that doesn't seem the right description for her. She's certainly beautiful.” She saw her photographs everywhere, and she told all her friends. At the hairdresser she showed everyone “that girl …no, the one on the cover …she goes out with my son …” “Are you in love with her?” She was never afraid to ask what she wanted to know, but Bernie quailed when he heard the words. He wasn't ready for that, although he was crazy about her, but he still remembered all too well his foolishness when he was in Michigan …the engagement ring he had given Sheila on Valentine's Day, that she had thrown back at him …the wedding plans he had made …the day she walked out of his life, carrying her duffel bag and his heart. He never wanted to be in the same position again, and he had guarded himself carefully. But not from Isabelle Martin.

“We're good friends.” It was all he could think of to say, and his mother stared at him.

“I hope it's more than that.” She looked horrified, as though she suddenly suspected him of being a homosexual, and all he could do was laugh at her.

“It is, okay? It's more than that…but nobody is getting married. All right? Satisfied? Now, what do you want for lunch?” He ordered steak and she ordered filet of sole and she pressed him about everything he was doing for the store. They were almost friends now, and he saw his parents less than he had when he first came back to New York. He didn't have much time, particularly with the arrival of Isabelle in his life.

He took her to Europe with him when he went on business that fall and they made a sensation everywhere they went. They were inseparable, and just before Christmas she moved in with him, and Bernie finally had to give in and take her to Scarsdale, much as he dreaded it. She was perfectly pleasant to his parents, although she didn't gush over them, and she made it clear to him that she wasn't interested in seeing a lot of them.

“We have so little time alone …” She pouted so perfectly, and he loved making love to her. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, and sometimes he just stood staring at her as she put her makeup on or dried her hair or got out of the shower, or walked in the door carrying her portfolio. Somehow she made one want to freeze-frame and just stand there gazing at her.

His mother had even been subdued when they met. Isabelle had a way of making one feel very small, standing next to her, except Bernie, who had never felt more of a man with anyone. Her sexual prowess was remarkable, and their relationship was based on passion more than love. They made love almost everywhere, the bathtub, the shower, the floor, the back of his car one Sunday afternoon when they took a drive to Connecticut. They almost did it in the elevator once, and then came to their senses as they approached their floor and knew the doors were about to open. It was as though they couldn't stop, and he could never get quite enough of her. For that reason, he took her to France again in the spring, and then back out to East Hampton again, but this time they saw more people than they had before, and there was a movie producer who snagged her eye one night at a party on the beach at Quogue, and the next day Bernie couldn't find her anywhere. He found her on a yacht, moored nearby, making love to the producer from Hollywood on the deck, as Bernie stood for an instant staring at them, and then hurried away with tears in his eyes, realizing something he had hidden from for a long time. She wasn't just a great lay and a beautiful girl, she was the woman he loved, and losing her was going to hurt him.

She apologized when she got back to their house, but it wasn't for several hours. She and the producer had talked for a long time afterwards, about her goals, what she wanted out of her life, and what her relationship with Bernie meant, what he offered her. The producer had been fascinated by her and had told her as much. And when she got back, she tried to tell Bernie what she felt, much to his dismay.

“I can't live in a cage for the rest of my life, Bernard … I must be free to fly where I need to be.” He had heard it all before, in another life, with combat boots and a duffel bag, instead of a Pucci dress and Chanel shoes, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase standing open in the next room.

“I take it I represent a cage to you?” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. He wasn't going to tolerate her sleeping with someone else. It was as simple as that, and he wondered if she had done it before, and with whom.

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