“So what’s the beautiful blond bombshell done now?” she finally asked in a careful, level voice.
“She’s run off to Australia with a man fifteen years older than herself, and taken the two children with her. She’s left Jim, says the marriage is over and that she will file for divorce. Or he can.”
Kate sat back with a jerk, stunned by the news.
“I’ll see you through the spring collection, Kate, and keep to the terms of my contract, but then I’ll have to go to Australia.”
“What for? I mean, why would you go to Australia?” She threw him a puzzled look.
“To bring her back.”
Gaping at him, Kate exclaimed, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! She’s twenty-four, if I remember correctly. She won’t listen to you, Peter, and neither will the new man in her life. She can do what she wants, darling, she’s of age. Anyway, she’s stubborn to a fault. Also, surely it’s Jim’s place to go and bring his wife back, not yours. Now listen to me, and I’ll tell you how to handle this.”
“All right. I’m listening.”
“It’s simple. You are going to step away from Allegra’s mess and let her handle it with her husband and her lover. It’s none of your business.”
He nodded, knowing she was absolutely right.
“I want you to know that I’m here for you, Peter, and I’ll help you in any way I can. Let’s put Allegra and her problems to one side for a moment.”
He nodded, looked suddenly more at ease, less taut.
“You’re under contract to the House of Tremont, and that contract will be extended for as long as you want. Especially now that we are about to launch the New Face of Tremont in the shape of M. Also, I have a secret to tell you, and I know you won’t breathe a word to anyone.”
“Who the hell am I going to tell?” he asked, sounding slightly combative, more like himself.
This sudden change in his manner pleased Kate, and she leaned closer to him. “M told me last week that she’s married, and this is going to be one helluva story for us. It’ll boost the PR campaign in a fantastic way.”
Peter frowned and asked, “Why? Who’s she married?”
“Laurence Vaughan.”
“The Laurence Vaughan? The actor? The gorgeous movie star?”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, honey.”
“Jaysus! That is a great story! Oh boy, Kate, they’re going to be the new ‘in’ couple, and overnight. I guarantee that. It’s all going to work beautifully for you. This really opens up the coverage, because it takes us away from fashion, beyond it. I can place lots of human interest stories. When did they get married? And where?”
“In New York in December. At City Hall. And in secret. And she was clever enough to wear a Tremont coat and hat. Clever, clever girl.”
“I’ll say.”
Twenty-nine
They called her the Avenue of the Grande-Armée, you know,” M said, turning on her side and looking at Larry.
“Who?” he asked, sounding sleepy.
“Margaretha Zelle MacLeod.”
“Who on earth was that?” he asked, pushing himself up on the pillows, staring at her.
“She was also known as Mata Hari. She was an exotic dancer, and she got her nickname because of the extraordinary number of army officers she slept with during the First World War. She was a demimondaine, which, as you know, is simply a euphemism for prostitute.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Larry asked, puzzled but intrigued.
“Because I was just thinking about her. She lived here at the Plaza Athénée for a time, in January of 1917, to be exact, and this was her suite.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! Now, why do I say that? Of course you’re not kidding.”
“That’s right. Anyway, she checked out toward the end of January and went to another hotel, where she was later arrested for espionage. She had spied for the French, but she was accused of being a double agent, working for the Germans.”
“The famous spy, now I remember. I once saw an old movie about her, starring Garbo. Or was it Dietrich?”
“Both of them made Mata Hari movies. But she wasn’t a double agent, at least not according to British MI5, who believed the charges against her had been trumped up. Anyway, she was executed for treason later that year. In October.”
“And tell me, M, how do you know all this?” An affectionate smile played around his mouth, and he leaned into her, kissed her brow, as always amused.
“I read a book about her, and I remembered certain things.”
“And you do have an exceptional memory, that I’m aware of, and how do you know this was her suite?”
“The concierge told me. I asked him which one had been hers, and he said, “You are occupying it, madame.” I told him I’d read this interesting book and gave him the title. Guess what? He’d read it, too. It was translated into French.”
Larry started to laugh and said, through his laughter, “There’s nobody like you, M, and I guess if you ask a lot of questions you get a lot of information.”
“That’s true. Oh, my God, Larry! Look at the clock. It’s already eight-fifteen. Aren’t we meeting Luke in the bar at eight-thirty?”
“That we are, we’d better get a move on, sweetie.” He jumped out of bed, exclaiming, “I just need to wash my face and comb my hair. It’ll only take me a few minutes.”
“Me, too,” M answered and went to the dressing table. After brushing her hair and tying it back in a ponytail, she smoothed the merest touch of makeup over her face and added pale lipstick. Within a couple of minutes she had dressed in a white cashmere turtleneck, a black satin waistcoat, and wide black satin trousers. She found a small black purse and stepped into high-heeled black satin shoes.
“Ready!” she called out and grinned as she turned around. Larry had dressed in a similar fashion, was wearing black jeans, a black blazer, and a crisp white, open-necked shirt. “I keep telling you we think alike,” she said.
“So I see, and you look gorgeous, my girl.” Taking hold of her arm, he led her out of the suite and down the corridor to the elevator. “Am I relieved you’re not one of those women who mess around with their makeup for hours.”
“Call me Swifty. That’s me.”
A moment later they stepped out of the elevator and into the hall. It was exactly eight-thirty, and Luke Hendricks was standing there waiting for them.
There were hugs and kisses, and Luke said, “My God, you two look fantastic. I wish I had a camera.”
“Not tonight, Josephine,” M murmured, and seeing Luke’s baffled expression she explained, “That’s a famous phrase of Napoleon’s, supposedly uttered once by him to Josephine, his wife. I guess he was feeling too tired.”
The two men were still laughing at M’s comments as the three of them walked down the Galerie des Gobelins, heading in the direction of the Bar. It had recently been redone and was colorful, glamorous, modern, and the “in” place in town. And very busy.
Luke ushered M through the door, led her toward the far end of the room, and she suddenly spotted Caresse sitting with Geo and James, and let out a small whoop of delight. Rushing forward, she left Luke and Larry to follow in her wake.
Caresse jumped up the moment M reached the table, her perky little face filled with excitement. “I got in this morning, and I’ve been dying to see you ever since,” Caresse explained, beaming at her.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” M answered, hugging her redheaded friend, of whom she had grown so fond.
“I wasn’t going to miss your first walk down the catwalk,” Caresse replied, sitting down and still grinning. “It’s an event.”
Geo stood up and hugged her, and so did James; Geo said, “We didn’t want to miss your debut either, so we came over for a few days.”
“I’m so happy you did. I’m thrilled the three of you are here, really happy to see you all.”
“It’s also our honeymoon,” James announced, r
ather proudly. “We got married a few days ago at City Hall.”
“Congratulations!” M sat down, her expression one of genuine happiness. These three people had become very important to her in New York, and she considered them dear friends. And she was delighted James and Geo had married.
“This is going to be a real celebration tonight,” she said. “Let’s have some champagne, Larry. You remember Larry, don’t you, Caresse?”
Larry shook Caresse’s hand, greeted her with genuine warmth, and sat down at the table. Turning to M, he said quietly, “Shall we tell them our news?”
M was silent for a moment, thinking quickly, and then she said, “Why not? It’s going to be announced this coming week anyway.”
All eyes were on Larry as he said in a low, confiding voice, “We got married, too. Also at City Hall in New York, just before we left in December. We did it in secret, and we’d like you all to keep it a secret for a few days, because Kate Morrell wants to make a big splash when she announces it. After the spring and summer collection has been shown.”
Everybody promised to keep quiet, gave their congratulations in hushed voices, and Luke asked, “No photographs?”
“Of course not!” M threw him an amused glance. “However, I was married in the pale blue Tremont coat and pillbox hat, and there’s no reason you can’t take our ‘wedding’ shot, so called. We can stage it next week.”
“What a clever little thing you are.” Luke laughed.
“Not so little, Luke.” Reaching out, M took Geo’s hand in hers. “I’m so happy you married James, and that you, James, married Geo. You’re the perfect couple. Congratulations again, and isn’t it nice that the four of us are celebrating our nuptials together tonight.”
“It is.” James agreed, then grimaced all of a sudden. “I’m afraid I won’t be too popular with my parents when we tell them we got married without them being present. I think they were hoping we might tie the knot in England so they could be there.” He shook his head and continued, “What about yours? How did they take it?” James looked from M to Larry, a questioning expression on his face.
M said, “I never know what to think when it comes to my parents and their reaction to the things I do. They regard me as a bit of a kook, I guess. They were sweet and congratulatory, then wanted to know if we’d like to get married again. In England, at our family home, where I grew up, and I said why not, and that seemed to satisfy them. They sounded happy when they hung up.”
“And mine are in the middle of the most monumental row since that strange little man the Prince of Wales announced he was abdicating to marry the love of his life, Wallis Simpson, long ago. And don’t ask me what my parents’ row is about. I don’t really know. However, because of it, they were sort of . . . well, offhand. Preoccupied with their own drama. But my mother said something about being certain my new wife was lovely, and that I was a very lucky chap. It was as if I’d been married before, the way she spoke.”
“So basically we’re off the hook,” M asserted.
“Only for the moment,” Larry announced and motioned to the waiter, asked for the wine to be served, then said to the others, “Earlier I ordered Billecart-Salmon pink champagne, and it’ll be here in a moment. I hope you all like pink champagne?”
“Oh, I’ve never had it,” Caresse said and then blushed, wishing she hadn’t said this. “I’m sure I will though,” she added, still pink in the face.
Larry continued, “I booked a table here at the hotel, at the Relais Plaza. We happen to love it, and who wants to go out again in this cold? M and I were frozen stiff today.”
“It’s my favorite spot,” Luke said, and James agreed and went on, “And it’s my dinner.”
“Oh, no, not this time. It’s mine,” Larry argued.
“No fisticuffs, chaps,” M said and was glad when the waiter arrived with the champagne.
Once they had toasted each other several times, and sipped their champagne, Larry said, “I’ve got to tell you this amazing thing I just learned from M. It’s a marvelous story. Better still, let her tell you herself.”
“What amazing thing?” M asked, playing dumb and gazing at him over the rim of her glass, her eyes loving.
“Your story about the Avenue de la Grande-Armée.”
M burst out laughing and immediately recounted the tale of Mata Hari. They were all agog, listening attentively.
When she had finished it, Luke said, “Listen, kiddo, you’ve just given me a great idea for a magazine spread. Featuring you, naturally. I’d love to transform you into different famous women for a series of pictures—”
“Perhaps you could transform me into an Audrey,” M suggested.
Luke, who was deadly serious about his sudden idea, ignored her teasing. “It would have to be done with wigs most probably, but the makeup would be easy. Some good artists could make you over to look like some of the famous women who’ve stayed here. I bet the hotel has a record.”
“They do,” M responded, understanding now that he was indeed serious. “They’ll show you their albums. Many big movie stars have come trotting here over the years; it’s always been popular with the movie crowd. The Plaza is also considered the Pantheon of the haute couture world, because all of the famous fashion designers are located around here, on Avenue George-V, Rue François 1er, and Avenue Montaigne. Actually, Luke, I think you’ve hit on a fabulous idea, even though it’s probably been done before.”
“Everything’s been done before,” Luke shot back. “There’s nothing new under the sun.” He paused, gave her a long look. “But do you really think the idea will work, M?”
“I do. Ask the others what they think.”
He did. They all talked about it for a while, drinking their champagne and enjoying themselves. And they laughed a lot when they came up with the names of famous women who would challenge Luke’s artists’ inventiveness when it came to hair and makeup for M.
“That was fun,” Luke said later to Caresse, as they left the Bar and trooped down the galerie, across the lobby, and into the side door of the Relais Plaza.
Larry preferred the second level of the Relais, and Werner, the maître d’, greeted them warmly and led them up the steps, over to a roomy table in the center. Once they had been seated, had studied the menu and ordered, M said to Geo, “I want to show you something. Something really special. Come on.”
They both stood up, but as M pushed her chair back she noticed a sad look settling on Caresse’s face. Not wanting her to feel left out, M exclaimed, “And you too, Caresse! I want you both to see this wonderful work of art.”
Suddenly full of smiles again, Caresse rose, and she and Geo followed M down the three steps into the other part of the restaurant. Although it was busy, M managed to maneuver them closer to the bar.
“Just look at that,” she said and indicated a panel on the wall above the bar. “That dates back to the 1930s. It’s a bas-relief depicting Diana the huntress, and I think it’s so unusual. I’ve always admired it, and it was recently regilded, so it looks better than ever.”
“It’s certainly unique,” Geo agreed, “and if I’m not wrong, the panel has actually been sculpted on the wall, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. And what I love about it is the sense of movement it depicts, it looks so . . . alive, with Diana and the dogs chasing the stag.”
Caresse agreed and added, “The restaurant is . . . gorgeous. Did you see those two stained-glass panels of 1920s women? I hadn’t noticed them when we came in. I think—” Caresse cut herself off and grabbed hold of M’s arm. “I can’t believe it, M,” she whispered urgently. “Look, over there at that table where the blond woman is sitting. She’s with that awful guy Samson, Howard Dart’s real estate client. The guy who was badgering me to sell the studios. He’s a jerk, just like Howie.”
M followed the direction of Caresse’s gaze and saw that she was correct. It was Samson, and he was staring across the room at them.
M shrugged and muttered to Caresse, ?
??Don’t pay any attention to him, just walk straight ahead. Follow me.” As she spoke she led the way, her nose in the air, heading down the room.
Caresse and Geo did the same thing, appeared oblivious to Samson. But seeing him had upset Caresse, and she hadn’t liked the way he had focused his gaze on M. She shivered involuntarily. There was something odd about Samson. He seemed sinister to her.
Thirty
The scene was a hive of activity. Very well organized activity, M decided. She was sitting in a chair at a dressing table, watching everything with undisguised interest and enjoying every moment.
Dressers were moving about, coordinating shoes and accessories, sliding garments along racks to be certain all were labeled accurately and matched the models’ names written large on big cards attached to the racks. Hairstylists and makeup artists maneuvered through the group of assistants from the House of Tremont with ease and grace. All were intent on ensuring every girl looked perfect, beyond perfect, if that were possible.
And of course a bevy of the most beautiful girls were at the center of this activity, sitting around in cotton robes like M, waiting for the magic hour when they would step onto the catwalk to do their stuff. M identified a couple of top models, as well as others she did not know. They were all occupied: on cell phones, reviewing their makeup, reading newspapers or magazines, checking date books, searching through carryalls. They didn’t do any fraternizing, she noticed, and this did not surprise her. Everyone here was preoccupied with herself and her upcoming performance on the runway.
As M swung her eyes around, she noticed that some of the models looked bored to death, others were lost in thought, yet others were daydreaming. But still, there was a sense of tension and excitement. Jean-Louis Tremont was soon to present his spring-summer collection. It was the last Monday in January 2007, a day M knew she would never forget.
As usual, the great French fashion designer was showing his latest line of haute couture clothes at the Grand Palais on Avenue Winston-Churchill, the venue he preferred the most. He was showing at three o’clock for the same reason—preference; he liked an afternoon event best, mostly because it catered to the press. The show would last forty minutes, and from four o’clock on the photographers could shoot away to their hearts’ content. They could stay until midnight, as far as he was concerned.