Fleur made Michel shut down his store and bring in the people who’d done the Kamali boutique to refashion the space with better display areas, a more elegant storefront, and the name Michel Savagar embossed over the doorway in bold red script on a deep purple background.
She and Kissy immediately made themselves an integral part of New York’s social scene. Wherever they went, they wore Michel’s wonderful designs. They lunched at Orsini’s then popped into David Webb to pick up an eighteen-karat bauble, which one of them later returned because “It wasn’t quite right.” They stopped at Helene Arpels for a new pair of evening pumps, then danced at Club A or Regine’s. As they lunched, shopped, and danced, they modeled silk dresses that floated like sea foam around their hips, a slim skimp of blue jersey with a gathered side seam, an evening gown that shimmered with tomato-red sequined panels. Within a week, every fashion-forward social butterfly in New York began asking about Michel Savagar’s dresses. Just as Fleur had hoped, they wanted them even more when they discovered the garments weren’t available.
Fleur and Kissy publicly gossiped about Michel. “My grandmother ruined him with all the money she left him,” Fleur confided to Adelaide Abrams from a banquette at Chez Pascal where she also showed off a silk wrap dress printed with gossamer water lilies. “People who don’t have to work for a living get lazy.”
The next day she confided in the gossipy wife of a department store heir. “Michel’s afraid commercialism will stifle his creativity. But he is working on something, and I do have some plans…Oh, never mind.”
Kissy was less subtle. “I’m almost positive he’s secretly putting together a collection,” she told everyone. And then her candy apple mouth formed a little pout, and she patted the skirt of whatever sugarplum confection she was showing off that day. “I don’t think it’s right that he won’t confide in me. Except for his sister, I’m his very dearest friend, and I can keep a secret as well as anyone.”
While Fleur and Kissy spread the word about Michel’s idealism and indifference to commercial success, Michel was working eighteen-hour days overseeing every detail of a collection he was financing with the last of Solange Savagar’s money.
Fleur was surviving on four hours of sleep. Every minute she didn’t spent playing the social butterfly she was in her office interviewing for staff, planning her open house, and dodging the last of the workmen. Several actors approached her about representation, but none of them had the special qualities she was looking for.
Fleur loved the way the townhouse renovations had turned out, despite the challenges the structure had presented. Her offices occupied the larger front section of the house and her living quarters the smaller rear portion. She’d decorated the office spaces in black and white with shots of gray and indigo. Her private office and the reception area occupied the front of the main floor, while the other offices were set off a balcony above. She’d added tubular ocean liner railing and black art deco columns with chrome collars to border the balcony, along with an open curved staircase that looked as if Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers would be dancing the Continental down it at any moment.
Her first two hires were Will O’Keefe, a cheerful redhead from North Dakota, who was an experienced publicist and talent agent, and David Bennis, gray-haired and professorial, who’d take charge of business and financial management, as well as give her agency an air of stability. She also hired a single mother named Riata Lawrence as office manager. For now, she didn’t have enough clients to keep them all busy, but they were part of the facade of success she had to create, right along with her beautifully decorated office and couture wardrobe.
A week before the open house, Will stepped over the last of the drop cloths outside her office. Since they weren’t officially open for business until after the open house, she wore jeans and an orange Mickey Mouse sweatshirt instead of the executive wardrobe Michel had designed for her.
“You’ve made Abrams’s column again,” Will said. “Unfortunately this isn’t one of our plants.”
Fleur took the paper and read.
Belinda Savagar spent yesterday afternoon in Yves Saint Laurent’s men’s boutique helping thirty-year-old heartthrob Shawn Howell pick out a new set of YSL silk sheets. Wonder what French industrialist hubby Alexi Savagar has to say about all that laundry?
Fleur hadn’t seen Belinda since the Orlani Gallery two weeks ago, but she was still getting the middle-of-the-night phone calls.
The next day, Will handed over Adelaide’s newest column:
Shawn Howell nuzzled with Belinda Savagar in the Elm Room at Tavern on the Green. Who says May/December romances don’t work? Shawn and Belinda seem to be getting it just right. No comment from Glitter Baby Fleur Savagar, even though she and Shawn used to be an item.
Some item. Fleur had detested Shawn Howell from their first arranged date.
Adelaide went on to write:
Old feuds die hard. Maybe Mom and the Glitter Baby will patch it up for Christmas. Peace on earth, girls.
Fleur pitched the column into the wastebasket.
She’d just gotten off the phone with another actor she didn’t want to represent when Will O’Keefe stuck his head into her office, his lightly freckled face pale. “We have a big problem. Yesterday Olivia Creighton called to chew me out because she hadn’t received her open house invitation. I sent her another one and didn’t think anything more about it until an hour ago when Adelaide Abrams called with the same complaint. Fleur, I’ve checked around. No one’s received their invitation.”
“That’s impossible. We mailed them ages ago.”
“That’s what I thought.” His expression grew graver. “I just spoke with Riata. She had them sitting in an open box on her desk. The day she planned to mail them, she came back from lunch and they were gone. She assumed I’d mailed them. Unfortunately she didn’t bother to check.”
Fleur sank into her new desk chair and tried to think.
“Do you want me to call everyone?” he asked. “Explain what happened and issue the invitation over the phone? Or should we change the date? We only have four days.”
Fleur made up her mind. “No phone calls and no explanations. Have new invitations hand-delivered this afternoon with flowers from Ronaldo Maia.” It would cost a fortune, but trying to explain would only make her look incompetent. “Put my mind at ease and double-check the rest of the arrangements. Let’s make sure there haven’t been any other slip-ups.”
He was back ten minutes later, and even before he spoke, she could see he had bad news. “Someone canceled the caterer last week. They’ve booked another party for our date.”
“Great,” Fleur muttered. “This is just great.” She rubbed her eyes and spent the rest of the afternoon shopping for a new caterer.
For the next four days she worked until she was exhausted and waited for another disaster. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, but she couldn’t make herself relax, and by the afternoon of the open house, she felt as if her nerves had been scraped raw. She ran out for a quick meeting with a new casting agent. When she came back, a soot-streaked Will met her at the entrance.
“We’ve had a fire.”
Her stomach pitched. “Is anybody hurt? How bad was it?”
“It could have been worse. David and I were in the hallway, and we smelled smoke coming from the basement. We grabbed a fire extinguisher and put the flames out before they could do much damage.”
“Are you all right? Where’s David?”
“We’re both fine. He’s cleaning up.”
“Thank God. How did it start? What happened?”
He wiped the back of his hand over his smudged cheek. “You’d better see for yourself.”
As she followed him to the basement, she shuddered to think what would have happened if the fire had broken out tonight when the house was full of people. He pointed toward the broken window directly above some charred lumber the contractor hadn’t gotten around to clearing out. Fleur walked closer and pushed at the
glass shards on the floor with the toe of her sneaker. “It was broken from the outside.”
“I was down here this morning,” Will said, “and there was nothing combustible over here. No paint cans, turpentine, nothing like that. A couple of punks out for kicks must have broken the window and tossed something inside.”
Except it was five in the afternoon, not the time most punks were on the prowl. “Air things out,” she said. “I’ll take care of the upstairs.”
Within an hour, they’d removed the charred lumber and sprayed the office with Opium to camouflage what was left of the acrid smell. As Will left to get dressed for the party, she stopped him. “I appreciate what you and David did. I’m only glad no one was hurt.”
“All in a day’s work.” He fastened the last button and turned to leave. “Oh, I forgot…Flowers arrived while you were out. Riata put them in water. She said there was no card.”
Fleur went into her office. The flowers sat in a tall chrome vase on her desk.
One dozen white roses.
Chapter 22
Fleur came to a stop halfway up the circular staircase and smiled down at her guests. Assorted executives from the entertainment and publishing industries had shown up, along with enough famous faces to keep the reporters and photographers Will had invited happy. Michel had outdone himself with the long-sleeved ecru silk sheath he’d designed for her. The bodice shimmered with poppies picked out in tiny brown and tan beads. On Michel’s orders, she’d secured her hair in a low chignon at the back of her neck and speared it with a jeweled chopstick. The Glitter Baby was living up to her name.
The jazz quartet playing on the balcony came to the end of their number. The crowd gradually quieted and gazed up at her. She drew on her old acting lessons and pretended she did this sort of thing all the time.
“Welcome, everyone, to the official opening of Fleur Savagar and Associates, Celebrity Management.” Her guests applauded politely, but she spotted skepticism on more than a few faces. She introduced Will and David, then spoke enthusiastically of Simon’s band and Olivia Creighton’s new part on Dragon’s Bay. Finally she gestured for Michel to join her on the staircase.
“I’m very sad to announce that my talented brother, Michel Savagar, will be sharing his incredible designs with the world in November when he shows his first collection.” She’d caught the attention of the women in the crowd, and this time the applause was more vigorous. She pretended to frown at him. “Unfortunately that means I’ll no longer be his most important client.”
“You will always be most important to me,” he said, his accent heavier than normal, which would have made her laugh if she weren’t the one who’d suggested he emphasize his French roots.
The reporters furiously scribbled away in their notebooks as she announced the details of the showing. She thanked her guests for attending, the jazz quartet began playing again, and well-wishers surrounded Michel. She reached for a champagne flute as Kissy approached. “Good job, Fleurinda. You introduced all your clients except me.”
“I have other plans for you, my pet. As you very well know.”
Kissy pulled her gaze from a hunky music producer. “All Olivia Creighton wants to talk about is her new part on Dragon’s Bay. It’s only six episodes, and it’s not even a lead.”
“I’ll bet it will be when Olivia’s done with it.” Fleur took a sip of champagne. “The nighttime soaps are hot, and she’s perfect for television. I think she could be as big as Joan Collins.”
It had taken Fleur almost a month to convince the Dragon’s Bay producers to let Olivia audition, and then it took another few days to convince Olivia that being forced to audition was less demeaning than doing more condominium commercials. But as soon as the producers heard her read, they offered her the job. The money was unimpressive, but Fleur would fix that the next time around. Olivia’s mature, sexy beauty and confident bearing held a strong appeal to middle-aged women, and Fleur was betting all that would translate into higher ratings for the show.
The hunky music executive disappeared, and Kissy finally gave Fleur her full attention. “You look incredible tonight. A little intimidating.”
“Really? How?”
“Sort of like the ‘other woman’ in the movies. The sophisticated blond bitch-goddess who tries to steal the hero from the rosy-cheeked heroine.”
“Excellent.” A blond bitch-goddess didn’t have to worry about the little things in life. Or the big things—like Alexi Savagar trying to destroy her.
She’d told Kissy and Michel about the fire, but hadn’t yet mentioned Alexi’s involvement. From the moment Belinda had walked into the Orlani Gallery, Alexi had been playing a cat-and-mouse game. The missing invitations were bad enough, but this afternoon he’d gotten serious.
Kissy nudged her. “Have you been watching Michel and Simon?”
“Disappointing.” With his massive size and shaved head, Simon was the most noticeable man in the crowd to everyone but Michel.
“They both have such bad taste in men,” Kissy said. “I guess we shouldn’t be surprised that they haven’t paid any attention to each other.”
“That little twit Damon won’t leave Michel’s side.”
Kissy frowned. “Michel and Simon are terrific people. The temptation to do some matchmaking is almost irresistible.”
Fleur watched Michel laugh at something Damon said. “It’s none of our business.”
“I know you’re right.”
“Michel doesn’t butt into my personal life, and I owe him the same courtesy.”
“You’re a good sister.”
“So how about a small dinner party in a few weeks?”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
With that piece of business out of the way, Kissy surveyed the crowd. “Didn’t you tell me you invited Charlie Kincannon?” The inquiry seemed casual, but Fleur wasn’t fooled.
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you get the impression that he was coming?”
“I’m not sure. Haven’t you talked to him?”
“Not for a couple of weeks.”
“Problems?”
Kissy shrugged. “I guess he’s gay or something.”
“Just because a fabulous man ignores you doesn’t mean he’s gay.”
“He’s hardly fabulous.”
“Christie Brinkley seems to think so. I heard they were dating.” Lying to her best friend was a rotten thing to do, but Kissy refused to take Charlie seriously, and Fleur decided the end justified the means.
“Christie Brinkley! She has to be a foot taller than he is.”
“Charlie’s very self-confident behind his geeky and fabulously rich facade. I don’t think he worries too much about externals.”
“I really don’t care.” Kissy sniffed. “Besides, I’ve never found Christie all that attractive.”
“Yeah. What’s so great about perfect features and a magnificent body?”
“You think I deserve this, don’t you?”
“Oh yes.”
“I haven’t fallen for him, so get that smug look off your face. Charlie’s not interested in me that way. We’re friends.”
Will drew Fleur away to talk to a reporter before she could suggest that Kissy cut the crap. As she finished posing for photographers, she bumped into Shawn Howell, who definitely hadn’t been on her guest list. Shawn’s teen idol face wasn’t nearly as cute at thirty as it had been at twenty-two when Fleur had to endure the dates Belinda had arranged. Since then, his career had tanked, and he reportedly owed the IRS a quarter of a million dollars.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He bypassed her cheek for a direct shot at her mouth. His tongue flicked her bottom lip. “You don’t mind a couple of gate crashers at your party, do you?”
A strobe flashed next to them. “Apparently not.”
“Hey, it’s business, right?” He grinned and rubbed his hand down her spine like a high school boy checking for a bra. “I hear you’re in the market for clients, and I’m looking fo
r a new agent, so maybe I’ll give you a try.”
“I don’t think we’re a good fit.” She started to slip past him, then stopped as a sense of dread swept through her. “What did you mean by ‘a couple of gate crashers’?”
“Belinda’s waiting in your office. She asked me to tell you.”
For a moment Fleur was tempted to leave her own party, but she didn’t run anymore, and this was something she couldn’t put off.
Belinda stood with her back to the door looking at a Louise Nevelson lithograph Fleur had bought with the profits from a delivery of palladium. As Fleur stared at the small, straight line of her mother’s spine, she felt a stab of yearning. She remembered how she used to throw herself into Belinda’s arms when her mother appeared at the front door of the couvent, how she’d bury her face in the crook of her neck. Belinda had been her only champion. She’d defended her against the nuns and told her she was the most wonderful girl in all the world.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Belinda said, still staring at the Nevelson. “I know you don’t want me here.”
Fleur went over to sit behind her desk, using its authority to protect herself from the flood of painful emotion that made her want to rush across the room and hold tight to the person she used to care about more than anyone. “Why did you come?”
Belinda turned. She wore a frilly ice-blue dress and satin French heels with pale blue ribbons that tied around her ankles. The outfit was too youthful for a forty-five-year-old woman, but it looked perfect on her. “I tried to stay away. Ever since I saw the white roses that night at the Orlani…But I couldn’t manage it any longer.”
“What did the roses mean to you?”
Belinda fumbled with the jeweled clasp on her evening bag and reached inside for a cigarette. “You should never have destroyed the Royale.” She pulled out a gold lighter and flicked it with unsteady fingers. “Alexi hates you.”
“I don’t care.” Fleur hated the catch in her voice. “Alexi means nothing to me.”