Breaking the Rules

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  M became introspective, which she usually did when an important moment in her life drew closer. Today most especially she wanted to remain focused on what she was about to do, which was to walk down a runway in front of hundreds and hundreds of people for the first time in her life. Very shortly it would be her moment of truth. Her stomach tightened, and she felt a little ripple of nerves.

  She was glad Kate had insisted on the rehearsal yesterday. She had walked the walk here at the Grand Palais, with Kate and Jean-Louis in attendance, and she had benefited from their advice. They had pointed out a number of things to avoid, and she had paid attention to every word they said. Now it was D Day, as Larry called it, and the action was about to begin.

  Glancing into the distance, M spotted Kate Morrell talking to Peter Addison, the head of public relations for the collection. She had met him last night with Kate and had liked him at once. He reminded her a little bit of an absentminded professor, and he had kind eyes, a gentle manner, but she knew that behind this likable facade was a tough PR man, one more exacting than most, according to Kate. And brilliant at what he did.

  Suddenly, Kate was heading her way, looking purposeful, and M sat up straighter and took a few deep breaths.

  “We’re okay, aren’t we, M?” Kate asked as she drew to a standstill. “No last-minute nerves?”

  M forced a laugh. “A few I’m afraid, something I didn’t really expect.”

  Kate nodded. “It would be inhuman if you weren’t a bit nervous, sweetie. But you have great self-confidence, and that is the key to everything. Your own self-confidence. Forget the clothes, your beauty, just remember that one thing: the confidence. Tell yourself this: I can do it. I’m the best. I’m going to strut my stuff. Many a beautiful girl, a potential top girl, has failed because the confidence fled once she was out there. Got it, sweetie?”

  “I’ve got it,” M answered, sitting up even straighter, lifting her head higher, remembering who she was.

  “And one other thing. Larry is sitting out there, and Caresse and your other friends from New York,” Kate said. “They’re right up front, I made sure of that. Take this advice from an old hand like me. Don’t look for them, or at them if you spot them. Ignore their presence. You’re not on that catwalk for them. You’re out there for the audience, and the press, and to show Jean-Louis Tremont’s clothes brilliantly. You are the New Face of Jean-Louis Tremont. Don’t ever forget that. I decreed it. And you must not let me down. Understand?”

  “I do, yes, Kate. And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve been very good to me, and I will be okay.”

  “Better than okay. You’re going to be the best. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Now, let me give you the once-over.” Kate stepped away, leaned into M, and studied her hair and makeup for a few moments. “They’ve done a great job. A hint of Audrey, well, more than a hint, but not too much to overshadow you.” Kate nodded, then looked around as Luke stepped up to join them, carrying a camera.

  “What do you think, Luke?” Kate asked, glancing at him. “Makeup is great, and so is the hair.”

  “She’s perfect,” Luke said. “And Jean-Louis prefers a neat head as you well know. I’m glad we kept it to a simple chignon.” Luke drew back, leveled his camera at her. “Okay, smile, kiddo! I want a nice casual shot of you sitting here in your little cotton wrapper before you wriggle into those gorgeous clothes made just for you.”

  M laughed and gave him a little wave, and he caught that shot, then said, “Come on, stand up here next to your rack.” He took some shots and then motioned to Kate. “Join the fun, Kate! Come and stand near the rack, and do me a favor, please. Point at her name, point to the M.” He grinned. “Some name. So short.”

  Kate did as he asked, remarked, “I understand from Peter that the press turnout is staggering.”

  Luke threw her an odd look. “And why does that surprise you? If anybody’s ever stage-managed anything, it’s you, Kate.”

  Before she could think of an appropriate answer, Kate spotted Jean-Louis and turned around to face him, smiling broadly. “There you are, J.L. I was just wondering what happened to you.”

  He inclined his head graciously, smiled at her, murmured, “Kate,” turned to look at M. Taking her hand, he kissed it. “Mademoiselle. You are looking . . . superb. I know you will be the grand success. I have no doubt at all. And I will be applauding you the loudest.”

  “Thank you, monsieur, I won’t let you down.”

  He smiled at her, his admiration showing in his eyes, then shook Luke’s hand, and said, “Bonne chance with the photography, Luke. I owe Mademoiselle to you. Merci beaucoup.” He nodded and strolled off to speak to the other girls, as always the most courteous of men. Unexpectedly, he swung around and beckoned to Kate.

  “Excuse me,” she said and left.

  Luke said, “You’re not frightened, are you, M?”

  “No, I’m fine, honestly. I had a flutter of nerves earlier, but Kate kind of put the fear of God into me. I don’t dare have any nerves. I’ve got to go out there and be . . . nerveless.”

  “No, fearless,” Luke corrected and squeezed her shoulder. “Here comes your dresser, Claude. I like her a lot. She’ll get you into the clothes with the greatest of ease.” He grinned. “See ya out there, kid! Break a leg!”

  Suddenly Peter Addison was at her side, and he said, in a quiet voice, “I won’t keep you, M, I know the dresser’s waiting to help you into your first outfit. But I did want to wish you the very best.”

  She gave him a huge smile. “Thanks so much, Peter, that’s kind of you.”

  “A word of advice,” he now said. “Be prepared for the flashbulbs going off. The best thing to do is to keep your head up high, look toward the back of the room, staring straight ahead. That way you’re not blinded too much. There’s a lot of photographers out there, I must warn you, waiting for that first glimpse of you . . . so be ready.”

  “I will, and thanks for the tip, Peter.”

  A moment later Kate was taking hold of her arm. “Let’s get you into the hot pink, sweetie.” As they walked over to Claude, who was waiting with the outfit, Kate added, “Jean-Louis is contradicting himself again. I know last night he said he wanted you to go out first, but he’s now changed his mind. He feels we need the audience to be warmed up a little, and also, if they don’t see you immediately, there’ll be more anticipation out there. So you’ll go third. Be relaxed, M, don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.”

  M could only nod; her mouth was dry, her chest tight.

  Waiting in the wings, M watched the first two models go onto the runway, both walking at a relatively steady pace. She felt slightly sick to her stomach, nausea rising, and then she stood up straighter, pushed the peculiar sensation away. She was taut, and she knew she would be until her feet hit the catwalk. It was impatience and pent-up excitement which were making her so tense. But she was certain the moment she was out there she would be perfectly fine.

  Kate whispered, “Now! Go! Knock ’em dead!”

  As M walked into the middle of the stage, she thought of her mother, her elder sister, and Birdie. She had to succeed. For the three of them. She had to make them proud of her. Then she erased all thoughts, wiped the slate clean, focused entirely on the job she had to do.

  Adopting a rapid pace, stepping boldly onto the runway, M did not hear the music or the number of her outfit being announced. The only thing she heard was the applause. It was deafening.

  She moved with her usual grace and fluidity, slowing slightly at times, then turning, swirling, strutting, showing off the impeccably cut hot pink wool coat, making sure it flared out behind her for full effect. And all the time she kept her head high, stared into space, avoiding eye contact with anyone. The flashing camera bulbs did not stop, but they did not bother her.

  Sliding the coat off her shoulders but holding it tightly to her chest, she turned, walked slowly back, again turned, and took the coat off completely
, held it in one hand, now displaying the purple silk dress and its flurry of pleats. The smashing color combination and superb tailoring were impressive. And so was she. They let her know that, clapped until she left the catwalk, dragging the coat behind her as Jean-Louis had shown her last night.

  Claude, full of smiles, was waiting for her with a white silk suit and a black-and-white polka-dot blouse. “Fantastique, M,” she said, admiration glowing in her dark eyes. “You have the knack,” she added. M was out of the purple dress, into the white suit, and out on the runway again, everything done in record time.

  And so it went. All manner of day suits, coats, dresses for afternoon, and cocktail outfits were shown, and applause for M and the clothes was overwhelming. During this time she held one thought in her head: self-confidence. That’s the key, she reminded herself, and she kept hers. And was happy she had always had enormous self-assurance, which she attributed to her upbringing. It stood her in good stead.

  Time was running on, and M knew that they would probably run late, but it was not her fault. There had been a snag with another model which had delayed them briefly. Still, they might catch up.

  Soon it was the moment for her to appear in her first evening gown, and the crowd went wild when she literally flew onto the catwalk amidst swirls of pastel chiffon. The gown was a confection of spring colors, which looked as if they’d been borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas. Pink, lilac, white, pale blue, yellow, and rose were combined in the delicate floral pattern, and she appeared to be a dreamlike creature in clouds of chiffon skirts below a strapless top and pale pink pearls.

  Suddenly it was the finale. When M appeared on the edge of the stage before gliding forward onto the catwalk, she received a huge round of applause. She was wearing the extraordinary white silk taffeta wedding gown in which Luke had photographed her in New York for the cover of the April issue of Harper’s Bazaar. The net-and-lace veil, pinned on the crown of her jet-black head, was draped over her shoulders and fell gracefully to the floor. Holding herself as tall as she could, she moved forward slowly, not wanting to trip, and knowing that this particular gown seemed to have a life of its own.

  M was elegance personified as she stepped down the runway, her back straight, her head high. She was regality itself.

  M received a standing ovation at the end of the show. And so did Jean-Louis Tremont when he stepped onto the stage to join M and the other models. The show had run twenty minutes longer than anticipated, for a full hour, but nobody seemed to care. In fact, everyone seemed to be carefree.

  And Jean-Louis Tremont knew that he had a triumph on his hands. Two triumphs if he counted his collection of clothes.

  Larry, slightly dazed, still sitting in his chair, had been mesmerized by his wife’s performance. Because that was what it had been. She had all the qualities that make a star: beauty, self-assurance, utter belief in herself, and a hauteur that was undoubtedly bred in the bone. Kate Morrell may well have stage-managed everything for months, but it had worked only because of what M herself was.

  “So be it,” he said to no one in particular.

  It was Geo who answered him. “That’s right, Larry, she’s going to be a star. An overnight sensation. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?”

  “You hit the nail on the head, my love,” was his response. He looked at James and murmured, “I have a feeling we’re going to need some security, and as quickly as possible. Unless I’m mistaken, there’s going to be a feeding frenzy with the press. I need her protected at all times, and I don’t care what it costs.”

  “I agree,” James responded. “She was absolutely magnificent, and the press are already crazy about her. You can see in their behavior that she’s ‘it.’ I’ll get onto it right away. The best plan is for us to get you your own car, and I’ll provide a proper driver and an assistant, the second chauffeur. Both are ex-SAS. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “Oh, my God!” Larry exclaimed, looking at James in horror. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m only kidding. But they’re as tough as steel, and that’s what you need. Experienced operatives who have the training and the guts, and can spot danger before anyone else is aware of it.”

  Caresse hugged M and clung to her arm. “You were the dreamgirl, the supermodel, and I was bursting with pride, as if I was your mom. Congratulations.”

  M hugged her again and laughed. “I’m glad I made you proud, Caresse. And I’m proud of you, the way you’re running Farantino’s.”

  Looking pleased by this unexpected compliment, Caresse grinned. “Luke’s pleased, and a bit surprised. He said he’d no idea I was such a good businesswoman.”

  “I’m glad he realizes just how valuable you are. You’ll do well with the studios, Caresse, and Kate is keeping him on to do all the photographs of me for this collection and pret-à-porter, that I do know.”

  “Yes, he told me. Here’s Kate now.”

  “There you are, sweetie!” Kate exclaimed, drawing to a standstill. “What are you doing hiding away in this corner of the salon? Jean-Louis wants you to come over and have a glass of champagne, perhaps something to eat. Also, he would like to introduce you to a few people.”

  “Of course, Kate. Oh, is that my lot? Over there.” She waved to Larry, Geo, and James, who were hovering near the window. “Oh, look, isn’t he a darling? He’s blowing kisses to me. I’d better go and give him some real ones.”

  “It’s nine o’clock, darling,” Larry said after she’d hugged and kissed him. “Aren’t you done in?”

  “Not really,” M responded, linking her arm through his. “More like exhilarated, on a big high. Surely you know what I mean, my lad. Isn’t it like that after a first night?”

  “It is indeed, and you were fabulous, my darling M. A real star.”

  “Not a star, no. That’s you, and only you, Laurence Vaughan. I am just a model.”

  Changing the subject, Larry said, “Peter Addison is a nice chap, and he seems to have the press eating out of his hand—”

  “But what?” she interrupted.

  He laughed. “You know me too well already, Mrs. Vaughan. I was going to say I just hope he’s not working you too hard. You’ve been photographed nonstop from four-thirty to eight-thirty, first at the Grand Palais and now here at Tremont’s salon. Aren’t you tired?”

  “No, I’m fine. Honestly, darling. Anyway, they’ve a right to get something for all that money.”

  “What money?”

  “The money they’re paying me. But I can’t go into it now. Later, I’ll tell you later. Let’s go and rescue Geo from that plump chap who’s almost but not quite making her his dinner.”

  Thirty-one

  On Tuesday, January thirtieth, M was hailed as the biggest new supermodel in years, guaranteed to join the ranks of the top girls. The day after this showing of the Tremont Spring-Summer Collection her picture was in every newspaper across the world.

  Two days later, on February first, Jean-Louis Tremont and the House of Tremont invited the entire press corps to an afternoon champagne reception. The idea was for them to meet M on a more casual basis, talk to her and take candid photographs. It was soon after the arrival of the press that Kate Morrell announced that their new discovery, M, had been recently married. Within minutes, she entered the reception room holding hands with her groom, Laurence Vaughan.

  The press went wild, took the couple to their hearts, and in a sense sent them spinning off into the stratosphere. Overnight they became the new international “in” couple. The interview was glamorous, charming, and also touching because they were so much in love, and it immediately went online. After just ten days, that interview had been viewed by a hundred million people on YouTube. Remarkably, M and Larry remained calm, coped with everybody in a pleasant way, were never impolite, nor did they show any temperament. In other words, they were highly professional and took everything in their stride.

  M’s family were happy for her immense and sudden success, and som
ewhat amused by all the fuss. Certain members of Larry’s family acted in a similar way; however, a couple of them were nasty about it. Miranda called it a disgusting display of vulgarity; Edward, eaten up by jealousy, said that his brother had found his true forte at long last—being a celebrity married to a model girl.

  Larry, as independent as always, did not care what his family, or anyone else for that matter, thought. All he cared about was the wife he adored and keeping her safe. He was more than satisfied with James Cardigan. From the very first, James had been capable, devoted, and efficient, and he had put two crack officers in charge of them: tough, experienced, and dedicated. Fortunately, M and Larry found them compatible. They genuinely liked Stuart Nelson and Craig Lowe, who were always on the ready but also polite. Most important, their presence made Larry feel secure about M’s safety.

  By the end of February, a number of things had become their daily routine. M was busy with the last of the pret-à-porter shows and completing Luke’s photographs of her in those clothes. Larry had finished learning his lines and was impatient to start filming at the beginning of March, tired of having too much time on his hands.

  On the last Sunday in February, Larry and M were relaxing in their suite at the Plaza Athénée. M was going over her schedule for the week, and Larry was flipping through the script, looking at his margin notes. Suddenly a thought struck him, and he looked across at her.

  “Will you be able to come to London with me when we move the production over there in April?” he asked.