Harold Robbins Thriller Collection

by Harold Robbins

“I’ll see him,” she said calmly. “In my own time. Right now, he’ll have to wait. We have other things to do.” She opened the attaché case and took out some papers. “I want you to go over these and tell me what you think.”

  He glanced down at them, then back at her. “Designs? Who did them?”

  “It doesn’t matter for the moment,” she said. “I just would like your opinion.”

  “I’ll study them,” he said. “Meanwhile what about Philippe?”

  She rose to her feet. “Let’s go. We might as well get it over with.”

  They could hear Philippe’s voice as soon as they entered his secretary’s office. Even through the closed door it had a shrill hysterical ring. Jacques glanced knowingly at her as he opened the door.

  A mannequin was standing on the small pedestal in the middle of the room, a bored distant look on her face that only a mannequin could have while a tempest raged around her. She was draped in pieces of cloth that would later become a dress but right now were only swatches held together with pins. Two midinettes, their frightened faces and shaking hands reflecting their nervousness, and Mme. St. Cloud, the chief seamstress, were standing around the mannequin while Philippe was pacing back and forth in front of the girl, ranting and raving. The only person in the room who seemed unaffected by anything was Marlon, who was seated on a couch against the far wall. He was out of it.

  Philippe turned toward them, throwing up his hands in a gesture of despair. “Everything’s wrong,” he screamed. “The material’s not what I ordered, the factory said that’s the best they could do with the money we’re paying them, the colors are all wrong, and when the dress is cut nothing falls in the place I designed for it. Mme. St. Cloud said that she needs more money for seamstresses, what do I expect when we have only three seniors and all apprentices? I’m going mad, I tell you, stark raving mad. I can’t take it anymore. I am going to kill myself. That’s what I’ll do. Kill myself!”

  Janette looked at him for a moment, then gestured to Mme. St. Cloud. A moment later, the mannequin and the others had gone. She waited until the door closed behind them before she spoke. “What you need is to calm yourself.”

  “What I need is more money to be able to realize my designs,” Philippe retorted angrily.

  Janette stared at him. Her voice was cold. “What you need isn’t more money, what you need is more creativity. Money doesn’t make designs. Your problem is that you’re in a rut and you’re using money as an excuse.”

  “You saw the designs,” Philippe snapped. “You thought they were great.”

  “They were,” she said, “until you started fooling with them, reaching for materials that weren’t practical—and you know it.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Philippe shouted. “Have all the others making a horse’s ass out of me?” You know the materials that St. Laurent is using, that Bohan and Givenchy are coming out with. We’ll look cheap by comparison.”

  “Dull!” Philippe snapped. He went to his desk and pulled out some folders and threw them across the desk at her. “Look at those,” he said. “I paid five thousand francs to get them. Samples of materials that they’re using. Every one of them cost more than twice what we’re paying.”

  Janette picked up the folders and glanced through them silently, then passed them to Jacques. She felt a tightening in her stomach. He was right. The materials made theirs look cheap. But nothing of the way she felt showed on her face. “When did you get these?” she asked. “Why didn’t you show them to me before?”

  “I just got them last night,” Philippe said. “I came in here at five this morning trying to work something out.” He slumped into his chair. “But there’s nothing we can do. We’re fucked. It’s too late to change now.”

  Jacques placed the folders back on the desk without comment. The expression on his face did nothing to encourage any of them.

  Her voice was controlled. “I want to think about this.” She walked toward the door, Jacques following. “We’ll meet again in my office in one hour.”

  The house was as Lauren had remembered it. Everything was the same until she got to her room. The child’s room was gone. In its place was a beautiful boudoir that seemed furnished for a princess. For a moment she stood in the doorway looking in, a twinge of regret for a memory long gone. Then she went into the room and walked directly to the window. At least the view had not changed. She still looked out at the park in which she used to play as a child.

  A knock at the door turned her from the window. The door opened and Janette’s secretary came in carrying her bag. Behind him were the butler and a maid, both carrying large vases of flowers. Robert put the valise down as the flowers were placed, one vase on the small coffee table next to the chaise lounge, the other on the side of the dresser so that it did not block the mirror in the center.

  “Claudine will help you unpack,” Robert said.

  “I can manage myself,” Lauren answered.

  “She will be hurt if you don’t let her help you,” Robert said in English.

  “Okay, then,” Lauren answered. “But I’m afraid that she’ll be disappointed. There’s nothing much in there.”

  “Madame asked me to help you if there’s anything you need,” Robert continued.

  “That’s very kind, but I can’t think of anything.” She had a thought. “Janette mentioned some kind of dinner party tonight. How do I dress?”

  “A simple cocktail dress would be all right.”

  Lauren laughed. “I don’t have one. Nothing but jeans and slacks.”

  “No problem,” Robert answered. “Madame has a large wardrobe. I’m sure we can find something in there that will be satisfactory.”

  The butler came toward her with two cards that had come with the flowers as the maid opened her valise. Lauren took the cards and glanced at them.

  One was the card of the Marquis de la Beauville. The writing was in English. “Welcome. I look forward to seeing you this evening.” The other was from Jacques, also in English. “Happy you are here. With affection.”

  She gave the cards to Robert. He looked at them without speaking. “Are there many people coming tonight?”

  “About twenty.”

  “Am I supposed to know them?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “They are mostly friends and associates of Madame.”

  “Why do you call her Madame?”

  “It is customary,” he answered. “After all, she is the chef.”

  “I didn’t know that she was friendly with the marquis.”

  Robert looked uncomfortable. “She is on speaking terms with your father.”

  Lauren looked at him. There was no point in asking any further questions. It was obvious that he had no answers for her. She glanced past them to where the maid was taking out a man’s dop kit from her bag. “Put that on the bureau,” she said in French. “I’ll take care of it.” The kit was filled with vials containing a careful selection of Harvey’s grass, cocaine and assorted other pills.

  “Oui, Mademoiselle.” The maid placed the dop kit on the dresser and continued to hang Lauren’s clothing in the closet.

  “I know you must be tired,” Robert said. “So if you would like to rest now, I can come back later to help you select something to wear this evening.”

  “We can do it now while she’s still unpacking.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Come with me.”

  She followed him out into the corridor and into Janette’s room. It was the room that had been her mother’s but that, too, was now changed. Everything was now modern. White, black, bright red and polished stainless steel. It was a sybaritic room, feminine, to be sure, but with occasional hints of subdued masculinity. He led her through the room into a large walk-in wardrobe. There had to be at least two hundred dresses and outfits hanging in there. She looked at Robert in bewilderment. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  He smiled. “I’ll help you. The cocktail dresses are over here.”

 
; She watched while he flipped through the rack. He looked questioningly at her. She shook her head. “Not my thing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in any of them.”

  “‘They’re very smart,” he said.

  She smiled. “Maybe that’s why. I never dress like that.”

  “Perhaps an afternoon frock,” he said, turning to another rack and starting to move the dresses apart so that she could see them.

  But still she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not of much help, am I?” she asked. “The only dress I had on in the last three years was my white graduation dress. And you don’t know what we went through until I found one that I would wear.”

  “Did you bring it with you?” he asked.

  “What for?” she replied. “I didn’t think I would need it.”

  “We have some white summer dresses,” he said. “But they’re long.” He crossed to the other side of the closet where the gowns were hanging. Quickly he flipped through them until he came to the one he remembered and took it from the rack. He held it toward her. It was white eyelet cotton with white cap-shoulder sleeves, square-cut décolletage low in front, even lower in back. “This would look good on you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “I don’t wear a bra, my breasts would fall out.”

  “Why don’t you try it on and see?”

  She took the dress from him but stood there still looking at the racks. One section was all suits. A group, all in shiny black, caught her eye. “What are those?”

  “Smokings,” he answered.

  “Smokings?” Her voice was puzzled.

  “Tuxedos, you Americans call them. They’re man-tailored especially for Madame. She wears them often. Even St. Laurent admits he got the idea from seeing her wearing one.”

  She moved them slowly along the rack so that she could look at each one. “It’s a hell of an idea,” she said. “But don’t you think it’s a little dikey?”

  He laughed. “It depends on who wears it. They don’t look dikey on Madame. As a matter of fact, in a strange way they accentuate her femininity.”

  “Can I try one of them one?” she asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” he replied. “But you might have trouble with their fit. They’re all cut exactly to her measure.”

  “We’re in trouble,” Janette said, sinking into the chair behind her desk. “Big trouble.”

  Jacques stood in front of her silently. There was nothing he could add to it.

  “What happened?” she asked. “We should have known what they were doing long before this.”

  Jacques shrugged. “I kept after Philippe to let me get the information but he insisted that he didn’t want to know what they were doing. He didn’t want to be influenced.”

  “Since when have you taken to listening to him?” Her voice was angry. “We should have had it for ourselves.”

  He was silent. He couldn’t tell her that he had the information over a month ago but had withheld it deliberately. He thought of Carroll sitting in his suite across the street in the Plaza Athénée waiting for a call from him. The American wanted in, but for three years Janette had consistently refused the association. Especially after Carroll had sold his companies to Twin Cities and was now a part of the conglomerate that Johann was building in the States. Carroll was no fool. Years ago, even before he had changed his name from Carolo and hit the big time—and respectability—he had recognized Janette’s talent and wanted in. Now, he had real muscle behind him.

  “We’re going to have to take a whole new approach,” she said.

  “It will take a lot of money,” Jacques said. “And we haven’t got it. We’ve spent our limit on this collection.”

  “We’ll have to find the money somehow,” she said. “What’s our balance in the fragrance company?”

  “Negligible,” he said. “We’ve drained it for this collection. Take any more from it and we’ll bankrupt it and won’t be able to deliver on our contracts.”

  She shook her head. If it weren’t for that company, they would have been out of it a long time ago. It was the only consistent moneymaker she had. Just as Johann had told her it would be. “Now what do we do?” she asked.

  He was silent for a moment, then took out his small vial of cocaine and the gold spoon with his initials on the stem. Quickly he did a snort in each nostril then handed it to her. “Maybe it will clear our heads.”

  She did the same. She felt her head lighten. “It helps,” she said, giving it back to him. “You know, Lauren wasn’t in the car two minutes before she asked me if I had done some coke.”

  He laughed. “That’s America for you. They’re way ahead of us.”

  “But she’s only seventeen.”

  He laughed again. “You’re being very French. Do you remember what you were into when you were seventeen?”

  “It wasn’t dope,” she said. She lit a cigarette. “But that isn’t solving our problem.”

  He tried to gauge her mood. “There’s always Carroll,” he said cautiously. “He’s got the hots for you. He’ll come up with whatever money you want.”

  “There will be too many strings attached to it,” she said. “I like my independence.”

  “So you give him a fuck,” he said casually. “Is it that important?”

  “That’s the easy part,” she said. “What I don’t want is to be back in Johann’s hands. After all, he owns that company now. And I’ll be right back where I started.”

  Jacques was silent for a moment. “Maybe it’s not so bad, being bought out. Conglomerates are in these days. Maurice is making more money than ever now that he’s made the arrangement with Johann to distribute the water in the States.”

  She was silent.

  “And Cardin’s making a lot of money with Bidermann. I had some talks with Bidermann but he’s not interested in us, he’s after St. Laurent or Dior.”

  “Cardin won’t like that,” she said.

  “Cardin does not give a damn. He’s well established in the States now. I hear when his contract with Bidermann is up he’s going to go it on his own.”

  “We still haven’t solved our problem,” she said. She opened the folders in front of her and studied the sketches and the swatches. “Shit.”

  He lit a cigarette, watching her.

  After a moment, she looked up at him. “I’ll talk to Carroll. Invite him to the dinner tonight. But don’t give him any idea of what we’re thinking.”

  “Okay,” he nodded. He kept the feeling of triumph inside him from showing on his face.

  She glanced down at the folder again. “I have another idea. Call Philippe in.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Just a minute,” she said quickly. “I want another hit before you bring him in. I want to be really up for what I have to do.”

  “Red is a whore’s color!” Philippe screamed. “I won’t do it!”

  “Like it or not, you’re going to do it,” Janette said calmly.

  “No, no!” Philippe shouted. “I’ll quit first.”

  “That’s your privilege,” Janette said coldly. “We’ll do it anyway.” She turned to Jacques. “Give him that design folder I gave you.”

  Jacques placed the folder on the desk. Janette let it lie there closed. “There’s a collection in that folder that I’m ready to do if you leave.”

  Suddenly Philippe was silent. He stared down at the folder without touching it. Then he looked at her. “Who did it?” he asked.

  “What does it matter?” she replied. “But you must know, it’s mostly my designs for the prêt á porter line you never wanted to do because it was beneath you.”

  “You can’t do prêt á porter in the haute couture collection,” Philippe said.

  “Who will know the difference?” Janette said. “Two weeks after the collections, Seventh Avenue knocks off the best things in every line. This way we’re ahead, we’ll be knocking off our own and marketing them directly.”

  Philippe shook his head. “Even if I
were to agree to do it, we wouldn’t have the time. We have to find the materials and the colors have to be approved as well as the designs. We’re scheduled to show in three weeks.”

  “We’ll change our date from the beginning of the showings to the end. That will give us some extra time.”

  “It will still be very tight,” Philippe said. “And by that time all the important buyers will be gone and most of the journalists.”

  “I’ll keep them here,” Janette said confidently. “Ricci gives them a cocktail for the ouverture, I will give a bal de clôture. It’s never been done before and they’ll all stay just to see what’s happening.”

  “Red! It’s crazy,” Philippe said. But his voice was calmer now.

  “Not that crazy,” Janette said. “Think about it. They all made their statements with shapes, A-lines, trapeze lines, straight lines, hemlines up, hemlines down, shoulders broad, padded, narrow. They went so many different ways, and all we’ve been trying to do is catch up to them. They’ve been making us play their game and putting us away each time. This time, I say, we fuck them. We’ll make our own statement. With a color.”

  Philippe was silent.

  “All the shades of red, wicked and erotic, sheers and chiffons, see-throughs to layered opaques. Black underwear, bras, bikinis, chemises and camisoles, all touched with a splash of red ribbon like blood. Women will go crazy over it because it’s something all of them secretly want to wear but have been afraid to. We’ll make it sexually legitimate. And the men will be driven up the wall.”

  “You really think they’ll buy it?” Philippe asked.

  “They’ll buy it,” she said confidently. “It will be the most exciting idea in this year’s collections. They’ll never stop talking about it. Your name is going to be all over the papers and magazines. And I’ll do something I swore I’d never do after I left Dior. I’ll be back on the runway to wear the bridal gown to close the showing.”

  “The bridal gown in red too?” Philippe asked.

  “We go all the way.” Janette laughed. “Pure symbolism. Blood pouring from a broken maidenhead.”