She returned to the bathroom and poured some of her bath oil into the water and sank back into the tub. Strange, she no longer felt tired. Her mind wouldn’t stop. There was much she had to do. Patrick didn’t know it yet but the vacation in Saint-Tropez was over.
She didn’t have the patience to soak in the tub. She got to her feet and turned on the shower. The cool water made her body tingle. A moment later she got out of the tub and wrapping her robe around her went into the bedroom and telephoned Jacques in Paris.
His voice was husky with sleep. “Yes?”
“Wake up,” she said. “We’re going to London.”
“What?”
“We’re going to London,” she said. “I spoke to Patrick.”
“He’ll make the deal?” Jacques’ voice was excited.
“That’s what he said.”
“But does he have the authority?”
“That’s why we’re going to London,” she answered. “To find out. You go to London this morning and reserve a river suite for me at the Savoy. I’ll meet you there this evening.”
She put down the telephone and looked at the clock. It was eight in the morning. She set the alarm for eleven, then got into bed and pulled the sheets over her. Three hours’ sleep should be more than enough.
She would call Patrick when she awakened and tell him to have his plane ready to take them to London. If he didn’t already know, he might as well learn it now. She meant exactly what she said. If there was no deal for her, there would be no Lauren for him.
Janette lit another cigarette as the car approached Paris. She leaned forward in her seat, looking out the window. At each exit of the autoroute there were four billboards. No matter what direction you came from, those four billboards were always there. And Janette had all of them. And each of them in its own way had its own story to tell.
The first billboard was coming up on the right bathed in bright light against the dark night. Black bold letters across the top of the billboard read simply: JANETTE JEANS. She was posed beneath the lettering, on her knees, derrière high in the air, with her head turned toward the camera, her hands cupping one cheek as she rested on her elbows. In smaller letters, reading vertically down the sign from the top of her derrière to her legs, was the phrase Le vrai “Far West” françis.
The story behind it was simple. It had taken place one morning in New York shortly after the deal was made with Kensington. The president of the company came directly to the point.
“We have agreed to your every request, Madame. You will have your boutiques, all ten of them, as well as units in every major department store in America. But we have another problem and need your help.”
“What is it?” she had asked.
“One million yards of surplus blue denim,” he said. “Unfortunately we lost two of our largest customers to Burlington, and if we don’t replace them, we’ll be swimming in red ink this year. And up to now we haven’t found any takers.”
“And how could I be of help?” she asked.
“We’ve done a market study. We think there’s room for jeans with a designer label at a popular price. St. Laurent is in the market but he’s very expensive and his volume is negligible. We have figured the cost and we can make a good product to sell for twenty-five to thirty dollars. What we need is your name and six basic designs. We’ll take care of everything else from manufacturing to sales. We already have thought of a name for them. ‘Jeanette Jeans.’”
“And how does that fit into our agreement?”
“It’s a separate item. We pay you a royalty of ten percent of our gross on every pair sold. There is no risk for you, no investment. All you can get is money. And we estimate there could be a lot of it.”
“How much is that?” she asked.
“No one knows. But it could possibly reach a quarter of a million dollars a year.”
“You have a long reach.” She smiled. “It will be my pleasure to help you out.” Even if she got only 25 percent of what he estimated she wouldn’t complain.
But as it was, neither of them expected what was to happen. Her share of the gross sales for the year alone came to almost one million dollars. And that more than anything else established her in America.
The next billboard came into view. This time she was standing at an Air France counter handing her ticket to a reservation clerk. She was smartly dressed in a light suit for travel; subtly highlighted on the billboard were the gloves she wore, the shoulder bag hanging from a strap, the slim high-heeled shoes and the initialed valise at her feet. Again the bold lettering: POUR LE MONDE ENTIER. Beneath that in slightly smaller type: Janette Cuir. And then in small type opposite the items mentioned: Le Grant, Le Sac, La Chaussure, Le Bagage.
This opportunity had come soon after the success of Janette Jeans in America. Vito Montessori, an Italian who owned one of the largest leather-manufacturing companies in Italy, approached her with a licensing agreement. Because of the flight of many important names in Italian leather to manufacturing in the Far East to take advantage of lower labor costs, he wanted to develop a line of his own. Again, what he asked her to do was supply designs or give design approval, and he would undertake the fabrication and the marketing. But if she could obtain the cooperation of the sales outlets already established by Kensington in America, it would be even better. Needless to say, she could and did. This time her royalty was 15 percent, and a steady net income of almost a quarter of a million dollars a year was the result.
The third billboard featured not one but three photographs of her. Grouped together so that it seemed like one photograph, she was lying in a bikini, resting on hip and elbow in the sand, looking directly into the camera, then standing in a figure-hugging tank suit smiling up at the sun, and finally in a one-piece cutaway suit that came down over one shoulder, revealing more than it concealed. Again the bold type: JANETTE MAILLOTS DE BAIN. Below that in lesser type: Pour le Soleil, Pour la Mer, Pour la Plage. And then in a line that swept across the entire billboard: Pour l’Eté Eternel.
That had been her own idea. Buying a bankrupt manufacturing company in the south of France, she immediately entered into another distribution agreement with Kensington. Scaled at popular prices and aimed at the same market as the jeans, the bathing suits were another immediate success. The net income from that division was almost half a million dollars a year.
The last billboard coming up represented, in its own peculiar way, the biggest gamble of all. This, too, was all her own. For many years she had toyed with the idea, but it was the tremendous success achieved by Yves St. Laurent in launching his new perfume, Opium, during the last three years, that finally convinced her to move on her own.
Carefully analyzing the results of a market study she had ordered, she discovered some surprising facts. Of all the perfumes sold, and there were hundreds of known brands, only two were widely enough known to be recognized by name as perfumes by the general public. The first was Chanel No. 5 with an 88 percent recognition factor. None of the others came close, but the closest to them proved to be Opium, with a 29 percent recognition factor, and that, as the market study pointed out, was due to the major and still current advertising and ongoing promotion. Two other interesting facts came to light. Both Chanel No. 5 and Arpége had been created in the twenties and belonged to the aldehydic floral group of scents, while Opium, a modern perfume launched in 1977, had its roots firmly in the oriental group, tracing its lineage almost directly from Tabu, launched by Dana in 1931, and Youth Dew by Lauder, marketed first in 1952. While Tabu had become something of a perfume classic, neither of the two had achieved the market recognition of Opium. But then, when they were introduced, they hadn’t had the benefit of modern marketing techniques to create the kind of recognition that television could give them today.
Another interesting fact the study revealed was the importance of package design—both the bottle that contained the perfume and the package in which it was sold. That as well as the perfume itself had to tell
its own story. And the story had to be embodied in the name of the perfume. It had to be simple, yet with a quick recognition factor.
She believed she had the name. Soie. The word for silk in French. The most intimate, most sensual fabric a woman could wear could also apply to her perfume. The other problem was not so easily resolved. Her original aromatic was too strongly based in the oriental and she felt that it could be regarded as an imitation of Opium. Working closely with the “noses,” as they were called at the perfumery, she managed to combine the scents of both the floral, aldehydic group of Chanel No. 5 and Arpége and the sensuality of the oriental group. The result was a fragrance that was extraordinarily female yet feminine, sensual yet fresh and mossily floral. And the first decision she made was not to call it a perfume. Soie would be a fragrance, something that was a part of a woman, not a perfume she wore.
This last billboard was perhaps the most eye-catching of all. Upon seeing the bright sparkling bottle with the nude statue of a girl in Lalique crystal as the bottle stopper, one was not aware at first that in the shadows behind was another nude portrait of Janette. Painted many years ago by Dali, the artist had caught and exposed the many erotic facets of her body and personality. The shadowy pool of her dark eyes, the flush-red lower lip, the thrusting nipple tips of her swelling breasts, the curve of her belly falling into the shadow of her pubis almost lost in the swelling of her white hips and thighs. Almost by shock would come the realization that the portrait of the girl had been translated into the nude Lalique statue on the bottle. The name was etched into the cut crystal of the bottle in script, Soie. Beneath that in lettering almost too small to read, “de Janette.” As on the other billboards, the advertising message ran down one side. Le plus intime. Le plus sensuel. Le vrai aromate de la femme. Soie. L’aromate de Janette.
And in its own way it was that perfume which led to her present situation. Determined to outperform St. Laurent in the market, she had committed more than five million dollars in cash to launch the perfume in the last six months, virtually stripping her own companies’ cash reserves. Television advertising in America alone had run more than three million, the balance going to magazines and newspapers. And none of this money took into account the discounts and incentives given to the retail trade to gain their support. Their calculations had taken into account that it would be at least two years before the investment would be recovered and three years before they could realize a profit. To her satisfaction, the results were even more encouraging than had been predicted. An almost immediate market acceptance had led to a revision of the projected figures that cut their recoupment time in half.
But, as it turned out, it wasn’t quick enough. The unexpected happened. The Reardon Group had been offered a tremendous profit for their controlling interest in Kensington Mills by a Japanese company anxious to get a foothold in the American market and had accepted.
At any other time this could have been the greatest opportunity she had ever had. For under the clause inserted at the last moment by her sagacious American attorney, Paul Gitlin, she had the option to buy back her contracts and agreements with the Reardon Group at the book value carried on its balance sheet should they sell or otherwise dispose of their interest in Kensington. And the ten million dollars at which it was carried was less than two times annual earnings. Ten times annual earnings would have been considered an equitable figure. But no matter how cheap, it did her no good. All the cash she had in her companies had been invested in the perfume. Now she was scrambling again. It was as if nothing had changed. Independence was as elusive as ever.
Maurice met her at the door to his apartment. He was visibly excited. “I was right,” he said. “I knew all the time I was right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “You’re not making any sense.”
“The money in the Swiss bank,” he said. “Maybe now you won’t have to fuck with the Greek for it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ll see,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the library. “You’ll see.”
He opened the door and a young man seated inside the room rose to his feet. Maurice introduced them. “Monsieur Thierry, my daughter, Madame Janette de la Beauville.” He looked at Janette and explained. “Monsieur Thierry is with the Swiss Credit Bank in Geneva.”
Janette extended her hand. “A pleasure, Monsieur Thierry.”
The young banker kissed her hand politely. “An honor, Madame. I did not realize when I sought this meeting I would meet so famous a woman.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” Janette said. “Now, if I may ask, why did you want to see me?”
The young banker looked at Maurice. He was obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Monsieur le Marquis, but my instructions from the bank were very explicit. What I have to say is for her ears alone.”
“I understand,” Maurice said quickly. “Of course.” Quickly he went to the door and closed it behind him.
“Now, Monsieur,” Janette said, looking at the banker.
“If I may be permitted, Madame,” Thierry said, taking a paper from his pocket and glancing at it. His voice took on a formal tone. “In accordance with the instructions given to the bank by your late mother, we have the obligation to inform you at the end of a period not less than twenty-five years after her demise that on October 10, 1944, she became the lessor of a certain group of safe-deposit boxes contained in the vaults of our bank.” He stopped reading and handed the paper to her. “There are two copies of that information. If you will be kind enough to sign this copy, which acknowledges that you have received the information according to the instructions, we will have completed our business.”
Janette took the paper and glanced at it. It was exactly as he had read it. She looked at him. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Does it mean I have access to those boxes?”
“If you have the key in your possession, certainly. If not—you do not.”
“Then what is the purpose of telling me about it?”
“I do not know, Madame. We are only following instructions.”
“Then who has the key?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Under the Swiss banking laws protecting the confidentiality of our client relationship, I am not permitted to give that information.”
“Then how do I go about establishing my rights to those boxes and their contents, as my mother obviously wanted me to have them?”
“You may file a claim in the Probate Court of Switzerland, which has the ultimate jurisdiction in matters of inheritance.”
“How long would that take?”
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I do not know. Sometimes years.”
“Damn!” she said, looking down at the paper again. “Do you have any idea of the contents of those boxes?”
“No, Madame, what the clients place in their boxes is no concern of ours. I’m afraid I’m not being of much help. But there’s nothing else I could do.”
“What if I refuse to sign the paper?” she asked.
“Then you would have no right to lay claim to the boxes because you have not legally been informed of them and, again, under Swiss banking laws, we do not even have to acknowledge their existence.”
She shook her head hopelessly. “Then I might as well sign it.”
“Yes, Madame,” he said, holding out a pen.
Quickly she signed the copy and gave it to him. “Thank you, Monsieur Thierry.”
“You’re welcome, Madame,” he said, handing her the other copy.
She smiled suddenly. “It’s late and I haven’t had dinner as yet. Would it be a violation of Swiss banking laws if I asked you to join me for dinner?”
A slow smile came to his lips. “I think that is permissible, Madame. But I’m afraid I must refuse. I have a previous engagement.”
“Then break it.” She laughed.
“As much as I would lik
e to, Madame, I’m afraid I cannot. My wife is waiting for me at the hotel.”
She laughed again and held out her hand. “Monsieur Thierry, you’re a gentleman. I hope we will meet again.”
He kissed her hand politely. “So do I, Madame,” he said, walking to the door.
A moment after he left, Maurice came back into the room. He stared at her face. “Well?”
“You were right,” she said quietly, handing him the paper. “But merely knowing about it gives me no right to it.”
He read the paper quickly. “Then who has the right?”
“Whoever has the key,” she said. “And he wouldn’t tell me who that was.”
Maurice stared at her. “He doesn’t have to tell me,” he said. “I know who has the key. And so do you.”
She was silent.
“You’re going to have to do something about it now,” he said. “Or remain a beggar and a whore the rest of your life.”
She looked at him, still silent.
“You’re going to have to bring Lauren into it,” he said.
“Do I have to?” she asked.
“You know Johann,” he answered. “Whatever is there is half hers. He won’t do a thing unless he feels that she is protected. The only way you’ll get anything is if the two of you approach him.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Lauren doesn’t give a damn about money. She never did.”
“She’s twenty-three now,” he said. “She has to be getting tired of living on that stupid beach in California with no one except a five-year-old child to keep her company.”
“That’s the kind of life she likes.”
“Then it’s up to you to convince her that her daughter deserves a better chance in life than growing up to be a beach bum,” he said. “Even if she doesn’t want it for herself she has no right to deprive her child.”
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 81