Privately thinking this might be preferable to the plethora of gilt and glass she had already seen, she smiled politely and stood up.
"I expect you have other business to attend to, Monsieur Duval."
"I am always busy," he agreed, "but before you go I should like to show you my Collection. I assume you do not buy my clothes?"
"I can't afford them." Then lest he think she were hinting, she hastily added, "I wear casual clothes in the main."
Without replying he led her down the corridor, past the head of the stairs and along a shorter corridor to the salon. It was a spacious room decorated in white and gold, with the expected chandeliers sparkling high above their heads and small gilt chairs ranged around the walls. Alix took a seat alongside the couturier and the show began.
For three-quarters of an hour she watched as three models showed the splendid dresses for which the House of Duval was famous—most of them sumptuous brocades or billowing chiffon, and nearly all of them richly embroidered. There was no doubt the clothes were beautiful and striking, but for all that, they had an indefinable air of the day before yesterday.
As she thought this, a bone-thin girl with straight fair hair came out in a dress so disarmingly simple that Alix nearly missed it. But when she looked again she was struck by the precision of the cut and the simplicity of the line. Four more outfits followed this one: three dresses and a coat, all modeled by the same girl and all made in plain material in subtle, moon-washed colors. "Waithlike beings of the imagination…" Alix recalled Henri's words and was sure these clothes had been designed by his son. She turned to ask him if she was right but, seeing his brows contracted in a frown, diplomatically swallowed the question.
As she drove back to her office her mind was filled with the experiences of the afternoon: a confused kaleidoscope of richly furnished rooms, lavish clothes and two men of totally different temperaments: one big, blond and confident, the other seemingly ascetic yet resolute. She also remembered Henri Duval's outburst of fury against his son and knew it stemmed from more than a disagreement about the use of publicity. It came from fear. But fear of what, she had no idea.
I've certainly taken on a job, she mused as she parked outside her office. I hope it won't be more than I bargained for!
CHAPTER TWO
For the next couple of days the thought of Henri Duval was never far from Alix's mind. What was the best way of bringing his name before the public? There was no difficulty getting him an occasional mention in the press—for he was still regarded as a personality— but that was exactly the type of publicity Paul Duval had sneered at and she was determined not to give him a chance to sneer again.
She wondered whether to wait till the new Collection was shown in August but decided it was too far away. If she could persuade someone important to visit the salon she might be able to make a news item out of it. It was then she thought of Dina Lloyd.
Dina was always willing to help her and since she was going into a new play soon, what better than for Duval's to design her clothes? With a happy smile Alix dialed the actress's number.
"Darling!" The girl's lilting voice came over the line. "I've been expecting you to come to a rehearsal. My part's sensational."
"Who's doing your clothes for it?"
"I haven't decided yet. Christie's are doing the rest of the cast but I can choose my own designer."
"How about Duval's?" Alix suggested boldly.
Laughter bubbled over the wire. "You can't be serious? Duval's style went out with Directoire knickers!"
"If you see his latest Collection you'll change your mind."
"Never. What on earth made you think of them?"
Knowing she had to be honest, Alix was. "At least come to the salon," she concluded. "There are several dresses in their latest show that are absolutely you."
"I find that hard to believe," Dina said dubiously, "but I'll go along to please you."
"You're an angel," Alix said gratefully. "I'll meet you there on Monday at twelve. That's when I officially start work for them."
At nine o'clock on Monday morning Alix installed herself in the tiny office on the first floor of the mansion in Mayfair. Hardly had she done so when Paul Duval walked in and explained that his father had gone to New York the night before to attend the wedding of one of his most illustrious clients. "It's her fifth wedding in ten years," he added, "and my father regards the jaunt as a biannual holiday for himself!"
"I hope he's asked to design the trousseau?"
"Naturally." There was no smile on the narrow face and though his manner was polite, she guessed he was not here because he wanted to be but because, as his father's representative, he felt he had to be.
"I wonder if you would introduce me to the most important people in the house?" she said. "The vendeuses, the head fitters and the manageress in charge of the boutique."
"We don't have a boutique. My father thinks it would lower the tone of the house."
Alix restrained a desire to say "Nonsense," and made a mental note to have a word about it with Monsieur Duval.
"Would you like one?" she asked carefully.
"Naturally. Although I'm against your sort of publicity, I'm well aware of all the things we could do to regenerate our image." He walked to the door. "And now, if you will come with me, I will show you around."
Suitably chastened, Alix followed him.
Although Paul Duval had made no secret of his dislike for her presence at the salon, nothing of what he felt was apparent in his demeanor as he introduced her to the main members of the staff and then left her in the hands of Madame Lelong, the head vendeuse, who took her on a complete tour of the building.
Alix saw the fitting rooms, each with its gilt chair and tall mirror, the stockroom piled high with glorious materials and the workrooms on the upper floors. The farther away they went from the main floor, the shabbier grew the surroundings. Indeed, the rooms at the top were attics, their windows so small that the seamstresses worked by artificial light—cutting, stitching and pinning amid such a welter of confusion that it was amazing any garments emerged from the chaos.
Tempers seemed to run high, too. Here a vendeuse was complaining that the wrong trimming had been used on a skirt, there a model—in scanty bra and panties—was bewailing the fact that the dress she was due to show in five minutes' time had disappeared into thin air. What a contrast to the dignified atmosphere downstairs, Alix thought as she descended the staircase again and saw Paul in earnest conversation with one of the fitters.
He smiled faintly at her as she came toward him and she smiled back warmly, anxious to overcome the coolness between them.
"Now you know what goes on behind the scenes," he said. "I hope it hasn't taken all the gilt off the gingerbread for you!"
"There's still plenty of gilt left! Though I'm amazed to see what a little world of its own this place is."
"All large couture houses are the same. Few people realize the effort that goes into the creation of a Collection and the enormous problems in maintaining the standards."
She nodded. "I've asked Dina Lloyd to come and see the Collection this morning."
His thin, well-curved eyebrows came together in a frown. "The name's familiar but I can't quite place it."
"Miss Lloyd's an actress," Alix said without expression. "I would like you to meet her. I'm hoping she'll ask you to design the clothes for her new play. It would be a magnificent shop window for Duval!"
"No doubt," he said coldly. "But I've no intention of playing shop assistant to an actress! I will arrange for Madame Lelong to attend her."
With a cursory nod he walked away and Alix, fuming, returned to her office.
Promptly at twelve Dina mounted the steps of Duval's Regency house, tiny and slim in a silver gray suit that acted as a perfect foil for her red gold hair. Her elfin face, with its pointed chin and large blue eyes, had a flowerlike innocence belied by the determined set of her mouth and her clear and penetrating voice. Here, Alix
felt as the actress came toward her, was a young woman fully conscious of her charm and willing to use it to attain her own ends.
"I nearly decided not to come," Dina said in a stage whisper that could have been heard throughout an auditorium. "I know it's going to be a waste of my time."
With a shrug Alix led her up to the salon and introduced her to Madame Lelong. As soon as they were seated the first model came in and Dina smiled disparagingly.
"It's even worse than I thought," she said, this time managing to keep her voice down, though she made no attempt to hide the way she felt as one richly encrusted garment followed another.
Alix's heart sank. She had not asked Madame Lelong if Paul Duval's clothes would be shown, taking it for granted they would be.
"Honestly, Alix, I don't think I can…" The rest of Dina's sentence died as a fair-haired model glided in wearing a long slim tunic of sandy gold silk shot with electric blue.
Dina straightened in her chair. "Now that is something." She looked at the vendeuse. "What's it called?"
"Wood Smoke. And I think myself it is perfectly beautiful."
"So do I. Please make a note of it for me. Have you any more like it—without ghastly beading and bits and pieces?"
Madame Lelong nodded and gave a sign to the fair- haired model who disappeared and, a moment later, returned in another elegantly cut dress. From then on two girls showed a group of clothes outstanding for their simplicity and Madame Lelong's pencil scribbled away as Dina picked out a dinner dress, a theater suit in wild silk and an afternoon dress in yellow chiffon aptly called Lemon Ice.
"I've never seen anything so lovely!" she exclaimed to Alix. "Each one's absolutely right. I take back every word I said about Henri Duval."
"These dresses weren't designed by Monsieur Henri," the vendeuse intervened before Alix could reply. "They are the work of his son, Monsieur Paul."
Alix's heart missed a beat. So her original surmise had been correct. No wonder there was an undercurrent of hostility between father and son. Henri must be aware of his son's superior talent, even while he professed not to understand it.
"I don't care who designed them," Dina cried. "The man's a genius and I want to meet him. Is he here?"
"He's working," Alix replied. "I don't think…" She hesitated a second and then made up her mind. "I'll tell him you want to see him," she said and went determinedly out of the salon and down to the ground floor.
She had not yet been to Paul's room but, remembering her tour of the premises earlier that day, knew where it was. Reaching the door, she knocked on it quickly and, before she lost her impetus, opened it and went in.
The room was totally unlike any other in the building. A few pieces of furniture—pared down to the minimum, so that desk and chairs looked like skeletons of glass and steel—stood on dark gray carpet against plain white walls. An easel in one corner held a sketch of a suit and there were several more sketches on the desk that stood in front of an uncurtained window. It was through this window that she saw Paul Duval himself.
He was standing with his back to her in the small paved courtyard that served as a garden and was bending over a vivid blue hydrangea, his fingers gently tending the petals. He was not wearing a jacket and she was surprised at the way his silk shirt emphasized the muscles in his shoulders, and his sleeves, rolled back, disclosed powerful, sinewy arms. He had the lithe figure and supple movement of a ballet dancer, and as he straightened and lifted his head she was aware of the strength that emanated from him.
She moved forward, and as she did so, he turned and saw her. Annoyance crossed his face but his voice remained polite and cool.
"What are you doing here, Miss Smith? If you want me you can call on the intercom."
"I wasn't sure you'd agree to do as I asked if I spoke to you on the telephone."
"Obviously you require a favor," he said dryly and walked over to his desk to put on the jacket that lay across the back of his chair.
Properly clothed, he once more looked the diffident figure she had thought him to be and, seeing him thus, she lost her fear of him.
"Dina Lloyd wishes to see you," she said bluntly.
"I do not reciprocate the wish."
"She's crazy about your clothes. You can't refuse to see her."
"I can and I am."
"Then you're not only the most conceited man I've met but also the most stupid!" Temper dissolved tact and nothing could stop Alix now. "Who are you designing clothes for? Ghosts? If you want women to wear what you create, you've got to go out and meet them."
"Why?"
"To show them you exist."
"My clothes exist. That's the only thing that counts."
"It isn't. The things you create are a part of you; and the women who buy those creations want to know what you're like."
"I loathe personal publicity." His tone was frigid and his face, normally pale, had a flush on the narrow cheekbones. "However, you've been hired by my father and it's impossible for me to refuse your request. I will meet Miss Lloyd."
Not giving her a chance to answer he walked rapidly from the room, making Alix run to keep pace with him. Only as they reached the salon did he pause to let her precede him and effect the introductions.
Dina had used the time to advantage and had tried on one of the dresses she had ordered, and Paul, recognizing it as his own, looked delighted.
"So you are Paul Duval," Dina said simply. "I couldn't leave without congratulating you on your exquisite clothes. I never imagined anything like this could be seen in London—let alone here!"
"You are very kind," Paul said quietly, his eyes momentarily resting on the delicate drapery that enhanced Dina's small, pointed breasts. "You are beautiful enough to show them to advantage. Not many of my clients are actually able to get into the model's dress!"
"How sweet of you to say so." Modesty was fuel to the fire. "Tell me, Mr. Duval, have you ever designed for the stage?"
"No."
"Then it's high time you did! I want you to do the clothes for my new play."
"I'd have to read the script before I committed myself. Even then I—"
"I'll have it sent round this afternoon," Dina cut him off. "But I can give you a brief resume."
They were soon so engrossed in a discussion of the play that they were oblivious to Alix's presence. Seeing the brown head bent close to the red one, she felt a pang of irritation. She had worked so hard to bring this unwilling couple together that, having achieved it, the least they could have done was to thank her!
During the next ten days Paul worked nonstop to make the toiles—the muslin in which each new design was first made—for Dina's clothes.
Frequently he created a garment directly on a model, and Alix, entering his office one morning to check with him on some information she wanted to give to one of the newspapers, watched in fascination as he draped a bolt of heavy silk jersey over the girl's supple body. The slithery material seemed to be alive in his hands, obeying every twist of his fingers, every turn of his wrist. So absorbed was he in his design that he did not see Alix, and only when the jersey had been molded into the shape he wanted—and held that way by pins and quick tacking from a seamstress—did he suddenly become aware of being watched.
"You wish to see me?" he asked in a distant voice.
"I need your approval on a press handout."
"Real news or fantasy from your fertile imagination?" He saw her stony look and went on, "You don't need my approval for what you do, Miss Smith. My father engaged you and you are only answerable to him.''
Seeing the look of quick interest that flashed from the model to the other two women hovering around him, Alix determined not to give them cause to gossip.
"You're quite right, Mr. Duval," she said sweetly. "Forgive me for bothering you when you're so busy."
His surprised look—for he had obviously expected a sharp retort—was Alix's only satisfaction as she went back to her cubbyhole of an office and contacted the gossip co
lumnist. Fertile imagination indeed. Well, she'd show him how fertile it could be.
"Designing the clothes for Dina Lloyd?" the reporter echoed. "That's an unusual departure for Duval's."
"Mr. Paul is an unusual man," Alix said lightly. "Young, handsome and a genius."
"How come we've heard so little of him?"
"He likes to hide his light under a bushel of material! But take it from me, he's a heartthrob."
"May I call him that?"
"Why not?"
The reporter did—and more besides—and Alix, seeing the column next day, awaited repercussions from the "heartthrob" himself. How furious he must be to see himself so described. Yet the angry summons to his office did not materialize: instead a flowering plant awaited her, with a card bearing his writing.
"Forgive me for losing my temper yesterday," he had penned, "and I will forgive you for the Express today."
The sense of humor depicted in the message was unexpected and gave Alix yet another view on him; a more jaundiced one when she recognized the plant as being a particularly prickly type of cactus. But at least it showed there was an armed truce between them, which was as much as she could expect.
Another few days passed and Dina started to come in for regular fittings. From Madame Lelong, Alix learned that the clothes met with her unanimous approval, but since neither Dina nor Paul invited her to see them, she returned to her Chelsea office and concentrated on her other clients.
If Henri Duval complained at the lack of press mention his salon was getting, he had only himself to blame. He should not have disappeared for such a long holiday without briefing her first. She was almost tempted to hand in her resignation and only refrained from doing so because of the impending first night of Dina's play. That should give her the chance to get Duval's an immense amount of news coverage, and once she had, she would walk out in a blaze of satisfaction.
She did not return to the salon until Monday and, stepping through the door, knew at once that the master was back. Black-garbed vendeuses fluttered about the salon like anxious ravens, and sewing hands scurried up and down the floors, their feet barely seeming to touch the ground.
Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Page 2