No sooner was Alix in her office when the telephone rang, summoning her to Henri Duval, and seeing his scowling face, she knew he was seriously displeased.
"Will you kindly tell me what's been going on here during my absence?" he demanded without any other greeting. "My son is too busy to talk to me and half the workroom has been given over to the making of theatrical costumes!"
"They're the dresses for Dina Lloyd's new play," Alix said stiffly.
"So I understand. And while my staff are making them, some of my most valued clients are kept waiting."
"The play opens on Thursday—that's why there was so much rush."
"Thursday! No wonder everyone's been doing overtime." He strode around the side of the desk and glared at her. "How is it that when Miss Lloyd came here she didn't see the complete Collection?"
Alix caught her breath. Here was the real reason for
Henri Duval's anger: all the dresses Dina had chosen had been designed by Paul. But no matter how tactfully she replied, the essence of her answer would still be unpalatable to the great man himself.
"Miss Lloyd did see the complete Collection, Monsieur Duval. But she picked out certain dresses that appealed to her because of the part she is playing. And your… and your son had to design additional clothes for her because she wanted them to be entirely new."
"I see." Henri's expression was somber. "It's a pity you couldn't have waited until I came back before bringing her here."
"When I arranged it I didn't know you would be in America. But I'd like you to meet her the moment you can. I have tickets for the first night and I hoped you and…" She hesitated, then said quickly, "You and Mr. Paul would be able to come."
"Of course we'll come. Duval's hasn't designed clothes for a play for fifteen years."
Henri Duval's ill-humor had been replaced by a look of determination that filled Alix with foreboding, for she knew he was seeing Dina as a challenge—as indeed he would see any woman who preferred his son's designs to his own.
For the next few days she kept out of his way, but from Madame Lelong learned he had personally supervised the departure of the dresses for Dina Lloyd. It was as if he wanted them to be regarded as belonging to Duval's rather than to Paul, and though Alix saw it as a pitiable conceit she could not help realizing that were she in Henri's position—jealous of her good name and reputation as a couturier—she might do the same. The bond between a father and son might be strong but so was professional jealousy.
She was thinking of this as she dressed for the premiere and, relaxing on her bed in a fleecy bathrobe, hoped that any future publicity she did for Duval's would not cause antagonism between the two men. Logic told her that one day the two men would have to part professionally; their concepts of fashion were too different for them to work happily as a team. In fact, it surprised her that Paul still remained with his father, for he not only had creative talent but also the coolness of mind to organize and run his own establishment. His clothes were adaptable, too, and could easily be made for the high-street market.
She was still pondering on this as she slipped on her evening dress. Henri Duval had offered her one from the Collection, but knowing she would have to choose a dress he himself had designed, she had declined the offer, tactfully explaining it would look less obvious if she wore something neutral.
"If you were the publicist for Ford cars, you wouldn't drive around in a Citroen," he had responded.
"I agree. But then I'd probably drive about on a scooter!"
"It would still have to be a Ford scooter," he had said. "You are refusing to wear a Duval dress because you don't wish to make a choice between one Duval and another."
"Can you blame me?" she had asked, accepting the fact that her tact had not pulled her out of a tricky situation.
"A man should never blame a woman for anything," Henri smiled. "He should always take the blame himself! If my brain had been functioning properly, I would have presented you with a dress in your size and made it impossible for you not to wear it!"
She had laughed. "You're too clever for me, Monsieur Duval."
"I haven't been this time," he had said good humoredly. "But I will be in the future."
A car horn sounded below her window, and glancing out, she recognized Henri Duval's Rolls. Picking up her satin cloak she descended the single flight of stairs to the ground. The full skirt of her dress rustled as she moved, and she paused to look at herself in the mirrored wall that lined one side of the lobby. The crimson silk was so deep in color that it took on the purple bloom of a damson, giving blue lights to her raven black hair and adding luster to her skin. The bodice was simple and high-necked, her only ornament an antique necklace of garnets, carved in the shape of leaves and flowers and set in gold. Matching earrings dangled in her ears, sending forth an occasional spark of fire as they caught the light. Baroque jewelry was a passion with her and she scoured the antique shops of London for unusual pieces.
The horn sounded again and she hurried out. The chauffeur was holding open the door and she climbed in and sat next to Henri Duval, noticing that Paul was sitting in the front.
"How charming you look," Henri said heartily. "You are wise to choose dramatic colors. You are not the type for pastels."
"I wish I were," she said with a half sigh. "Pastel-type girls are the cosseted ones. It's the dramatic types who go on working forever!"
"You wouldn't be happy unless you were working, my dear Alix."
He moved slightly and she smelled the aroma of his shaving lotion: a woody tang that went well with his magnificent physique. She glanced at him covertly. In the light of the passing street lamps no lines were visible on his face and all she could see was the firm chin, the smooth plane of his cheek and the thick, gray-blond hair. Difficult to believe he was in his fifties!
The rest of the journey was completed in silence and when they reached the theater they were met by a barrage of press photographers. Alix saw the look of irritation on Paul Duval's face, but his father smiled broadly and bowed to left and right as flashbulbs exploded on either side of them.
It seemed that most of fashionable London was present to see Dina in her first dramatic part, and Alix recognized many of the people. She had vowed that tonight she was going to relax, but the sight of so many celebrities and scribes reminded her she was here only because of her work, and resolutely she flitted from group to group, always remembering to mention Dina's clothes and how magnificent they were.
It was a relief to hear the final bell and she hurried to her seat and relaxed in it, wondering why she should be so on edge about the play. Dina was her client, it was -true, but the play had had excellent reviews when it had been shown in the United States and there was every reason to assume it would get the same response here. Could her nervousness be due to Paul Duval? She gave him a quick glance. He looked as he always did: aloof and calm, more like a young stockbroker than a dress designer, and with no sign of worry on his pale, narrow face. Drat the man. Could nothing ruffle him? The houselights dimmed, the curtains swung back and the sounds of the audience were muted. With a faint-sigh Alix gave her attention to the stage.
Within ten minutes she knew she was watching a success. The part could have been tailor-made for Dina, so aptly did it suit her wistful fragility and pert tongue. But if the girl's acting was the first sensation of the show, the second was undoubtedly her clothes. Every woman in the audience gasped each time she appeared in a new change of costume, and during the intermissions, programs were scanned to see who had created them. The name stated was simply Duval, and everyone automatically assumed it to be Henri and rushed over to congratulate him.
To Alix's surprise he brushed them aside and gave the credit to his son, urging the younger man forward and withdrawing himself to the background. She had assumed he would sulk and try to take some of the limelight for himself; yet he was doing the opposite, and with such good grace that it was difficult to remember that a few days previously he had been fur
ious with her for bringing Dina to the salon during his absence. Still, looking at it logically, he was doing the only thing possible: making the best of an irritating situation.
When the final curtain came down, Alix took the two men backstage to Dina's dressing room. A crowd had already gathered there and it was then that the younger Duval surprised her; for knowing his aversion to people, she had assumed he would be reluctant to participate in mass adulation. But he seemed to enjoy the theatrical hyperbole and pushed his way forward to make his own congratulations to Dina.
"Are you pleased with me as an actress or as your clotheshorse?" she asked gaily.
"I saw you only as a woman," he replied. "You were magnificent."
"What a lovely thing to say." Dina clasped his hands. She still wore her heavy stage makeup but nothing could disguise her youthful beauty. "I don't mind admitting I was terrified when I woke up this morning. But now I feel I could even tackle Shakespeare!"
"What about tackling me first?" said a deep voice and Dina swung around to see Henri Duval beside her. In the brilliant light he looked a distinguished figure, his hair more blond than gray.
"So you are Paul's father." Dina's eyes met the compelling blue ones. "What did you think of the clothes Paul designed for me?"
"They were a fitting setting for a magnificent jewel."
Dina giggled and Alix, afraid her friend would say something indiscreet, went forward to intervene. But before she could do so, Dina sat at her dressing table and pulled Henri down beside her.
"Your son may have inherited your gifts as a designer, Monsieur Duval, but he can take a lesson from you when it comes to gallantry."
"He didn't do badly a moment ago."
"But he's known me for weeks," Dina pouted. "You've only met me tonight."
"My son was born under the gray skies of England," Henri replied, "and he has the English reserve. But I was born in a land of spice-laden breezes where beautiful women were used to compliments."
Dina listened with seeming fascination as Henri continued to talk, and Alix wondered which one of the two was putting on a better act: Henri, who was deliberately setting out to charm the young actress with a profusion of sophisticated gallantries, or Dina, all simpering innocence. She glanced at Paul. He was talking to the producer, his thin face absorbed. She could read Henri like a book, yet the son, who was her own generation, was impossible for her to assess.
Even when they went out to dinner—to which Dina happily accompanied them—she still could not tell if he was piqued by the fact that his father was still holding the girl's attention with amusing stories of how he had started as a couturier and had found inspiration among famous women of the past.
"But now I am thinking only of the present," he smiled, "and I would like to design my next Collection with you in mind."
Alix caught Dina's eye and felt the pressure of a narrow heel on her foot. What was in the back of that determined little red gold head? Anxious to know, she picked up her bag and rose.
"I'm going to powder my nose. Coming, Dina?"
Dina nodded and together they made their way to the powder room.
"How do you think I am doing with the old boy?" Dina asked, patting a curl into place.
"Do you need me to tell you? Henri's fallen for you like a ton of bricks."
"You mean he's flattered by the thought that a girl of my age can fancy him."
"Don't you?" Alix asked dryly.
"Have a heart, darling! He's old enough to be my father. He's good-looking, though. I've never been out with a man of his age before."
"Are you thinking of trying it now?"
"I'm being diplomatic, darling. Surely you knew he was going to be livid that I chose Paul's clothes instead of his? What else can I do except pretend I'm bowled over by him as a man if not as a designer? It's the best way of keeping the peace between the two of them."
Suddenly everything fell into place and Alix breathed a sigh of relief. It was short-lived however, shattered by Dina's next words.
"Whose feelings are you worried about—Paul's or Henri's?"
"Both of them," she lied, thinking only—and surprisingly—of Paul.
"Then quit worrying about the son," Dina said bluntly. "He and I understand one another. He knows exactly why I'm being so dewy-eyed over his papa."
"As long as papa doesn't know."
"Leave him to me." Dina went to the door. "I'm an actress, remember? And a good one."
Alix wished she, too, were capable of putting on an act and, because she knew she wasn't, was reluctant to sit at the table watching Dina's performance. Both father and son rose at their approach and she found something unseemly in the way the older man held out Dina's chair and fawned over her.
"Let's dance," she said abruptly to Paul.
"Dance?"
He looked so startled that her irritation turned upon him instead of his father. "I do dance, you know. And it will give you the opportunity of taking the lead."
"A rare opportunity with you, Miss Smith."
Eyes flashing, she preceded him to the floor.
"I'd better apologize again," he said quietly. "And also tell you that you've done an excellent job at Duval's."
"You've done most of the work," she replied. "The clothes you designed for Dina were marvelous."
"So was your press coverage of it." Faint humor tinged his voice. "We sound like a mutual admiration society."
"That's better than self-admiration!"
He laughed. "I'm guilty of many faults but narcissism isn't one of them!"
The music changed tempo and he pulled her slightly closer. It was the nearest she had been to him, and feeling his light but firm touch on her shoulder and the warmth of his body pressed against hers, she was conscious of the strength that emanated from him. Yet strength was the wrong word. It was more a suggestion of control. She stole a glance at his narrow face so, near her own and saw how beautifully shaped his mouth was and how silky the dark brown hair. Suddenly she wished Henri and Dina were miles away…
"Shall we sit down?"
Paul's question brought her abruptly back to reality and she nodded, infinitely glad he had not been able to read her mind and not sure she was reading it correctly herself. They returned to the table and found it empty, not even Dina's purse beside her plate.
"Monsieur Duval wished me to tell you he has taken Miss Lloyd to a discotheque," their waiter said, coming forward. "He tried to attract your attention but you were on the other side of the floor."
"I feel rather guilty about this," Alix said to Paul as the waiter tactfully withdrew. "If you hadn't been dancing with me…"
"It would still have happened." His look was direct but masklike. "Would you like to stay on or would you prefer to go?"
Although Alix wanted to stay, she knew that he didn't, and she silently rose and picked up her cloak.
Henri had taken the car and when they reached the sidewalk Paul suggested they walk for a little while. Together they strolled along Park Lane and only as they neared Marble Arch did she speak.
"If I'm not mistaken, after tonight you're going to be in great demand as a theatrical designer."
"That's exactly what I don't want to be! Everything in the theater is larger than life and it isn't my style. It's more my father's."
"But you were the one who designed Dina's dresses." She hesitated, then said boldly, "Your style is so different from your father's, I'm surprised you don't show a separate Collection."
"It isn't economically possible to have two."
"It isn't economic to have one if it doesn't sell! And the women who like your clothes aren't the women who like your father's."
"Then they'd better not come to Duval."
"But you're part of Duval, too," she protested.
Paul stopped walking and stared at her. "I am my father's son and I work for him. Everything I know he taught me; every opportunity I had, he gave me."
"I'm sure you would have made your own opportun
ities if you'd had to," she retorted. "Anyway, you're a designer in your own right now, and to pretend otherwise is being untrue to yourself."
"I'm not sufficiently good to start up on my own."
Alix was uncertain if he meant what he said or was constrained by loyalty. She longed to press him further but knew that even if he gave another answer it might still not be the truth. What a complex man he was. Seemingly so gentle yet, when one least expected it, displaying a fierce intensity. Still waters ran deep, and in Paul they were very still indeed.
"I think we've walked far enough," he said suddenly and signaled for a taxi.
Silently they climbed in and he stared through the window at the dark streets.
"Please don't be annoyed with me, Mr. Duval," she said. "I'm not trying to come between you and your father. But I honestly think your clothes are so different from his, and so perfect in their own right that—"
"Do you really? I wasn't sure you meant it."
"Of course I did. That's why I asked Dina to see them. I knew she'd love them as much as I did."
There was another silence, though now it held a different quality.
"You'd better not let my father hear you say that," he said slowly.
"I hadn't meant to say it to you, either," she confessed.
"But you did."
"Yes "
"May I ask why?"
She was not sure herself but did not like to admit it, and was searching for an answer when he spoke again.
"Never mind. It's said and it's best forgotten."
"And you'll never start up on your own?"
"Never is a word I never use!"
Before she could find a suitable reply the taxi drew to a stop outside her apartment building and Paul opened the door and stepped out ahead of her.
"Thank you again for all you've done," he said softly. "I'm sorry if I've appeared ungallant at times."
"Not ungallant, Mr. Duval, merely truthful." She held out her hand. "Thanks for bringing me home."
He touched her fingers lightly. "I think we can cut out the Mr., don't you… Alix?"
Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Page 3