by Thérèse
He’s in his element, India thought. He just loves all this.
“Thanks to Samantha here, we have goodie bags groaning with politically correct cosmetics: Burt’s Bees, The Body Shop and Beauty Without Cruelty have all come through.” He continued. “Well done, Samantha, for sourcing the ethical faux pearls and getting Mango Bay to donate the soy soaps.”
“My pleasure.” Samantha smiled. “I’m working on some Stella McCartney perfume too.”
“Luella, you’ll need to personalize a hundred signed copies of Faux Fashion for the VIPs, but that’s easily done in New York when you’re there,” Henry said, checking off his list.
“Not a problem; just let me have the names,” she answered, getting to her feet. “Love the sound of those gifts. So no hemp or patchouli oil, Samantha?”
“Not my style, Luella.” Samantha smiled.
“Perish the thought,” Henry agreed.
“Great job everyone,” Luella said, making her way to the door. “Have to dash; I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”
India’s phone buzzed as she was gathering her papers from the table. She picked up.
“Hey, do you have a minute? We need to talk.”
“Just give me a second. I’m at work,” she said. “Henry, I’ve got to take this. I’ll be back in a moment.”
Going quickly down the corridor to the accountant’s office, she shut the door behind her. “Okay. I can talk now,” she said.
“So. What’s going on, India? Why aren’t you answering my texts? What’s with the big freeze?”
“Nothing, er, nothing. I’m just busy,” she said.
“Don’t give me that. I know something’s up. I know you too well.”
India paced the tiny room. “You’re right, actually. Yes. I need to ask you something.” She paused. “You remember that girl, the one in Vegas in the photograph with you?” she said.
“Yep.”
“The one you ran over or nearly ran over. Whatever, you know the one I mean?”
“Yep.”
“Well, clearly you’ve, how can I put it, run into her again. I saw another photograph of you together.”
“Yep?”
“Will you please say something more than ‘yep?’ It’s very irritating.”
“Let me tell you what’s irritating, India,” Adam answered. “Having you jump to conclusions every time my picture appears in some fucking tabloid. Try getting a life. Read a decent newspaper.”
“I can assure you I don’t go looking for pictures,” she said stiffly, “but when I have one shoved in my face I can hardly ignore it. Henry’s assistant showed it to me. It was online. Can’t you see why I might think something is going on? I mean, two pictures with the same girl in two different cities. The media is certainly making a connection.”
“Yes. I saw that, so I kind of get it, but what I can’t see is why you would immediately always jump to the same conclusion. Do you not trust me at all?”
India went over to the window. She ran her fingers across the dusty pane and gazed through the rain down at the street. “So what was she doing in Cannes with you?” she said.
“She wasn’t with me. Pure coincidence. She was with other people. I ran into her on the way back to my room. We had drinks. She was there for business. So, is that why you didn’t come out to La Colombe d’Or?”
“No. I really do have to work.”
There was a long silence. “India this might not be the best time to say it, but I don’t think this is working between us anymore.”
India inhaled sharply. “What are you saying?” she said.
“You don’t trust me, and I don’t think that’s ever going to change no matter what I do.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“So am I.”
She hesitated. “So what now? What do we do about it?”
“I think we have to go our separate ways and move on,” he said.
There was a long pause. “You’re probably right.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this anymore either.”
“Okay. Okay then.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Right,” he said, clicking off.
India stood for a while in the fading light feeling strangely calm. Something had shifted. She could sense it. It really doesn’t matter if he’s telling the truth or not. It’s over, she thought.
She flicked on the light and made her way back to the conference room. Straightening her back and smoothing down her hair, she took a deep breath before opening the door.
Luella crossed the street to Quo Vadis restaurant. She shook off her raincoat and handed it to the cloakroom attendant. Susie was waiting for her in the dining room. She stood up and gave her a hug. The waiter pulled out a chair and unfolded her napkin.
“May I offer you a drink, Madam?” he said as they sat down.
“Dry martini.” She smiled. “Kettel One, thanks.”
“Sorry I started ahead of you,” her friend said, taking a sip of her cocktail. “You’ve lost quite a bit of weight, Lu. You need to be careful.”
“I can’t do much about it,” Luella said, pulling her cardigan around her. “I’m stressed to the eyeballs, Susie. Things have gotten a whole lot worse. I need to tell you the latest but let’s order first.”
She looked at the menu. “Oh my goodness, just look at this. It’s like going back to the Middle Ages. Grilled ox tongue, salt duck…Guinea fowl. Don’t they have anything less literal?”
“They have plaice too. That should be okay for you.” Susie said. “I picked here as it was so close to the office. I forgot you’re not a big meat eater.”
“It’s fine, honestly. Plaice with horseradish sounds weird, but it might be good. What about you?”
“I’m thinking steak and mashed potatoes. Let’s share a salad to start with. Caesar?”
“Go for it. You pick the wine.”
Susie signaled the waiter and gave him their order. Turning back to her friend, she lowered her voice. “So tell me, what’s happened? What’s going on?”
“Okay.” Luella took a deep breath. “Peter’s told me who he is. I know who the letters are from.”
“So who is it? Do we know him?”
“Sort of…I guess in a way. Susie, Peter’s having an affair with Jean-Luc.”
“The fashion designer? THAT Jean-Luc?” Susie gasped.
“Yes. Yes, him.”
Susie’s jaw dropped open. She sat gaping at Luella. “Wait. What – are you serious? Are you sure?” she managed eventually. “Omigod. I am finding this really hard to take in.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure. But that’s not the full story. It’s not just that. It’s much worse than that.”
“Really? How?”
Luella leaned back as the waiter placed a fish knife in front of her. She waited for him to move away.
“In two weeks’ time, I am supposed to be sharing a platform with him in New York at the fashion show.” She leaned forward again. “He’s the host of my show.”
“He’s the host? The host?”
“Yes. Jean-Luc is presenting the awards at Faux Fashion. How the hell can I be in the same room, let alone share a stage with him? How am I supposed to do that?”
“Omigod, Lu. Does Jean-Luc know who you are?”
“I have no idea. None at all. I didn’t think to ask him.”
“How did this happen?”
“It was Henry’s idea. I haven’t actually met him, but I did go to see him speak at the London College of Fashion.”
“I remember that now. You told me about it.”
“You know, I find it almost impossible to imagine him with Peter. He’s so flamboyant. He’s so ‘out there.’ God, Susie. I really don’t know Peter at all, do I? I mean he’s always seemed so…well…boring if I’m being honest. I’ve been living with a stranger all these years. What’s going on? Is all this really happening? What’s wrong wit
h me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s not you. Think about it. We’re all fooled a lot of the time. I mean, that guy two tables down is probably a spy. Obviously our waiter’s in the Mafia, and I’m pretty sure that woman over there in the red dress is really a man. Take a look. We are the only people in this room who are not leading double lives.”
Luella let her napkin drop and swiveled around as she bent down to pick it up. “I think you might be right.” She laughed. “Susie, you crack me up. You really do.”
“It’s great to see you laughing again, Lu. It’s been a while. Ah, here’s our starter. I think we need something stronger than wine, don’t you?”
“Urgently,” Luella agreed, draining her glass.
“Could we have a refill on the cocktails please?” Susie told the waiter.
“See, Lu? The ring on his little finger,” she whispered. “Cosa Nostra.”
“Shhh.” Luella giggled.
“Cheers,” Susie said, raising her glass. “Who’s better than us?”
“NO-ONE,” they chimed in unison.
19
Why don’t they teach pilots how to land planes properly? India thought, clinging to the armrest as the wheels of the airbus touched down bumpily in the crosswind before tearing along the landing strip. A voice came across the loudspeaker welcoming them to Kennedy airport as she jostled with the nearby passengers to gather her belongings from the overhead locker before making a dash through the arrivals terminal for immigration.
An hour later, sitting in the backseat of a town car, India dozed off. The journey to Manhattan was taking forever. She woke up an hour later to learn they were locked in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Triborough Bridge. At last, the car broke free of the traffic and weaved its way through a maze of crowded side streets, finally arriving onto East Fifty-Fifth Street and pulling up at the St. Regis Hotel.
A liveried bellman opened the car door, took her suitcase and showed her through the revolving doors of the grand marbled entrance to reception, where she was greeted by an immaculately coiffed young woman in a gray tailored suit speaking Cantonese to the couple checking in ahead of her.
“Welcome, Miss Butler. Sorry to keep you waiting. How was your trip?” she said with a welcoming smile.
“Long,” India answered, returning the smile. “The traffic was awful.”
“That’s New York for you. Well, you’re here now, and if there is anything at all we can do to make your stay more comfortable just let us know,” she said as she checked her computer. “The Imperial Suite is ready for you. You are the first to arrive. The other…excuse me but I seem to have two Miss Butlers.”
“Yes. My twin sister,” India explained.
“Ah! Lovely. Well then please give me a moment to prepare your keys, and I will show you to the elevator. Your butler will greet you as you come out on the floor.”
Butler? Welcome to Annie’s world, India thought, her excitement mounting as they walked through the elegant Edwardian foyer. Admiring the silk wall coverings and spectacular displays of fresh flowers arranged on carved columns, she waited for the doors to open and then checked her watch. She’ll have landed by now, she thought.
India gasped as she walked into the hallway of the suite. She attempted to appear unfazed as the uniformed butler, a guy no older than herself, toured her around the rooms. He pointed out the two luxurious bedrooms with foot-high duvets,the dining room with carved walnut panels, the oyster blue silk wallpaper, the sitting room, the oriental rugs, the kitchen, the bathrooms, the powder room and finally, the magnificent views across Central Park.
After the bellman had delivered her cases, the butler left the suite looking somewhat confused that India had not allowed him to unpack and hang her clothes. She pulled her silk Muji dress from the case, laid it on the bed, and ran a bath. She soaked in the deep tub, her toes playing with the gold-plated faucets as she struggled to find the music channel on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV. Then pouring the full contents of a bottle of rich scented bath oil, she lay back and luxuriated.
After a while, conscious of the time, she dripped her way across the Italian marble floor and wrapped herself in an oversized towel. Then after slathering on a generous helping of body lotion, she padded across the thick oriental carpet and searched her case for underwear.
A thump in the hallway announced the arrival of her sister, and India squealed and raced to give her a hug.
“Look at you. You look so well, you international consultant you.” Annie smiled.
“And you look amazing as ever,” India said, admiring her sister’s red leather Balenciaga biker jacket, black skinny jeans and what she instantly recognized as a Proenza Schouler shawl.
“I assume you won’t be wearing that jacket to the rehearsal tomorrow.” India laughed.
“Oops,” Annabelle said, resting her tan Hermes tote on the hall console table. “This is my ‘go to’ uniform when I fly commercial. I suppose if they were insisting on a vegan presenter they’d have asked Natalie Portman.”
“True.” India laughed. “Anyway, it’s just a theme not a religion. Even so.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve done my homework. I shall be all Stella tomorrow, darling.”
A knock on the door announced the return of the butler, humming now as he went into the master bedroom, clearly delighted at the prospect of unpacking Annabelle’s Louis Vuitton suitcases and hanging her designer clothes on silk padded hangers.
“Tess has booked us dinner at the restaurant here tonight,” Annabelle said. “I hope the food’s okay. I thought we wouldn’t feel like venturing out, but now I learn Alain Ducasse has taken his bat and ball and abandoned the place.”
“It’ll be fine if the rest of the hotel is anything to go by,” India assured her. “We need an intercom to communicate in this suite, Annie,” she whispered. “Isn’t it amazing? Thank you so much for doing this. Henry has me on a budget obviously. I stayed at The Warwick last time. It was fine but I wasn’t in a rush to go back.”
“Of course, don’t be silly,” Annabelle said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “What’s mine is yours, with the exception of the Balenciaga jacket you have your eye on. Now, give me ten minutes to shower and turn around and then I think it’s martini time, don’t you?”
20
India anxiously checked her watch. She was unprepared for how long it was taking the town car to get them to Brooklyn the next morning. She’d somehow imagined the Harvey Theater to be closer to the hotel. Traveling by subway would have been quicker, but of course that was out of the question, not only because of her own dread of underground transport but because Annabelle would be mobbed. You’d be more likely to see Angelina Jolie on a commuter train than Annie, she’d thought.
Annie always seemed so normal, so down to earth, that even India would sometimes forget her sister was an A-list celebrity and that there were adjustments to be made. She glanced over at her. She looked exquisite in her black Stella McCartney jewel-embellished jacket and black pants, her long blonde hair pulled back in a chic chignon, and her faux leather gold-chained purse resting on her lap.
India had chosen carefully too. She was wearing her Isabel Marant jacket with a long tee, blue jeans, and Converse sneakers. It had been a no-brainer. She was the consultant, Annabelle the superstar. No contest. India was proud of her sister and delighted at the prospect of showing her off and basking in reflected glory.
The car pulled up outside the theater and they made their way to a side entrance, where they were greeted by Joanne, the stage manager, who took them backstage past lighting and sound technicians to the green room where Henry was waiting. He stood up, tucking his shirt into his denim jeans and running his hand through his hair.
“Henry. Meet my sister, Annabelle,” India said.
“Hello, Annabelle,” he said, extending his hand and giving her his widest smile. “This is such a pleasure. I’m your biggest fan.”
Mr. Smooth or what? India thought.
“How was your flight?”
Annabelle smiled graciously. “It was fine.”
“I can’t tell you how delighted we are you’re able to do this,” Henry said, pulling around a battered chair. “Please. Sit down for a few moments. Alex, the entertainment’s manager, and the producer, Ron, should be with us in a minute.”
India looked around for another chair and pulled one over for herself.
“Can I get you anything in the meantime?” Henry asked, nodding in the direction of a table piled high with drinks, wrapped sandwiches, protein bars, and chips.
“I’m fine right now,” she said, looking up as a bald guy India recognized from the Skype meeting as Ron, marched into the room, picked up a bottle of water, and took a slug.
“Student models. How come they’ve got attitude? They’re fucking students for Chrissake,” he said, wiping his mouth. “You could get two-year-olds to walk straighter.”
“Ron, meet Annabelle Butler,” Henry said.
Ron nodded at Annabelle. “Great to meet you. It’ll be a relief to work with at least one professional.”
“And I’m India.”
Ron nodded in India’s direction. “Hi. Great to see you,” he said. “Can’t stay, Henry. Annabelle, I’ll see you out there in about ten minutes. Joanne will come for you. We won’t need you for too long this afternoon – just a walk-through.”
“As long as I get a sense of the stage and you spot me, I’ll be fine,” Annabelle said.
“We’ve another run-through in the morning with Jean-Luc, but you won’t be needed until tomorrow evening. Alex will confirm, but I think five will be time enough for makeup and hair. See you out there in a minute. Sorry Alex,” he said, careening into the entertainment manager, who was coming through the door at the same moment.
“Alex. This is India; she’s here to help,” Henry said. “She’ll be looking after Luella Marchmont tomorrow.”
What happened to ‘This is India, our education consultant?’ India thought, standing up to greet him. “Hello,” she said.