Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  Janette looked up at her in the mirror. The blond girl was almost breathless. “It probably turned him on,” she said.

  “I was in Yves’ office,” Louise said. “And he came in screaming. He walked up and down in front of Yves’ desk yelling that it was all his fault, how could he allow you to do it? The whole thing was a put-down of the House of Dior, of the whole art of couture, the entire industry.”

  “What did Yves say?”

  “Nothing,” Louise said. “He just looked down at the photograph and smiled.”

  Janette laughed. “I don’t think he really gives a damn. He knows he’s going into the army and he knows that Boussac is going to fuck him one way or the other.”

  “But what are you going to do?” Louise asked. “Yves goes next week, the old man’s going to fire you.”

  “No, he’s not,” Janette said. “I’ve already handed in my notice. This is my last week here. Friday, after Yves’ farewell party, I leave and never come back.”

  Louise’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “No?”

  “Yes.”

  The blond girl looked at her. “Do you think Yves knows that already?”

  “If he doesn’t, he should,” Janette replied. “I gave my letter to personnel on Monday. That was two days ago.”

  “You have another job?”

  Janette shook her head. “No.”

  “What are you going to do then?”

  “First, I’m going to eat one good meal without worrying about my weight. I took a good look at that picture, and my hips are too bony. Another kilo won’t hurt. Then I’m going to take a vacation. Maybe I’ll go the States for a few weeks. I’ve never been there.” She finished her makeup and got to her feet. “I’ve got to run, I’ve got a cocktail date.”

  Louise looked up at her enviously. “You’re lucky, Janette.”

  “What makes you say that?” Janette said.

  “You can do anything you like,” Louise said. “But I have to stay and take all this shit. They already made a date for me on Friday with that buyer from the Texas store. He’ll probably paw me all evening and by the time I get back to his hotel, he’ll be too drunk to even fuck, so I’ll have to go down on him to keep him happy.”

  Janette laughed. “So what? Would you rather fuck him?”

  “It might be nice for a change,” Louise said. “But all any of them seem to want is to get sucked.”

  “C’est la vie,” Janette said.

  “You can afford to say that,” Louise said. “You’re rich.”

  Janette stopped and looked down at her thoughtfully for a moment. “That’s right. I’m rich.” Then she bent down and kissed her friend on the mouth. “And so are you, Louise. In your own way.”

  Silently, Louise watched Janette go to the door. “Bon soir, Janette.”

  Janette smiled at her from the doorway. “Ciao, baby.” For some strange reason there were tears running down Louise’s cheeks. Slowly she began to remove her makeup.

  ***

  She parked the mini in front of the gray apartment building on the Ile Saint-Louis, facing the Seine. She pressed the buzzer on the door.

  An old concierge shuffled to the door and opened it, peering out at her. “Madame?”

  “Monsieur Fayard.”

  He sniffed disapprovingly as he opened the door still farther. “Le penthouse,” he said, gesturing toward the staircase.

  “What’s the matter with the elevator?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “C’est mort.”

  “Merde,” she said and began climbing the six flights of stairs. There was just one door on the top landing. She pressed the doorbell. She could hear a chime echoing inside the apartment door.

  The door opened and a young man stood there, his fair hair tousled, a T-shirt and blue jeans seemingly glued to his body. His eyes looked at her without expression. “Hello, Janette,” he said in English.

  “Marlon,” she said, her eyes falling for a moment to the large bulge in his jeans.

  He stepped back, letting her go into the apartment, then closing the door behind him. “Shopping?” he grinned.

  “No,” she said. “Just curious. Is it all you in there or six handkerchiefs?”

  He laughed. “It’s all me. Want to touch it to prove it?”

  “No, thanks,” she said, returning his laugh. “I believe you.” She looked into the apartment. The living room was empty. “Philippe home yet?”

  “He’s been home since lunchtime,” Marlon said. “He didn’t eat. Just went into his room and hasn’t come out since.” A note of concern came into his voice. “Is there anything wrong? He hasn’t lost his job, has he?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “I asked him about buying an air conditioner for the bedroom. The sun makes the roof unbearable. He got angry and said we can’t afford it, there would be no more money for anything, we’d be lucky to have money to eat.”

  She looked at him. “And if that were true, what would you do?”

  “Start packing,” he said in a flat voice. “I didn’t come all the way to Paris to wind up on the same street corner I left in Los Angeles.”

  She smiled gently, shaking her head. “You really are a whore, aren’t you?”

  “I never pretended to be anything else,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I also fuck pretty good.”

  She laughed. “I don’t doubt that. But things aren’t radical enough for you to consider that yet. Now, tell me, which way to the bedroom?”

  He gestured to a door at the far end of the living room and followed her as she walked toward it. She turned to look at him as she raised her hand to knock at the door.

  “Tell me,” she asked. “Is your name really Marlon?”

  He laughed. “No. I took it from the movie actor. All the guys like it better than Sam.”

  She laughed and knocked at the door softly.

  A muffled voice came from inside the room. “What is it?”

  “Janette,” she said. “We had a date for a drink, remember?”

  “Go away,” Philippe said through the doorway. “I don’t feel well.”

  She glanced at Marlon, shrugged, then opened the door and went into the bedroom. She stood there for a moment. Philippe was stretched out on the bed, still in his clothes. She closed the door and walked toward him.

  “I told you to go away,” he mumbled, without looking up at her.

  She stood next to the bed, looking down at him. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “He doesn’t love me. Nobody loves me.” Philippe still didn’t raise his head from the pillow.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You know that Marlon loves you.”

  He sat up suddenly; the tears had streaked the mascara from his lashes down his cheeks. “I know that Marlon loves me,” he said vehemently. “I’m not talking about him. I mean Yves. I tried to talk to him about what I would do there while he was in the army and he wouldn’t even answer me. He had enough of his own problems to worry about. And Boussac hates me, he’ll never give me a chance at Yves’ job. He’s going to bring Marc back from London. I know it, I just know it. And then I’m finished.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Marc seems like a reasonable man.”

  “Remember the fight I had with him last year when I went over there to help him with the London collection? He said I would never understand the modifications that would have to be made for the British taste and figure. He hates me. I’m finished.”

  She was silent for a moment. “That’s right,” she said, turning and walked back to the door. “That’s why I wanted to meet you for a drink. I don’t hate you. I love you. I think you’re a genius. An even greater genius than any of them—Yves or Marc. And I have faith in you.” Abruptly she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Marlon was standing there. “How is he?”

  “He’s all right,” she said, opening her purse and taking out two five-hundred-franc notes. She put them in
his hand. “You’re working for me now. Whatever I tell him is the greatest idea you ever heard.”

  The money disappeared under his belt. “Gotcha.”

  She nodded. “Good. You’ll get your air conditioner after all. Maybe we’ll throw in a car for good measure.”

  He smiled. “I’m a reasonable man.”

  The door behind her opened. Philippe was standing there. He had washed his face, the traces of mascara were gone, and his hair was combed. “You really meant what you said?” He couldn’t keep his satisfaction out of his voice.

  She met his eyes steadily. “I wouldn’t say if it I didn’t mean it.”

  He nodded. “You had something in mind?”

  “Yes. Would you like to talk about it?”

  “I’m always ready to listen,” he said. He looked at Marlon. “I’m hungry. Do you think you can fix me something to eat?”

  “Ham-and-cheese sandwich? Ham and eggs?” Marlon asked.

  “The sandwich. And a bottle of beer.” He looked at Janette. “Would you like something?”

  “I’ll have a beer,” she said.

  “Coming right up,” Marlon said, disappearing toward the kitchen.

  Philippe led her to a small table near the window. They sat down and she looked out at a bateau mouche moving up the Seine. “You have one of the most beautiful views in Paris,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?” he said enthusiastically. “I just love it. Too bad it isn’t warm enough to sit outside on the terrace. It’s really great then.”

  She smiled. “It’s worth walking up the six flights.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “The elevator was supposed to be fixed last week.”

  “It happens,” she said. She looked across the table at him. “I’m leaving Dior this Friday.”

  “But you’re Yves’ favorite mannequin,” Philippe exclaimed.

  “He won’t be there anymore, will he?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Besides I’m bored with it. I want to do something else. Being a mannequin does not appeal to me.”

  Marlon came back, placed the sandwich in front of Philippe, put three glasses of beer on the table, then pulled up a chair and sat down with them.

  Philippe took a bite of his sandwich. “This is just beautiful, darling,” he said to Marlon. “Just the right amount of mustard.” He turned back to Janette. “What do you want to do?” he asked between mouthfuls.

  “I want my own fashion house,” she said.

  He looked at her. “But you already have one with Shiki,” he said.

  “That’s not mine,” she said. “It was started before I had anything to do with it. And it’s yesterday. I want something for today.”

  “Then what will happen to Shiki?”

  “He goes,” she said flatly. “The house stays and I change the name to mine. Not that there is anything wrong with my mother’s name, Tanya, but it is already identified too strongly with the passé. I’m not interested in yesterday fashions, only tomorrow.”

  He took another bite of his sandwich. “Where do I fit in to all of this?”

  “You’re my St. Laurent, I’m your Boussac.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Why don’t you do your own designs? I’ve seen some of your sketches at the couture school. They were very good.”

  She drank some of her beer. “They were good. But they weren’t great. What I need is a touch of genius. That’s you.”

  She glanced at Marlon and he came right in on cue. “I never heard such a brilliant idea!” His acting would have done credit to his namesake. “Do you realize what this means, Philippe? You’ll have your own name, your own identity. You won’t have to suck second cock for anybody.”

  “Do you really think so?” Philippe asked.

  “You know I do,” Marlon said emphatically. “Haven’t I always told you that you have more talent in your pinky finger than all those guys have up their assholes.”

  Philippe chewed the rest of his sandwich thoughtfully. He looked at Janette. “What if you can’t get rid of Shiki?”

  “I’ll get rid of him. Don’t worry about that,” she said. “What I need to now is whether you are interested or not.”

  “Philippe thought again. “It would depend on many things. Money, position, freedom to create my own ideas.”

  “All of that can be worked out,” she said.

  “Sounds fantastic to me,” Marlon said.

  Philippe looked at him, then back to Janette. “I’m interested,” he said, then added quickly, “but, of course, we’ll have to talk some more to make sure everything is properly worked out.”

  “Of course,” she said. “But everything will be worked out—to your satisfaction, I’m sure.”

  “That’s great!” Marlon said enthusiastically. He raised his beer glass. “A toast! To Philippe Fayard, for Janette Marie de la Beauville!”

  “In beer?” Philippe’s voice was shocked. “Bring out that bottle of Cristale we have in the refrigerator.”

  ***

  She pulled the mini onto the sidewalk in front of her house, locked it and ran up the steps to the front door. As usual, the door was opened almost before she reached it.

  “Bon soir, Henri,” she said as she went in.

  “Bon soir, Madame,” he said politely.

  She went toward the staircase. She felt tired and strangely drained. A hot tub would go far to erase her tensions. It was very important that Philippe be willing to do with her. He was the cornerstone of her plan—without him she would have to go it alone and the chances of failure were too great. And someone else always had to be there to take the blame so that her own reputation would be unassailable. Once she was established, she could always find another designer if Philippe did not work out.

  “There have been many telephone calls, Madame,” Henri said.

  She paused at the foot of the staircase. “Bring them to my room,” she said. “I’ll get to them after I have a bath.”

  “Will Madame be having dinner in tonight?” he asked politely.

  She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, the usual. But I’ll have only one lamb chop and a small baked potato tonight. I’ve already had beer and champagne and that’s enough. In about an hour in my room. I’m too tired to come down.”

  “Yes, Madame,” he said. “Would you like me to keep the telephone messages until then?”

  “Please, thank you,” she said and went up the staircase to her room. She began undressing the moment she went through the doorway. Her clothes felt warm and sticky even though the day had been cool. By the time she reached the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub, she was naked. Quickly she creamed her face and removed the makeup, then threw herself down on the bed while the big tub filled slowly.

  She felt the tautness and the tensions in her body and idly she began to stroke herself. It was at times like this she missed Marie-Thérése the most. But the stupid girl had gone and gotten pregnant by some idiot college boy in her final year at the Sorbonne and her family married her off to him and she was now living in Lyon with a one-year-old baby and her husband like every other bourgeoise française.

  A vision of Marlon’s bulging jeans flashed before her. She could see the line of his prick running down toward one side and she knew that he wore nothing under the jeans. She wondered if his prick was as big as Maurice’s. It had to be impossible. There couldn’t be two like that in the world. She felt the warmth spreading through her.

  Suddenly Marlon was gone and the soft sweet look of Louise’s face as she kissed her jumped before her eyes. She could taste the honeyed sweetness of her lips even now, cool yet somehow warm and vulnerable. She rolled over suddenly, reaching for the telephone. She had been a fool. She had been so busy with her own thoughts that she didn’t even recognize an invitation when she saw one. Quickly she dialed Louise at her home.

  “Have you had dinner yet?” she asked.

  “I was not eating tonight,” Louise said. “I’m at my weight limit now.”

/>   “That’s foolish,” Janette said. “You have to eat something. But you must be sensible about it. Look, I’m having dinner in tonight. Why don’t you come and join me? I guarantee you nothing fattening.”

  Louise laughed. “I’ll have to get dressed again.”

  “Don’t bother,” Janette said. “Just jump into a pair of slacks and a taxi. We’ll have dinner alone in my room and listen to the hi-fi.”

  She pressed down the button disconnecting the call, then pressed down another button to connect her with the kitchen. Henri answered the phone. “I’m having a girlfriend over for dinner,” she said. “Just put on some more chops and one more baked potato. We’ll still have dinner in my room.”

  “Oui, Madame,” he said.

  “And, Henri,” she added quickly, “please bring up the telephone messages now.” She was out of the bed and into the tub before he came up to the room.

  She didn’t stay long in the tub, less than ten minutes, and when she came out the telephone was ringing. She picked it up, noticing the messages lying on a silver salver beside it. “Hello.”

  “Congratulations.” It was Jacques. “I saw the Winston ad. I think we can do something to promote on it. We ought to have a talk.”

  “I want to talk to you too,” she said.

  “Why don’t you come over for dinner?” I’ll fix something easy and we have all night to talk.”

  “Not tonight, Jacques,” she said. “I’m just too tired. We were busy as hell at the salon today.”

  “I called before,” he said. “Did you get my message?”

  “Just now.”

  “Is there one from Johann?”

  She flipped through the messages. “Yes.”

  “He wants to talk to you too,” he said. “But I think it’s important for us to talk before you see him.”

  “Okay,” she said, deliberately noncommittal. But he would be an important ally. Johann valued his opinion and with his conservative approach could prove difficult. “We could have lunch tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” he said. “My table at the Relais. Twelve fifteen.”

  “Right,” she said.