Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  “We can do it now while she’s still unpacking.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Come with me.”

  She followed him out into the corridor and into Janette’s room. It was the room that had been her mother’s but that, too, was now changed. Everything was now modern. White, black, bright red and polished stainless steel. It was a sybaritic room, feminine, to be sure, but with occasional hints of subdued masculinity. He led her through the room into a large walk-in wardrobe. There had to be at least two hundred dresses and outfits hanging in there. She looked at Robert in bewilderment. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  He smiled. “I’ll help you. The cocktail dresses are over here.”

  She watched while he flipped through the rack. He looked questioningly at her. She shook her head. “Not my thing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable in any of them.”

  “‘They’re very smart,” he said.

  She smiled. “Maybe that’s why. I never dress like that.”

  “Perhaps an afternoon frock,” he said, turning to another rack and starting to move the dresses apart so that she could see them.

  But still she shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m not of much help, am I?” she asked. “The only dress I had on in the last three years was my white graduation dress. And you don’t know what we went through until I found one that I would wear.”

  “Did you bring it with you?” he asked.

  “What for?” she replied. “I didn’t think I would need it.”

  “We have some white summer dresses,” he said. “But they’re long.” He crossed to the other side of the closet where the gowns were hanging. Quickly he flipped through them until he came to the one he remembered and took it from the rack. He held it toward her. It was white eyelet cotton with white cap-shoulder sleeves, square-cut décolletage low in front, even lower in back. “This would look good on you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said skeptically. “I don’t wear a bra, my breasts would fall out.”

  “Why don’t you try it on and see?”

  She took the dress from him but stood there still looking at the racks. One section was all suits. A group, all in shiny black, caught her eye. “What are those?”

  “Smokings,” he answered.

  “Smokings?” Her voice was puzzled.

  “Tuxedos, you Americans call them. They’re man-tailored especially for Madame. She wears them often. Even St. Laurent admits he got the idea from seeing her wearing one.”

  She moved them slowly along the rack so that she could look at each one. “It’s a hell of an idea,” she said. “But don’t you think it’s a little dikey?”

  He laughed. “It depends on who wears it. They don’t look dikey on Madame. As a matter of fact, in a strange way they accentuate her femininity.”

  “Can I try one of them one?” she asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” he replied. “But you might have trouble with their fit. They’re all cut exactly to her measure.”

  ***

  “We’re in trouble,” Janette said, sinking into the chair behind her desk. “Big trouble.”

  Jacques stood in front of her silently. There was nothing he could add to it.

  “What happened?” she asked. “We should have known what they were doing long before this.”

  Jacques shrugged. “I kept after Philippe to let me get the information but he insisted that he didn’t want to know what they were doing. He didn’t want to be influenced.”

  “Since when have you taken to listening to him?” Her voice was angry. “We should have had it for ourselves.”

  He was silent. He couldn’t tell her that he had the information over a month ago but had withheld it deliberately. He thought of Carroll sitting in his suite across the street in the Plaza Athénée waiting for a call from him. The American wanted in, but for three years Janette had consistently refused the association. Especially after Carroll had sold his companies to Twin Cities and was now a part of the conglomerate that Johann was building in the States. Carroll was no fool. Years ago, even before he had changed his name from Carolo and hit the big time—and respectability—he had recognized Janette’s talent and wanted in. Now, he had real muscle behind him.

  “We’re going to have to take a whole new approach,” she said.

  “It will take a lot of money,” Jacques said. “And we haven’t got it. We’ve spent our limit on this collection.”

  “We’ll have to find the money somehow,” she said. “What’s our balance in the fragrance company?”

  “Negligible,” he said. “We’ve drained it for this collection. Take any more from it and we’ll bankrupt it and won’t be able to deliver on our contracts.”

  She shook her head. If it weren’t for that company, they would have been out of it a long time ago. It was the only consistent moneymaker she had. Just as Johann had told her it would be. “Now what do we do?” she asked.

  He was silent for a moment, then took out his small vial of cocaine and the gold spoon with his initials on the stem. Quickly he did a snort in each nostril then handed it to her. “Maybe it will clear our heads.”

  She did the same. She felt her head lighten. “It helps,” she said, giving it back to him. “You know, Lauren wasn’t in the car two minutes before she asked me if I had done some coke.”

  He laughed. “That’s America for you. They’re way ahead of us.”

  “But she’s only seventeen.”

  He laughed again. “You’re being very French. Do you remember what you were into when you were seventeen?”

  “It wasn’t dope,” she said. She lit a cigarette. “But that isn’t solving our problem.”

  He tried to gauge her mood. “There’s always Carroll,” he said cautiously. “He’s got the hots for you. He’ll come up with whatever money you want.”

  “There will be too many strings attached to it,” she said. “I like my independence.”

  “So you give him a fuck,” he said casually. “Is it that important?”

  “That’s the easy part,” she said. “What I don’t want is to be back in Johann’s hands. After all, he owns that company now. And I’ll be right back where I started.”

  Jacques was silent for a moment. “Maybe it’s not so bad, being bought out. Conglomerates are in these days. Maurice is making more money than ever now that he’s made the arrangement with Johann to distribute the water in the States.”

  She was silent.

  “And Cardin’s making a lot of money with Bidermann. I had some talks with Bidermann but he’s not interested in us, he’s after St. Laurent or Dior.”

  “Cardin won’t like that,” she said.

  “Cardin does not give a damn. He’s well established in the States now. I hear when his contract with Bidermann is up he’s going to go it on his own.”

  “We still haven’t solved our problem,” she said. She opened the folders in front of her and studied the sketches and the swatches. “Shit.”

  He lit a cigarette, watching her.

  After a moment, she looked up at him. “I’ll talk to Carroll. Invite him to the dinner tonight. But don’t give him any idea of what we’re thinking.”

  “Okay,” he nodded. He kept the feeling of triumph inside him from showing on his face.

  She glanced down at the folder again. “I have another idea. Call Philippe in.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Just a minute,” she said quickly. “I want another hit before you bring him in. I want to be really up for what I have to do.”

  ***

  “Red is a whore’s color!” Philippe screamed. “I won’t do it!”

  “Like it or not, you’re going to do it,” Janette said calmly.

  “No, no!” Philippe shouted. “I’ll quit first.”

  “That’s your privilege,” Janette said coldly. “We’ll do it anyway.” She turned to Jacques. “Give him that design folder I gave you.”

  Jacques placed the folder on the desk. Janette let it lie
there closed. “There’s a collection in that folder that I’m ready to do if you leave.”

  Suddenly Philippe was silent. He stared down at the folder without touching it. Then he looked at her. “Who did it?” he asked.

  “What does it matter?” she replied. “But you must know, it’s mostly my designs for the prêt á porter line you never wanted to do because it was beneath you.”

  “You can’t do prêt á porter in the haute couture collection,” Philippe said.

  “Who will know the difference?” Janette said. “Two weeks after the collections, Seventh Avenue knocks off the best things in every line. This way we’re ahead, we’ll be knocking off our own and marketing them directly.”

  Philippe shook his head. “Even if I were to agree to do it, we wouldn’t have the time. We have to find the materials and the colors have to be approved as well as the designs. We’re scheduled to show in three weeks.”

  “We’ll change our date from the beginning of the showings to the end. That will give us some extra time.”

  “It will still be very tight,” Philippe said. “And by that time all the important buyers will be gone and most of the journalists.”

  “I’ll keep them here,” Janette said confidently. “Ricci gives them a cocktail for the ouverture, I will give a bal de clôture. It’s never been done before and they’ll all stay just to see what’s happening.”

  “Red! It’s crazy,” Philippe said. But his voice was calmer now.

  “Not that crazy,” Janette said. “Think about it. They all made their statements with shapes, A-lines, trapeze lines, straight lines, hemlines up, hemlines down, shoulders broad, padded, narrow. They went so many different ways, and all we’ve been trying to do is catch up to them. They’ve been making us play their game and putting us away each time. This time, I say, we fuck them. We’ll make our own statement. With a color.”

  Philippe was silent.

  “All the shades of red, wicked and erotic, sheers and chiffons, see-throughs to layered opaques. Black underwear, bras, bikinis, chemises and camisoles, all touched with a splash of red ribbon like blood. Women will go crazy over it because it’s something all of them secretly want to wear but have been afraid to. We’ll make it sexually legitimate. And the men will be driven up the wall.”

  “You really think they’ll buy it?” Philippe asked.

  “They’ll buy it,” she said confidently. “It will be the most exciting idea in this year’s collections. They’ll never stop talking about it. Your name is going to be all over the papers and magazines. And I’ll do something I swore I’d never do after I left Dior. I’ll be back on the runway to wear the bridal gown to close the showing.”

  “The bridal gown in red too?” Philippe asked.

  “We go all the way.” Janette laughed. “Pure symbolism. Blood pouring from a broken maidenhead.”

  He was silent. “It will be a lot of work,” he finally said.

  “We’ll put on as many people as you need to get it done,” she said. She walked around her desk and kissed his cheek. “You can do it, Philippe. I know you can. And this time you’ll really show all of them.”

  He looked at her. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “Good.”

  “Now I better get back to my office. I’ve got to begin calling the fabric houses all over the world. We’ll have to get them to air express everything they have.”

  “Do it,” she said. “If you need any help with them, call me.”

  She watched him leave the office, then turned to Jacques. “What do you think?”

  “He’s going to try.” Jacques lit a cigarette. “You’re a bitch, you know that. You frightened the shit out of him when you said he could leave.”

  “I had no choice,” she said, returning to her desk. “Did you call Carroll?”

  “He’ll be there tonight,” Jacques said. “I hope you know what you’re doing. We’re going to need a lot of money.”

  “I’m not as much worried about him as I am about Johann,” she said. “He’ll probably have to go to Johann for approval, and you know how Johann feels about couture.”

  “It has to be with Johann’s approval that he’s been after you,” Jacques said.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But he still might be looking after Lauren’s equity. After all she still owns twenty-five percent of this company.”

  “Then he’s sure to go along,” Jacques said. “If he wasn’t interested, he might never have allowed her to come and visit.”

  Janette laughed suddenly. “I can always hold her for ransom.”

  Jacques’ voice was shocked. “Not again. You tried that once.”

  Janette laughed again. “You’re more French than I am. You have absolutely no sense of humor.”

  ***

  Carroll opened the door to let Jacques into the hotel suite. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  “I got over here as quickly as I could,” Jacques explained. “The shit really hit the fan. It’s been touch and go for the last four hours.” He walked toward the bar and poured himself a whiskey on the rocks. “I need a drink.”

  Carroll watched him as he swallowed a big gulp. “What’s been decided?”

  “She junked Philippe’s whole collection and they’re starting over again,” Jacques answered, still holding his glass.

  “She’ll never make it in time for the showings,” Carroll said.

  “You don’t know her,” Jacques said. “She’ll make it.”

  Carroll looked at him for a moment. “It will take money. Where’s she going to get it?”

  Jacques met his gaze. “From you.”

  Carroll’s voice was even. “And if I don’t give it to her?”

  “Bidermann’s been knocking at the door,” Jacques lied. “He’d fall on his face if she just smiled at him.”

  Carroll was silent. He went back to the couch and sat down thoughtfully. “Haute couture means nothing to me,” he said.

  “She knows that,” Jacques said. “She’s been working on a prêt á porter collection of her own.”

  Carroll was interested. “Did you see it?”

  Jacques nodded. “She gave me the designs. And they’re good. Very good. As a matter of fact, I think she’s going to push Philippe in that direction because, she said, why wait for Seventh Avenue to knock them off when she can do it herself, quicker and better?”

  “Do you think she’ll want to talk about it tonight?” Carroll asked.

  “I have a feeling that’s why she asked you to dinner,” Jacques said. “The big problem you have is Johann. She’s leery about getting involved with him again. She’s afraid he’ll try to take over.”

  “Johann lets me run my own shop,” Carroll said testily. “All he’s interested is in the bottom line.”

  “That sounds like him,” Jacques said. “He was always like that.”

  “I’ll have no problem with him,” Carroll said. “He knows I’ve been after her for a long time.”

  Jacques refilled his glass. He didn’t speak.

  Carroll looked up at him. “What’s the reason for the dinner tonight?”

  Jacques sipped his drink. “It’s a welcome home party for her sister.”

  “You mean Lauren?” A note of astonishment came into Carroll’s voice.

  Jacques nodded. “It’s been ten years since—”

  “I know her,” Carroll said. “I’ve seen her several times when I went over to Johann’s house. I always had the feeling that Johann wanted to keep them apart. She’s nothing like Janette.”

  “What is she like?” Jacques was curious.

  “Very American, very California. Blond, suntanned, you know, jeans, grass, wine, very laid back like all the kids today. They think they’re the first generation ever to discover youth.”

  Jacques laughed.

  “Why are you laughing?” Carroll asked.

  “Now I’m anxious to see her,” Jacques answered. “Last time I saw her she was just a seven-year-old.”


  “You’re in for a surprise,” Carroll said.

  ***

  “I don’t like that boy Harvey,” Heidi said as Johann sat down at the breakfast table.

  He looked at her in surprise as he raised his coffee cup. “What brought that on all of a sudden?”

  “She hadn’t been gone twenty-four hours when he called and wanted her telephone number in Paris.”

  Johann smiled. He reached for the toast and began to butter it. “I don’t see anything wrong in that.”

  Her voice was reproachful. “Johann, you know he’s into drugs.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean anything. From what I hear everybody’s children are into drugs.”

  “I found drugs in Lauren’s room when we went in to clean if after she had gone,” Heidi said.

  “What drugs?” Johann asked.

  “Marijuana. Pills. I don’t know what they are. I think she gets them from Harvey.”

  “Does your daughter look like a drug addict to you, Mama?” he asked teasingly.

  “No, but—”

  “Then stop worrying. Lauren’s a bright girl. She knows how to take care of herself.”

  “I guess she does,” she said. “I also found these.” She held up a small box.

  “What are those?” he asked.

  “Birth control pills,” she answered.

  He laughed. “Then I was right. She does know how to take care of herself.”

  “She’s only seventeen.”

  Johann put down his coffee. “Now stop worrying. She’s all right.”

  “I don’t like the idea of her being with Janette,” she said.

  “You just don’t like the idea of her going off on her own. The little bird is showing signs of leaving the nest. It’s normal at her age. Didn’t you tell me that you did the same thing?”

  “It wasn’t exactly the same thing. I went away to college.”

  “Heidi,” Johann said gently, “just relax. She’ll be fine.”

  “She said she would call when she got there,” Heidi said.

  “There’s nine hours’ time difference between Paris and California.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s eight in the morning here, that makes it five in the afternoon over there. I’ll bet she’s sleeping off her jet lag and she’ll call you when she wakes up.”