Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  She smiled. “We are still friends.”

  He glanced out at the balcony to where Lauren and the others were standing. “Your sister looks very different here than she does in California. I don’t think I ever saw her in anything but jeans before.”

  Janette laughed. “She’s in Paris now.” She followed his gaze. “You know, I would like to do well, not only for my own sake, but also for hers. She still owns twenty-five percent of this company and Johann is still the administrator of her interest. I have to account to him every year.”

  The implication wasn’t lost on him. He smiled. “I don’t have to be hit on the head. Why don’t we meet tomorrow and discuss this further?”

  “Of course,” she said. “You arrange a suitable time for all of us with Jacques. But make it late in the day. I’ll be busy with arrangements for the collection most of the time.”

  “Then you’re going ahead with it?” he asked.

  “Certainement,” she said, a faint, cool disdain in her voice. “Do you think I would depend on anyone other than myself for something as important as this?”

  ***

  Maurice caught Jacques in a moment when they were apart from the others. “Did it go well?”

  Jacques nodded. “I think so. The more I see Janette operate, the more I realize what a fantastic woman she really is. She has the balls of a Pampas bull.”

  Maurice laughed. “But what if Carroll doesn’t come through?”

  “Janette will find a way. I’m sure of that now. She has her mind set on it.”

  “I have a million francs that I’d bet on her,” Maurice said. “Just bear it in mind and remind her of it, should the opportunity arise.”

  Jacques looked at him. “Does she know it?”

  “I hinted at it,” Maurice said. “But she wasn’t interested—at that time. However, circumstances can change.”

  Jacques smiled. “I’ll remember that.”

  Martine came toward them. “It’s after eleven,” she said to Jacques. “And I have to be at work early tomorrow. We’re having the first fittings.”

  “I’ll take you home,” Jacques said.

  “You don’t have to leave on my account. I can get a taxi.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Jacques smiled. “I have to be at work early too.”

  The party began to break up. Jacques, Maurice and Martine were the first to leave, followed soon after by Philippe and Marlon.

  “It was a lovely dinner,” Philippe said. “And your sister is truly beautiful. I would like to do something with her. Maybe we can talk tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” Janette answered. “I’ll be in the office early.”

  Then only Carroll, Stéphane and Patrick were left. Carroll had an idea. “Why don’t we all go over to Régine’s for a nightcap? It should be fun there.”

  Janette shook her head. “Not for me tonight. I have too much to do tomorrow.”

  He turned to Lauren. “Perhaps you and Patrick would join us?”

  Lauren smiled. “I don’t think so, Mr. Carroll. I’m beginning to feel tired. The jet lag. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m flying back to London tonight,” Patrick said. “I promised my dear old mum that I would have breakfast with her tomorrow. Some other time.”

  Carroll turned to Stéphane. “It looks like you and I are the only live ones in this crowd.”

  Stéphane glanced at Janette and smiled at him without speaking.

  “Good,” Carroll said, rising. “Let’s go then.” He turned to Lauren. “I’ll be talking to your father tomorrow. Is there any message you want me to give him?”

  “No,” Lauren answered. “Just give him my love and tell him I’m having a wonderful time.”

  “Will René be able to give me a lift to the airport?” Patrick asked.

  “He’s waiting in the car for you,” Janette answered.

  They walked to the door. “Your sister is quite a girl,” Patrick said to her. “I hope we’ll see more of each other.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Janette answered. “She’ll be here all summer.”

  The sisters went up the stairs after everyone had gone. Lauren stopped in front of her door. “It was lovely,” she said. “Thank you. You made me feel like someone very special.”

  “You are someone very special,” Janette said. “You’re my sister.”

  Lauren leaned forward quickly and kissed Janette’s cheek, then went into her room, closing the door behind her. Janette, thoughtful, stood there for a moment, then slowly walked down the hall to her own room.

  ***

  Jacques stood at the rear of the Lido arcade watching the crowds of people in evening dress surging toward the theater entrance, their gold-engraved invitations clutched in their hands. Beyond them he could see the Cadillacs and Rolls-Royces still lined up, discharging their passengers. It was over an hour ago that a call had gone out for extra police to control the traffic which had backed up on the Champs-Elysées. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was nearly ten o’clock and they were already running late. An hour late. Dinner was supposed to be served at ten o’clock, the collection was supposed to begin promptly at midnight.

  Janette had been right. She had said that everyone would stay. And they did. Already he had seen John Fairchild of Women’s Wear sweep into the theater with his entourage. Eugenia Sheppard, the fashion dowager of the American press, was also there. This was more than a collection—it was also a social event. Mme. Pompidou, the wife of the president, had turned up and was immediately escorted with her party to the table d’honneur. Mme. Schlumberger, le Comte de Paris, the Rothschilds, Dassaults and other bastions of French society swept into the theater. It was probably the first time any of them had ever come to the Lido. There were enough film stars sprinkled through the audience to bless the premiere of any important motion picture. Brigitte Bardot, Alain Delon, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Sophia Loren, Faye Dunaway, the Gregory Pecks, the David Nivens and others—more than even he could recall. And the French press was there in force. Robert Caille of Vogue, almost all the editorial staff of L’Officiel, as well as reporters and photographers from every important paper and news service in Paris.

  But the real triumph for Jacques had come the day after the invitations had gone out, when he began receiving calls from the other couturiers asking for an invitation. And when he saw Marc Bohan, Givenchy, St. Laurent, Pierre Cardin, Courréges walking through the arcade, he knew they had it made.

  He checked his watch again and started inside, when he was stopped by a maitre d’. “La Princesse Grace is here with a party of four but we have no table for her.”

  “Give her my table,” he said quickly. “Next to Madame Pompidou.”

  The man nodded and hurried away. Jacques continued into the theatre and keeping toward the rear behind the tables, each festooned with red balloons bearing the name Janette de la Beauville, skirted the room toward the entrance to backstage.

  Snatches of conversation came to his ear. “She has to be completely crazy. This cost a fortune.” “She found a money man with a bankbook bigger than his prick.” “It’s Lord Patrick Reardon. He wants to marry her.” “Either that or Madame Poniard.” And he heard the laughter as the name of the fantastically rich lesbian was mentioned.

  He was stopped by Bernadine Morris of The New York Times. “I have to file early,” she said. “Is there anyway I could get an advance idea of what is coming, just in case I have to dash?”

  “I’m sorry, Bernadine.” He smiled. “It’s impossible. Even I have not seen the collection as yet.”

  He continued on his way and paused at the door to look back into the theater. He nodded with satisfaction. It was a brilliant idea of Janette’s to take over the Lido for an evening. At first he had been appalled at the cost but now he was pleased that she did. The personnel of the Lido was professional. They were used to dealing with big crowds, serving dinner and getting it out of the way so that the show could go on. Dinner was under way, the dance floor was c
rowded, and the orchestra on the stage was playing comfortable middle-of-the-road music, no rock and roll or disco frenzy for this crowd.

  “I want it to be right,” Janette had said. “I want it to be elegant and Hollywood all at the same time.” And that’s exactly what it was. There had never been a collection with as elegant an audience and there had never been a collection with a setting as pure Hollywood as this.

  He was about to open the door when he saw John Fairchild gesturing toward him. He hesitated a moment, then went to their table. The publisher gestured to an empty chair. He shook his head. “I’m working,” he said.

  “This party must have cost a bundle,” Fairchild said. “At least fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Something like that,” Jacques said.

  “Isn’t it a little heavy for Janette?” Fairchild asked. “She doesn’t do that kind of business.”

  Jacques shrugged without answering.

  “I got a cable from New York,” the publisher said. “There’s a rumor on Seventh Avenue that she’s selling out to Carroll.”

  “That’s not true,” Jacques said firmly. “There’s no way Janette would sell her house.”

  “Could be she’s planning to go prêt á porter with him,” Fairchild guessed shrewdly. “Carroll is sitting at a pretty important table with her father.”

  “Carroll belongs to Twin Cities,” Jacques said. “And you know that Johann Schwebel, president of that company, has many personal and business ties with the Beauville family. And for a long time he was P.D.G. of Janette’s company—from the time her mother died until she was of age.”

  “That’s not answering my question,” Fairchild said. “If she’s not going prêt á porter, why is Carroll at so important a table?”

  Jacques gestured toward another table nearby. “Bidermann is over there at an even more important table. Why don’t you ask if she’s not going with him?”

  “Bidermann already has Cardin,” Fairchild said. “And I heard he was interested in St. Laurent.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the lady herself what her intentions are. I have not been made privy to them yet.”

  “Where did she get the money for this party? I heard she was pretty strapped when she junked the whole line to begin a new collection.”

  Jacques held out his hands in a typically Gallic gesture. “She has other assets. Perhaps from her friendly banker. I see the Rothschilds are here in force.”

  Fairchild glanced around the room. “And so is half the haute monde of the world. Christ, I don’t know if I’m seeing a collection or a Hollywood premiere.”

  Jacques laughed. “Janette will be pleased to hear that. It is exactly the ambiance she wanted to create. But make no mistake about it. You’re at a collection. A collection like no other you have ever seen or will ever see. In this world—or the next.”

  Fairchild laughed. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you,” Jacques said. Quickly he left the table and went backstage before any other members of the press could stop him. He stepped carefully over the cables lying on the floor just inside the door and made his way to the rear of the giant stage, which had been set up as a temporary dressing room for the models. It had been decided not to use any of the regular dressing rooms because they were located on various floors above the stage and too far away to allow the models time enough to make all the dress changes. In addition, Janette didn’t want to take any chances that a model might fall or even catch her heel in her dress and tear it as she ran down the narrow staircase.

  A black curtain had been hung completely around the dressing area. Jacques pulled the curtain and looked in. For the moment it was calm enough. The girls sat in front of their makeup tables, the lights on around the mirror, casually applying their makeup, still in their loose, casual kimono-like wraps. Tacked to a small corkboard in an upper corner of each mirror were small notes of paper, each with swatches of material stapled to it, each note containing all the information necessary to complete each model’s costume down even to the color of her panty hose and jeweled accessories. Next to each girl was a rolling clothes rack on which the costumes were hanging in the order they were to be worn. The hairdresser and two makeup artists who would do the final touchup on the models for each change of costume were sitting at the end of the dressing room, looking somewhat bored and vaguely out of it, while Mme. St. Cloud and her assistants anxiously checked every costume on every rack to make sure that they were all in order. Later, just before the show would begin, Philippe would come and make a personal check of each girl and each costume, and once again, after the show had started, each girl would have to pass Mme. St. Cloud and him before she went out on the stage. But at that moment, neither he nor Janette was there.

  Jacques let the curtain drop and continued on behind the stage, the faint sounds of the orchestra drifting back to the stage manager’s office that Janette had taken over for the night. He opened the door and went in without knocking.

  Philippe was seated on the couch, nervously smoking a cigarette, Marlon, as usual, deadpan and unconcerned. Jacques was seated behind the desk, staring down at the typewritten list of the costume presentation order. She glanced up. Her voice was calm. “How is it out there?”

  “It’s everything you want,” Jacques said. “You couldn’t ask for more.”

  “Good.” She glanced down at the list again, then turned to Philippe. “I think it might be a good idea if we show Twenty-five before Seventeen. It’s a mid-length gown and would be better before we go into the full-length gowns. Right now it’s in the middle of all of them and would stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Philippe rose from the couch and stood behind her. He opened his folder and flipped through the sheets of designs. “You have an idea,” he said. “I’ll tell St. Cloud to change the order. Time I went in there to check anyway.”

  He left the room, Marlon followed him. Jacques slipped into the chair in front of her. “I think we can use some help,” he said, reaching into his pocket.

  “You have to be a mind reader,” she said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, passing the vial and gold spoon to her. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” she said with a half smile as she carefully spooned two snorts. “I’m just trying to figure a way to stay alive through the night. I’m beat.”

  “Do it again,” he urged. “Then you’ll have enough energy to live forever.”

  She took his advice, then handed the vial back to him and took a deep breath. He could see the color coming back into her cheeks and the brightness into her eyes. “That was good,” she said. “You know, you may be right.”

  He just had time enough to do two snorts and put the vial away before Philippe came back into the room.

  “Have either of you seen Lauren?” Philippe asked.

  “No,” Janette said. “Isn’t she out there?”

  “Madame St. Cloud hasn’t seen her. She’s getting worried.”

  “She must be somewhere around,” Janette said. “She came here with me.”

  Jacques rose from the chair. “I’ll check with the concierge at the stage door. No one can make a move in this place without him seeing it.”

  Philippe sank back on the couch as Jacques left. “All I need is for your stupid sister to fuck up on me,” he grumbled.

  “You wanted her,” Janette said flatly. She lit a cigarette and they sat there in silence until there was a knock at the door and Jacques returned with Lauren behind him.

  “Where were you?” Philippe asked, leaping to his feet. “I almost had a heart attack.”

  “I was getting nervous,” Lauren said. “So I went out in the alley behind the theater and had myself a few tokes.”

  “Jesus! Next time at least let us know where you are,” Philippe said. “Come, it’s time we got you ready.”

  Lauren smiled. She looked at Janette. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

  Janette shook her head.


  Lauren laughed. “I feel good now.” She turned and followed Philippe through the door.

  Janette looked up at Jacques, who was still standing there. “Oh, shit,” she said.

  Jacques smiled. “Merde to you too.”

  ***

  Despite the late start, dinner was finished at ten to midnight and the tables were cleared. The orchestra began to mute and the dancers returned to their tables as the theater gradually darkened. There was a rustle of chairs as the audience made themselves comfortable, and an air of hushed expectancy began to be felt as the theater went to black.

  Softly from somewhere behind the stage the overture to Faust was heard. It was an almost eerie sound in the blackness. Then, suddenly, there was an explosion, almost like a thunderclap, an invisible spotlight picked up a plume of smoke in center stage before the closed scrim, and out of the puff of smoke came the devil.

  He leaped high into the air, his red metallic Lurex body tights like a second skin reflecting tiny sparkling lights around him. Holding his jewel-tipped trident in one hand, he danced toward the center stage as the runway moved out into the audience on giant silent rollers, then he was out on the runway in leaps and bounds, fixing the audience with a baleful gaze and thrusting, threatening gestures of the trident. When he reached the end of the runway, he turned suddenly, knelt and aimed his trident at the curtain of the stage behind him.

  A thunderous roll of drums shattered the air, then all was silent as from the projection booth high at the back of the theater came the image reflected on the translucent scrim.

  Janette de la Beauville

  présente

  La Collection de l’Enfer

  When the lights came up again the devil was gone and the curtain was rolling back to reveal a giant diorama the whole length of the stage on which had been painted in red and black an impressionistic view of Inferno as Dante might have seen it. A moving backlight gave it a strange feeling of life and reality and in the center of the diorama was an archway over two giant doors. As the doors began to open, the music softened, and the number 1 began to glow as if on fire on top of the arch.

  The mannequin stood motionless for a moment, revealed by the opening doors, then stepped slowly forward, down stage toward the runway, as a voice echoed in the sound system around the theater: “Costume en laine, rouge de sang.”