Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  A polite wave of applause went through the auditorium as the model walked down the runway, paused, took off her jacket to show the blouse, turned in model’s stylized fashion and began making her way back up the runway as the glowing number over the arch changed to 2.

  Jacques, standing at the back of the theater, nodded to himself. He was pleased. The claque he had hired was also professional. He had told them to begin softly and not to really turn loose except for certain numbers and the finale.

  He glanced down at the stage. The second mannequin was already on the runway and the first girl was making her exit. He looked around the audience. They watched attentively. But then, they too were professional. A great deal more would have to be seen before they would pass judgment.

  He lit a cigarette. So far, so good. All had been done that could be done. The rest was in the hands of the gods. Then he looked at the stage and smiled to himself. Or the devil.

  ***

  By the time they were two thirds through the collection a strange, controlled pandemonium had taken over the dressing rooms. Discarded costumes were being picked up from the floor where the models in their frantic need to change threw them and the dressers and makeup girls were frantically trying to maintain the image the mannequins had at the beginning of the show.

  Philippe was white, nervous and perspiring as he checked a mannequin and sent her out on stage to wait her turn. “I’m going to be sick,” he said dramatically. “I’m going to faint.”

  “You’re okay,” Janette said. “Everything’s going well.”

  “You should never have permitted them to come,” he said. “They all want to destroy me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Janette said. “It’s really a tribute. You don’t see them turning out for each other.”

  “They’re going to walk out on me,” he said. “I feel it. That way they will show everyone how little they care about me.”

  “They’re all still there,” Janette said. “St. Laurent and Berge have not budged since the show began. The same with Bohan and Boussac. Givenchy, Cardin, they’re all still there.”

  “They’re planning something,” Philippe said. “I feel it.” He threw his hand to his forehead. “I feel faint.”

  Janette glanced at Marlon, then back at Philippe. “Come into my office for a moment.”

  “I don’t dare leave,” Philippe said. “Something will go wrong. I know it.”

  “Nothing will go wrong,” she said soothingly. “We’re five numbers ready. You can take a few-minute break.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But I want them to start Lauren’s body makeup first. It will take a good fifteen minutes.”

  Janette watched him as he went to Lauren, who was seated at her dressing table, calmly smoking a cigarette, seemingly unaware of the panic and tension around her. He whispered something in her ear and Lauren nodded casually and, rising to her feet, dropped her dressing gown around her and stood nude in the center of the floor. The makeup girl came up quickly and began to spray a base body makeup on her. Philippe said something to the girl, who nodded and continued walking around Lauren with the spray can in her hand.

  Philippe came back to Janette. “Okay. I can take five minutes. But I must be back when she applies the gold flecks. I don’t want too much, just enough to hint at the life beneath the sheer dress.”

  They went down to the room that Janette used as an office and Philippe threw himself on the couch. “Never again,” he swore. “Never again.”

  Janette gestured to Marlon to close the door. She opened the desk drawer and came out with a small vial of cocaine. Quickly she spilled some on the glass desk top, then separated it into lines. She picked up the straw and turned to them. “Allons, mes enfants,” she said. “We all need the strength.”

  Philippe was the first at the desk. Expertly he went through four lines before she could stop him. “Leave some for the rest of us.”

  She did two lines, then Marlon did the rest as Philippe went back to the couch. This time Philippe did not sprawl out. The color came back into his face. He stared at her for a moment, then smiled suddenly. “Mother,” he said.

  Janette laughed. “My baby.”

  He came from the couch and kissed her cheek. “I should have known not to worry. I feel better now.” He looked at Marlon. “They can go fuck themselves. All of them. Who cares what they think?”

  “Right on,” Marlon said.

  Philippe turned back to Janette. “Another hit for the show.”

  “You got it,” Janette said, emptying the rest of the vial on the glass-topped desk.

  ***

  Jacques checked his watch. Five minutes to one. It was almost over. He took a deep breath of relief. It had worked. No one had left. They all stayed through to the end. Press and trade alike, all fascinated by something they had never seen before. Slowly he made his way down from the back of the theater to the table near the head of the runway at which Carroll, Maurice, Patrick, Stéphane and Martine were seated. He slipped into the empty chair.

  Carroll leaned toward him. “What do you think?” he whispered.

  “We made it,” he answered. “Eugenia Sheppard and Fairchild both told their papers to hold for the story. Even Bernadine Morris sent a cable that she would file late. And none of the couturiers walked. They’re all still here.”

  “I wonder what they’ll say,” Carroll said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jacques answered. “This will be the most talked-about collection of the season.”

  “This could be twenty million dollars in the next three years,” Carroll said. “It does matter.”

  Jacques held up a hand. “Watch. We’ll talk later.”

  The mannequin above them was leaving the runway and the glowing number over the archway began to fade. The number was gone by the time she left the stage and over the archway this time appeared the letters glowing as if in fire. Robe de Mariage.

  There was a momentary rustle of papers, then silence as the doors under the arch slowly opened. A single baby spot hit the bride standing there, tall, regal, hidden completely by a veil falling from a crown on her head, spilling down to the tips of her slim red shoes as she moved forward and trailing the ground behind her in a train that almost seemed to go on forever. Slowly, to the sound of Mendelsohn, she moved to the center of the runway and stopped.

  For a moment she was completely still, then with her free hand, the other still holding the tiny spray of blood-red baccarat roses, she began to raise her veil. It seemed to take almost forever until finally, quickly, she tossed the veil back over her head and it fell to the floor, revealing the translucent rose-colored gown through which shimmered her pale white body sparkling with flecks of gold. She moved her head and her long blond hair fell to her shoulders beneath the rubied tiara as she began once again to move down the runway. Now the light hit her from the stage as well as from the theater. She was naked but not nude, a bride in a gown, moving toward the altar.

  “It’s Lauren!” Carroll whispered. “I thought Janette was—”

  “Janette thought Lauren would be better,” Jacques replied.

  Now Lauren was turning slowly in the model’s turn at the end of the runway. Slowly the applause began to come. Jacques looked around. It wasn’t the claque. They were still waiting for his signal. This was the audience.

  Lauren turned and started back up the runway, again the model’s turn, showing the gown, her body gleaming like ivory under the silk. She started toward the archway and stopped as if in fear, as suddenly the devil came through it.

  He stood there, then gestured to her with the trident As if hypnotized, she moved toward him. Now, they were together and he laced his arms on her shoulders and began to slip the gown down from her body. She stood as if frozen, then as her gold-flecked breasts sprang free of the gown, she flung herself into his arms. With a smile of diabolical triumph, he began to lead her back into the archway. Then, a sudden explosion, a thunderclap, a puff of smoke, and the stage went to bl
ack. They were gone.

  And the audience went wild.

  The houselights came up as the mannequins, each in the last costume she had worn, began coming through the archway onto the stage and down the runway. Lauren was the last to come through, once again in the bridal gown, on the arm of the devil now sporting a rakish top hat in fireman’s red.

  The applause kept on and photographers were now climbing on the runway, flashbulbs popping as they sought to get their pictures. Suddenly Lauren turned, ran back through the archway, then came out again, this time holding on to a seemingly reluctant Philippe, who was pale and nervous but smiling and pleased all at the same time The applause grew louder.

  Jacques caught the eye of the claque leader, who had been waiting for his signal, and nodded imperceptibly. Almost immediately, the chant began.

  “Janette… Janette… Janette…”

  Cries of bravo began to rend the air and the clapping settled into a steady rhythm. “Janette… Janette… Janette…”

  This time it was Philippe who turned to the archway. He held out his hand and Janette came through to the stage. The glowing light over the archway began to flash her name. She stood there for a moment, smiling as a battery of flashbulbs went off in her eyes. Slim, tall and beautiful, she had dressed in anti-fashion. Red denim jeans and work shirt, calf-length red cowboy boots and a red denim locomotive engineer’s work cap. Then she embraced Philippe and together they went down the runway.

  More and more photographers and reporters climbed beside them. Soon they were engulfed in a press of people and they began their retreat backstage.

  Jacques rose and began to make his way to the theater exit. He wanted to gauge the audience reaction if he could. Once again he stood in the arcade, this time watching them leave the theater, hearing the excited hum of voices.

  But it was Fairchild who made the night for him. He took Jacques by the arm and pulled him to one side. “I don’t know who’s going to buy or even wear the clothes, but this is the most exciting collection in years. She’ll have the front page in the paper tomorrow and I would like to talk to her for just ten minutes if you can arrange it.”

  “When?” Jacques asked.

  “Right now,” Fairchild said. “I want the first interview with her, exclusive, for the States.”

  “Let’s go,” Jacques said, beginning to push his way into the crowd. “Just hang on to my arm.”

  ***

  It was nearly three o’clock, and just a few people remained of the many that had crowded into the small office backstage after the presentation. Philippe was seated on the couch engaged in rapid conversation with two reporters. Marlon hovering protectively over the back of the chair.

  Empty champagne bottles and glasses littered the desk behind which Janette, Jacques and Carroll were engaged in deep discussion. “I think we made it,” Jacques said. “Both Goodman and Neiman-Marcus want to come in tomorrow to review the line. Saks, Marshall Field and I. Magnin’s have expressed interest.”

  “Looking doesn’t cost anything,” Carroll said. “Buying is something else.”

  “They’ll buy,” Jacques said confidently. “We smell like a winner.”

  Their conversation came to a halt as several reporters and photographers, having completed all the photos of mannequins and costumes, came into the office wanting the last few words with Philippe and Janette.

  Jacques rose to his feet. “Where’s Lauren? Charles wants me to talk to her about scheduling a few photo sessions. Every photographer in town wants to do her.”

  “She was here a moment ago,” Janette answered. “I think she went outside with Patrick.” He started out but she halted him. “You might as well stay here until the interviews are over. We’ll pick them up on our way out.”

  In the alleyway just outside the stage door, Lauren leaned against the building, drawing deep tokes from the thin joint she held in her fingers. “That helps,” she said, passing it to Patrick.

  He took a toke, then looked at her. “Very good,” he said. “You didn’t get that here?”

  She shook her head. “It’s American. Harvey number six.”

  He drew on the joint again and passed it back to her. “You looked bored in there. That’s why I asked you to come out.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s really a crock.”

  “Crock?” he questioned.

  “You know. Phony, bullshit, cheek kissing, wonderfuls and darlings. Why do they do it? Nobody really means it. I bet if they said what they really thought, nobody would talk to anybody else.”

  Patrick laughed. “You don’t go much for that kind of life.”

  “It’s not my scene,” she said. “I get enough of that at home. My parents are really into these business things too.” “A thought came to her. “You know, I never really thought that Janette was like that. Somehow I thought she would be different. The pictures I saw and the stories I read about her. She seemed to be having a good time like she never cared about anything else.”

  “I wish that were true,” Patrick said ruefully. “But she really loves her work.”

  “I don’t know what she has to prove,” Lauren said. “She doesn’t need the money.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Patrick said. “But she says that I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I guess I don’t understand either,” Lauren said, passing the joint back to him. “But maybe it’ll be better. She said we’d be going down to her villa in Saint-Tropez after the collections.”

  “Great,” Patrick said. “I can fly you down. My yacht is in port there now. We’ll have some fun.” He took another toke. “Ouch!” he said, dropping the tiny joint. He looked down at the ground. “Burned my bloody finger. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” she said. “What do you say we go back into the zoo and see how the inmates are doing?”

  The press had all gone by the time they got back to Janette’s room backstage. Janette was behind the desk, Carroll and Jacques on chairs in front of her, while Philippe and Marlon were on the couch.

  Carroll got to his feet and kissed Lauren on the cheek. “You were beautiful sweetie,” he said enthusiastically. “We’ve got big things planned for you.”

  Lauren was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  He laughed. “You’re a star, baby. The hit of the show. Every photographer in town wants to shoot you. I told Jacques that we do nothing but the best of them.”

  Lauren turned and looked down at Janette behind the desk. “You never said anything about that to me.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it before the show,” Janette answered.

  “That’s right, “Carroll said. “Nobody could have figured it. But there you are. Like it or not, you were the hit of the showing.”

  “I thought we were going to Saint-Tropez after the collection,” Lauren said, looking at Janette. “I told Harvey to meet us there on the weekend.”

  Before Janette could answer, Carroll spoke. “You can always go to Saint-Tro. The important thing to do now is to strike while the iron is hot.”

  Lauren was silent for a moment. “I only did the collection for kicks. If I had known there was anything more, I wouldn’t have done it.”

  “But you did do it,” Carroll said. “Now you have to stick with it.”

  Lauren turned back to Janette. “Do I have to? Patrick said he would take us down there on his plane tomorrow. His yacht is already in port.”

  Janette looked up at her. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, chérie.”

  Carroll’s voice rose angrily. “What the hell do you mean?” he shouted at Janette. “She has to do it. My PR people are already planning to make her the thrust of our promotion plans in the States. I’ve already called and told them to go to work on it.”

  Janette met his angry look. “Then tell them to find another angle. Lauren didn’t come here to work. She came here to visit me.”

  “I don’t give a damn why she came here!” Carroll yelled. �
�I’m not blowing two million dollars on this deal to let a stupid kid decide what she should do or shouldn’t. You make her do it!”

  Janette’s voice was deceptively soft. “And if I don’t?”

  “Then the deal’s off!” Carroll snapped. “You might as well learn right now that you don’t make decisions alone anymore and that I’m the man in charge.”

  Janette stared up at him for a moment, then turned to Lauren. “You make plans to go down to Saint-Tropez with Patrick tomorrow.”

  Carroll stared down at her balefully. “You better think that over. You’re into me for one hundred and seventy thousand dollars right now and before you make any decisions you’d better have the money to come up with.”

  Lauren looked at her sister. “If it’s that important, Janette—” she began hesitantly.

  Janette stopped her gently. She spoke in French. “Don’t worry about it, chérie. Sooner or later this pig will have to learn that there are some things his money won’t buy.” She turned to Carroll and continued in English, “I suggest you think about it. My decision is already made.”

  “Johann won’t like it,” Carroll threatened.

  “Johann won’t like the idea of your using his ward to promote yourself either,” Janette said.

  “We have a deal,” Carroll snapped.

  “The deal was with me, not my sister,” Janette replied. “And besides, nothing has been signed as yet. So there is no deal really.”

  “You still have one hundred and seventy thousand dollars of mine,” he said.

  “Come to the office tomorrow and you’ll have it back,” Janette said.

  “You haven’t got the money,” Carroll said sarcastically. “I ran a check on your company balances.”

  “That’s none of your business,” Janette said. “You come to the office tomorrow and you’ll have your money.”

  He stared down at her. “You can’t make a deal with Bidermann or anyone else until I get my money back.”