Goodbye, Janette

by Harold Robbins

  ***

  The Valium had put him away and he was aware of nothing until the leather strap slashed across his back, jolting him awake. “What the hell?” he mumbled, rolling across his bed to turn on the cabin lights.

  “Jesus!” he yelled as the strap caught him again just as the lights went on. He stared up at Janette, standing at the side of his bed, her breasts heaving under her sheer black see-through blouse delineated by the cross-straps of her micro-mini leather skirt. She raised the belt in her hand and he caught a glimpse of her strong white thighs under the skirt as they fell into her almost hip-length black leather boots. He tried to roll away from the blow and caught it on his arms. “Are you crazy?” he yelled.

  “You slimy son of a bitch!” she said in a calm, cold voice. “You said you like beatings? Well, you’re going to get the beating of your life!”

  The strap came down again and he jumped with pain. “Stop!” he yelled. He leaped naked from the bed and ran for the bathroom. Relentlessly she followed him, the strap slashing and cutting at him. He turned his face into a corner of the cabin, leaving only his naked back exposed to the stinging leather strap. After a moment he began to cry, then his legs trembled, and he sank to the floor, covering his face with his hands.

  “Please,” he said in a little boy’s voice. “Don’t punish me anymore. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you say.”

  Her voice was still cold. “Lick my boots, you little bastard!”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, still crying and crawling toward her on his hands and knees. He put his face against the nearest boot and began to lick it.

  The strap slashed across his back. “Now the other.”

  “Yes,” he said, moving to the other foot. “Let me be your slave.”

  The belt came down on his back again. “Is that all you want to be?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Your slave. That’s all.”

  She slapped him across the face. “Eat my cunt,” she ordered, raising the front of her leather skirt.

  He rose on his knees and buried his face between her legs. She placed a hand on the back of his head, pressing him into her. “Lick it faster,” she commanded.

  Frantically he began to move his head against her, his hand going down to his erection and masturbating himself. Suddenly her knee came up, catching him under the chin and flinging him backward on the floor.

  She brought the strap down across his arm. “I didn’t give my slave permission to play with his little prick,” she said coldly and walked across the cabin and sat in a small armchair, looking at him.

  He pushed his back against a wall and, raising his knees to his chest, sat there staring at her, the tears running silently down his cheeks. She lit a cigarette and for a long time neither of them spoke.

  Finally, it was he who broke the silence. “You’re angry with me.”

  “I don’t get angry with my slaves,” she said. “Just disappointed.”

  He didn’t speak.

  “You’re not even man enough to get yourself a real woman, you have to pick on a child.” She ground the cigarette out under her boot in the carpet of the cabin. “Did you tell her what you really are like? That you like being a slave, that you love being a voyeur? And that is all that really turns you on?”

  He was still silent.

  “How do you think she is going to feel about you when she finds out? Then do you think that she’ll believe your stories that you love her, that you’re going to work and be a man like your father?”

  “But I mean it,” he cried. “I do love her. And I already sent a cable to the office that I’m coming in to work.”

  She laughed. “How long is that going to last? A month, maybe two. And then you’re going to want to be a slave again.”

  The tears began to flood down his cheeks. He crawled toward her and knelt prayerfully, his hands clasped in front of her chair. “Don’t tell her,” he begged. “Please don’t tell her.”

  She looked down at him without answering.

  “I promise I’ll be good,” he said. “She’s the only chance I have left.”

  “You said you were going to work?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then I may give you a chance. But you’ll have to prove yourself to me first.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “Just give me the chance.”

  “It involves your company,” she said.

  “I don’t care,” he said. “Just don’t tell her.”

  She got to her feet and slowly began to undress. Finally she stood naked over him, except for her hip-length black boots. She raised the belt over her head and brought it whistling down on his back. The welts began to rise on his shin as she hit him again and again until finally he was cringing before her in full erection. Then she stopped, her breast heaving with exertion. “Would you like to see me fuck with your African?” she asked coldly.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, beginning to masturbate himself violently.

  She hit him again with the strap. “Then stop playing with your little prick until I give you permission, slave, and get him in here.”

  He looked up at her. “You won’t tell Lauren?”

  “Not if you do as I tell you, slave,” she said contemptuously. “Now, get him in here.”

  She watched him pick up the phone. When he put it down she began to laugh. “What are you laughing at?” he asked.

  “All of us,” she said. “The whole world is crazy. We’re all getting exactly what we want.”

  ***

  It was seven o’clock in the morning and the golden sun promised another day of unrelenting August heat as she drove into the courtyard of the villa and got out of the car. Wearily she went into the house, walking on heavy, lead-like legs. The African had been everything Patrick said he was. He wasn’t human. He was nothing but a fuck machine. Her loins and anus felt swollen and aching and the sheer animal savagery of his pounding body had literally coerced her into a frenzied series of uncontrollable orgasms. Now all she wanted to do was sink into a hot tub, relax and then go to sleep. And she didn’t care if she slept away the balance of the weekend. There was nothing more she could do than she had done last night.

  She heard the footsteps on the staircase as she came into the living room and looked up. Harvey was coming down the steps, his single valise at his side. They stood there for a moment, each a little surprised at seeing the other.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He reached the bottom of the steps and put down his valise. There was embarrassment in his voice. “Good morning. I didn’t expect to find anyone up.”

  “I’m just coming in,” she said.

  “Yes.” He looked at her. “It must have been a hell of a party.”

  “It was,” she said. She smiled. “I could use one of your high-quality toots.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly. He fished in his jacket pocket and came out with a vial. He handed it to her with a small plastic straw. “The coke’s already sifted,” he said. “Just stick some in the end of the straw and snort.”

  She nodded and did as he said. The coke seemed to shoot back into her brain and explode. “Mon dieu!” she exclaimed. “I feel as if the top of my head just came off.”

  He took the vial back from her with a half smile. “You had a good hit but you’ll be okay in a minute.”

  He was right. Suddenly her weariness was gone. She looked down at his valise. “Does Lauren know you’re leaving?”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t you think you ought to tell her?”

  “I tried to last night but she only insisted that I stay.”

  “Why don’t you then?” she asked.

  She could see the hurt deep in his eyes. “What difference would it make? Really. She’s into her own thing now.”

  “She’ll feel bad if you just go like this.”

  “She’ll get over it,” he said. “Can I call for a taxi?”

  “Y
ou could,” she answered. “But you won’t get an answer. It’s too early in the morning and besides they have to come from Sainte-Maxime.”

  “What if I walked into Saint-Tro?”

  “No taxis there. But you can get the ferry to the mainland. There will be taxis there.”

  “Okay,” he said, picking up his bag. “Thanks for everything, Janette.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “What shall I tell Lauren?”

  “Tell her I’ll see her when she gets home,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Would you like me to run you into town?”

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. You’re tired. And the walk will do me good.”

  “Harvey,” she said.

  He looked at her. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “How do I get in touch with you? I don’t even know your last name or your address.”

  “Lauren can give it to you,” he said. Then he thought for a moment. “Why would you want to get in touch with me?”

  “One never knows.” There was no point in telling him that the clay he had given her seemed to work and that at this very moment the chemists at the fragrance company laboratory were trying to analyze it. “I might be in California sometime and need a date.”

  A sudden grin cracked his face. “You can call me for that anytime.” He put down his bag and took a pencil and a piece of Zig Zag cigarette paper from his kit and scrawled on it, then handed it to her. “Just in case,” he said. “Goodbye, Janette.”

  “Not that way,” she said, taking the piece of paper. “The French way.”

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  She kissed him on both cheeks. “That’s how.” She smiled. “Au revoir, Harvey.”

  ***

  She went up to her room and turned on the water in the tub. While it was filling she went back into the bedroom and began to undress. In a moment she was nude. She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were glowing and her face showed no signs of the night. She half smiled to herself as she went to the window to draw the draperies against the light. There was nothing like a good fuck for making a woman look beautiful. Only one thing was missing. The warmth and tenderness you could get only from a woman. Stéphane should have been there. Then it would have been perfect.

  From the window, she saw Harvey walking down the road, carrying his valise. For a brief moment she felt sorry for him and thought of calling him back. Then she decided against it and snapped the draperies closed. It was just as well he was gone. He could have only complicated matters by remaining. This way Lauren would have no one else to share her confidences. Everything would be easier.

  She returned to the bathroom and poured some of her bath oil into the water and sank back into the tub. Strange, she no longer felt tired. Her mind wouldn’t stop. There was much she had to do. Patrick didn’t know it yet but the vacation in Saint-Tropez was over.

  She didn’t have the patience to soak in the tub. She got to her feet and turned on the shower. The cool water made her body tingle. A moment later she got out of the tub and wrapping her robe around her went into the bedroom and telephoned Jacques in Paris.

  His voice was husky with sleep. “Yes?”

  “Wake up,” she said. “We’re going to London.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to London,” she said. “I spoke to Patrick.”

  “He’ll make the deal?” Jacques’ voice was excited.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “But does he have the authority?”

  “That’s why we’re going to London,” she answered. “To find out. You go to London this morning and reserve a river suite for me at the Savoy. I’ll meet you there this evening.”

  She put down the telephone and looked at the clock. It was eight in the morning. She set the alarm for eleven, then got into bed and pulled the sheets over her. Three hours’ sleep should be more than enough.

  She would call Patrick when she awakened and tell him to have his plane ready to take them to London. If he didn’t already know, he might as well learn it now. She meant exactly what she said. If there was no deal for her, there would be no Lauren for him.

  ***

  Janette lit another cigarette as the car approached Paris. She leaned forward in her seat, looking out the window. At each exit of the autoroute there were four billboards. No matter what direction you came from, those four billboards were always there. And Janette had all of them. And each of them in its own way had its own story to tell.

  The first billboard was coming up on the right bathed in bright light against the dark night. Black bold letters across the top of the billboard read simply: JANETTE JEANS. She was posed beneath the lettering, on her knees, derrière high in the air, with her head turned toward the camera, her hands cupping one cheek as she rested on her elbows. In smaller letters, reading vertically down the sign from the top of her derrière to her legs, was the phrase Le vrai “Far West” françis.

  The story behind it was simple. It had taken place one morning in New York shortly after the deal was made with Kensington. The president of the company came directly to the point.

  “We have agreed to your every request, Madame. You will have your boutiques, all ten of them, as well as units in every major department store in America. But we have another problem and need your help.”

  “What is it?” she had asked.

  “One million yards of surplus blue denim,” he said. “Unfortunately we lost two of our largest customers to Burlington, and if we don’t replace them, we’ll be swimming in red ink this year. And up to now we haven’t found any takers.”

  “And how could I be of help?” she asked.

  “We’ve done a market study. We think there’s room for jeans with a designer label at a popular price. St. Laurent is in the market but he’s very expensive and his volume is negligible. We have figured the cost and we can make a good product to sell for twenty-five to thirty dollars. What we need is your name and six basic designs. We’ll take care of everything else from manufacturing to sales. We already have thought of a name for them. ‘Jeanette Jeans.’”

  “And how does that fit into our agreement?”

  “It’s a separate item. We pay you a royalty of ten percent of our gross on every pair sold. There is no risk for you, no investment. All you can get is money. And we estimate there could be a lot of it.”

  “How much is that?” she asked.

  “No one knows. But it could possibly reach a quarter of a million dollars a year.”

  “You have a long reach.” She smiled. “It will be my pleasure to help you out.” Even if she got only 25 percent of what he estimated she wouldn’t complain.

  But as it was, neither of them expected what was to happen. Her share of the gross sales for the year alone came to almost one million dollars. And that more than anything else established her in America.

  The next billboard came into view. This time she was standing at an Air France counter handing her ticket to a reservation clerk. She was smartly dressed in a light suit for travel; subtly highlighted on the billboard were the gloves she wore, the shoulder bag hanging from a strap, the slim high-heeled shoes and the initialed valise at her feet. Again the bold lettering: POUR LE MONDE ENTIER. Beneath that in slightly smaller type: Janette Cuir. And then in small type opposite the items mentioned: Le Grant, Le Sac, La Chaussure, Le Bagage.

  This opportunity had come soon after the success of Janette Jeans in America. Vito Montessori, an Italian who owned one of the largest leather-manufacturing companies in Italy, approached her with a licensing agreement. Because of the flight of many important names in Italian leather to manufacturing in the Far East to take advantage of lower labor costs, he wanted to develop a line of his own. Again, what he asked her to do was supply designs or give design approval, and he would undertake the fabrication and the marketing. But if she could obtain the cooperation of the sales outlets already established by Kensington in America, it would be even better
. Needless to say, she could and did. This time her royalty was 15 percent, and a steady net income of almost a quarter of a million dollars a year was the result.

  The third billboard featured not one but three photographs of her. Grouped together so that it seemed like one photograph, she was lying in a bikini, resting on hip and elbow in the sand, looking directly into the camera, then standing in a figure-hugging tank suit smiling up at the sun, and finally in a one-piece cutaway suit that came down over one shoulder, revealing more than it concealed. Again the bold type: JANETTE MAILLOTS DE BAIN. Below that in lesser type: Pour le Soleil, Pour la Mer, Pour la Plage. And then in a line that swept across the entire billboard: Pour l’Eté Eternel.

  That had been her own idea. Buying a bankrupt manufacturing company in the south of France, she immediately entered into another distribution agreement with Kensington. Scaled at popular prices and aimed at the same market as the jeans, the bathing suits were another immediate success. The net income from that division was almost half a million dollars a year.

  The last billboard coming up represented, in its own peculiar way, the biggest gamble of all. This, too, was all her own. For many years she had toyed with the idea, but it was the tremendous success achieved by Yves St. Laurent in launching his new perfume, Opium, during the last three years, that finally convinced her to move on her own.

  Carefully analyzing the results of a market study she had ordered, she discovered some surprising facts. Of all the perfumes sold, and there were hundreds of known brands, only two were widely enough known to be recognized by name as perfumes by the general public. The first was Chanel No. 5 with an 88 percent recognition factor. None of the others came close, but the closest to them proved to be Opium, with a 29 percent recognition factor, and that, as the market study pointed out, was due to the major and still current advertising and ongoing promotion. Two other interesting facts came to light. Both Chanel No. 5 and Arpége had been created in the twenties and belonged to the aldehydic floral group of scents, while Opium, a modern perfume launched in 1977, had its roots firmly in the oriental group, tracing its lineage almost directly from Tabu, launched by Dana in 1931, and Youth Dew by Lauder, marketed first in 1952. While Tabu had become something of a perfume classic, neither of the two had achieved the market recognition of Opium. But then, when they were introduced, they hadn’t had the benefit of modern marketing techniques to create the kind of recognition that television could give them today.