Another interesting fact the study revealed was the importance of package design—both the bottle that contained the perfume and the package in which it was sold. That as well as the perfume itself had to tell its own story. And the story had to be embodied in the name of the perfume. It had to be simple, yet with a quick recognition factor.
She believed she had the name. Soie. The word for silk in French. The most intimate, most sensual fabric a woman could wear could also apply to her perfume. The other problem was not so easily resolved. Her original aromatic was too strongly based in the oriental and she felt that it could be regarded as an imitation of Opium. Working closely with the “noses,” as they were called at the perfumery, she managed to combine the scents of both the floral, aldehydic group of Chanel No. 5 and Arpége and the sensuality of the oriental group. The result was a fragrance that was extraordinarily female yet feminine, sensual yet fresh and mossily floral. And the first decision she made was not to call it a perfume. Soie would be a fragrance, something that was a part of a woman, not a perfume she wore.
This last billboard was perhaps the most eye-catching of all. Upon seeing the bright sparkling bottle with the nude statue of a girl in Lalique crystal as the bottle stopper, one was not aware at first that in the shadows behind was another nude portrait of Janette. Painted many years ago by Dali, the artist had caught and exposed the many erotic facets of her body and personality. The shadowy pool of her dark eyes, the flush-red lower lip, the thrusting nipple tips of her swelling breasts, the curve of her belly falling into the shadow of her pubis almost lost in the swelling of her white hips and thighs. Almost by shock would come the realization that the portrait of the girl had been translated into the nude Lalique statue on the bottle. The name was etched into the cut crystal of the bottle in script, Soie. Beneath that in lettering almost too small to read, “de Janette.” As on the other billboards, the advertising message ran down one side. Le plus intime. Le plus sensuel. Le vrai aromate de la femme. Soie. L’aromate de Janette.
And in its own way it was that perfume which led to her present situation. Determined to outperform St. Laurent in the market, she had committed more than five million dollars in cash to launch the perfume in the last six months, virtually stripping her own companies’ cash reserves. Television advertising in America alone had run more than three million, the balance going to magazines and newspapers. And none of this money took into account the discounts and incentives given to the retail trade to gain their support. Their calculations had taken into account that it would be at least two years before the investment would be recovered and three years before they could realize a profit. To her satisfaction, the results were even more encouraging than had been predicted. An almost immediate market acceptance had led to a revision of the projected figures that cut their recoupment time in half.
But, as it turned out, it wasn’t quick enough. The unexpected happened. The Reardon Group had been offered a tremendous profit for their controlling interest in Kensington Mills by a Japanese company anxious to get a foothold in the American market and had accepted.
At any other time this could have been the greatest opportunity she had ever had. For under the clause inserted at the last moment by her sagacious American attorney, Paul Gitlin, she had the option to buy back her contracts and agreements with the Reardon Group at the book value carried on its balance sheet should they sell or otherwise dispose of their interest in Kensington. And the ten million dollars at which it was carried was less than two times annual earnings. Ten times annual earnings would have been considered an equitable figure. But no matter how cheap, it did her no good. All the cash she had in her companies had been invested in the perfume. Now she was scrambling again. It was as if nothing had changed. Independence was as elusive as ever.
Maurice met her at the door to his apartment. He was visibly excited. “I was right,” he said. “I knew all the time I was right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked. “You’re not making any sense.”
“The money in the Swiss bank,” he said. “Maybe now you won’t have to fuck with the Greek for it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ll see,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the library. “You’ll see.”
He opened the door and a young man seated inside the room rose to his feet. Maurice introduced them. “Monsieur Thierry, my daughter, Madame Janette de la Beauville.” He looked at Janette and explained. “Monsieur Thierry is with the Swiss Credit Bank in Geneva.”
Janette extended her hand. “A pleasure, Monsieur Thierry.”
The young banker kissed her hand politely. “An honor, Madame. I did not realize when I sought this meeting I would meet so famous a woman.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” Janette said. “Now, if I may ask, why did you want to see me?”
The young banker looked at Maurice. He was obviously embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Monsieur le Marquis, but my instructions from the bank were very explicit. What I have to say is for her ears alone.”
“I understand,” Maurice said quickly. “Of course.” Quickly he went to the door and closed it behind him.
“Now, Monsieur,” Janette said, looking at the banker.
“If I may be permitted, Madame,” Thierry said, taking a paper from his pocket and glancing at it. His voice took on a formal tone. “In accordance with the instructions given to the bank by your late mother, we have the obligation to inform you at the end of a period not less than twenty-five years after her demise that on October 10, 1944, she became the lessor of a certain group of safe-deposit boxes contained in the vaults of our bank.” He stopped reading and handed the paper to her. “There are two copies of that information. If you will be kind enough to sign this copy, which acknowledges that you have received the information according to the instructions, we will have completed our business.”
Janette took the paper and glanced at it. It was exactly as he had read it. She looked at him. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Does it mean I have access to those boxes?”
“If you have the key in your possession, certainly. If not—you do not.”
“Then what is the purpose of telling me about it?”
“I do not know, Madame. We are only following instructions.”
“Then who has the key?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Under the Swiss banking laws protecting the confidentiality of our client relationship, I am not permitted to give that information.”
“Then how do I go about establishing my rights to those boxes and their contents, as my mother obviously wanted me to have them?”
“You may file a claim in the Probate Court of Switzerland, which has the ultimate jurisdiction in matters of inheritance.”
“How long would that take?”
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically. “I do not know. Sometimes years.”
“Damn!” she said, looking down at the paper again. “Do you have any idea of the contents of those boxes?”
“No, Madame, what the clients place in their boxes is no concern of ours. I’m afraid I’m not being of much help. But there’s nothing else I could do.”
“What if I refuse to sign the paper?” she asked.
“Then you would have no right to lay claim to the boxes because you have not legally been informed of them and, again, under Swiss banking laws, we do not even have to acknowledge their existence.”
She shook her head hopelessly. “Then I might as well sign it.”
“Yes, Madame,” he said, holding out a pen.
Quickly she signed the copy and gave it to him. “Thank you, Monsieur Thierry.”
“You’re welcome, Madame,” he said, handing her the other copy.
She smiled suddenly. “It’s late and I haven’t had dinner as yet. Would it be a violation of Swiss banking laws if I asked you to join me for dinner?”
A s
low smile came to his lips. “I think that is permissible, Madame. But I’m afraid I must refuse. I have a previous engagement.”
“Then break it.” She laughed.
“As much as I would like to, Madame, I’m afraid I cannot. My wife is waiting for me at the hotel.”
She laughed again and held out her hand. “Monsieur Thierry, you’re a gentleman. I hope we will meet again.”
He kissed her hand politely. “So do I, Madame,” he said, walking to the door.
A moment after he left, Maurice came back into the room. He stared at her face. “Well?”
“You were right,” she said quietly, handing him the paper. “But merely knowing about it gives me no right to it.”
He read the paper quickly. “Then who has the right?”
“Whoever has the key,” she said. “And he wouldn’t tell me who that was.”
Maurice stared at her. “He doesn’t have to tell me,” he said. “I know who has the key. And so do you.”
She was silent.
“You’re going to have to do something about it now,” he said. “Or remain a beggar and a whore the rest of your life.”
She looked at him, still silent.
“You’re going to have to bring Lauren into it,” he said.
“Do I have to?” she asked.
“You know Johann,” he answered. “Whatever is there is half hers. He won’t do a thing unless he feels that she is protected. The only way you’ll get anything is if the two of you approach him.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Lauren doesn’t give a damn about money. She never did.”
“She’s twenty-three now,” he said. “She has to be getting tired of living on that stupid beach in California with no one except a five-year-old child to keep her company.”
“That’s the kind of life she likes.”
“Then it’s up to you to convince her that her daughter deserves a better chance in life than growing up to be a beach bum,” he said. “Even if she doesn’t want it for herself she has no right to deprive her child.”
“I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Sometimes I think I’ve fucked too much with her head.”
He laughed. “You don’t believe that anymore than I do, Janette. The one thing your mother and I had in common was our selfishness. We both wanted everything we could get.” He went to the sideboard and took down a bottle of cognac. “You don’t regret what you did. You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer as he poured the cognac into two glasses and came back to her. Still silent, she took a glass from him and sipped it.
He swallowed half his drink in one gulp, then put his glass down. “There’s just one thing I never understood,” he said. “Why you pushed Patrick off on Lauren. Wouldn’t things have been simpler if you had married him yourself?”
She took another sip of the cognac before she answered him. “That’s exactly what I intended to do when they came back from Sardinia.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“She said she was in love with him.”
He looked at her. “She was just a child. You could have blown that up.”
“I suppose I could have,” she answered, meeting his gaze. She took another sip of the cognac. “Maybe I should have.”
Deep inside herself she always had known the marriage was doomed. And even while they exchanged wedding vows in the garden of Patrick’s mother’s home in Devon and Patrick’s eyes searched her out as he looked over his bride’s white veil, she knew it was doomed. And that she would be the cause of its destruction.
***
From her window on the second floor of Reardon Manor, Janette could see the first of the wedding guests arrive. She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. The ceremony was scheduled for noon.
She glanced up at the sky. It was clear blue, not a cloud in it. Happy the bride the sun shines on today. She smiled at the thought. Especially on an English Sunday, she added. She went back into the room and picked up the guest list from the dressing table.
It wasn’t going to be a large wedding, only sixty guests, but the list read like a Who’s Who of British society and industry. Headed by the royal family represented by Princess Margaret and Lord Snowden, there were enough lords and ladies to fill the audience chamber at Buckingham Palace. The Lord Mayor of London would be there. France was represented by the Comte de Paris, her stepfather the marquis, and the French ambassador to the Court of St. James. Johann and Heidi had come from America and the American ambassador would also be there.
She put down the guest list and picked up another sheet of paper. This was her own schedule. Alexandre had flown over from Paris to do the bride’s hair as a favor to her and she had brought Mme. St. Cloud to supervise and dress the bride. According to her schedule they should be in Lauren’s room right now.
She slipped into a pair of pants and went down the hall. Lauren’s room was a frenzy of activity. Heidi was already there and opened the door for her. Janette kissed her cheek. “How’s the bride?” she asked, not seeing Lauren in the room.
“Nervous.” Heidi smiled. “But not as nervous as I am. Right now she’s in the bathroom having her hair washed.”
“Good,” Janette said. “Then Alexandre is already here.”
“Yes,” Heidi nodded. “He came with two assistants. He said that he would do my hair also.”
“Lovely,” Janette said. She looked across the room to where Mme. St. Cloud had just finished hanging the wedding dress on the form. “What do you think of the robe de mariage?”
“I love it!” Heidi exclaimed. “It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”
Janette glanced at her. The sincerity of Heidi’s face convinced her. “Thank you,” she said. “I wanted it to be something special.”
“It is,” Heidi said, following her across the room. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Janette stopped in front of the dress form. She looked at Mme. St. Cloud. “Tout va bien?”
“Oui, Madame,” she replied. “Trés bien.”
Janette turned back to the dress. In Paris this morning photographs of the dress were being released to the press. Tomorrow the pictures would be in half the newspapers in the world. What Heidi had said was true. There had never been another wedding dress like it.
In its simplest description it was three veils of delicate sheer silk embroidery, ivory thread on white. The first veil fell from the bride’s head over her nude shoulders. The second veil was a strapless camisole top, almost lingerie-like, that gave a hint of nudity beneath it and fell just below the waist. The third veil was a skirt that began at the waist just under the camisole top, then fell in a clean body-clinging line until mid-thigh, where it began to flare out with ruffles of embroidery into a full skirt with a long train. The total effect was one of implied nudity—one thought he saw what he thought he saw, but in reality could see nothing.
She nodded in approval. “Call me when she is dressed,” she said. “I want to make sure that everything is right.”
“Oui, Madame,” the dresser answered.
Alexandre came out of the bathroom and saw Janette. He came toward her and kissed her cheek. “Your sister is lovely,” he said.
“And you are just as lovely to come here and do this for us, chéri,” Janette said. “I am most grateful to you.”
“It is nothing,” he smiled. “My pleasure.”
“Is she still in the bathroom?” Janette asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “My girls are starting to give her a manicure and a pedicure.”
“I’ll pop in and see her for a moment,” Janette said. “Then perhaps you can join me for a coffee.”
“I’d love to,” he answered.
Lauren was sitting in the bathroom, a towel on her head, her feet in a tub of water. She looked up at Janette and smiled. “Nobody told me it would be like this.”
Janette laughed. “Well, you can’t win them all. How are you feeling?”
“A little crazy with these people all over me. I could do with a toke of Harvey number six right now.”
“Do you have any?” Janette asked.
Lauren nodded, indicating a cigarette case lying on the counter next to the sink. “Right there. But with Mother in the room outside and all these people around. You know.”
Janette smiled. “We can take care of that.” She spoke to the two girls. “Could you excuse us for a moment. My sister and I wish to talk privately.”
“Oui, Madame,” the girls replied.
They left the room and Janette locked the door. “See how easy it is,” she said. She opened the cigarette case and took out a joint. Handing it to Lauren, she turned to the window. “Let me open this before you light up. It wouldn’t do to have the smell of marijuana floating down the halls of Reardon Manor.”
Lauren giggled. “That’s right. Half those old fogies wouldn’t know what hit them.” She lit the cigarette and drew a deep toke into her lungs. She let it out slowly and handed it to Janette.
Janette took a toke and passed it back. “It’s good.”
Lauren nodded. “Harvey never misses. You’ve got him all excited about the clay cosmetics. Are you really going to do it?”
“I’m going to try,” Janette said.
“I’m glad,” Lauren smiled. “Harvey’s a sweet boy.” She took another toke. “I still can’t believe it. I’m really getting married. It’s like a dream.”
Janette looked down at her, a strange sadness coming over her. “Yes,” she said gently. “It is like a dream, isn’t it?”
She was back in her room less than an hour later when there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” she called out.
“Lord Patrick’s valet, ma’am,” came the answer.
She opened the door and peeked out through the crack. “What is it?” she asked.
Goodbye, Janette Page 31