Breaking the Rules (Harte Family Saga Book 7)

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Oui, oui, Kate, cut it off!” Jean-Louis exclaimed, and after squeezing M’s hand and smiling at her encouragingly, he stood up, as did Philippe.

  Kate crouched next to M, touched her shoulder. “Are you really all right, sweetie?”

  “I am, honestly, Kate, except for my ankle. Well, I’ve got a bit of a pain in my side because I twisted my body so I wouldn’t hit my face on the floor. But I’m okay.”

  “You didn’t hit your face, luckily. And we’ll get you fixed up in no time, don’t worry, sweetie. Either Angelina or Sophie can finish showing your clothes. Oh, here’s Sophie now. Claude’s put her in the pale blue chiffon. I guess she’ll have to wear the wedding gown also, since she’s about your height and size.”

  “Oh, God, the wedding gown. I’d forgotten that for a moment,” M cried, grimacing. “I could try to go on, Kate. Listen, if Claude gets me into the gown, Philippe and Jean-Louis could carry me to the catwalk. I could just stand there—”

  Kate shook her head, but a smile touched her mouth as she said, “You’re such a good sport, M, you really are. We’ll manage. Sophie’s okay. Oh, here’s Philippe with a box cutter.”

  Philippe knelt down with Kate, and he held M’s foot steady as Kate carefully slit the satin vamp from the rim to the toe. Pulling the fabric back, she was able to slide M’s foot out fairly easily. “Very swollen, darling,” Kate informed M. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to stand on it for a couple of days. And you’d better see a doctor. It could be broken, and it’s best to be sure.”

  “Thanks, Kate, for getting me out of the shoe,” M said.

  Philippe and Kate got M to her feet, and they each put a hand under her arm and helped her as she hopped to her dressing table.

  Georgiana had an exacting eye. Now, as she sat waiting for M to reappear as the fashion show drew to a close, she noticed something odd. The runway seemed to shift slightly and ripple.

  How could that be? Geo frowned, blinked several times, then looked at it again. She must have been imagining things. Now it was as steady as a rock; she wondered if she needed glasses.

  Two of the top girls were finishing their pirouetting and parading, and left the catwalk, and Geo leaned forward, peering at the runway very intently now that it was empty. It seemed that there was nothing amiss after all.

  Glancing around, she caught Luke’s eye, and he nodded, grinned at her, went on reloading one of his cameras, seemingly undisturbed. And then Geo sat straighter in her chair, amazed to see the six bridesmaids coming onto the stage. Their arrival signaled the finale. It was too soon, wasn’t it? Part of the show was missing. Or perhaps Jean-Louis had simply edited it down for the charity event.

  The six models came onto the runway, turning and moving gracefully, showing off their pink and yellow organza bridesmaids’ dresses with their usual consummate skill. Within seconds they tripped back to the stage to join the groomsmen and the groom, who had just stepped onto the stage. All of the male models were handsome in black tie.

  A moment later a wide smile spread across Geo’s face when M glided onto the stage; then it immediately fled. She stared in astonishment. It wasn’t M wearing the wedding gown. It was another girl. Sophie. Geo’s eyes flew to Luke. He shrugged, shook his head, indicating that he was also baffled.

  Now the bride and groom, the bridesmaids and groomsmen were moving down the runway. They were followed by the whole troupe of models wearing the evening gowns they had just shown. The catwalk and the stage filled. The audience went crazy. They clapped and cheered, some even stamped their feet and waved their arms. Jean-Louis stepped out onto the stage, smiling, bowing, acknowledging this great accolade.

  Geo was watching everything, wondering where M was when she saw it. The runway rippled, just as it had earlier. It began to tremble, then literally crumbled before her eyes. Metal supports were collapsing, wood crashing. It was a catastrophe.

  Chaos. Screaming. The male and female models falling off the disintegrating runway. Falling on one another, on the audience, on the floor. Chairs being turned over. People pushing. People running. Blood everywhere. People hurt. People dead.

  Appalled, Geo was frozen to the spot.

  She felt someone grab her arm, heard a voice urging her to move. It was Rebecca Byam, the American. Her friend Ann Molloy had picked up Geo’s handbag and was shoving it into her hands. They were pulling her away from the scene.

  Geo saw Luke, blood all over his face, coming toward them, beckoning. Luke, Geo, Ann, and Rebecca made it to the exit door where the runway ended.

  Someone had grabbed the mike, was asking for calm. Security men from the hotel were everywhere. Outside, police sirens were screaming. Ambulance signals were blaring.

  Luke opened the emergency exit door and hurried the three women out of the salon. They found themselves in a corridor and took a moment to catch their breath.

  “What happened?” Ann asked. “How could the runway collapse like that?”

  Luke said, “God only knows! But it’s the biggest disaster I’ve ever seen. Unbelievable. The underpinning just crumpled away like it was made of cardboard.”

  “I saw it ripple earlier,” Geo said at last, her voice hoarse with emotion. “Then I decided I’d imagined it. Obviously I hadn’t. I should have told somebody. I could have prevented this.” Tears came into her eyes.

  Luke took hold of her arm consolingly. “Who would you have told? And who would have listened? Or believed you? Tell me that.”

  Geo said, “You must be hurt, Luke. You’ve got blood all over your face.” She opened her bag, took out some loose tissues. “Here,” she said, handing them to him. “They’re clean.”

  He wiped his face and reassured her. “I’m not hurt. But someone near me was badly cut by a piece of metal . . . that’s how I got blood on myself.”

  “We have a car and driver outside,” Rebecca said. “Can we take you somewhere?”

  “Thanks, that’s so nice of you, Rebecca, but I have a car,” Geo murmured and hugged her and Ann. “Thank you so much for helping me. I was sort of . . . frozen.”

  They chatted for a moment longer, and then the two women walked down the corridor. Geo said, “They were terrific.” She looked at Luke. “Do you think we should go back inside, try to help?”

  He shook his head vehemently. “There’s nothing we can do, kiddo. A lot of the hotel security men were rushing in as we were getting out, and we heard the sirens. Proper help is in there now. We’d only be in the way.”

  Geo said slowly, her voice shaking, “Thank God M wasn’t on the runway. She could have been killed.”

  “She’s just had a narrow escape.” Luke shuddered. Taking hold of Geo’s arm, he led her swiftly down the corridor, explaining, “I’m going to sit you down in the hotel lobby, and then I’ll go and see what’s happening, look for M.”

  “But everything must have been all right backstage, don’t you think?” Geo said, her face filled with anxiety.

  Luke nodded. “I think so. I hope so. Which one of her security men was with her?”

  “It was Stuart. Craig stayed with the car. He’s parked nearby. I have his cell number. I’m to call when we need him.”

  Nodding, Luke opened another emergency exit door, and they found themselves walking into the lobby. There were many people milling around, but Geo saw Stuart almost immediately. He was taller than most. She hurried over to him, dragging Luke with her.

  Relief spread across Stuart’s face when he became aware of Geo approaching. “M sent me to look for you,” he said. “But they wouldn’t let me into the salon. Security’s very tight. Police are in there already.”

  “M’s all right, isn’t she?” Geo asked, peering at him.

  “Yes. She’s already in the car. Waiting for us. She sprained her ankle earlier, that’s why she wasn’t on the stage or the runway when it collapsed.”

  “I’m glad she sprained it,” Luke exclaimed. “That’s why she’s still alive.”

  Stunned by the disaster wh
ich had just occurred, Jean-Louis Tremont was managing to hang on to his self-control. Despite the hysteria rising inside, he spoke in a steady voice to Inspector Raymond Letort. The inspector had been one of the first policemen to arrive on the scene from the nearest gendarmerie.

  “C’est un catastrophe,” Jean-Louis said, his expression dour. “Never in my entire career have I known anything to happen like this. C’est incroyable.”

  Inspector Letort nodded and escorted the designer to a quieter corner backstage. He said sympathetically, “It is indeed horrendous, Monsieur Tremont, an overwhelming tragedy. Now, monsieur, tell me exactly what occurred, from your point of view. S’il vous plaît.”

  “It happened in an instant.” Jean-Louis shook his head, still disbelieving. “I came out onto the stage. It was the end of the show. I was going to thank everyone, say a word. I did not open my mouth. The runway—” Jean-Louis paused as his voice began to shake, then he continued more steadily. “I saw the runway collapsing. I became paralyzed. My girls, the models, were falling off. And the male models. Panic. Screaming. It became a chaos. I saw people hurt, blood everywhere. I rushed off the stage into the grand salon, to help. I did my best. It was horrific.”

  “I understand, monsieur. And your brother?”

  “Philippe had been standing in the wings. He heard the commotion, came to investigate. I saw him rush away. I understood he was coming here, to the dressing and makeup area. Our model M was waiting for her car, and Philippe wished to be sure she was all right.”

  “She was not on the catwalk?” the inspector asked, a brow lifting in surprise.

  “Ah, non. M had had a small accident backstage. She sprained her ankle.”

  “She was lucky, n’est-ce pas?”

  “That is true,” Jean-Louis agreed.

  “Monsieur Tremont, I have sent for our top antiterrorism unit,” the inspector announced, his voice lowered. “There is something peculiar about this most tragic accident. Runways do not collapse on their own. Not in France. Fashion is big business. I am suspicious.”

  Jean-Louis was silent for a second before asking, “Do you think it was contrived?” He sounded astonished. There was a frown on his face. “Why would someone wish to sabotage my fashion show? Surely not terrorists?”

  “Why not, monsieur? Why not hit a big show like yours? A few hundred people are killed or injured. Extraordinary publicity ensues. Success for the terrorists. Every public event is vulnerable these days, I am afraid.” Inspector Letort’s eyes were sorrowful. “We live in bad times.”

  Before Jean-Louis could respond, Philippe came hurrying over to them, accompanied by two men. Inspector Letort greeted one of them. “Ah, there you are, Arnould,” he said, and looking at Jean-Louis, he explained, “This is my colleague Inspector Henri Arnould.”

  Jean-Louis nodded. The two men shook hands, and the designer greeted the other man next. He was the hotel manager, Thierry Marchand, and Jean-Louis now introduced him to Inspector Letort; then he brought Philippe forward, explaining, “This is my brother, Inspector, Philippe Tremont.”

  Once all of the introductions were over, Inspector Letort gathered the group in a far corner where it was totally quiet. They discussed the situation in detail. Inspector Arnould explained that the police had discovered that the metal underpinning of the wooden scaffold had been tampered with. Extensively.

  Arnould continued: “The bolts and nuts securing the metal parts which held the wooden platform had been loosened, and many had been removed in strategic places. The weight of the models walking on it for over an hour and then the weight of twelve people on it together brought the structure down.”

  Letort turned to Thierry Marchand, and asked, “When was the runway built, monsieur?”

  “Last night, Inspector. And I must point out that security is excellent in the hotel. When the construction company hired to do the job finished, they immediately left. The grand salon was locked. It was secure, Inspector Letort.”

  “But somebody entered that room,” Arnould announced, sounding positive. “In my opinion it was a terrorist. Or a terrorist group.”

  “I agree,” Inspector Letort said. “There is no other possible explanation.”

  At this moment Jean-Louis noticed Kate Morrell and Peter Addison walking toward him. Excusing himself, he went to meet them. He was appalled by Kate’s appearance. She had blood all over her clothes and face and looked as distressed as he felt. Peter was also disheveled and grim-looking, his suit covered in dust and blood.

  “Kate, Peter. Thank you. It was good of you to go into the salon. You are not hurt in any way?”

  “We’re both fine,” Kate answered, her voice slightly hoarse. “Which is more than I can say for a lot of other people. There have been many casualties, Jean-Louis.”

  “How many have been killed?” the fashion designer asked. “I can’t bear to think about it.”

  Kate was silent, shook her head.

  “How many people have been injured, Peter? How many are dead?” he asked again, staring at the PR man.

  “We don’t know yet, J.L. The ambulances took part of the audience away. And all of the models. Sophie has been injured, but not killed. It’s a catastrophic situation.”

  Jean-Louis remained silent. He appeared beaten down.

  Philippe came to join them, looking gray under his tan.

  Kate filled him in, but he already knew most of it since he had been helping out at the other end of the salon. “It beggars belief. I don’t know how such a thing could happen in Paris,” he said. “The fashion industry employs thousands and is a big moneymaker. Also, the construction companies who specialize in building the runways are skilled and responsible. How could such an accident happen here?”

  “You know the police don’t think it’s an accident,” Jean-Louis finally said wearily. He looked at Kate and told her, “The construction was tampered with. Nuts and bolts were removed from the metal underpinnings.”

  “The police believe it’s an act of terrorism,” Philippe interjected. “And perhaps it is.”

  “Oh, my God!” Kate exclaimed, her face turning white.

  Thirty-three

  James Cardigan stared at Larry when he opened the door of the suite, then exclaimed, “Good God, you’re as white as a sheet. Are you all right?”

  “Almost, now,” Larry replied, ushering James into the sitting room and closing the door. “But I wasn’t earlier. Come on in and sit down, and I’ll explain.”

  The two men sat opposite each other, and Larry continued, “I got frightfully sick on location this afternoon, started to vomit. Immediately after lunch. The nurse attached to the production unit is convinced I ate something that was contaminated. I couldn’t stop vomiting for ages, but when I was a bit more stable and able to leave the set, the assistant director brought me back to the hotel.”

  “What did you eat?” James asked, still regarding him intently. “Shellfish can do it, you know, or eggs, which are frequently tainted. They can give you salmonella.”

  Larry shook his head, grimaced, and then laughed hollowly. “I had both, I’m afraid. I had Parisian eggs; you know what they are, you like them, too. Hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise and anchovies. After that I had a shrimp salad. Bad combination, no?”

  “I concur with that!” James answered. “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Yes, the doctor for the production company, who’s on call, came over about two hours ago, when I first got back, and confirmed what the nurse said. He gave me a prescription, which the concierge had filled, mainly because he was worried I might get another attack of diarrhea. As all the vomiting has ceased, he says the best thing for me is to do nothing. Because everything bad is out of my stomach. He prescribed hot black tea, no milk or lemon. Or water and dry biscuits or dry toast if I get hungry.”

  “How are you feeling now, old chap?” James peered at him, his eyes narrowing as he said, “You look a bit done in, I’m sorry to say.”

  “I am. But listen, funn
ily enough, I’m beginning to feel better. Empty inside but better.”

  James threw him an odd look and opened his mouth to say something, then stopped abruptly. He sat back in the chair, let out a long sigh, crossed his legs.

  “What is it?” Larry asked. “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

  “I just hope M doesn’t think you took something, such as prescription pills, earlier.”

  “Oh, come on, James, she won’t think that! I was at work, for God’s sake, and she is well aware I am the most serious and professional of actors. In any case, I promised I’d never take any kind of pill ever again, and I don’t break my promises.”

  “Sorry, Larry, I didn’t mean to suggest you’d fallen off the wagon. Look, I must digress. Just before you called me, I was about to ring you on your cell. I didn’t know whether you were back from the set or not. I wanted to let you know that M had sprained her ankle earlier and wasn’t able to finish the charity fashion show. So she—”

  “Is she all right?” Larry cut in swiftly, leaning forward, fixing those staggeringly blue eyes on James. “Oh, God, she must have been attempting to reach me on my cell. I’ve had it turned off all afternoon. I wasn’t able to cope with answering it.”

  “She did try to reach you several times, and rang me, asked me to get in touch. About fifteen minutes ago. She also wanted me to tell you she was okay, and to explain about the catastrophe at the hotel.”

  “Catastrophe?”

  James realized Larry had not heard anything, and he explained, “Something horrifying happened at the end of the fashion show. Around six o’clock.” In his usual precise way, James relayed to Larry as much as he knew about the incident at the Hôtel Cygne Noir.

  A shudder passed through Larry, and he said, “What a terrible tragedy. How many people have been hurt?”

  “I don’t know yet. I got my information in bits and pieces, first from Stuart, then Craig, and a short while ago from Geo, who was there when it happened. Sophie, the top model, did get hurt, but she’s alive. Fortunately Geo and Luke are okay. They managed to get out through an emergency exit. They are in the car with M and your security chaps, en route to the hotel as we speak.”