At this hour, and in her present state of mind, it did not even strike Loraine as an odd way to pass ammunition.
She could only think about Elinor—and the damage she could do or not do, as she chose.
And yet, if Elinor did want to make trouble, why had she not said something right away—there in the restaurant? Loraine’s discomfiture would have been complete.
Was it—and here, for a moment, the first gleam of hope entered the argument—was it perhaps that she was no more anxious than Loraine to have Paul brought into the conversation? After all, he could hardly be a comfortable topic, so far as she and her fiancé were concerned. And certainly not with Mrs. Otway standing by.
Loraine sat down on the side of her bed and, for the first time since her telephone number had been mentioned, she felt her tense nerves relax. Whatever Elinor had thought—and surely even she must have felt some sort of curiosity, if nothing else—she had deliberately chosen to say nothing. That in itself was hopeful.
It was not, of course, possible to feel entirely reassured. But at last Loraine felt sufficiently calmed to go to bed and, since she was young and healthy, almost immediately to sleep.
The next morning much of her anxiety returned at the moment of waking. But she then discovered that she had overslept, and over a hurried breakfast and a rush to work, she had no time to indulge in anxious reflection.
The day—like so many days now—was spent almost entirely in designing and fitting. And although part of the time she felt she could willingly drop on the ground and stay there, she was also sustained by the proud and exhilarating thought that all this meant she was an element—possibly a vital element—in the magical concern, the new Florian Collection.
She had so successfully thrust her own affairs to the back of her mind that her heart gave an uncomfortable skip or two when, at the end of the afternoon, Florian said gravely:
“Sit down, mademoiselle. I have something to say to you.”
He seldom called her “mademoiselle”, and she thought at first that he was going to reprimand her for something. But almost immediately she realized that he was merely impressing her with the importance of the occasion.
He leaned back against his desk, his arms folded, and regarded her with those uncomfortably penetrating grey eyes.
“You have seen enough now,” he told her, “to realize that twice a year every great dress house goes on fresh trial before a pretty pitiless audience. None of us is exempt. And to every one of us the most important weapon in the contest is the element of surprise. That is why, if secrets leak out before their time, the whole Show can be a failure. You understand this?”
“Yes, monsieur.” She was deeply impressed and her tone showed it.
“Good. Now, as with a book or a play, a dress show requires a dramatic opening and a heart-catching close. In certain circumstances, it can survive a tame opening, though this is dangerous. But no dress show has ever survived a finale which is either tame or lacking in the element of surprise. This, then, throws upon the Wedding Dress”—his tone conferred capital letters upon it—“and on the one who wears it, the heaviest responsibility in the whole show.”
He paused again, and she said, “Yes, monsieur,” in a subdued whisper.
“I have decided, mademoiselle, to let you wear the wedding dress in the new Collection,” Florian stated with telling simplicity. And so effective was his way of making the announcement that, although Loraine had entertained hopes of this ever since she had overheard his words to Madame Moisant, the confirmation of her hopes actually brought tears into her eyes. A tribute which Florian obviously both marked and approved.
“Monsieur, I—I’m overwhelmed. I—don’t know what to say,” Loraine gasped at last.
“Then say nothing,” Florian advised her drily. “For that is what you are going to have to contrive to do, in the strictest sense, during the next two or three weeks. First, I want you to say nothing about my choice to the other girls, until I choose to make the matter known myself. There will be enough trouble then—as always,” he added sardonically. “Then to no one—to absolutely no one, you understand—must you disclose one single detail of the dress itself.”
“Oh, Monsieur Florian, I wouldn’t dream of it!”
“Oh, yes, you would. Just like everyone else,” he assured her. “After a while you will become so obsessed with the secrecy of it all that this is exactly what you will do—dream of it. And then you will wake, sweating with terror lest you have been talking in your sleep. At least, I hope you will,” he added callously. “For this will show that you have the right attitude of mind.”
“Monsieur, I promise you that not the smallest hint shall escape me,” Loraine declared earnestly, and only with difficulty did she keep herself from crossing her heart, so impressive did the occasion seem.
“Bon!” He smiled at her, suddenly and brilliantly. “And, in return, I will promise you that every man—but every one—who attends the opening show will see in you the perfect, the inevitable bride.”
“Oh!” She laughed and colored. “That could be rather embarrassing, though, couldn’t it?”
“Not,” Florian assured her drily, “if you keep your head. See only that Monsieur Philippe accompanies his admirable maman on this occasion.”
“Oh!” she said again, and this time she went scarlet, for she suddenly realized what Florian meant. “But—but, Monsieur Florian, his fiancée will be coming too.”
“Yes, I remember. You told me as much. And, as I told you, we will try to find something to please her. But not the wedding dress, chérie. Not the wedding dress.”
And, on that, Florian smilingly dismissed her.
Loraine walked home in a mood of jubilation. Of faintly guilty jubilation perhaps, for she kept on reminding herself that it was both mean and paltry to have designs—even in thought—on another girl’s fiancé.
But then it was not as though she were called on to take any sort of action, one way or the other. All she had to do was to wear the Florian wedding dress—in all probability the wedding dress of the year—and if the results were indeed as sensational as Florian had prophesied, what possible reason would she have to reproach herself?
True, she was by no means out of the wood with regard to the telephone incident the previous evening. A cloud fell on her spirits when she recalled this, and reluctantly she faced the fact that Philip might, even now, be thinking of her as a secretive, oddly deceitful young person who had inexplicably withheld a tricky piece of personal information.
She felt scared all over again at that thought. But the interview with Florian must have bolstered up her morale even more than she had realized. For, when she readied home, she suddenly decided that, rather than wait for the blow to fall, she would boldly telephone Philip herself and judge from his attitude whether or not Elinor had chosen to say anything.
No sooner had she dialled his number than her courage deserted her and she would have replaced the receiver if Philip’s voice had not almost immediately sounded in her ear.
“Hallo. It’s Loraine,” she said, on a little gasp of mingled fright and excitement.
“Loraine, dear! How nice to hear from you. Are you at Florian’s?”
“No, I’m—at home.” She actually gulped in her relief for—there was no doubt of it—his interest was as affectionate and undisturbed as ever. “I just wanted to ring and thank you once more for a perfectly lovely evening.”
“It was lovely for me too,” he assured her. “We must do it again, my dear. Don’t let Florian work you so hard that there’s no time to play.”
“I won’t.” She laughed gaily—although, of course, there was not the slightest prospect of her affecting Florian’s plan of work one way or the other, and they knew it. “Give my love to your mother, won’t you?”
“Of course. And keep some evenings free for me—for us. How are you fixed for next week-end?”
“There’s—nothing at the moment.”
“Then
we’ll arrange something,” he declared. “I’ll call you up in a day or two, dear.”
And then he bade her goodbye, and Loraine, glowing with happiness and breathless with relief, replaced the receiver. Either Elinor had, for her own reasons, said nothing to him about that curious business of the telephone number. Or else—even pleasanter possibility—he attached no importance to it, in any case.
She sat there for a minute or two longer, lost in pleasant reflection. Then, just as she rose to go and get ready for dinner, the telephone bell rang again.
Immediately there flashed into her mind the delightful possibility that it was Philip ringing with some new and enchanting suggestion, and she leaned forward and snatched up the receiver once more.
But it was not Philip’s warm, friendly voice which sounded in her ear. It was Elinor’s cool, well-pitched tones which said:
“Is that Loraine Darnell?”
All Loraine’s instinct was to say it was not and replace the receiver. But she knew instinctively that Elinor had already recognized her when she said “Hallo”. So, although her heart began to beat heavily, she replied, as brightly as she could:
“Why, yes. Is that Elinor?”
“It is.” Very slight pause. Then—“I expect you know why I’m contacting you.”
“N-no. Is it something special?”
“It may not be my business. But I should very much like to know why you’re living in Paul Cardine’s apartment,” Elinor’s voice stated calmly and categorically.
“Oh!” Something in the wording made Loraine feel so indignant that she blurted out the truth immediately. “He’s my guardian.”
“Paul is?” For a moment even Elinor seemed put off her stroke. “But why doesn’t anyone know about it? Philip hasn’t the faintest idea, has he?”
“No!” In spite of all her efforts, that sounded sharp and anxious. “I thought it would be more—comfortable all round if I didn’t enlarge on the position.”
“But you must have gone to quite a lot of invention and—deceit to keep the fact hidden. It hardly seems worth while.”
“I thought it was,” Loraine stated, more calmly now because she was beginning to recover herself.
“Yes—I see you might,” was the thoughtful reply, and immediately Loraine felt terribly anxious again, because of the odd note in the other girl’s voice.
Once more there was a slight pause. Then Elinor said, deliberately and distinctly:
“I don’t believe in a lot of plain speaking, usually. But there are occasions when it’s essential, and I think this is one of them. You’re very keen to marry Philip yourself, aren’t you? No, don’t bother to answer. I know, simply by watching you. And of course his mother is on your side because she knows she can manage you, whereas I would stand no nonsense—”
“Please don’t say such things! It isn’t as though—”
“Just a moment. Let me finish. You didn’t tell Philip you were Paul’s ward because it would have made meetings very difficult, perhaps impossible. I don’t blame you. I’d have done the same in your place. But I’m not in your place, Loraine, and I’m looking after my side of things. I have enough stacked against me with Mrs. Otway to handle. I don’t intend to have you around too. Make what excuses and explanations you like—but keep out of Philip’s way for the time being.”
“Keep out of Philip’s way? How dare you say anything so—so silly and impertinent to me!” exclaimed Loraine indignantly.
“Because I hold the trump card,” was the cool and literal reply, made in such a matter-of-fact tone that it carried complete conviction. “You’d better be so busy at Florian’s during the coming weeks that you have no time or energy for seeing people. Or else—”
“Or else—what?” Loraine was fascinated into asking.
“Or else I shall explain to Philip that I find you’re living in Paul Cardine’s flat, in circumstances you’re anxious to keep hidden from your closest friends,” replied Elinor.
Then the line went dead, and Loraine was left staring in front of her, the silent receiver still in her hand.
CHAPTER SIX
FOR a whole minute Loraine remained absolutely still. Then she slowly replaced the receiver and said out loud:
“But that’s ridiculous! My position here is perfectly clear and straightforward. She knows it. And she knows it would be simple enough to explain that fact to Philip. At least—”
Loraine passed her hands over her face and smoothed back her hair in sudden fresh perplexity.
It was true there was little question of any actual damage to her reputation. Elinor knew, as well as she did, that the unpleasant way of putting things merely served to highlight the peculiar secrecy of her behavior. But, once the subject had been broached—and broached in that startling and distasteful manner—Philip would be in no mood to take an indulgent view of her extraordinary lack of candor.
Her whole conduct in concealing the position would appear questionable, just when she most wanted to stand well with him. And Philip might even—prompted by Elinor—take the view that her curious behavior was all part of some joint scheming with his mother.
Her cheeks began to burn at the very thought of trying to explain things to him, in the certain knowledge that Elinor intended to put her in as bad a light as possible. Unless, that was, Loraine accepted her terms and merely kept out of the picture for the time being.
To do so would, she knew, be little better than yielding to moral blackmail. And, somehow, the fact that Elinor appeared so cool and civilized made these tooth-and-claw methods seem all the more shocking.
On the other hand, deep down inside her, Loraine felt a curious pang of reluctant sympathy for her adversary. As Elinor had said, with devastating candor, she had enough to contend with in Mrs. Otway, without having Loraine to confuse the issue. And, for good or ill—whether one liked it or not—she was the girl Philip had asked to be his wife, and that did entitle her to some sort of prior rights.
One might justify one’s inmost hopes with the specious arguments that Elinor had been ruthless over her engagement, that she would not really make Philip happy, even that his own mother thought the whole thing a mistake. But one could not justify any active interference.
“I wasn’t really going to attempt that, anyway,” Loraine thought defensively. “But then she was not to know that. She probably thinks of me as more or less hand-in-glove with Mrs. Otway. Or does she not think about my attitude at all? Is it just that she knows in her heart that if Philip saw too much of me he might well change his mind about marrying her?”
She got up with a sigh, as Mimi looked in to say rather severely that her dinner was ready. And then, for the third time that evening, the telephone bell rang and, half-scared, half eager, Loraine picked up the receiver and said breathlessly:
“This is Loraine Darnell speaking.”
“Loraine, dear!” It was Mrs. Otway’s clear, well-pitched voice which answered. “How fortunate that I caught you in. I’ve just been talking to Philip and he tells me you’ll be free at the week-end. I thought it would be so nice if we went into the country on Sunday and—”
“Mrs. Otway, I’m so sorry!” She had no idea just what was prompting her to say this. “But I remembered after I spoke to Philip that I shan’t be free, after all.”
“You won’t be free?” Disappointment sounded in Mrs. Otway’s voice, but, even more, the note of one who was irritated by fresh opposition to some cherished plan. “But couldn’t you make yourself free?”
“I’m—afraid not.”
“How disappointing!” She could almost see Mrs. Otway frowning and biting her lip. “Then I wonder what about Saturday. Perhaps we could—”
“I’m almost sure I shall have to be at Florian’s on Saturday,” Loraine explained quickly. And, before Mrs. Otway could query that, she hurried on: “At present, you know, it’s difficult to say when we shall be free. These are very important weeks, as you know.”
“Yes, of course.” The sh
arpness in Mrs. Otway’s tone suggested that no one need think she required instruction on the self-evident facts of fashion-house life. “Dear me! how vexing. Philip will be extremely disappointed, Loraine. You’re quite sure you couldn’t rearrange Sunday’s plans?”
“I don’t see how I can. I’m so very sorry.”
It was quite true. She was sorry. Desperately sorry. But something stronger than herself—whether it was conscience or fear she could not say—stiffened her resolution.
There was a slight pause. Then Mrs. Otway said, in a significant sort of voice:
“Loraine dear, I think you’ll understand me when I say that it could be a very important occasion. If I may put it quite crudely—you have made an impression it would be wise to follow up. Can’t you really do anything about making Sunday free?”
“I'm very sorry, but—no.” There was a slight catch in her voice, but she held firmly to her original purpose.
“Well, then—there’s nothing to do about it.” It was obvious that Mrs. Otway found the greatest difficulty in realizing that she was not going to carry her point, after all. “We’ll have to see what else—but it’s a pity. Timing is so important in these things.”
Loraine was tempted to ask shortly, “What things?” But she felt this might involve her in even more difficult conversation. And so she repeated once again—rather inadequately—how sorry she was, and the telephone call ended in an atmosphere of mutual dissatisfaction.
“It isn’t only because I’m afraid of Elinor’s threats,” Loraine assured herself, as she sat alone later in Paul’s charming dining-room, doing less than justice to Mimi’s admirable dinner. “It’s partly the inner conviction that I have no special right to thrust myself into the picture, anyway.”
If she had been there, naturally and passively, it would have been a different matter. But, by a stroke of luck, Philip’s fiancée had managed to make an issue of the whole thing. She had thrust the onus of aggressive action on Loraine. And aggressive action in this case was simply not justified.
The Wedding Dress Page 9