She smiled and walked up the steps. From the safety of distance she turned to look at him. "Good night, Paul, and pleasant designs!"
CHAPTER THREE
Alix's sleep that night was disturbed by unpleasant dreams in which Dina participated. She awoke heavy- eyed and unrefreshed from a particularly confusing one in which Dina, wearing her last-act dress of lavender and blue, was about to leap from the stage into the arms of a smiling Henri Duval.
The events of the previous night came flooding into her mind and she hastily sat up and pushed aside the covers. As she washed and dressed she heard the continuous ringing of the telephone but resolutely ignored it. Having one's office in one's home had the advantage of cutting out tedious journeys, but it also destroyed one's privacy.
She was having her breakfast at the small kitchen table when she heard her secretary arrive, but again she resolutely refused to call her in. Only after she had drunk a second cup of coffee did she stack the dishes in the sink and go into the office.
Miss Wilkinson looked up from her typewriter. "Eight calls from various newspapers and magazines and three from local radio. Most of them anxious to interview Dina and all of them showing interest in Paul Duval."
Alix pulled a face. "I'm not sure he'll take kindly to being interviewed."
"He can't be that obstinate."
"Can't he?" Alix walked through into her own office. "Come in with your pad, Willie. I want to give you some letters before going over to the salon."
She was still busy dictating when the door flew open and Dina came in. In a navy linen suit with lemon silk blouse, she looked radiant with health and high spirits.
"Sorry to burst in on you like this, darling, but I'm on my way to a photo session and wanted to explain what happened last night. Henri insisted we go somewhere quieter, but you were on the other side of the floor and we couldn't catch your attention."
"It didn't matter to me," Alix said truthfully, "but Paul was rather hurt."
"It was his turn, darling. After all, Henri was hurt first. That's why I was nice to him."
"So you told me last night," Alix reminded her. "But don't get your fingers burned with Henri. He's an aging Casanova with a penchant for young women."
"Like most men!" Dina retorted, perching on the corner of the desk. "But I should imagine that up to now Henri's young women have been his little seamstresses."
"That's safer for him."
"I thought you were worrying about me." Blue eyes twinkled with mischief. "You're not very consistent, darling."
"Let's say I'm worried about both of you."
"You've no reason to be. He's a sweet old poppet and far less boring than the young financial wizards who've been pestering me." Dina smoothed her skirt down over her softly curved hips. "Last night he promised to design some clothes for me. His Collection was awful so it'll be interesting to see what he comes up with."
"You'll soon be telling me you're going out with him in order to give his talent the spark of youth!"
Dina burst out laughing. "What a fabulous idea! May I quote you on that?"
"No," Alix said, smiling but firm. "You may not."
"But there's a lot of truth in what you've said," came the serious reply. "After all, a painter's often inspired by a model, so why can't a dress designer be inspired in the same way? I adored Paul's clothes the moment I saw them but the ones he actually designed for my play were a hundred times better. It could be exactly the same with Henri."
"It could be," Alix said grudgingly. "But don't play father against son; it isn't fair."
"Do you think Paul was jealous last night?" A slight smile played around the corners of Dina's mouth. "He's such a reserved man that it's hard to know what he's thinking. It might be fun to find out." She saw Alix's expression. "Oh darling, don't be stuffy! A girl can be interested in two men at the same time—particularly when they're as fascinating as the Duvals. I never expected to hear you lecturing me like a suburban housewife. Anyone would think you were jealous!"
"I'm jealous of your good name," Alix snapped, surprised at the tone of her own voice. "You pay me to protect it."
"My name only," Dina replied. "Not my person."
She walked out on a wave of perfume and Alix stared at the closed door thoughtfully.
It was early afternoon before she managed to get to the salon. She went immediately to see Henri Duval. As always she was struck by the virility of the man, so much in contrast to the faunlike grace of his son.
"Ah, Alix," he greeted her. "I've been wanting to congratulate you. It was a brilliant idea to bring Dina here for her clothes. I'm sure great things will come of it. Paul's already had a call from Bertie Sheridan asking him to do the dresses for his new musical."
"I can't see Paul designing clothes for a musical," Alix said with a slight smile.
"We'll do them together. Paul will design the more simple ones and I'll take care of the satin and sequins!" He spoke with amusement, and she relaxed, for the first time feeling more at ease with him.
"I saw Dina this morning," she said casually.
"So did I." He was equally casual. "When I first engaged you I said we needed a younger clientele, and Dina will set the trend. I intend to design all her personal clothes. It will be very good for our business."
"She'll certainly make a lovely clotheshorse," Alix said deliberately.
"She certainly will."
Henri's eyes, a no less vivid blue than Dina's, looked at her blandly, and for the first time Alix realized how similar he and Dina were despite the disparity in their ages. They both had the same determination to get what they wanted, the same belief in their charm, the same confidence in their talent.
The door opened behind her and she turned to see Paul. He hesitated when he saw her, then, as if remembering they were now friends, smiled and came forward, extending his hand with the slightly foreign gesture that reminded Alix that though he had been born in England, he was half-French.
"Dina had excellent reviews," he said at once, "and a couple of them even mentioned the clothes."
Alix smiled. "Your father's just told me about Bertie Sheridan's offer. I'm glad you decided to accept."
Paul frowned. "I don't want to get caught up in the theatrical or film world. I'm not designing for the elite few but for all women."
"It's the elite few who set the fashion that all women follow," Henri interrupted. "If you design only for the mass market, you'll end up with uniformity. You will automatically make clothes that are easy to copy and cheap to make. But if you design for the top end of the market you will always be striving for perfection."
"Mary Quant designed for the mass market," Alix commented, "and she didn't do too badly!"
"She turned women into a mini army," Henri exploded. "Look-alike females with no personalities of their own!"
Alix subsided, acknowledging the sense of his comment. When she least expected it, he showed perception.
"Let's not talk any more about clothes," Henri said. "I really wanted to tell Alix about our barbecue. We have wonderful gardens at my country home and each year I give a party for my friends. I generally do it in late summer but I thought it would be a good idea to bring it forward and strike while the press iron was hot!"
"That's an excellent idea," Alix said. "If you let me have your guest list I'll tick off those that are newsworthy."
"Splendid! I thought of holding it the weekend after next. Dina's play is changing theaters and she'll be free for that Friday and Saturday. I give a dinner party on the Friday for a few intimate friends and we have the barbecue on Saturday. You'll come for the weekend, of course."
Alix thought of an entire weekend spent watching Dina pivoting between Henri and Paul and wished she could refuse the invitation. But good sense won the day and she nodded.
"I'd like to bring Peter North with me. He's my assistant and generally deals with the photographers."
"Bring anyone you like," Henri Duval said graciously. "And come down
early on Friday. If it's a nice weekend you might as well make the most of it."
She glanced at Paul but he was bent over his father's desk, studying the sketches that lay there. Stifling a sigh, she rose and left.
It was a bright June afternoon when she and Peter drove into the village of Croxham, a few miles beyond Watford. Croxham Manor lay at the end of a winding lane on the far side of the village, and they drove past a gray stone church, half-hidden by the crouching shapes of ancient yew trees, and turned into a heavily rutted road. After some twenty yards the hedges on their left gave way to high walls of weathered stone, blotched with lichen and overhung by tangled branches, and soon they came to imposing wrought-iron gates, guarded on both sides by stone lions supporting shields.
Peter slipped out to open them and Alix nosed her car into an avenue of trees whose branches interlaced above their heads. The driveway wound its way through a green twilight pierced by an occasional shaft of gold, until a final twist of the wheel brought them out into the sunshine again and they saw the gray stone facade of an eighteenth-century manor facing them across emerald lawns.
"Hardly the setting I envisaged for our couturier," Peter said as he stepped out of the car and surveyed the carved doorway and mullioned windows.
"The house belongs to his wife," Alix said. "It's been in her family for generations."
A butler opened the door to them and they followed him across a paneled hall into a low-ceilinged room with white walls and flowered chintz curtains. Though the day was far from chilly a fire crackled on the hearth, and by the side of it sat a slim woman with a deeply lined face and dark hair streaked with gray. Lounging in an easy chair by the window was Paul Duval, his brown sports coat almost the same color as his hair.
"I hope you had a good journey," he said, rising to greet them. "You're just in time for tea. Mother, this is Miss Alix Smith, who's handling father's publicity, and this is her colleague, Mr…"
"Peter North," Alix finished for him, and the two men shook hands. Alix accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit and settled herself in a wing chair opposite her hostess.
As she stared into the golden brown eyes of Amy Duval, their expression stirred a memory in her mind. What was it? Where had she seen that look before? Paul leaned forward to help himself to another biscuit and she suddenly knew. Those eyes held the same suspicious look he had first given her when they had met in his father's office. Thoughtfully she sipped her tea, and as she put down the cup, smiled warmly at her hostess.
The corners of Mrs. Duval's thin lips lifted a little in response, though the eyes remained cold, and Alix, recalling the many rumors of Henri's infidelities, guessed that she was being seen as another of them.
Resolutely she set about the task of disabusing Mrs. Duval of her suspicions. She described the work she was doing and told how Dina Lloyd's visit to the salon had ended in Paul's designing the costumes for her new play. It was only at the mention of her son's name that Amy Duval came to life.
"Paul's taking me to see the play next week," she said. "I can't wait to see his clothes."
"They're wonderful," Alix said warmly.
"So is the play." Paul spoke directly behind Alix. "I'm sure you'll like Dina, mother. She's a lovely person."
Surprised to hear him enthuse so openly over Dina, Alix glanced around at him, noticing that though his voice was relaxed, his hands were clenched at his sides.
"You'll soon be meeting her for yourself," he went on. "Father's driving her down. She had to go to the salon for a late fitting and he wanted to supervise it."
"Doesn't she have to be in London for the play?" Mrs. Duval asked without expression.
"It's moving to another theater and two performances have been canceled."
"I see."
Alix saw, too, and wished wholeheartedly that Dina had refused this weekend invitation. Somehow she could not see Mrs. Duval taking kindly to her egotistical, high-spirited friend. She was relieved when Peter stepped over and began to ask Paul questions about his home, and as if anxious to change the subject, Paul spoke at some length on the history of Croxham Manor.
"I was born in this house and so was Paul," Mrs. Duval interposed gently. "But Henri doesn't care for it. He finds it gloomy. If he had his way he'd turn it into a French chateau with formal gardens and an ornamental lake!"
Alix could not help wondering if Henri had also tried to introduce a little Gallic chic into his wife's wardrobe. If so, he had singularly failed, for Mrs. Duval wore a nondescript skirt and sweater, a string of pearls her only ornament. Hardly the garb one expected from the wife of a world-famous couturier.
The conversation passed on to gardening, which was evidently a passion with Mrs. Duval, and though twilight was beginning to fall, she insisted on showing them the grounds.
It was when they were returning from this expedition that the Rolls swung up the driveway with Henri at the wheel. Stopping at the entrance, he and Dina got out.
"What a fabulous place!" she exclaimed. "I'd no idea you lived in one of the stately homes of England!"
Henri glanced quickly at his wife, who was coming toward them, and even Dina's ebullience was stilled by the hostility in the woman's eyes.
"Sorry to be late, my dear." Lightly he touched his lips to the sallow cheek held toward him, then introduced the girl by his side.
Amy Duval surveyed Dina from the top of her red gold hair t6 the tips of her elegant shoes. "You must be tired after your journey. I'll have you shown to your room."
Dina smiled but said nothing, and Alix, watching the tableau, felt her nerve ends tighten.
As she slipped into a black lace dress later that evening, she would have given anything to be in her own home. Although Mrs. Duval's suspicions were now diverted from herself as a possible girl friend of her husband's, it would be almost as uncomfortable to have to watch the woman's misery as she saw Henri paying court to Dina. If only the girl would stop encouraging him! But she knew this was a forlorn hope. Dina could never resist the temptation to practice her charms on any man.
She was putting the finishing touches to her makeup when Dina came in to see her, looking breathtakingly beautiful in a sheath of primrose silk, with a billowing overskirt of matching organza.
"Do you like my new dress?" she asked.
"It's lovely. Paul's?"
"Henri's." There was a triumphant gleam in the blue eyes as she saw Alix's astonishment. "I told you I'd make a difference to the way he worked, didn't I?"
"I can't believe it! It isn't his style at all."
"It's surprising what a little bit of inspiration can do," came the complacent answer. "Henri's simply bursting with new ideas. He says I've given him back his inspiration."
"What about the little seamstresses you spoke of earlier?" Alix asked swiftly. "Didn't they give it back to him?"
"Not in the same way."
Alix longed to laugh at- Dina's comment, but the proof of it was in the dress in front of her. She came closer and looked at it.
"Don't talk about the dress to Mrs. Duval. She's jealous of her husband and—"
"I'll say she is! Did you see the way she looked at me when Henri introduced us? Afraid I'm going to run off with him, I suppose. Anyway, why shouldn't I talk about the dress? I'm paying Henri to design my clothes. They're not presents from him."
"I'm merely trying to avoid a scene," Alix said composedly.
"I don't see why." Dina surveyed herself in the mirror. "A nice little scene would enliven a boring country weekend!"
On a sigh, Alix led the way out. When Dina was in this particular mood it was useless to argue with her.
When they entered the drawing room they found two other guests already there: a Lady Brandon and her daughter, Fleur, who lived at the nearby hamlet of Croxhma Parva. A close friend of Amy Duval, Ivy Brandon was some years older, with a tall, angular figure and hawklike features. Her graying hair still held traces of its original red and beneath their drooping lids her small, light-colored eyes
darted hither and thither, missing very little that went on around her.
Her daughter had ash-blond hair and appealing gray eyes and could have been exceptionally pretty had her appearance not been spoiled by the deferential, almost subservient manner in which she listened to her mother's every word.
Dinner was served in a dining room hung with tapestries of hunting scenes, and the long polished table was illumined by candles in heavy silver candlesticks that cast dancing shadows on the walls. But while the atmosphere was traditionally English, the cuisine was unmistakably French. Amy Duval might not allow her husband's tastes to dictate the way the manor looked, but she obviously ran it to suit his palate.
Alix was seated next to Paul and though he glanced appraisingly at her white shoulders framed by the black lace, he made no comment. She longed to ask him whether he liked her dress but was afraid his truthful answer would be in the negative. For the most part he watched Dina and his father, who had eyes only for each other, and whenever the girl laughed at one of Henri's jokes, Paul's hands tightened around his fork.
Amy Duval, seated at the head of the table and uncompromisingly unfashionable in black crepe, was a silent hostess who made sure all her guests were well served, but otherwise contributed nothing to the conversation. Not that there was any lack of it, for Lady Brandon held forth in her booming autocratic voice both to Peter and her daughter, and occasionally across the table to Paul.
It was unfortunate that Dina's gravest faux pas should take place at a time when Lady Brandon was tucking in to her dessert, thus allowing everyone's attention to focus on the actress who suddenly noticed the unusual ring of carved jade Henri Duval was wearing on his little finger.
"Why, darling," she said, holding out her slim hands to him, "I've never noticed that before. May I try it on?"
Henri handed it to her and she slipped it on and studied it.
"It looks most effective, don't you think? I'm sure I could have it made smaller."
"I haven't given it to you yet," Henri protested.
"But you will, won't you, darling? I'm mad about jade."
Rachel Lindsay - Designing Man Page 4
