Letter from Paris

by Thérèse

  “Sit down, Lu. Please. I have to tell you something,” he said.

  Hearing the urgency in his voice, Luella put down the dishes and sank back in the chair. “Okay…what do I need to know that can’t wait?” she said, wincing at the grating sound of metal as Peter dragged out the chair opposite her.

  “The man I’ve been seeing…” he began tentatively.

  Luella inhaled sharply. “Yes?”

  “The man is Jean-Luc.”

  Luella stared at him. “Jean-Luc?” she whispered. “Jean-Luc?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes for a few moments then opened them again. “You and Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc?” she said. “What the fuck? What the fuck, Peter?”

  She stopped speaking for a moment, choking on her words. Peter said nothing. “Not only have you managed to screw up my personal life…” she said, “…managed to destroy everything I thought we had. Not only that, but now you’ve managed to fuck with my professional life too.”

  “Lu…I…it wasn’t deliberate. I promise, this isn’t…”

  “You know what. I’m done. Get out, Peter. I mean it. I really do.” She stood up and faced him, her eyes flashing dangerously. “If you stay here a minute longer, I will not be accountable for my actions. Get out, Peter. Get out right now before I lose it completely.”

  Returning to her apartment after a full day of meetings, India was buzzing with adrenalin and at a loss as to how to fill her Friday evening. She needed a distraction, a project, anything to take her mind off of Adam Brooks this weekend.

  The day had given her much to consider. She had experienced an epiphany on the subway home, had come to understand that fashion was not simply about wearing beautiful things. Fashion was an art form in and of itself. The fashion industry was a fundamental force to be reckoned with politically and ethically.

  Fashion involved so much more than the shallow merchandising of clothes or labels. It was not all about Vogue shoots and Italian designers peddling impossible lifestyle aspirations, encouraging greed and ostentation. Sure, an obsession with fashion could lead to eating disorders and overspending, but it turned out that an interest in fashion, such as the one she indeed herself possessed, was more a form of social responsibility.

  No longer would India see fashion as simply a form of self-expression or retail therapy. From this day forward, she would approach all purchases with an understanding of the vital contribution she was making to the survival of the planet. What had once been simply an absorbing pastime, which admittedly bordered on obsession, would now be a contribution to a cause, a responsibility to the earth. Bolstered by this very thought, India went through to her bedroom, a woman on a mission.

  Two hours later, she was regretting her decision to conduct an appraisal of her closet in order to assess the political correctness of its contents. Clearly her shoes were, without exception, unsustainable. She surveyed the Louboutins bought in LA, the Prada sandals from New York, the Repetto ballet slippers from Paris, her nude pumps from LK Bennett as well as several pairs of All Saints boots, K Jacques sandals, Uggs and Lanvin flats that were heaped on her bed. This area had been designated the ‘Dead animals – footwear section’ and she was running out of space.

  A bedside chair, an area designated ‘More dead animals section’ was covered in coats. Unsure where to file it, she placed her Arthur and Fox cashmere jacket lovingly on top of her Cottonier leather biker jacket, pretty sure that cashmere involved the exploitation of a protected species of Himalayan mountain goat.

  Her shirts could remain on their hangers while she tallied them. Silk should never be thrown around, she thought, especially now I know what those worms have sacrificed. Stacking her merino wool and cashmere sweaters on a storage trunk in their protective moth repellant plastic zipper bags, she stopped to think.

  Clearly there was no need to pull out any of her purses. They would never pass muster – Longchamp and Mulberry were not prone to the use of plastic even if given a fancy new name like ‘pleather.’

  She appraised the remaining woolen skirts and silk dresses, ‘garments’ as Victoria would call them.

  Many have died that you might live. She sighed, closing the mirrored doors.

  Opening her underwear drawer and banishing an image of caterpillars in scalding water, India sighed at the memory of the many evenings she had spent with Adam in Los Angeles in her Agent Provocateur negligees, satin corsets and silk stockings.

  Why does everything I do always bring me back to a memory of you? she thought mournfully as she began returning things to their place. There’s the shirt I wore for our very first date, the shoes from that magical night in Malibu, the pashmina you wrapped around me coming out of Chateau Marmont, and the little black dress of Annie’s that I should probably give back to her sometime.

  When she was done, India showered and put on her Gap pajamas, made herself a hot chocolate and climbed into bed. Sipping on the comforting drink, she checked her phone and saw the text from Adam.

  Will be in Saint-Paul de Vence next Tuesday and Wednesday… want to join me at La Colombe d’Or? Can send car to collect from Nice airport.

  India stared at the screen for a moment, then put down her mug and lay back gazing at the ceiling. Suddenly wide-awake, she sat bolt upright and dialed Los Angeles.

  “Hey sis,” Annabelle answered. “How’s it going? What time is it there?”

  India glanced at the bedside clock. “Ten thirty. Is this a good time? Are you still jetlagged from Hawaii? Were you taking a nap?”

  “I’m fine. Wonderful vacay as they say here. The girls have just come back from surf camp in Malibu. That’s the racket you can hear in the background.”

  “Say hello to them for me,” India said, climbing out of bed and hunting under it for her Uggs.

  “Hey girls. Keep it down. Put Clooney outside; he’s making too much noise. India, hold on a second while I let the dog out and get the kids sorted.”

  India could visualize the scene clearly. How she longed right now to be with them all, flopped on one of Annie’s cozy sofas, the afternoon California sunshine streaming through the French windows. She listened to her sister talking to her nieces. “Sandwiches in the fridge…juice usual place, where else? Give me a minute, Bella, can’t you see I’m on the phone? Maria, there you are. Puede terminar la fijacion del almverzo de chicas?”

  “Sorry, India, I’ve just asked Maria to sort the girls out – they’re famished. I’m going to take the phone outside so we can talk properly. Okay, shoot,” she said a few minutes later. “How’s the job? How’s Sarah? What’s going on with Adam?”

  “I was calling about Adam mostly, but now that I think about it and I have you on the phone, let me tell you where we’re up to with the fashion show.”

  India fired her sister a synopsis of the last few weeks and her meetings with the deans of the colleges, avoiding all mention of Henry.

  “I told you you’d be brilliant at this job, didn’t I? See how talented you are? Jean-Luc will definitely pull the crowd and get the media attention,” Annabelle enthused.

  “So Annie,” India took a deep breath, “we need a female presenter too, so…”

  “Don’t tell me, you want me to ask Rihanna for you.”

  “Very funny. Of course not. You know what I’m asking. Will you?”

  “Of course, darling. Text me the date and the details. If I’m free, I’d be delighted. I’m so flattered to be asked. I’ll check the minute Tess gets in tomorrow and get straight back to you.”

  “Wonderful, Annie. That’s brilliant.”

  “So what else has been going on since I’ve been away?”

  “It’s a sad saga.”

  “Adam?”

  “Yes,” India said, fighting back tears as she described the photograph of Adam in Cannes.

  “Thing is, Annie, he’s still texting me as if nothing’s going on. I’ve not answered him for a week or so but now he’s suggest
ing I just fly out to Nice and stay with him at La Colombe D’Or.”

  “It’s beyond beautiful and the artwork will blow your mind,” Annabelle said.

  “I can’t possibly go, not now that I know he’s seeing someone else or at least that he has been with someone else in all probability. I have to hang onto some sense of pride, don’t I?”

  “Darling, I’ve told you how hard it is to keep a relationship going in this business. I think you may be being unrealistic. I mean, you haven’t agreed on monogamy have you? You’re not living together. Maybe you need to see him if only to try to establish some ground rules. But let’s face it…” she lowered her voice, “I keep Joss as close as I can with all those groupies. They’re stalkers, predators. He’s only a man. You’ve heard me say often enough that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder.”

  India remembered how Annabelle stressed about her husband whenever he was on tour with his band. How she would call him frequently, fly out to be with him whenever she could.

  “Adam has always seemed more grounded than most of them,” Annabelle continued, “but maybe it IS time to move on. I don’t think you can do that unless you have a frank conversation with him. You owe it to both of you to do that I think.”

  “That’s what Sarah thinks too.”

  “Talk to him, darling. If it’s over, you’ll have your work to distract you, and if you’re wrong and this girl is just someone he knows, then you’ll have thrown it all away for no good reason.”

  “You’re right,” India said hesitantly. “I’ve had a long week and I’m tired and I’m not thinking straight. I needed this conversation. You always talk such sense, Annie.”

  “So now. How’s Sarah? How many weeks to go?”

  “About six. She’s got it all down: home delivery, maternity leave, childcare. She’s so organized. I don’t know when that happened – being with Damien I suppose.”

  “Uh-oh! Gotta go, darling. I’m needed back on the farm. Bella’s friend and her mother just arrived.”

  India sank back onto the bed and leaned against the pillows, staring at her phone. Finally, she started to key in a text to Adam. Would love to. No, too eager, she thought hitting the delete key. She tried again. Maybe. She stared at the single word and grimaced. Now I sound like I’m dithering.

  Starting over one more time, she typed, Will check with Henry to see if I can get the time off.

  Shit, that’s actually a factor, she thought, leaping up. I’m supposed to be helping send the invitations out for the show. I have a full week of meetings too. Going into the kitchen, she fired up her computer and checked her diary for the coming week.

  Skype with New York, call with Jean-Luc, student presentation, producer’s update, conference call with Entertainment Manager and Director…the list went on.

  That’s going to be hard to unravel, she thought. Where exactly is La Colombe d’Or anyway? Googling the boutique hotel, India sat back with an overwhelming sense of longing. The historic building was set high up in a medieval walled town and each picture threw up the promise of something more inviting than the next. Paintings lined the walls, from Miro to Chagall, each image so evocative. Only thirteen bedrooms, a garden restaurant, a swimming pool discreetly curtained with established hedges, the mahogany-lined dining room, the antique rustic tables, the fig trees, the views. India could barely breathe; how she longed to be there in France and with Adam.

  Going back to her calendar, she felt a drop in her spirit as she looked at all of her commitments. “Thing is, Countess, I’m really loving this job,” she said to the cat curled up at her feet. “It doesn’t even feel like work. I can’t just abandon it now for anyone, not even Adam.”

  India sank back in the chair with a deep sigh. She had a sense of responsibility, didn’t she? You don’t take off for several days without warning just when things are getting busy. “India Butler, for once in your life you’re going to have to be a grown-up,” she said, then fired off a text and pressed ‘send’ before she could change her mind.

  Looked at diary. Too much going on at work. Sorry, can’t make it.

  The reply came in fast.

  Really? Are you sure?

  Yes.

  That sucks.

  . .

  ︵

  India didn’t reply.

  18

  Sitting in Henry’s office the following Monday afternoon waiting for the Skype from New York to begin, India knew that as difficult as it had been, she had made the right call not to go to France. It was as if everything had ramped up several gears now that the show was only a few weeks away. The phones in the office had been ringing off the hook all morning and Samantha had hired an assistant, Patricia, to be her runner.

  India was relieved to be back at work. The weekend had been interminable. The thing is, she’d decided through a fistful of Kleenex, Adam needs to realize I can’t just drop everything to be with him even if things are okay with us and he isn’t seeing someone else.

  Much of Sunday morning had been a pity party on the phone to Sarah and Annabelle followed by an afternoon movie marathon of the most miserable films she could find on Netflix. She had sobbed through three hours of Gone With the Wind followed by Love Story, Sophie’s Choice, The Notebook, and Bambi.

  Samantha jolted her out of her thoughts.” Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” India said. “I have a coffee already.” Henry looks like he could do with a tranquilizer though, she thought, but didn’t say.

  Henry was standing by a wall-mounted screen with a technician and cursing the many attempts it was taking to connect with New York. Finally, a face became visible, and after a few minutes of mime, the sound connected and they were on broadcast.

  A disembodied voice boomed in the room. “Good morning or rather should I say good afternoon?”

  “He looks like he’s at the fairground in the hall of mirrors,” India whispered to Samantha, who smiled back politely and then stared at the screen intently.

  I’m not certain Samantha’s human, India thought. I wonder if she ever gets a fit of the giggles; she’s always so proper.

  Once the technician had realigned the screen, the face became recognizable. Ron Glasser, the producer, was only visible from the waist up. India could see a bald guy in his mid-thirties wearing black horn-rimmed glasses, a starched white shirt and a black jacket.

  I wonder if he’s still in his pajama bottoms, India mused.

  “Hey, good to see you all.” Ron grinned.

  “Hi, Ron. We’re all here. Luella, India, Samantha, Patricia, and myself,” Henry replied.

  “Great. Okay guys, we’re running late and I only have the studio booked for another thirty minutes, so let me bring you up to speed.”

  “Sure,” Henry said. “Fire away.”

  “My job has been to translate and enhance what the students have produced. I hope I’ve captured the spirit and the emotion of their collections. The title ‘Faux Fashion’ is wonderfully obtuse, so I’ve been able to interpret freely. We have here a multidimensional futuristic aesthetic inspired in part by Lagerfield’s Derelicte and also by the interior of the theater.”

  Images of the historic Harvey Theater in Brooklyn appeared on the screen.

  “We chose the venue in part because it is very unique.”

  There are no degrees of unique, India thought, reminded of how she would correct her students on this.

  “The original twentieth century architectural elements have been preserved as you can see. It’s reminiscent of the faded glory of Venice, a deconstructed timeless ruin. It is so purposefully distressed it fired my imagination to think in terms of both the past and the future.”

  India was taken back to a trip to Italy when she was a student. The theater looked for all the world like the Teatro La Fenice, where she had first seen Carmen.

  “This means that we have been able to keep within budget and will be
using the existing proscenium and house as is without the expense of added staging. The models will enter through the tiered seating to the right and down the raked seating on both sides and across the front of the stage to become part of the montage of onscreen images. This has cut the audience down to six hundred from a potential eight hundred seventy-four, but we have room for roving cameras as well as fixed ones. This is vitally important for streaming live on video.”

  Ron then talked them through 3D mock-ups of the staging. “The backdrop is the Steinberg movie screen with digital projection and a seven-point-one Dolby digital sound with forty-two surround speakers.”

  “And the music?” Henry asked, taking a sip of iced tea.

  “It’s on the CD. Do you have it?”

  “We do,” Samantha told him.

  “Okay. Henry will you be joining us for the tech rehearsal and run-through on that Wednesday?”

  “One of us will for sure, Ron.”

  “Okay. Cool. Just let my office know. If you have any more questions you know where to find me.”

  “Great work, Ron. Thank you,” Henry said, bringing Skype to a close when the presentation was over and many more of their questions had been answered.

  “You’re welcome. Look forward to meeting you all. Have a great day.”

  “So what do you think?” Henry said, swiveling his chair to face the assembled team.

  “I’m blown away,” Luella said, visibly animated for the first time that day.

  “It’s so creative,” India agreed. “I was imagining a traditional runway with a T-shape and models strutting up and down, but this is pure theater. It’s absolutely mind blowing.”

  “I agree.” Henry grinned. “It’s going to create exactly the buzz we want. So to bring you up to speed, we have almost a full house for the show. The VIP after-party is set. I can let you have the full acceptance list by the end of the week.”