Paris, July 30, 1953
Dear Madame Dupre,
I know this is only my second letter, but I have been very busy working at odd jobs. Finally I have landed one I'm crazy about—I'm a fashion model in the Maison d'Odile Joly. Really! So I must tell you exactly what goes on there.
First of all, everybody always calls Odile Joly by both names—never just 'Odile' and never 'Madame Joly.' On the other hand, according to those in the know, Jacques Fath is always called just 'Jacques,' Coco Chanel is plain 'Chanel,' Dior is 'Christian,' and Madame Gres is 'Madame Gres.' I'm becoming a storehouse of trivia.
Odile (to save words I'll call her just plain 'Odile,' woe to my fate if she ever finds out) is very short and tiny. As you know, she is known mostly for her suits, although she designs dresses, gowns, and coats, too. You probably also know that she always wears funny little (or big) hats, and that she lives in an apartment in the Plaza Athenee. But did you know that she chain-smokes? Anyway, the atelier is on the Faubourg St.-Honore, in one of those grand buildings Paris is so famous for. She owns the whole building, and the smaller one next door as well. One of the other models told me that over a thousand women work for Odile. Last year she sold more than thirty thousand garments—and you know how expensive they are! A poor family in Saint-Nazaire could live on one of those suits for a year. But this is not Saint-Nazaire. This is Paris!
So far, I have spent most of my time in the atelier. The atelier is everything but the showroom itself. There are many rooms where Odile creates her garments, and she'll work on a dozen different ones at the same time. Usually, though, she works in a big gray- linoleum-floored room. Here's her method. She'll drape yards and yards of shantung or wool or whatever around me and stand back, poke here and there with shears—snip, snip-snip, stand back, snip some more—put a pin here or there, have her whole mouth full of pins (and literally using her own sweater and skirt as pincushions, so that she'll constantly stick herself), and go scampering around the floor on her knees, for heaven's sake, trying to get a view from every angle. This is the way the originals are handled. Odile also has a ready-to-wear line which she exports (mainly to America). Can you imagine—over 500 midinettes copy and sew her garments day and night, day in, day out?
Last week was the first time I set foot in the showroom. That's because I was promoted. I'm still going to continue to be Odile's favorite dressmaker's dummy, I'm afraid—it kills your feet—but I'll be in the winter show as a runway model. Isn't that exciting? I've promised Jeanne and Edmond newspaper and magazine clippings if I'm in them, and I'll send you some, too.
If you want to know what's new on the fashion scene, I'm going to tell you. The favorite item I'm going to model in the show is one of Odile's suits. It's furry alpaca wool, champagne-colored. You wouldn't believe the finishing touches!
As soon as you come to Paris, I'll try to arrange for you to attend one of the shows. The showroom is actually five rooms, all connected by the runway. They are lavishly decorated, and remind me of Chateau Hautecloque. They are all carpeted, and the main room has a big staircase going up to one of Odile's workrooms. The staircase is supposed to be where the superimportant buyers and columnists sit during the shows. The walls of the rooms are white boiserie, and they have theater-type spotlights, crystal chandeliers, and wall sconces with silk shades.
At any rate, that's all the news I have right now. As soon as there's more, I promise to write.
Affectionately,
Hélène
She reread the letter carefully, wondering whether there was anything she should add in a postscript. Briefly she thought of mentioning the intriguing British gentleman she had met at the art gallery, but then thought better of it. She had thought of Nigel quite a bit since then, wishing that she had not had to run off after Guy, but it was too late now. It would be best if she just forgot him, chances being that she would never again run into him. She sighed, wrote out the envelope, and licked the flap shut. It felt good to be able to write the truth for once.
The unventilated dressing room behind the heavy velvet curtain was like an oven. The hot spell had hung over Paris for nearly two weeks now. All Parisians hoped for a cooling rain, but none as much as the models at Odile Joly's. The winter clothes were hot and heavy.
Nervously Hélène looked at her reflection in the three-paneled mirror. She watched as one of the dressers deftly buttoned up the back of her blouse. Then the fat, middle-aged woman stood back, frowned thoughtfully, stepped closer, and began to fuss with the collar. The heavy tweed jacket would be put on only at the last moment. All around the room, the other dressers were helping the models into their clothes. Lining the walls were metal garment racks on casters. On them hung Odile Joly's winter collection for 1953-1954.
For once, Odile Joly was not in the atelier. This was her moment of glory. She stood at the top of the famous circular staircase in the main showroom. From here she could watch everything. She could keep one eye on the models and the other on the most important buyers and the most powerful journalists. But she would watch no one as closely as the creme de la creme. They would be sitting at the places of honor—below her on the sweeping steps of the carpeted staircase.
Odile Joly's face had settled into an inscrutable expression. Despite the heat and the momentous occasion, she was relaxed and calm. Her work was finished, the Collection complete. She knew that it was good. For a moment she closed her eyes. She could feel the crackling excitement that hung in the air like invisible bolts of electricity in the summer skies. It was the same kind of excitement that can be felt in a theater before the curtain goes up. But she could not share in it. Her excitement derived from the pleasure of creating. From cutting. From pinning. From discovering a new style, creating a new pocket, designing a new button.
She looked down at the carpeted models' catwalk. It was laid out like a figure X. The center of the X was in the main room, and each end of the X extended into one of the four other rooms. But only the people in the main room counted. Those in the other rooms were yokels. Tourists whose hotel concierges had arranged for them to attend the show. Very minor journalists who insisted on covering the collection. People who were known never to buy anything.
Her large dark eyes darted around, absorbing what was going on. All the big French windows were open, trying in vain to catch a breeze that did not exist. Already the showrooms were filling up. The vendeuses were showing people to their seats. Right below her, the honored few started to take their coveted places on the staircase. There were two princes. The older one, Alfonse, was practically destitute. Odile Joly knew how he had fought against the Germans during the war, helping to preserve some of France's great national treasures from destruction, and she loved him for it. Ever since, she made certain the Prince and Princess were seated in the places of honor. Also, she insisted that the Princess was dressed at no charge.
There were two other princesses. One of them, ancient and stiffly coiffed, had been a Cleveland divorcee who had married a Danish prince. She was famous for never paying for anything in her life—not for a single lunch in the expensive restaurants she frequented, not for her lavish hotel suites, nor even for her clothes. Those bills of hers which were paid were footed by her 'walker,' the young American automobile heir who admired her and escorted her everywhere. The dotty old Prince did not mind. The young man in question was a known homosexual; thus the princess was in 'safe' company. Odile Joly was one of the few on his list of creditors to be paid, as she refused to dress the Princess otherwise.
Odile smiled down at the wife of an exiled Far Eastern monarch. In the past three years, Sammyo Kittilongkhon had bought more than three hundred and fifty different outfits at the Maison d'Odile Joly. She was by far the best customer in the house.
Then there was a duchess, a German actress, and that American politician's wife, Barbara Sennett. The fabulously wealthy Mrs. Sennett, who had the irritating habit of squinting while perpetually grinning, had created a minor scandal the year before by altering her twenty-f
ive-thousand-dollar sales slip from the Maison d'Odile Joly to read twenty-five hundred dollars. Her crude alteration had been caught by U.S. customs officials at Idlewild Airport. Then there were the truly powerful journalists.
Odile Joly's eyes roved over the gilt chairs that lined the models' catwalk ten chairs deep. Scattered among the rich social set were more journalists, their status decreed by the row in which they sat. First row was highly acceptable, last row was 'Siberia.' This hierarchy was strictly observed, closely watched, much gossiped about when someone gained or lost a row.
In the front row, Odile Joly saw Pauline Monnier, the society reporter from the Couture Magazine. Pauline deserved the back row, but she had come in with her inseparable companion, Daphne Epaminondas. Madame Epaminondas was the first wife of one of the world's wealthiest men, the Greek shipping tycoon Zeno Callicrates Skouri. She was worth thirty outfits a year. Also in the first row but on the opposite side of the catwalk was Cynthia Skouri, the tycoon's current American wife. And only two chairs away was Ariadne Cosindas, a renowned ballerina with a passion for haute couture. This seating arrangement would be talked about for a long time to come, because it was common knowledge that Ariadne Cosindas had been Zeno Callicrates Skouri's mistress through both his marriages. Now the three women who on different occasions had shared the bed of the same man were studiously avoiding each other's eyes.
Still in the main room but banished to the most inferior back-row seats were the representatives from Women's Wear Daily Paris bureau—one reporter, one sketch artist, one photographer. Women's Wear Daily would ordinarily have been steered into one of the four other rooms, but Odile Joly had foresight. She predicted that within ten years WWD would be the most powerful fashion instrument in the world. But for now, even giving them the worst seats in the main room was being more than generous. As WWD progressed in stature, Odile Joly would begin moving them forward row by row.
Beside the WWD group sat the Comte and Comtesse de la Brissac et de Léger. Odile Joly's old face cracked into a malicious smile. The Comte and Comtesse had been relegated to these seats because of a photograph that she had seen of the Comtesse. There had been a local polo-pony tryout in Bordeaux. Although it would have gotten no press coverage under ordinary circumstances, the unexpected appearance of the Comte's first cousin—a former army colonel and now a rising politician—had made the event newsworthy. The Comtesse had been caught with her pants down, so to speak. Her full-page four-color photograph had appeared in Paris Match, and Odile Joly had seen it. Her eagle eyes had immediately recognized the Comtesse's 'Odile Joly' suit as a copy. Since the Comtesse was a relatively steady buyer, and a social item at that, Odile Joly couldn't very well ostracize her from the main room. But she could—and did—kick the Comte and Comtesse from their usual second-row seats to the least important row in the back. This snub would be duly noted and reported and gossiped about. In the future, the Comtesse would be more careful. And more important, Odile Joly was certain that the Comtesse would now buy three times her usual amount of clothes to try to make up for her treachery and secure the usual second-row seats for the future. This gave Odile Joly a sense of satisfaction, a feeling of power.
Odile Joly's eyes swept down the catwalk into one of the adjoining rooms. She could see just a portion of it. Suddenly she stiffened. Someone looked all too familiar. She frowned, trying to place the face that went with the blond wig and the big glasses. Then the woman lit a cigarette. When she inhaled, she held it between her thumb and forefinger.
Quickly Odile Joly signaled for a vendeuse. The dark-haired woman in the black dress hurried over to the side of the staircase. Odile Joly leaned over the railing. 'Room three, chair thirty-seven!' she whispered angrily. 'How did she get in?'
The vendeuse turned around discreetly and glanced through the open doorway. The woman in chair thirty-seven wore large glasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and a silk blouse with a huge lace bow at the collar. The vendeuse turned and looked back up at Odile Joly. 'The concierge at the Hotel Cusset called in her seat reservation. I don't see anything—'
'You fool!' Odile hissed. 'That's Simone Doucet! Can't you tell?'
The vendeuse looked again. Her face suddenly paled. 'By God, it is!' she said in a grief-stricken whisper. 'I. . .I can't tell you how terribly sorry I am! I didn't recognize her in that getup.'
Odile Joly snorted. 'Getup indeed! You mean disguise. That lesbienne spy came sneaking in here dressed as a lady! Throw her out immediately!'
Quickly the vendeuse hurried off. Simone Doucet was on the design team of one of the lesser houses that thrived on stealing designs from the great couturiers. There was a strictly enforced rule in each maison de couture that the doors were shut to workers from all other houses. With satisfaction, Odile Joly watched the vendeuse dealing with the matter. Simone Doucet was being escorted to the door.
Odile Joly gave a little signal with her hand. Immediately the chandelier lights dimmed and the klieg lights clicked on. The show was ready to begin.
The dressing room was getting hotter by the minute. The models were sweating. They were lined up in order of appearance. The harried dressers, nervous despite years of experience, made last-minute adjustments to the models' hair or smoothed their hands over the skirts and jackets, dabbing the perspiration from their carefully made-up faces with tissues. Everything had been timed to the second. Within ninety seconds of leaving the dressing room, the first model would be back. Four others would be on the floor during that time. Each model had three minutes in which to get changed into the next outfit and be ready to go back out again. Each model had to make seven such changes of clothing.
Hélène was last in line. She watched nervously as the first model slipped out through the curtain. She could hear a smooth voice from outside explaining the garment. Four more models slipped out. Then the first model returned, quickly shed the outfit she was wearing, and was hurriedly dressed in the next.
Then there was only one other girl in front of her. The girl turned around. 'Good luck,' she whispered.
Hélène smiled faintly. 'Thanks, Liane. Good luck to you, too.'
And it was Hélène's turn. Her hands were shaking. Quickly she took a deep breath and slipped out through the curtain. She pretended that this was just a practice run. For the past week, all they had done each day was practice walking. Choreographing each step. From the audience's point of view it would all look effortless and natural. Only the models and Odile Joly knew how difficult it actually was. It had been planned so that four models would be on the catwalk at the same time, each on a different end of the X, but in precisely the same spot as the others. Then they would meet at the center of the X and switch lanes.
Graceful as a swan, she glided toward the main room, looking vacantly ahead, seemingly unaware of the hundreds of eyes that were upon her. There was scattered, polite applause. The popping flashbulbs from the cameras momentarily blinded her vision, but she did not falter. All the people were a blur. She felt Odile's eyes on her from atop the staircase and ignored them.
She pirouetted at the end of each catwalk, returned to the main room, took the branch-off into rooms one, two, three, and four, and finally returned to the dressing room.
The Comtesse de Léger recognized Hélène immediately. The cold patrician eyes narrowed, and the paper with which she was fanning herself stopped in midair. Quickly she recovered. It was a shock to see the girl here—the girl who knew about her copied garments. She wondered whether Hélène had tattled on her about Madame Dupree and the copied clothes. She glanced down at her lap. Or had it been that unexpected picture in Paris Match? She knew that the only person who could recognize one of Madame Dupre's expert copies of an Odile Joly suit—even from a distance or from a photograph—was Odile herself. Damn that photograph! Was that why Odile had put her and the Comte in these miserable seats this year? It was scandalous. Everyone would talk! The only thing she could do was to pretend it had never happened and to placate Odile Joly by placing an order for an
enormous wardrobe.
Once again Hélène came back out from behind the curtain onto the runway. At the intersection of the X she passed Liane, who was floating gracefully back to the dressing room. Hélène was now wearing the alpaca suit. There was a spontaneous murmur of appreciation.
The Comte de Léger nudged his wife. 'Isn't that the girl who was at the chateau?' he whispered.
The Comtesse nodded absently.
'What was her name?'
'Junot something or other. No, Hélène Junot.' Irritably the Comtesse made a note on the paper with her pencil. She wanted the alpaca suit. In fact, if it would help regain her second-row seat, she was prepared to buy everything in sight. The miserable back-row seats rankled her.
When Hélène got back to the dressing room, there was a sudden commotion.
'Liane's fainted!' one of the models whispered.
A dresser came rushing over to the prostrate Liane.
'It's those lights!' another model hissed. 'In this hot spell. . .they're too much!'
'Never mind!' the dresser snapped angrily. 'One of you others is going to have to double for her.' Quickly she glanced around. Her expert eyes rested on Hélène. 'You're closest to Liane's size. It'll have to be you. Now you only have a minute and a half to change between each garment. You'll be out there twelve more times. The announcer will have to shuffle your sequence. Let's hope she can ad-lib. Now, quick! Up with your hands! There isn't a moment to lose!'
Hélène was dressed in Liane's outfit in record time. Two dressers helped her, Liane's and her own. One of them deftly pinned the sides of the dress to make it tighter. She felt herself perspiring enormously. Then she found herself pushed out through the curtain. Automatically, she smiled vacantly.
All at once, she was no longer nervous. Modeling was second nature already.
In the morning a delivery boy arrived at the atelier with a long slim box from a florist's on the Champs-Elysees. Puzzled, Hélène scratched a pen across the yellow delivery slip and took the box. When the boy left, she lifted the lid. A dozen long-stemmed red roses lay inside. She frowned.
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