Hélène narrowed her eyes as she inspected Lady Pamela's picture closely. Lady Pamela was not a beauty by any standards, although she was pretty enough in a quiet, wholesome way. The first thing Hélène noticed about her was her skin. It was flawless pink English skin. She had blond hair, conservatively coiffed under the Belgian-lace bridal veil, large dark eyes, and a ready smile. Her wedding dress matched the veil and came to a puritanically high collar. She wore no jewelry except for the ring on her finger. Her hand was casually but intentionally poised against her collarbone so that the Somerset Sun was shown to its fullest advantage.
Hélène felt physically ill. The Somerset Sun, which had graced her very own finger, and which was to announce to the world that she would become the sixteenth Duchess of Farquharshire. And beside the bride, cutting a handsome figure in his black tuxedo, Nigel seemed tall and stoic, looking expressionlessly into the camera.
He's staring at me, Hélène thought, catching her breath. She could almost feel the heat of his eyes, the warmth of his breath. She was pleased about one thing only. Nigel, who was supposed to be the happy groom, was not smiling on this, his wedding day. She couldn't help wondering if he were unhappy. If the Duchess hadn't arranged everything.
What a silly thought! she told herself. Of course she had. She had chased Hélène from Fallsworth and Nigel. That was arrangement enough.
In an uncharacteristic rage, Hélène suddenly ripped the page out of the magazine. Her fingers were shaking as she tore it into tiny shreds, letting the pieces flutter down to the floor. She looked down at them, her breasts heaving, and she could see one of Nigel's familiar eyes gazing up at her. She kicked at the scrap of paper until it turned over.
This time, the pain was so intense that she plunged into her work with a vengeance so fierce that all her other work binges paled by comparison. And while she herself looked unchanged, Les Editions Hélène Junot was reflecting the effects.
There was no stopping her now.
Les Editions Hélène Junot began growing like a mushroom after a rainfall. Between Paris and Milan, the staff numbered close to two hundred. The Place Vendome headquarters was expanded. The building next door had become vacant, and Hélène readily signed a twelve-year lease. Soon even that additional space was not enough and she had to rent yet another building on the nearby rue des Capucines. The building in which she had started her empire now housed only the administrative offices—the accounting department, the advertising offices, the circulation managers, and the legal section. The connecting building housed the creative staff—the various editors and writers and the art director and his artists. The photography studio, with its sets and darkrooms, was moved to the rue des Capucines. It was like a small film-production studio and boasted the latest in photographic equipment. It was no longer necessary to send photographers and models to a tropical beach or to the mountains. Everything but the most important layouts could be shot right in the studio. The sets were constructed in the workshop in the back of the building.
The Paris office and showroom of Marcello d'Itri were on the rue Cambon. Hélène was pleased that everything was within a few minutes' walking distance, but she was waiting for another space on the Place Vendome to become available. She wanted to have the d'Itri office and showroom conveniently next door to Les Editions Hélène Junot. Especially now that she lived in a suite in the Hotel Ritz, just across the square. Living at the Ritz provided her not only with unsurpassed luxury but also with the added convenience of hotel services. This way she could dedicate every waking hour to her work.
Hélène Junot was big business.
More magazines had been added to Les Modes and La Moda. The roster now included Les Modes Homme, the definitive men's fashion magazine, and Beauté a smaller version of Les Modes that was geared to younger women. Beauté was filled with makeup and fashion tips and with more ready-to-wear than haute couture. It was for women on a budget and it outsold even Les Modes. Les Modes, however, remained the top of the line. It gave the empire its prestige.
The progress was not confined to Paris. In Milan, La Moda gave birth to La Moda Uomo, the Italian equivalent of Les Modes Homme.
In June 1963 Edmond joined the Paris staff as a full-fledged corporate lawyer. For nine months Hélène had him do nothing but learn the ropes.
When she thought he was ready, she promptly moved him up in the legal staff. In a few years he would be in charge of the empire's entire legal department. He was learning fast and becoming an expert at delegating authority. What he lacked in experience he more than made up for in intelligence and dedication.
Luba, too, was promoted. Officially, she became vice-president of Les Editions Hélène Junot, S.A. Unofficially she also became vice-president of Marcello d'Itri, but this particular position was kept very quiet so that there would be no visible connection between the ateliers and the magazines. Hélène was afraid that if the readers put two and two together, it might stir up a conflict of interest in their minds. Although Les Modes's and La Moda's backing of the ateliers had been responsible for their success, for practical purposes it was important to make it appear that the magazines were unbiased and owed no allegiances.
Hélène was gratified that the ateliers in Milan, Rome, and Paris were thriving so soundly.
She had conquered France and Italy. But still she was not satisfied. If anything, she was more restless than ever. Deep inside, her craving for Nigel was raging out of control. She barely managed to keep her emotions in check by ever increasing her workload. Determinedly she saw to it that Petite Hélène's grooming followed her careful planning to the letter. Even more doggedly she plotted the course her magazines and ateliers would take. There was still one place she had to conquer in order to prove her magazines' prowess. Once you had made it there, you'd made it everywhere.
Paris and Milan were not enough. She liked the battle for success far more than the success itself. She knew where her fashion tentacles had to reach next.
New York.
10
New York in the 1960s was a tough place to crack. The city beat with the very pulse of fashion. Odile Joly's prediction of many years earlier had become reality. Women's Wear Daily was now the Bible not only of Seventh Avenue but also of much of the international fashion world. Bitchy, gossipy, and all-powerful, WWD was read as much for its snide comments as for its fashion news. The paper had come a long way since 1954 when John Fairchild, in charge of the Paris bureau, found himself in a humiliating rear seat during the couturiers' showings.
No less powerful was Vogue. After twenty-seven years at Harper's Bazaar; Diana Vreeland moved over to the competition and reigned from Vogue's lofty throne like a Wise Lady scattering crumbs of chic to a drab populace. It was Diana Vreeland who sent her photographers into the desert to shoot models wrapped in nothing but clear plastic. Everything that had never been done before was being done by Diana Vreeland. She became a thorn in both Hélène's and Luba's sides. It seemed that 'the Empress,' as the indefatigable Mrs. Vreeland was deferentially nicknamed, had a limitless imagination. For once, even the Czarina had met her match. For the eight years that Diana Vreeland would be at Vogue, American Les Modes and Vogue would run neck and neck in a constant race. This friendly running battle between the Czarina and the Empress brought about some of the most dramatic and creative concepts in fashion photography and reporting the world was ever to see.
Hélène was fascinated by New York. She knew better than anyone how a camera could be used to overdramatize anything, so she was ready to meet the challenge of the spectacular skyline that rose into the sky as the SS United States steamed into New York harbor. But she had not been prepared for what had happened on board the ship. She took it as an omen that New York would become her city. For during the transatlantic crossing, she fell in love. For the first time, she had met a man who was not overshadowed by the image of Nigel Somerset.
His name was Siegfried Bavier and he didn't look like a knight in shining armor. In fact, he was e
verything that Nigel was not, and perhaps that was what attracted her to him in the first place. From the start, she knew that he was married because he came right out and told her. He didn't try to hide things. He was as shrewd and toughly honest with himself as she was.
They met in the cocktail lounge during one of the fiercest storms at sea the liner had ever encountered. Ninety-five-foot waves were crashing over the bow, and had she or Siegfried been afflicted with weak stomachs, chances were they never would have met. As it was, they had been the only people in the first-class lounge. At first, she had been the only one. She was seated at one of the little tables, holding on to her glass so that it wouldn't slide off and crash to the floor. Oddly, she had been aware that he was behind her even before he spoke.
She turned around slowly and looked up at him. Their eyes met. His shoulders were wide and he was powerfully built. He held a drink in his hand. His dark hair was cropped short and he looked more like a stevedore or a prizefighter than a first-class passenger. She sensed that he was ill at ease in his dinner suit. But there was a look in his piercing blue eyes that she recognized instantly, that drew her to him like a magnet. It was the confident look of success, and he wore it better than he wore his clothes.
'Can I buy you a drink?' he asked in English. He had a surprisingly deep, resonant voice.
'No, thank you,' she said. She smiled and showed him her glass. 'I have one.'
'Mind if I join you? Company is kind of scarce tonight. Everyone seems to have disappeared.'
'Not at all,' she answered quickly. 'Please. . .' She gestured to the banquette at the other side of the table. As he slipped into it, the liner suddenly listed to starboard and the deck sloped precariously. The man was caught off guard. For a moment he teetered almost drunkenly and then was unceremoniously thrown onto the banquette. Under the impact, the bourbon shot out from his glass.
Hélène burst out laughing. Then she saw his scowl and covered her lips with her fingers. She forced herself to look serious. 'I'm sorry,' she said contritely, removing her hand from her lips. She looked suddenly concerned. 'You didn't hurt yourself, did you?'
He shook his head. 'Only my pride's wounded.' He looked darkly into his glass. 'Hell of a waste of good bourbon, though.' Then he noticed the bodice of her dress. A dark stain was spreading slowly across it. 'I'm terribly sorry,' he apologized embarrassedly. 'It seems I've ruined your dress.'
She glanced down at herself and then looked back across the table at him. 'The cleaner's will get it out,' she said confidently.
'You're sure?'
She nodded. 'I'm sure.'
She studied him more closely. He looked no more than forty years old, she thought, and there was something about him that was incredibly vibrant. He seemed more alive than many men half his age. She felt a strange and powerful feeling well up inside her. It was a feeling that had been dormant for far too long.
She watched as he settled comfortably on the banquette and took a cigar from the inside pocket of his jacket. He struck a match, carefully held it to the end of the cigar, and inhaled deeply several times. Finally he waved the match out. He leaned sideways so he could see past Hélène and signaled to get the bartender's attention. 'Another bourbon!' he called out. He leaned toward Hélène. 'You're positive I can't buy you a drink?'
She shook her head. 'I'm positive, thank you. I've had two of these already.'
He frowned at her glass. 'Vodka?'
She laughed and shook her head. 'Club soda.'
He grimaced. 'Don't see how you can drink that stuff. It gives me gas.' He grinned, showing strong, even white teeth. 'By the way, my name's Siegfried Bavier,' he said easily. 'My friends call me Sigi.'
She flushed. Over the years she had met quite a few Americans, but she had yet to become accustomed to their easy familiarity. As soon as they met you, they insisted on being on a first-name basis. Europeans weren't like that at all.
'How do you do?' she said. 'I'm Hélène Junot.' She paused and added with an embarrassed smile: 'My friends call me Hélène.'
The bartender came over with the bourbon. Bavier signaled him to wait. He downed the drink in one swallow and handed the empty glass back. He laughed when he saw the intrigued look on Hélène's face. 'Best cure in the world for seasickness,' he explained.
'Is it?'
'Sure. When you drink too much, everything reels around you, right?'
She nodded doubtfully.
'Well, the way I figure it is this. Once you're good and drunk, everything's topsy-turvy anyway, so how are you going to notice the motions of the ship on top of it?'
She laughed. 'You have made your point. .. Sigi.' She looked at him closely. 'But don't you like to feel the sea?' she asked. 'The power of the wind and water?'
'Sure, I like it. I'm a born sailor. I sailed around the world alone on a forty-foot sailboat a few years back. Even hit a bad typhoon in Micronesia. Nothing like this. . .' He made a condescending gesture. 'This is nothing compared to that. The waves must have been a hundred and twenty feet high and the sky was a solid black wall of water.'
Hélène shivered. 'Weren't you frightened?'
He made a face and was tempted to brag, but when he saw her serious expression, he decided against it. 'To tell you the truth, Hélène'—he grinned sheepishly—'it scared the living shit out of me.'
And that broke any ice that was left between them. Suddenly she felt completely relaxed in his presence, even on a first-name basis. His language was salty, to be sure, but to her knowledge, most Americans were crude. They lacked the cultured refinement and breeding of the Europeans. Yet there was something about Bavier which attracted her to him in spite of that. Perhaps it was that he had an almost French joie de vivre, which, coupled with his confident bearing, clinched her feelings toward him. He was honest and good-natured, yet there was something untamed about him. She felt secure in his company.
It was then that she saw the flash of gold on his finger.
'Your wife isn't weathering this storm well?' she asked.
His face went suddenly sad as he glanced down at his wedding band. He had been in Europe for more than a month and he realized now that he hadn't once thought of her.
Hélène dropped her eyes. Her own question had caught her by surprise. She had never asked a strange man about his wife before. 'I'm sorry,' she said softly. 'I had no right to ask.'
'Of course you did.' His face creased into a warm smile. 'When a strange man comes up to you and invites himself to join you, you have every right.'
She smiled gratefully.
'My wife is in New York,' he said quietly. He looked down at the ring and twisted it around on his finger. 'I'm afraid we don't get along well.'
'Oh. I'm sorry.'
He smiled weakly. 'Sometimes it just takes a while to find out that you're not suited to each other. It took us a few years. At first, I used to think it was all my fault. That I wasn't giving her enough of myself. Then I used to blame her.' He shook his head slowly. 'I've gotten wiser now. When a marriage doesn't work, you can't lay the blame on either of you. It's both your faults or neither of you is to blame. It took me a long time to realize that.' He looked at her and smiled sadly. 'What about you?'
Hélène shrugged her shoulders expressively. 'I'm widowed. Then I was engaged again, but it turned out his family didn't like me.'
The truth was, the Duchess had been downright hostile. But it was close enough. What had transpired at Fallsworth was her own business, and no one else's.
'His family are fools, then,' Bavier said. 'Didn't he at least put up a fight?'
It was her turn to sigh.
He shook his head. 'He must be a fool too. I can't see any man not fighting for you.'
She was suddenly angry at him. He hadn't said anything nasty, but she resented his attitude all the same. For some strange reason, she felt compelled to come to Nigel's defense. Her voice went cold as she said, 'It wasn't his fault. I didn't give him half a chance. You see, it was I who broke it
off.'
He looked at her curiously. 'But you still love him.'
'It's over,' she said sharply. Then her voice fell. 'Besides, he married someone else.' She gave a sad little smile. 'So you see, it really is over.'
He nodded. 'I didn't mean to pry.'
'That's all right.'
'Good. Let's change the subject. What's bringing you to New York?'
'Business.'
'Which do you do? Act? Model?'
'Neither.' She laughed and toyed with her glass. 'Whatever gave you those ideas?'
'You're beautiful. I thought most beautiful women were either actresses or models.'
She glanced up at him, her eyes serious. 'I'm a magazine publisher.'
He looked at her with deepening respect. 'Have I seen your magazines around?'
She smiled. 'I don't know. They're mostly women's magazines. Les Modes and La Moda'
'Hey!' He grinned. 'They're fashion magazines.'
She nodded. 'How did you know?'
'My wife always buys Les Modes' he explained. 'In fact, she swears by it. But she always curses because she can only get it at Hotaling's on Times Square.'
'That's going to change soon,' Hélène said. 'I'm setting up an American edition, and seeing to it that the European editions get better distribution outlets in the major cities across the United States.'
He nodded approvingly. 'You'll do well in New York.'
'I hope so. It will be a challenge.'
He shook his head knowingly. 'Not for you. I have good instincts about people. You'll turn the city inside out in no time.' He glanced at his cigar appreciatively. 'You're a fighter.'
She could feel her face flushing. 'And you?'
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