Spring Collection

by Judith Krantz

  It would be like opening a fresh blue tin of Malosol Beluga caviar and digging in gently with a mother-of-pearl spoon, Justine thought. Just a small exploratory taste, but the best taste you ever had in your life. Then you look around and you discover you’re all alone in the room with the whole tin, fourteen Russian ounces, theoretically more than anybody can eat in one sitting, right there in front of you. You tip your spoon directly into the center of the shining surface of the caviar and you take your second taste, a slightly bigger one than the first. It’s even better than you’d realized … now the thirst starts, the galloping guilty caviar thirst that’s like none other, and your third spoonful is shamelessly heaping, filling your mouth. You keep eating, one sinfully large spoonful after another, every taste bud aflame with caviar, because there’s absolutely more than enough and nobody to share it with, eating as quickly as you choose, or as slowly, depending on your mood, until you’ve had enough, which is almost impossible with caviar, but happens eventually. And then you stop, after one last taste, but not because you have to, but because you want to. You’ve been utterly satisfied, and somehow you know that the tin will still be there later tonight, waiting in the fridge, as full as ever, for that inevitable moment when you have to have caviar again and if you don’t brush your teeth right away there’s a bonus of the aftertaste of the supreme grey eggs that lingers lusciously in your mouth for at least a half hour, almost as good as the caviar itself.

  Jesus! Justine opened her eyes quickly. This drink was like magic mushrooms or something, she’d never had a hallucination like that before. She’d never had a magic mushroom either, losing control wasn’t her style. She sat silently, taking only cautious sips of this dangerous potion.

  Aiden looked into the fire and acted as a cat cushion, suddenly glad that Rufus was there as a chaperone. Justine, in her fiendishly alluring gym socks and that sweater that both concealed and beckoned, was too much for any man to risk being alone with. Was she a devilishly clever vamp or an angel? He was totally confused. But a promise was a promise. Was a promise.

  “Hungry?” he asked, getting up and rousing himself hastily. He had to change his center of gravity.

  “Starving.”

  They devoured the savory stew and warm French bread with a minimum of conversation. Rufus seemed to sleep under the table after he’d had his fill of milk and tuna fish, although occasionally Justine felt a slight, tentative nudge of his haughty head against her ankle. How easy it would be to slip him a sliver of meat without being noticed, she thought, tempted, but decided that bribery was beneath her. This cat was one tough number but she’d win him over fairly or not at all.

  But any feline seduction would have to wait for another time. Justine felt so exhausted, all of a sudden, from the combination of the long, emotional day at the office, the furnace fiasco and the awful trip downtown that she got up from the table before Aiden could make coffee and trailed off wearily to her room, barely able to change into the silk long johns she wore as pajamas on cold nights, before she sank into a profound slumber.

  Sometime during the night Justine became aware, as she was aroused from a state of total unconsciousness, that something was kneading her. To her sleep-dazed mind there was a nightmare impression of a large snake winding itself sinuously and silently around her chest. She lay very still, holding her breath in terror, trying desperately to figure out where she was. Someplace hideously quiet, someplace where there was absolutely no normal background sound, no city noises, no light, no clue to what kind of supernatural force was attacking her.

  “Help,” she squeaked softly, afraid to frighten the snake. “Help me, someone.” The snake slid horribly, with relentless stealth, up her chest until it approached her throat. She was going to let herself be strangled alive without even making an effort, she thought in frozen immobility. She forced herself to open her mouth to scream, only to be tickled by the touch of a small cold nose and wooed by a friendly cat noise.

  “Bastard!” she exploded, grabbing Rufus, and holding him high over her head. “How dare you! Now you want to sleep with me? Now you want to be friends? When Aiden can’t see what a flirt you are, huh? Well, you’ve chosen the wrong time, you sneaky little son of a bitch. You’re going back where you came from, you imp from hell.” She put the cat down on the bed and pushed him roughly off onto the floor. “Out, and don’t come back!” she ordered. Rufus jumped lightly up and started walking on her, from her feet to her chest, where he stopped and sat with all his densely concentrated fifteen pounds, prepared to remain, an immovable object if ever she’d met one. And it wasn’t even her fault, Justine told herself righteously, it wasn’t as if she’d lured him on with food.

  “Go away! Scat!” she hissed ferociously, wishing she knew which human commands he might recognize and obey. “Down! Off! Floor! Out! Bad cat!” Finally he moved, leaping lightly up to her pillow and pushing his nose into her neck with interest. She’d said the wrong word, but she didn’t know which one it was, Justine thought as she pushed him away. He nipped lightly on her fingers in a friendly, familiar fashion. This could go on all night, she realized. Physically neutered though he was, Rufus still had his memories.

  There was only one thing that made sense and that involved the unthinkable. As she received more of Rufus’ interested attentions the unthinkable became the necessary, and Justine reached for the flashlight she remembered had been on the table by the bed. She turned it on and got out of bed, putting her feet into her fleece-lined booties. She couldn’t find her bathrobe so she took the blanket from the bed and slung it over her shoulders and staggered over to the window. She pulled back the blackout shades and saw nothing, not even streetlamps, through the thick scrim of falling snow. She could be in a mountain cabin deep in the dark wild woods, Justine thought. A mini-vacation indeed. Rufus followed, twining around her legs and nudging her to the door.

  “Okay, okay, I get the picture,” Justine grumbled, lighting her way to the kitchen. She took the milk out of the fridge and poured it into the bowl that stood on the floor nearby. Rufus lapped quickly. “Say thank you, Justine,” she said to the busy animal.

  Totally occupied with his milk, he didn’t hear her. Now to make her getaway. Moving with steps so tiny and smooth that nothing betrayed her, not even a vibration of the air, Justine began to back away from the loudly lapping cat. She’d just reached the door and was about to streak for her room when Rufus, without preparation, was upon her again, purring loudly, and treating her legs to a tangle of furry hugs. He had trained her, Justine realized. She had made the wrong decision and now that he had her where he wanted her, he was in the mood to play with his new blond mouse.

  “You’re going to your boss,” she said, picking the cat up by his middle and clutching him to her bosom so that he couldn’t get away. By the light of a few glowing embers Justine padded softly across the great barn. She opened the door to Aiden’s bedroom without making a sound and tried to pick Rufus up and throw him inside. But this cat, she discovered, could not be thrown when he didn’t care to be thrown. His clipped claws had become entangled in the fine silk mesh of her long-sleeved top and no sooner had she plucked one away than others fastened onto her as if the animal was climbing a rope ladder. Never clutch a cat, Justine thought, unless you plan to keep it.

  She stood in the open doorway trying to decide what to do. She could hear Aiden breathing softly and by the light of his electric clock she could see exactly where he was lying under his quilt. He was sleeping deeply, without movement of any kind. She’d lost her blanket somewhere in the struggle with the cat. She could either take Rufus back to her room and let him keep her up all night, or she could return him to Aiden. Perhaps, she thought, if she brought the cat farther into the room he’d smell his lord and master and abandon her for his regular sleeping partner. Some faithful one-man cat he’d turned out to be.

  Justine crept a few feet into the bedroom, turning Rufus’ head firmly toward Aiden with one hand while she supported him with th
e other, afraid that if she let him go entirely, he’d grab at her with all his ten claws. Nothing happened. She advanced with even greater care, waited a while and then subsided on the rug next to the bed. What was wrong with the animal, she wondered? Even she could smell Aiden from here, and he smelled wonderful, kind of like a warm, just-buttered corn muffin spread with honey. A sleeping man either smelled better than he did at any other time, or he was utterly out of the question. There was no possible medium or neutral way to smell in her experience. Unfortunately there was no way to tell ahead of time.

  Minutes passed and Justine began to feel chilly in spite of the cat’s warm, happily pulsating body plastered all over her, his coat keeping her fairly warm. Maybe she should carry him back to the fireplace, put some logs on the fire and sleep on the sofa? Maybe she should look in Aiden’s closet for a robe or a coat and wrap herself in it? Rufus couldn’t stay awake forever—didn’t cats sleep fifteen hours a day? Maybe she should wake up Aiden and insist that he remove his cat? That would be the most direct course to take. But she’d already made one seriously wrong decision about a male animal tonight and she didn’t want to make another.

  Just how wrong could it be? Aiden had been a perfect gentleman all evening long. He wouldn’t turn into a cad just because his feline had taken a fancy to her. What could you really tell about a man by his cat? Oh, oh, oh, she was so confused in this strange place! Now Rufus was trying to lick the inside of her ear. This was intolerable, Justine decided suddenly. She stood, leaned close to Aiden’s ear and said loudly, “Wake up.”

  Rufus immediately jumped to the other side of the bed, curled up next to his owner and fell into a trance of sleep. Aiden’s eyes flew open; he reached out for her and pulled her down next to him, trapping her in his arms.

  “I was just dreaming about you,” he murmured, and kissed her on the lips. “And now you’ve come to visit.”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she said, “I just had to get rid of your damn cat.”

  “Justine, you don’t need an excuse,” he laughed in joy, kissing her again. “My God, you’re shivering. Where’s your bathrobe? Here, slide under the covers. There, that’s better? Oh, my sweet beautiful darling baby, you’re so cold. Here, I’ll warm you up.”

  “It was the cat! He came into my room, he tried to smother me, he made me give him milk, he wouldn’t let me throw him, he likes me better than he does you, he forced me to wake you up.”

  “Of course he did,” Aiden said indulgently.

  “Honestly!”

  “This is better than the best Christmas morning. Oh, God, you taste good.”

  “So do you. But it was the cat.”

  “Silent be, it is the cat.”

  “Well, at least you admit it,” Justine said between kisses. He was more delicious than caviar and there was no need for a spoon.

  “Everything, anything, you’re so lovely, I adore you, are you warmer now?”

  “A little bit,” she said plaintively.

  “That’s not good enough, is it?”

  “No.”

  “You need to be very warm, all over.”

  “I think so. Probably. It would be safer,” she said demurely.

  “Oh, I’m certain of it. The thing is, you can’t really get warm with that awful slippery thing you’ve got on, whatever it is. It traps the cold air in, so you’d better take it off.”

  “You take it off.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” she asked breathlessly.

  “I promised I wouldn’t lay a finger on you.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “Does that … make a difference?”

  “Of course,” she whispered impatiently. He was torturing her and he knew it. Cat and mouse. Cat and man. Oh, heavens above!

  “Would it be wrong if I said I loved you first?”

  “It would be very nice,” Justine murmured primly as she slid out of her long Johns. There was a limit to what she could endure from this man and his cat and she’d reached it.

  9

  I was still dancing when I woke up. It felt as if I’d never stopped, even though I was lying flat in bed. Had I danced away the whole day? I felt good! I felt well! I bounced out of bed, opened the curtains and discovered that it was bright day outside, with flags flashing up and down the Avenue Montaigne, sending the world a message to come out and spend lots of money. I looked at my watch. Just half-past one in the afternoon—seven and a half hours of solid dancing-sleep, preceded by violent exercise, and my jet lag had disappeared. All I wanted for breakfast was a half grapefruit and coffee. I’d discovered the Bains Douche diet! I definitely looked a couple of pounds lighter in the mirror. No wonder that place was mobbed.

  I took a shower, washed and towel dried my hair and settled back in bed to enjoy that feeling of virtuously lazy, deeply-taken-care-of relaxation you can only get in a hotel with nothing pressing to do and nowhere special to go. Paris wasn’t going to disappear and I was certain the girls must still be sleeping. None of them had my dancer’s resilience, to say nothing of an iota of my style. Then, just as I settled into a glowing step-by-step review of my performance of the night before, the phone rang.

  “Frankie?” It was Gabrielle. I tried to sound as if she’d just awakened me. She didn’t respond with appropriate apologies, but kept right on talking. “Marco Lombardi has asked that you bring the girls over to his workrooms this afternoon.”

  “What!” I exclaimed, going from sleepy to enraged in a nanosecond. “My girls have almost two weeks to work with him, and they just got here yesterday, as you know perfectly well.”

  “Nonsense,” she snapped, and that woman has one hell of a snap. “My arrangements were made with Justine, but in the contract there was a written commitment that she would be here with the girls the whole time. Now that contract has been breached.”

  “Did Necker tell you to call me? Did he say that?” I demanded, my outrage escalating. The phrase “breach of contract” will do that to me any time.

  “He didn’t need to. I haven’t spoken to him today but you know perfectly well that you have a moral obligation to comply with this request, Frankie. Lombardi merely wants to get a feeling for their capabilities, it’s not a question of work. Simply put, Marco needs to know what level of performance he can hope for from them. After all they bear a heavy responsibility for the success of the collection.”

  “Three girls out of thirty? Lombardi’s the one who’s responsible, not them.”

  “Nevertheless,” Gabrielle persisted, “they’re completely inexperienced and he’s nervous about them. And, Frankie, don’t forget, one of them will work with him for years, but right now they’re total strangers.”

  “Listen, Gabrielle, either it’s a breach of contract or he’s asking a favor, make up your mind. Justine isn’t here because she’s deathly ill, so sue me!”

  “Morally—”

  “Gabrielle, don’t give me morally. It won’t work. I’ll do my best for you because I’m a nice person. However, the girls are probably too wiped out to do anything but rest today. We’re all still jet-lagged.”

  “They weren’t too exhausted to go dancing last night.”

  I was speechless for a second. I hadn’t expected Albert, our gallant escort, who’d done his share of dancing, to rat us out, but obviously he reported to a higher power.

  “Everyone knows exercise is specifically recommended for jet lag, Gabrielle,” I said with tardy composure. “I’ll check out the girls and let you know in an hour.”

  Jeez, I hate blackmail. But Gabrielle had a good point. If I were Marco Lombardi I’d be dying to see the girls. Sure, in theory, he had twenty-seven other models to show on, but in reality probably the only girls he was absolutely certain of were my three.

  If Lombardi were established, he’d have a good idea of who he was using by now, especially if the girls liked him personally. If he were one of the major designers the girls would be fighting to do his show. But as an u
nknown, he must have been kept waiting with a bunch of secondary options for any of the most desirable girls. Why should a supermodel commit to him? Once they get to the head of the line, models love to give the designers as little as they can get away with, say a low-option secondary. Oh, show me a supermodel—a word I loathe but can’t find an absolutely accurate substitute for—without major attitude! Sure they’re hardworking professionals, but they’ve been idolized into taking themselves too seriously, these Michael Jordans and Charles Barkleys of the fashion world.

  When we book our top girls for shows, the trick is to get them to convert a low-option second—the first step on the road—into a high-option second and eventually, if they’re having a good-attitude day, talk them into agreeing to a tentative. When they finally decide to turn a tentative into a commitment, sometimes only three days before the show, it’s the model’s equivalent of a shotgun marriage.

  If I were a designer I’d show on plaster dummies—or wire hangers—rather than go through that hassle. I’d had enough years of being in the middle. Just thinking about the nimbus of last-minute hysteria generated by spoiled ding-bat, media-darling divas, to say nothing of coping with their horrendous boyfriends, made me disgusted enough to decide to haul every one of my girls over to Lombardi.

  One day, soon enough, they’d turn out to be as difficult to pin down as your cellular phone-toting Brandis, your Shaloms, your Ambers and your Carlas, but today, by golly, I still had control over them. Justine and I often agreed that it was no wonder that poltergeists, when investigated, turned out to be generated unconsciously by teenaged girls.

  I called their rooms and told them to be ready to go in an hour. I phoned the concierge and checked on Mike Aaron and Maude Callender, who had every right to witness this. They were having lunch downstairs at the Relais Plaza, the Parisian equivalent of Harry’s Bar in Venice, and I alerted them to the news. I tried to reach Justine at the office to keep her abreast of developments, but mysteriously nobody answered the phone and I didn’t have time to worry about it.