Spring Collection

by Judith Krantz

  25

  The two chauffeured cars drew up to the employees’ entrance of the Ritz. A group of burly young men, clad in sober dark blue suits, each sporting a dark red tie, guarded the door.

  “Where’d they come from?” Frankie asked.

  “They’re called Les Cravates Rouges,” Justine answered. “Upscale bouncers who keep out the unwanted and uninvited. Everybody uses them. They weren’t here last night. There’s undoubtedly another, bigger mob of them in front of the main entrance. Gate crashers are a nightmare at every collection.”

  Justine led the way to the door. One of the Cravates Rouges approached her, his arms filled with magnificent bouquets of spring flowers.

  “Madame Loring?”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a bouquet for each of the mannequins, and these envelopes are for you, Madame Severino, Madame Callender, Monsieur Strauss and Monsieur Aaron.” He handed her five square white envelopes. She opened one and discovered an engraved dinner invitation and a card indicating a table number.

  “We won’t be needing these,” Justine told the stolid young man. “We’re going with the girls.”

  “I regret, Madame, but Monsieur Lombardi has insisted that no one but the mannequins be allowed backstage tonight.”

  “When did you get this order?”

  “This morning, Madame.”

  “Who sent the flowers?”

  “I don’t know, Madame, they were waiting with the concierge when we arrived.”

  “April, is there a card with your bouquet?” Justine asked sharply.

  “Wait … yes … it’s from Mr. Necker. It says, ‘Good luck tonight.’ Oh, what heavenly flowers! This is so sweet of him … I feel like a ballerina.”

  “I demand to speak to Monsieur Lombardi,” Justine told the Cravate Rouge.

  “I can do nothing, Madame. I regret, but it is impossible. My orders are formal. Monsieur Lombardi cannot possibly be disturbed at this time.”

  “Where’s your boss?”

  “I’m the senior man here, Madame Loring. The office is closed until tomorrow. All complaints will come to me. I regret Madame, I wish I could accommodate you, but it is impossible.”

  “Girls, go on down,” Justine ordered. “I’m going to find Gabrielle. We’ll be there as soon as possible. Tinker, your rack is right next to April’s, just follow the others.”

  Justine hurried off, followed by Frankie, Maude, Tom and Mike. Within an hour of frantic searching and futile telephoning it became evident to all of them that Marco Lombardi had effectively shut them out of the spring collection except as spectators. Gabrielle d’Angelle, even if she had agreed to take up their case with Marco, was already downstairs, out of range of any message. The only concession Justine had been able to ring out of the chief Cravate Rouge was a promise to inform the girls of what had happened. He came back from his mission to tell them that Mademoiselle Osborn had sent a message that they were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.

  “Christ!” Tom exploded. “That’s aimed at me.”

  “No, at me,” Justine soothed him. “She’ll be her usual sweet self tomorrow, Tom. This isn’t an unusual reaction. It’s like a feisty kid on the first day of school who doesn’t want to be kissed good-bye in front of the others.”

  “Why don’t we all wait in the bar?” Mike suggested. “I’m the one who’s been treated worse than anybody, unable to shoot backstage. Doesn’t anybody realize that?”

  “Poor darling,” Frankie jeered at him. “Trust a photographer to feel sorry for himself first.”

  “Children, children,” Maude said soothingly, “we’re all in the same boat. Let’s not shove each other overboard quite yet. There’ll be plenty of time to do that later. I’m with Mike, we need a drink. And it’s at least an hour before we can go down as guests.”

  “Assuming the Cravates Rouges let us into the bar,” Justine snapped.

  The group from Loring Management and Zing sat gloomily in the Ritz bar, at the table with the best view of the entrance, drinking Evian and herb tea, except for Maude Callender who ordered her usual Scotch. They barely spoke to each other, watching the invited guests arriving, each one of their invitations carefully checked by the swarming corps of Cravates Rouges, who were wearing dinner jackets with dark red bow ties in honor of the occasion.

  As far as Maude was concerned, this contretemps was all wonderful grist for her mill, infinitely better than it would have been to be downstairs taking notes on the oddly well-ordered hysteria associated with any fashion show. She’d picked up more than enough backstage stuff last night, and most of it was unusable anyway. How many ways can you describe a superbly functioning, yet incredibly sloppy, madhouse of careening girls, aided by their nerveless dressers, changing with ripping speed from one outfit to another, throwing the most delicate garments on the floor once they were finished with them, any normal concepts of modesty, assuming they’d started with such an outmoded idea, checked at the door? How many times can you describe the self-important ministrations of hairdressers, bending over the girls with their rollers and combs like so many Pygmalions, or makeup artists wearing clear-plastic tool belts to hold their favorite brushes and tubes of color? After a few minutes the only thing that made it interesting was the beauty of the girls, and that had already been captured in Mike’s pictures of last night.

  “Listen,” Frankie said, suddenly, “do we want to be the last people to arrive at this party? Are we just going to sit here—hey! Hold up there. Do you all think you’re sticking me with this check?”

  “ ‘Night and Day’? What the hell are they playing that old stuff for?” Tinker asked Jordan.

  “It’s the mood, lovey,” Jordan said over her shoulder. “You’ll get what they’re doing in a minute, just keep listening.”

  “I don’t like it,” Tinker said in a flat voice.

  “It’ll grow on you. Give it a chance.”

  “I can’t dance to this shit. It’s a fucking foxtrot.”

  Jordan turned abruptly. Tinker was standing up, bare breasted, fists clenching and unclenching, a look of violent rage on her face.

  “It’s just the party music, Tink, don’t let it bother you.”

  “Party music? Is that all this is, a party? God damn it to hell, don’t they realize this is a matter of life and death? How can they subject us to this crap while we’re waiting to go on? Don’t any of you have the slightest sensitivity? It’s a fucking insult! I’m going out to tell those bastards to shut the fuck up.”

  “No Tinker, no, I’ll do it. You stay here, you haven’t got any clothes on. April! Come over here, talk to Tinker, while I go tell Chicago to stop playing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it! Come over here. Listen,” Jordan bent forward and whispered in April’s ear, “there’s something wrong. Don’t let her get away from you, for God’s sake. Sit on her if you have to.”

  “Right.”

  Jordan sped away, threading her way through the crowded beauty salon until she found Lombardi laughing with Claudia and Linda, both of them dressed in their first ball gowns, and, except for shoes, completely ready to go on the runway.

  “Marco, there’s a problem with Tinker.”

  “Dio, not again,” he groaned. “What is it this time?”

  “I’m not sure but she’s not acting normally. She hates Chicago, it’s freaking her out. You’ve got to talk to her, she won’t pay any attention to me.”

  “Do you think I have nothing better to do right now than worry about her taste in music? Is this the time to bother me?”

  “Yes, if you want the show to go on.”

  “Excuse me, my beauties. I’ll be right back.” Marco followed Jordan leisurely.

  “So, Tinker, what’s the problem now?” he asked as he arrived to find her slouched down in her chair, with April rubbing the back of her neck. “More complaints? Even at the last minute?”

  “ ‘The problem’?” Tinker echoed. “There’s no problem,
who said there was? I’m not going on to the sound of that incredible crap, but that’s not a problem, is it Marco? You’ve got someone else who can wear my clothes, don’t you? Let that short French cunt wear them, because I won’t submit to this foul excuse for music, and there’s no one who can force me to. Whatever they think they’re playing, it’s not a tango.”

  “Tinker, you couldn’t possibly have expected them to play tangos,” Marco said, turning white. “I told you a hundred times, the tango lessons were only meant to give you an attitude, a feeling for your body, a way to hold yourself, a way to think about yourself—my God, how often did we talk about it?”

  “I don’t remember,” Tinker replied stubbornly. “I intend to tango, Marco, surely you understand?”

  “Tinker, we need to talk seriously,” Marco said, forcing his most charming smile, his most persuasive voice. “Come with me, cara, we’ll go to one of the treatment rooms and find someplace quiet for a little chat.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Jordan said. “I’m all dressed.”

  “No. She’ll be more reasonable with fewer people around. It’s too crowded in here, too much smoke, that’s all. Believe me, I’ve coped with nervous models for years.”

  “Justine’s upstairs … do you want to send for her? Or Frankie?”

  “It’s not necessary, Jordan, I assure you. Remember I’ve been working with Tinker every day for two weeks, I know her moods better than anyone.”

  “But this is more than a mood!” Jordan insisted fiercely.

  Ignoring her, Marco took Tinker by one hand, flung a big towel over her naked shoulders and led her away, out of the beauty salon, across the reception room and into the calm of the locker room that led to a series of luxurious, quiet marble rooms designed for various beauty treatments. Finally, inside the door of a massage room he stopped and sat down on the toweling-covered table.

  “Here, isn’t this better?” he asked, patting the toweling invitingly. “There’s a big Jacuzzi next door, eight people can use it, but this is more relaxing, don’t you think, Tinker? Sit down, bella.”

  “Just for a minute,” she said sullenly, hugging the towel around her.

  “Ah, poor Tinker, I deeply apologize for the band. If only you’d been here last night and I’d discovered our misunderstanding, I’d have ordered them to change their sound, to play only tangos.”

  “It’s too late now. I won’t go on.”

  “But, Tinker, this is your big chance. And you walk beautifully now, I’ve seen you do it over and over. Tinker, remember, you and I know that you have the best dresses, that you’ll be the star of the show.”

  “I’m going to tango,” she repeated. Marco looked at her carefully. She hadn’t listened to a word he’d said, this mule of a girl. If he could strangle her, he’d do so happily, but he needed her, she was essential.

  “Of course Tinker,” Marco said gently. “No problem. So—I don’t know about you, my little darling, but as for me, this is the moment that I have a sip of Goddess to quiet my nerves.”

  “Goddess? What’s Goddess?” Tinker asked sullenly.

  “A cocktail, something quite marvelous. Actually it was invented especially for runway models. No matter how high strung they are, Goddess makes them feel wonderful, calm and collected, at their very best. I find that in this business, even a designer needs a nip of Goddess before the collection. All the top girls take it, you know, they never go on without something to soothe their nerves.”

  “I’ve seen those pictures,” Tinker mused, distracted from her anger. “A last puff of a cigarette and a glass of champagne—the supermodel special. Do they drink Goddess too?”

  “Of course they do. But not when the photographers are looking at them. It’s a secret of the inner circle. Here, smell it.” Marco took a small flacon out of his pocket, uncapped it and offered it to Tinker. She sniffed cautiously.

  “It doesn’t smell like alcohol.”

  “There’s very little in it … it’s mostly herbs.” He lifted the flacon to his lips and then stopped. “Forgive me, Tinker darling, what bad manners I have. I should have offered you some first. Here, while we still have a peaceful moment to unwind, try it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know … I think that maybe a glass of champagne is a better idea.”

  “Nonsense … Goddess is better and it lasts longer. Champagne is only enough to give you the courage to step out on the runway, then you burn it up quickly. Goddess lasts through the whole collection, with no hangover, because of the herbs. Here, let me give you a sip.”

  “Oh well, I guess so, if you really think I should.” Tinker wet her tongue with the liquid. “It doesn’t have a taste, Marco. No taste and no smell. How bad can it be?”

  “I told you, bellissima, it’s good, very, very good, and calming. Now, allow me my little nip, if you please.”

  “You don’t have to walk down a runway in front of hundreds of people, Marco,” Tinker said with a sudden, mischievous smile. “You don’t really need it. Anything called Goddess is obviously meant for women anyway.” She lifted the flacon again and took several big gulps. “There’s not much left,” she giggled. “Here, you can have it now.”

  Marco took the almost empty flacon and slipped it in an inside pocket. “How do you feel? Better?”

  “Much better! Oh, ever so much more relaxed. It works so fast, it’s amazing. Why did you never tell me about Goddess before, Marco? Were you saving it for someone else?”

  “Actually, I’ll tell you the truth, sweet Tinker, I was saving it for myself—you know how much this collection means to me—but I could see that you needed it more.”

  “You’re an angel, Marco! I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me!”

  “But Tinker, if you tell anyone about it, they’ll all want some Goddess, and there isn’t enough left to make a difference. Promise me you won’t tell. Not anyone. You must promise me. Especially April and Jordan or they’ll accuse me of favoring you … they think that already, and this will make it worse, you understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I won’t say a word. I’m the one who gets Goddess, not them. I’m the one who did all the work, aren’t I? Standing up all day, the tango lessons, never complaining about anything, inspiring you? I deserve Goddess because I’m the best, aren’t I?”

  “You are, my darling, you are.” He glanced at his watch. Goddess worked quickly. Tinker had responded beautifully. Her eyes were brilliant, and the consuming need for affection and attention that motivated some runway models to perform had expanded beyond what he had hoped. And, as he’d hoped, she’d forgotten her obsession with the tango.

  “We still have a little time, Tinker, my beloved little girl. We don’t have to go back to that crowded dressing room for a while,” Marco said caressingly. This was his last chance to be alone with her, his last opportunity to make her pay for the way she’d treated him, the way she’d kept him at a distance and played her filthy games with him.

  “Ah, good … I feel so happy—I’m floating—I feel as if I can do anything now. I’m not afraid of the runway.”

  “Tinker, do you know the reason why some girls glow so much that they seem to explode in beauty out there on the runway, and others, equally beautiful, pass unnoticed, as if they didn’t count?”

  “Goddess?”

  “Not Goddess alone, my love. Goddess helps, of course, but there’s something else too.”

  “Then I want it, Marco!” Tinker sat bolt upright, her eyes gleaming with insistence, her freckles showing clearly in her excitement.

  “It takes two to create that glow, bellissima, it requires a man’s help.”

  “A makeup man?”

  “No, darling, not a makeup man, but a man who loves the model, a man who allows her, who permits her to take him in her mouth and satisfy him completely, before she goes on the runway. Nothing else can give a girl that special glow, nothing. It’s exactly like being in love.”

  “I’ve never heard that,” T
inker said without any sign of surprise. “But then I’d never heard of Goddess either … there’s so much to learn, isn’t there, Marco?”

  “Shall I do that for you, Tinker? Shall I allow, shall I permit you to satisfy me so that you’ll have that extra winning glow on top of Goddess?”

  “I don’t know … is it the right thing to do, Marco?”

  “Of course it is, my darling. You’re the one I owe the most to. You deserve it. Here, put your hand here, feel me, yes, it’s big already, from being close to you, but you must keep both hands on me so you’ll feel it grow bigger. It’s all for you, mi amore, all for you, but you must take it only in your mouth, and only when I tell you, you understand.”

  “Only in my mouth,” Tinker whispered, “I understand.”

  “Kneel between my legs,” he ordered, suddenly harsh and avid with his own excitement. Too bad that she was willing, he thought, yet with that much Goddess in her he could hardly expect the thrill of resistance. But she was his abject slave at last and that had a flavor of its own. If he only had more time, the things he would make her submit to.… “Kneel there, at my feet. And now, lean over.” Marco guided her bright head quickly down toward his heavy, straining penis. “Suck me and then drink me. Don’t stop, not for a second, I’m almost ready now. Yes, that’s the way, but harder, you must suck harder, you must open your mouth wider, you must take it all, you must drink every drop, you must earn it, earn the glow.”

  26

  There she is!” April exclaimed. Tinker glided rapidly toward them, the big towel wrapped around her head and falling to cover her breasts, her cheeks rosy, her smile blissful.

  “Feel better, baby?” Jordan asked anxiously.

  “Piece of cake,” Tinker answered, with a radiant look, taking her seat at the makeup counter. “What’s one more fashion show anyway? You just get yourself together and do it. It’s another gig, that’s all. It’s a mental place you put yourself into.”

  “Is that what Marco explained?” April asked, stunned by the change in Tinker.

  “He made it all so simple.”