CHAPTER 3
It was a subdued atmosphere the following morning in the offices of Classique, located in a small business park in North Dallas. Francine had managed to find a workshop to rent amongst the local fraternity that could be most closely referred to as ‘garment alley’ in North Texas and she had also been lucky enough to find two additional excellent seamstresses Thelma and Darlene to complement the mercurial Vince.
She tried to sound upbeat as she faced the glum-looking trio, holding up two pieces of paper somewhat triumphantly. “Well, at least we got two orders for the blue blouse - so, come on, cheer up, it’s a start.”
Vince managed a smile. “You’re absolutely right, sweetie! Big oaks from little acorns grow as they say, or, at least I think it has something to do with nuts!” he grinned at Francine as she shook her head at his double entendre. “So, what do we do now, oh fearless leader?” he asked.
Francine took a deep breath. “We re-group, that’s what we do. I’ve already had some new ideas, we need to make a number of color changes and add a couple of new items before New York and all we’ve got is two weeks, so let’s get to it!”
She paused a moment. “By the way, did you see that big guy with the glamorous blonde on his arm at the show, Vince?”
The latter gave a wicked smile. “Noticed the guy, darling, not the hag with him - hmm, dishy!”
Francine shook her head in admonishment. “Yeah, yeah, down, boy. What I want to know is who was he?”
Vince smiled. “You mean you don’t know? That’s Mr. Wonderful himself - Gerard Cinclare, owner of ‘House of Cinclare’, a nationwide chain of high fashion boutiques, together with his ever-present girlfriend. Get his business, Princess and we’ll be on easy street!”
Francine sighed somewhat sadly. “Don’t count on it, and to be honest, I’m not even sure I want his business, he’s a jerk! Now, then, where were we?”
Later that evening, Francine turned the key in the door and walked wearily into the hallway as Mrs. Tibbett, her hat and coat already on, met her on the way out.
“Everything okay, Mrs.‘T’?”
“Just fine, Francine,” the older lady smiled. “Like I said, the fever’s gone and she’s in there eating like a horse!”
“Good! Any messages?”
“Yes, a man called three times, seemed most anxious to talk to you.”
“What was his name?”
“Cinclare!”
Francine’s mouth sagged open. “You’re joking! What did he want?”
“Wouldn’t say - said he’d call back tomorrow.”
‘The nerve of the man!’ Francine fumed inwardly. “Well, if he does call back, tell him to go to hell!”
“You mean that?”
“With all my heart!”
“Well, in that case, I’ll do it. See you tomorrow, then.”
“Bye.” even before the door closed, a much brighter Alison came rushing out of the kitchen into Francine’s arms.
“Hi, Mommy!”
Francine hugged her affectionately. “Well, look at you, you look much better. Ready for school tomorrow?”
“Really, Mom! Oh, by the way, Roger called.”
“Oh? Mrs.’T’ didn’t mention it?”
“I know, I answered the phone. I hate it when he calls me munchkin!”
“And what did he have to say?”
Alison thought for a moment. “Let me think. Oh, yeah, he’s back in town from his assignment and said to watch him on the news tonight - Yuk!”
Francine smiled tolerantly. “Now, that’s enough, Alison. Roger’s a nice guy, likes both of us,” she grinned, “Almost as much as he likes himself - and besides, he’s cute!”
“Yeah, in a yucky kind of way.”
“Okay, that’s enough - let’s have a little respect for your elders, young lady.”
Alison sighed resignedly. “Okay, I guess.”
Strangely enough, however, Alison’s doubts concerning Roger were echoed in part by Francine’s own increasing misgivings about their present relationship. After their whirlwind first encounter at a fashion show where Roger had been the guest compere, the mutual physical attraction between them had been quickly consummated between the sheets in Roger’s luxurious penthouse. A passionate, proficient lover, he had filled a void in her life left vacant since her break-up with Steve. Lately, however, Francine could not be sure if it was the demands of her new business or an innate need for a more fulfilling relationship that had made their once energetic, sensuous lovemaking seem suddenly lackluster.
As if interrupting her thoughts, the phone rang and as she braced herself to speak to Roger, a strong, rich baritone voice came on the line.
“Miss Dubois?”
“This is she.”
“Thank goodness! Miss Dubois, this is Gerard Cinclare speaking.”
At the mere mention of his name, probably as a knee jerk reaction to the pent-up anger she had felt since his loud, outspoken criticism of her work, Francine found herself almost mechanically putting the phone back in its cradle without a word. Seconds later, the phone rang again. She picked it up.
“Look…I…”
He interrupted her. “Feel better now? I must say I don’t blame you!”
Desperately trying to compose herself, she continued. “Mr. Cinclare…”
He interrupted her yet again, humor in his voice. “Call me Gerard.”
She coughed impatiently. “As I was saying, Mr. Cinclare, I don’t wish to be rude, but I have nothing to say to you.”
The deep rich tones continued. “I fully understand, Miss Dubois, but I have something to say to you.”
Francine was running out of patience as she replied frostily, “Look, it’s been a long day and the last thing I need…”
He interrupted her yet again. “Is an apology, right?”
“Er, well, yes.”
“Good, because you’re not going to get one - at least not a full one!”
Francine clenched her teeth, closed her eyes. ‘What a pompous idiot!’ she mused, adding out loud. “I’m putting the phone down.”
Gerard continued unabated. “However, I do apologize if by expressing my opinion of your work too loudly in company, you were caused any embarrassment.”
She fumed at his arrogance, but at least this was a half-hearted start. “Oh, you do, do you?” she added.
“Yes, I do - but what I don’t retract is my opinion of your creations. I believe in telling things the way they are.”
“That’s patently obvious, do go on?” she was now moving from anger to fascination as to what this arrogant man would come up with next.
He didn’t disappoint her as the soothing baritone voice continued. “I run my business by recognizing fashions that will sell at the haute couture level, young lady.”
‘Young lady, how dare he?’ she fumed.
“And quite frankly,” he continued, “Your collection lacked depth and creativity, appeared immaturely rushed in its presentation and it really lacked a big finish,” he gave a dry chuckle. “And by that, I don’t mean models diving into the audience!”
If she could have reached down the phone, she would have ripped out his sexy, golden-toned throat for echoing her very own inner doubts. But biting her lip in frustration, she managed to squeeze out a rather stiff-jawed reply. “That was rather unfortunate, I admit,” and just as she was about to continue to elaborate on the extenuating circumstances, a sane voice in the back of her head simply said, ‘Why bother!’ as she ended the conversation quickly, simply and clinically. “Apology unaccepted, goodnight, Mr. Cinclare!” before slamming the phone down. This time, he didn’t call back.
In the last few seconds, hate of her outspoken critic had quickly changed to naked loathing, yet somehow she also felt strangely stimulated by the heated exchange and also, if she were to admit it, she now felt totally re-energized to do better. One way or another she was going to show this pompous windbag what really made Francine Dubois tick.
CHAPTER 4
After another fitful night’s sleep during which she dreamed of being constantly harassed by the handsome Cinclare, Francine arrived at the office with new purpose in her stride. Unable to get the criticism of her line lacking a big finish out of her mind, the beginnings of a stunning new design for a sexy evening gown were already burning a hole in her brain.
Coffee was bubbling in the pot as she walked in and Vince, resplendent as usual in a chartreuse shirt and the usual ‘painted on’ effect maroon pants, looked up from his desk and held up a sheaf of papers in his hand, a wicked smile on his face.
“Let me guess? More bills?” she asked.
“Think again, girl,” he cooed. “More orders for the blue number - so at least one is selling!”
Francine smiled briefly. “Good! Now, listen, Vince, I’ve had an idea for a new, sexy evening gown for the finale. I need a couple of hours of peace and quiet and then you can criticize the hell out of it.”
He rubbed his hands gleefully. “What? Me? Criticize? Really, darling!” he shooed her into the back office. “Great, get to it.”
She was so deep in creative thought an hour later that she jumped with a start when a man’s lips brushed the back of her neck.
“Miss me, honey?” she spun around to see Roger Kenner, her boyfriend, tall, handsome, a big grin on his face.
She smiled half-heartedly. “Me? - Naw!” she gave him a friendly hug. “So, how was the assignment?”
“The pits! Following political conventions is like watching grass grow - so, how about dinner tonight?”
“Oh, Roger, I’m right in the middle of something,” but when she saw the look of disappointment in his eyes, she quickly added. “But, tell you what, give me a rain check on dinner and I’ll stop by later on my way home, Okay?”
“Okay, Baby,”’ he grinned wickedly. “I’ll put a bottle on ice.”
‘Yes, and put your libido right there with it,’ she was tempted to say, but instead she added. “See you later.”
He kissed her neck before leaving. “You bet!”
* * * *
Later that night, lying back in Roger’s bed after making love, Francine had to admit that Roger was without doubt an accomplished lover, even if that particular evening she had faked her first orgasm with the handsome newscaster. At one time, just to feel the strength of his manhood inside her, had been enough to arouse her to the heights, and when he touched her nipples the way he knew she liked to be touched, that was all it would take.
But now, as Roger sang the song of the contented lover in the shower, Francine’s mind drifted back to her earlier confrontation with Cinclare and she was already getting strange, new vibes. She idly wondered if Gerard Cinclare was also a man with whom you faked an orgasm, or if indeed one touch from his handsome body sent a woman completely over the edge. At least the beautiful blonde on his arm that night at the show certainly looked devoted to the self-centered entrepreneur. But what was she thinking of, the guy was a jerk, end of story!
* * * *
After dropping Alison at school on the way in to the workshop, Francine’s mind was already focusing on New York and all the planning ahead. She made a mental note of all the minor details to be taken care of such as travel plans, hotels, etc. and most important of all, making sure that the right models to handle her upgraded line actually turned up on the day. Coping with another of Vince’s theatrical breakdowns, not to mention one of her own, was more than she could handle.
As she walked into the office, past Darlene and Thelma, both diligently sewing up two new items, Vince was standing in the doorway, garishly dressed as usual, chrome dome shining, a smile on his face and a huge bunch of flowers in his hand.
Francine smiled. “Vince, you shouldn’t have!”
He looked deflated. “Get real, Princess - me buying flowers for a mere chick! Don’t be silly, darling, these are from an admirer of yours!”
She looked firstly confused and then angry. “I knew it! Roger has a chick on the side - this, my God, this is a guilt bouquet!”
Vince smiled. “Wrong, darling - this is not the vain Roger’s handwriting.” he handed her the envelope and she removed the card, mouth agape when she saw who it was from.
“Cinclare! I don’t believe it!”
“I think he likes you, Princess!”
“Yeah, right. If you’d heard him criticizing our line after the Dallas Show, you’d have wanted to kill him!”
Vince tried in vain to put on his comical, macho image. “He did? Then he’s a dead man!”
She smiled. “What are you going to do, darling, beat him senseless with your biscotti stick? The nerve of that guy!”
“So, what does he say?”
She quickly read the card. “He hopes we can be friends! What a jerk!” she dumped the flowers in the wastebasket with a flourish. “Now, down to business.”
CHAPTER 5
The following day, Francine was so engrossed in her preparations for the trip to New York that she almost forgot that this was the day that Yvette was having her biopsy, breast cancer being the deadly suspect.
She pulled up in the early evening outside the tree-lined hospital and rushed inside and up to the private room to find Yvette, still looking glamorous, sitting up in bed and very upbeat about her condition.
“It looks good, darling - at least Doctor Zhivago thinks so.”
“You mean that’s his real name?” Francine looked incredulous.
“Of course not, silly, it’s just that he looks so much like Omar Sharif!”
Francine shook her head disparagingly. “What looked good, Mother? For heaven’s sake, tell me, what did he say exactly?”
“He said that it hadn’t reached the lymph nodes, so hopefully they can get all of it.”
“And the boobs?”
“Hopefully they’ll stay!”
Francine gave a huge sigh of relief. “Thank God for that!”
“Can anybody join in?”
The two women broke away from hugging each other to see Carl Dubois standing there, father and estranged husband, a bunch of flowers in one hand. Swarthy, white haired and with a healthy suntan, Carl approached the two women a little tentatively as Yvette smoothed her hair nervously.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him.
Carl smiled. “When Francie told me you were coming in today, I figured the least I could do was give you some moral support - here, these are for you,” he handed her the flowers and added self-consciously, “I’ll be going, then.”
Francine grabbed his arm. “No, Daddy - stay a while!”
Yvette also gave him an assuring smile. “Yes, don’t go, Carl, the flowers are lovely - and it’s good news!”
He smiled a relieved smile, affection still clearly there for the vivacious Yvette, his brief, meaningless transgression with the woman at that convention that caused the break-up, now a distant memory - at least for him, if not for Yvette.
Later, after a friendly visit with Yvette, Francine and Carl walked down the hospital corridor towards their respective parking spots.
“So, how are things at Classique Fashions?” he asked.
“Well, we just had our first show in Dallas.”
“And?”
“And it went O.K., I guess.” try as she may she could not sound upbeat about the show.
The astute Carl looked her closely in the eye. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Francie?”
“I guess I never could fool you, Daddy. I suppose the designs were okay and we’ve already had orders for two items, but we had a couple of minor disasters during the presentation.”
“I’m listening?”
She described the two embarrassing incidents and also the loud criticism of her work by Cinclare. Carl was totally unshaken.
“Don’t let it get to you, darling. What does that jerk Cinclare know anyway?”
“Well, he does own a chain of fashion boutiques, Daddy!”
“Tush! Tush! Ignore them
all, my darling. My baby has a special talent - that’s what your mentor at the design college told me and that’s good enough for me!”
When it came to flair and talent, Carl himself had considerable creative business acumen, sufficient to where he now owned three distribution centers across the USA for his imported glass and crystal ware with another under construction in Toronto. His unfailing support, both moral and financial, for Francine’s pursuit of her dream of being a designer, had forever endeared him to her heart.
“So, Daddy,” she changed the subject. “What’s the latest between you and Mommy? Has she forgiven you?”
He smiled. “Well, Princess, let me put it this way. The flowers were in a vase of water when I left - a month ago, I’d probably be wearing them,” he shrugged philosophically. “I guess I can live in hope.”
She hugged his arm affectionately. “Well, hang in there - she still loves you, you know. Notice how she checked her appearance the second your handsome face appeared in the doorway?”
He grinned. “So, what you’re saying is?”
She interrupted him. “What I’m saying is - don’t give up, Daddy!”
He smiled. “Correct! And that’s exactly what I’m saying to you, Princess, don’t you give up either! Show that Cinclare chap what a Dubois is really capable of.”
She hugged him affectionately. “Thanks’, Daddy, I needed that!”
He gave her a parting hug. “Well, gotta go, call me and we’ll have lunch.”
“I will, bye, Daddy.”
As Carl headed towards the west parking lot and Francine headed east, she turned the corner in the hospital corridor only to be almost knocked off her feet by a bunch of flowers held outwards in the hands of a large man coming towards her. She almost fell backwards.
“Hey, watch where you’re…,” but she stopped in mid-sentence when she saw that the person holding the flowers was Gerard Cinclare! He grinned disarmingly as she managed the startled comment. “Oh, no, not you again,” and she couldn’t resist adding, “And if those are for me, you can forget it!”
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