“O-oh,” said Loraine, and felt simply dreadful, because she could not possibly tell him how much guile—not to say deceit—she had practised in her determination to keep from him the fact that she was in love with the man he probably considered to be his most hated enemy.
Fortunately they arrived home at this moment, and she was saved any further embarrassing discussion on the subject of truth and its attractions. But she thought:
“I hope he’s not going to dislike and despise me when he finds out the real situation. But I can’t think about, that now. I can’t think about anything except how Philip will look when he sees me wear the wedding dress. If everything is all right in that moment, I’ll ask nothing more. Just let everything—everything—go smoothly on that day, and I can deal with whatever comes later.”
They dined together in excellent humor. But he sent her to bed early, with the reminder that now there was a guardian to look after her interests again and he could not allow any ward of his to look pale and tired, with so great an occasion drawing near.
It was singularly pleasant to feel in someone’s care again, she decided, and altogether she was genuinely happy to have him home, even though some obvious complications loomed ahead.
The next day included all the usual minor crises and scenes, with the addition of last-minute nerves. But everything smoothed out miraculously for the show which was given for the work girls, and here Loraine had her first taste of real personal success.
It had been one thing to show someone else’s dresses in the old Collection. It was quite another to be wearing—perhaps “expressing” was the word—the designs which had actually been created for her.
She drew rapturous applause from the solid group of girls who had been responsible for making her models. But this, Madame Moisant had explained to her, would happen in any case, for approval at this particular show was strictly of a partisan variety. What was really surprising was that she caused approving comments, and even some applause, from those who had had no hand in making her dresses. And this, she was given to understand, was praise indeed.
Even at this final preview, as it were, Florian did not allow the wedding dress to go on show. But Loraine went home, cheered by the thought of her success and by a special word of praise from Florian. Strained and pre-occupied though he looked, he had given her a quick smile at the end and said:
“Tomorrow should be a great day.”
Paul had evidently been detained late on his own affairs.
Which was just as well, Loraine thought, for Mrs. Otway telephoned quite late in the evening, and it scared her even to think what complications would have arisen if her guardian had been at home and taken the call. She must somehow insist that, in future, calls were made only to the salon, however inexplicable that might seem.
Or perhaps, after tomorrow, she would not have to worry about that—or anything else.
“Darling, I just wanted you to know that we’re back and so much looking forward to tomorrow,” Mrs. Otway assured her. “We shall be in the main room, right in the front row, ready to cheer you on.”
“All three of you?” Loraine could not help inquiring.
“All three of us will be there,” Mrs. Otway agreed, but in a slightly repressive sort of tone which suggested that she took no responsibility for any cheering on Elinor’s part.
“I’m so glad. I think you’ll—like it.” Loraine said, with happy understatement. Then she hastily said goodbye and rang off, because she heard her guardian’s key in the door.
Paul teased her a little that evening, saying that he and Mimi must remember that they had a prima donna on their hands, and that if she wanted to throw a temperament before her debut, that would be quite in order.
But he was kind too, and again saw that she went to bed in good time. And she found, the following morning, that he intended to take her down by car to the salon.
“You simply can’t walk on such a morning,” he declared.
And, although it made her nervous to think of him anywhere near the scene of action even so early in the morning, she could not but be touched by his forethought. She was, however, really feeling nervous and. keyed up by now, and she sat almost wordless beside him as they drove through the light haze of a perfect summer morning.
When they drove up outside Florian’s, he kissed her cheek lightly and said, “Good luck, Loraine. I’ll see you later.”
“I expect it will be very much later,” she warned him, as she got out of the car and stood on the pavement smiling at him. “We shall be here to any sort of hour tonight. But I’ll tell you all about it some time this evening.”
“Some time this evening be blowed!” he told her cheerfully. “I’m coming to the Show. You didn’t think I’d miss your big moment, did you?”
If the House of Florian had collapsed behind her, she could not have been more stunned or horrified.
“You’re coming—to the Show?” she gasped—passing in rapid, nightmare review, scenes of him meeting Elinor—Mrs. Otway—Philip.
“Certainly! Florian kindly sent me a ticket yesterday. Don’t look so scared. You’re going to be splendid, I’m sure.”
And, with a final reassuring wave of his hand, he drove off, leaving Loraine staring after him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WHAT shall I do? What shall I do?” thought Loraine distractedly. “Paul can’t come to the Show. It will spoil absolutely everything. The whole situation is so delicately poised. A meeting—any sort of showdown—would be utter disaster! Oh, why didn’t I think of this?—But how could I? How could I guess for one moment that Florian would send Paul a ticket? He had no right to.”
Terrified by the crisis, blinded to everything but her own predicament, Loraine really did think it monstrous of Florian to issue a ticket—at least, this particular ticket—to his own dress show.
And suddenly, realizing that she was still standing stock still on the pavement while time was running out, she whirled and rushed through the famous portals, across the boutique and up the stairs.
Ordinarily, she would have stopped here and gone along to the mannequins’ dressing-room. But, consumed by a fever of panic and distress, she ran on, up to the top floor where Florian had his own working quarters.
She was not even thinking of the enormity of what she was doing, or that on this day—one of the two most important of the year—even Madame Moisant handled Florian with kid gloves. She knocked on the door of his office and marched in almost before his nervous, slightly irritable voice bade her enter.
“Monsieur Florian—”
“Go away,” he said impatiently. “I want no one to disturb me just now. You have no right up here, in any case. You should be downstairs dressing.”
“But monsieur—”
“Talk to Madame Moisant!” he thundered, in a voice she had never heard from him before. “I am not interested.” And he turned his back on her and went over to the window, where he stood drumming his fingers moodily on the pane.
She could not imagine where she found the courage to go on. It must be something to do with sheer desperation, she supposed. But even she herself was astonished when she heard her voice—rather thin and high—say:
“If you want me to wear your wedding-dress, monsieur, you had better listen.”
If she had bitten him he could not have been more astounded. He turned slowly and looked at her. A look which was reputed to be able to make a duchess wilt.
“What did you say?” asked Florian quietly and incredulously.
“I said,” repeated Loraine shakily, “that if you want me to wear your wedding dress, you had better listen to me.”
“I am listening,” said Florian, with such withering chill that she felt the salt taste of fresh panic in her mouth.
“It’s about the ticket you sent Paul—my guardian,” she stammered, whereat he cast a glance upwards as though calling on heaven to witness what a dress designer had to put up with. “It’s vital that he shouldn’t use
it—”
“Vital to whom?” inquired Florian with a sort of savage calm.
“To me. The girl who is going to wear your wedding dress.”
“Stop trying to blackmail me, mademoiselle.” Florian was suddenly in complete command of the situation again. “I am aware of your power on this day, even if I sack you tomorrow. What is it you are trying to ask of me?”
“Monsieur Florian,” she actually wrung her hands in her distress, “I’m not trying to blackmail you. But Philip is coming here today. Almost everything for me depends on his seeing me—without complication or distraction—in the wedding dress. Now you’ve arranged that Paul should be here too. They’re deadly enemies. Neither knows I am anything to the other—or that I even know the other. And, as though that were not enough, Philip is bringing his fiancée—the girl who jilted Paul.”
“What do you expect me to do about this ridiculous tangle?” inquired her employer coldly and, as he passed his hand over his face and hair, she realized suddenly how pale and strained he looked. “Am I supposed to meet your guardian at the door—on this day of all days—and insult him by telling him I do not want him at my dress ’ show, after all?”
“N-no. But—do something, Monsieur Florian. Everyone says you’re such a clever and ingenious man. Surely you can think of some solution? They mustn’t meet. That’s all. They must not meet.”
He stared at her wordlessly for perhaps half a minute. Then he said, almost conversationally:
“I could wring your neck with pleasure. But, since I cannot allow myself even the indulgence of sacking you today, I will help you instead—”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Don’t thank me.” He held up his hand peremptorily. “It would be an insult after holding a pistol at my head like this. Where is Monsieur Philippe sitting?”
“I—I don’t know. Oh, yes, I do! I remember now. Mrs. Otway said they would be in the front row in the main room.”
“Very well, then. I will have your guardian met at the door—you must excuse me if I do not immediately undertake this task myself,” he added with unexpectedly heavy irony for him, “and I will arrange for him to be seated in the long corridor.”
“But suppose, in spite of this—”
“I will suppose nothing,” stated Florian with brutal finality. “I have offered you a solution. It must suffice. And now, if you do not leave me, I will have you removed and Lisette shall wear the wedding dress and spoil the Show.”
It seemed inappropriate to say, “Thank you, monsieur,” at that point. So Loraine silently withdrew, sorry that she could not express gratitude even for this limited help, and, on legs that seemed strangely hollow, she tottered down to her proper floor.
Here Madame Moisant greeted her with hardly suppressed fury.
“Where have you been?” she inquired, in the tone of one who longed to administer a sharper slap to a child but feared this might result in a screaming fit which would spoil the party. “You should have been here ten minutes ago.”
“I know. I’m very sorry. I was speaking to Monsieur Florian,” Loraine said truthfully.
“To Monsieur Florian?” Madame Moisant’s voice rose to a squeak of incredulous horror. “One does not speak to Monsieur Florian on the opening day.”
“Well, I did,” said Loraine simply.
“Did he send for you?”
“No. I went to speak to him on my own account.”
“On your own—You must be mad!” exclaimed the directrice.
“Yes. I think perhaps I am,” Loraine replied unexpectedly. “And if you question me any further, Madame Moisant, I shall probably scream and try to run up the wall.”
One of the facets of Madame Moisant’s genius was to know when to impose and when to relax discipline. She gave one measuring glance at Loraine. Then she said mildly:
“We will talk no more of this, petite—nor of going mad. There is time for everything if we organize well. You will take a mouthful of wine and get dressed in your first number, and today you will be such a success that no one will remember any early foolishness.”
And so she arranged it. Though she allowed herself the luxury of muttering to her favorite fitter that the British were the most unpredictable race on earth.
“One says they have no temperament,” she added bitterly. “This is true of the typical, beefy Britisher. But if they do have temperament then nothing can stand in their path. This is perhaps why they win wars.”
“True, madame,” agreed the fitter, who cared nothing about the Britisher or their wars but was devoted to Madame Moisant.
Imprisoned, as it were, in the dressing-room, Loraine had no further opportunity of seeing if Florian really carried out what he had promised—or whether, in fact, the simple ruse had even partially solved her problem.
But, just before the show was about to begin, she persuaded Madame Moisant to let her look through the small peephole which commanded a view of the main room.
And there, sure enough, sitting in the front row, was Philip, flanked on either side by his mother and Elinor.
Of Paul there was no sign at all. So presumably he was now safely seated in the long corridor. Whether he and Philip had met, at any rate passingly, or what would happen afterwards, she could not say. At least she would not be called upon to parade before both men at the same time, with Elinor also looking on. And the relief of this realization was so overwhelming that suddenly she found she was quite calm and relaxed, and ready to play her part.
“Well—we are not going mad, after all, eh?” Madame Moisant glanced briefly at Loraine’s more tranquil expression, like a general giving special attention to his weakest troops before battle.
“Oh, no! I’m sorry madame. Everything is all right now. I think perhaps I was a bit crazy with stage-fright,” Loraine said contritely.
“Very possibly. It is not unusual,” agreed the directrice. Then she consulted her watch and asked, “Are you ready, Lisette?” of Lisette, who was to open the Show.
“Yes, madame.” Lisette looked exaggeratedly calm, just to show that she was no amateur suffering from nerves.
Then Madame Moisant moved over to her vantage-point, picked up her hand microphone, and announced:
“Numero vingt-et-un. Numbaire twenty-one.”
The Show had begun.
The numbering was not consecutive, but each girl knew, even without the summoning crook of Madame Moisant’s finger, when her turn came.
Loraine’s first appearance—in a smoke-blue tailleur with infinitely clever touches of mink—did not come until the Show had been in progress for ten minutes. Then, as Madame Moisant’s rather harsh voice announced her first number, she stepped out on to the small semi-circular stage with the strangest feeling of walking towards her fate.
She was not really nervous now. Only immensely keyed up and excited, though outwardly calm. She was still fully aware of everything which this moment meant to her, Loraine, personally. But, with another part of her—the part which was to make her one of the most successful mannequins even Florian ever discovered—she saw the whole thing in terms of theatre. And, like an actress making the most of a dramatic entrance, she turned slowly—faintly at no one and at everyone—and then made her way along the narrow raised platform which ran down the centre of the main salon.
As she passed Philip and his mother, she gave them a vivid, smiling glance—just enough to show that she was a living, intensely human girl and not simply a clothes-prop—completed her walk, turned and retraced her steps, and then moved out and along the corridor, just as the next number was announced and the next girl appeared on the circular stage.
Almost at the end of the corridor and near the head of the stairs she saw Paul. And beside him sat Florian himself.
She could have laughed aloud in her relief and in the realization that Florian had been even better than his word. Although he might not actually have met Paul when he came in, at least he was giving some personal attention to him, and Loraine m
ight rest assured that he would see to it there was no crisis.
The smile she had given Philip had been charming enough. But the smile she bestowed upon Florian—and, by a slight extension, on her guardian too—was of such feeling and beauty that more than one voice was heard to declare that this new mannequin of Florian’s was about to steal the show.
Paul himself looked as though he shared this view, and Loraine could not but be touched and pleased by the half incredulous delight with which he surveyed her—almost as though he saw her for the first time and liked beyond measure what he saw.
Florian, for his part, looked coolly back at her. But, although on his worn, clever face there was that curiously boyish smile which appeared in moments of sudden pleasure or great tension, she had the feeling that the smile was not meant for her.
At last her first tour was over and she was back in the dressing-room, where the elegant languor of display gave place immediately to the feverish activity of changing into the next model. And from then onwards—in spite of expert organization and split-second timing—the tempo increasing cruelly, and the alteration of leisurely appearances and back-stage rush sharpened tempers and tightened nerves.
Before the Show was half over, however, the indefinable breath of success began to stir the over-heated atmosphere of the salon. And, as the stunning evening dresses—which were perhaps the finest expression of Florian’s genius—followed each other in superb procession, this breath grew to a strong breeze and then almost to a gale, expressed in the continual outbursts of applause and the exclamations of delight.
Loraine had one of her greatest successes in an almost simple dress of pale daffodil organdie, worn with an immense-skirted dramatic evening coat of magnificent green satin. And, as though the clapping and general approval were not enough, she actually heard Philip say softly as she passed, “Oh, lovely—lovely!”
She was not quite sure if he spoke to her or to himself. But she did know that the exclamation was forced from him by some feeling which he could not possibly suppress.
The Wedding Dress Page 11
