Breaking the Rules (25 page)

T
he scene was a hive of activity. Very well-organized activity, M decided. She was sitting in a chair at a dressing table, watching everything with undisguised interest, not missing a trick, and enjoying every moment.

Dressers were moving about, checking clothes, coordinating shoes and accessories, sliding garments along racks to be certain all were labelled accurately and matched the model’s name written large on a big card attached to each rack. Hairstylists and makeup artists manoeuvred through the group of assistants from the House of Tremont, and did so with ease and grace. All were intent on ensuring every girl looked perfect—beyond perfect, if that were at all possible.

And of course a bevy of the most beautiful girls were at the centre of this activity, sitting around in cotton robes like M, waiting for the magic hour when they stepped out onto the catwalk to do their stuff. M identified a couple of top models, as well as others she did not know. They were all occupied: on mobile phones; reviewing their makeup; reading newspapers or magazines; checking diaries; searching through holdalls. They didn’t do any fraternizing, she noticed, and this did not surprise her.
Everyone here was, at this precise moment, preoccupied with themselves and their upcoming performance on the runway.

As she glanced around she noticed that some of the models looked bored to death, others were lost in thought, yet others daydreaming. But still, there
was
a sense of tension and excitement here. M was sitting in the large area used for dressing rooms, behind the stage and runway of the venue where Jean-Louis Tremont was soon to present his spring/summer collection. It was the last Monday in January, 2007, a day M knew she would never forget.

As usual, the great French fashion designer was showing his latest line of haute-couture clothes at the Grand Palais on Avenue Winston Churchill, his preferred venue. He was showing at three o’clock for the same reason—preference; he liked an afternoon event best, mostly because it catered to the press. The show would last forty minutes, and from four o’clock onwards, the photographers could shoot away to their hearts’ content. They could stay until midnight if they so desired, as far as he was concerned.

M became introspective, which she usually did when an important moment in her life drew closer. Today, most especially, she wanted to concentrate on the clothes, remain focused on what she was about to do…which was to walk down a runway in front of hundreds and hundreds of people for the first time in her life. Very shortly it would be her moment of truth. Her stomach tightened and she felt a little ripple of nerves.

She was glad Kate had insisted on the rehearsal yesterday. She had walked the walk here on the catwalk at the Grand Palais, with Kate and Jean-Louis in attendance, and she had benefited from their advice. They had pointed out various pitfalls, a number of things to avoid, and she had paid attention to every word they said. Now it was D-Day, as Larry called it, and the action was about to begin.

Glancing into the distance, M spotted Kate Morrell talking
to Peter Addison, the head of public relations for the collection. She had met him last night with Kate, and had liked him at once. He reminded her a little bit of an absent-minded professor, and he had kind eyes, a gentle manner, but she knew that behind this likeable facade was a tough PR man, one more exacting than most, according to Kate. And brilliant at what he did.

Suddenly, Kate was heading her way, looking purposeful, and M sat up straighter in the chair and took a few deep breaths.

‘We’re okay, aren’t we, M?’ Kate asked as she drew to a standstill. ‘No last-minute nerves?’

M forced a laugh. ‘A few, I’m afraid, something I didn’t really expect.’

Kate nodded. ‘It would be inhuman if you weren’t a bit nervous, sweetie. But you have great self-confidence, and that is the
key
to everything.
Your own self-confidence.
Forget the clothes, your own beauty, just remember that one thing:
the confidence.
Tell yourself this: I can do it. I’m the best. I’m going to strut my stuff. Many a beautiful girl, a potential top girl, has failed because the confidence suddenly fled once she was out there. Got it, sweetie?’

‘I’ve got it,’ M answered, sitting up even straighter, lifting her head higher, remembering who she was.

‘And one other thing. Larry is sitting out there, and Caresse and your other friends from New York,’ Kate said. ‘They’re right up front, I made sure of that. Take this advice from an old hand like me. Don’t look for them, or at them, if you spot them. Ignore their presence. You’re not out on that catwalk for
them.
You’re out there for the audience, and the press, and to show Jean-Louis Tremont’s clothes brilliantly.
YOU ARE THE NEW FACE OF JEAN-LOUIS TREMONT.
Don’t ever forget that. I decreed it. And you must not let me down. Understand?’

‘I do, yes, Kate. And I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve been very good to me, and I will be okay.’

‘Better than okay. You’re going to be the best. Right?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Now, let me give you the once over.’ Kate stepped away, leaned in towards M, and studied her hair and makeup for a few moments. ‘They’ve done a great job. A hint of Audrey, well, more than a hint, but not too much to overshadow
you.
’ Kate nodded, then looked around as Luke stepped up to join them, carrying a camera.

‘What do you think, Luke?’ Kate asked, glancing at him. ‘Makeup is great, and so is the hair.’

‘She’s perfect,’ Luke said, ‘and Jean-Louis prefers a neat head, as you well know. I’m glad we kept it to a simple chignon.’ Luke drew back, levelled his camera at her. ‘Okay, smile, kiddo! I want a nice casual shot of you sitting here in your little cotton wrapper before you wriggle into those gorgeous clothes made just for you.’

M laughed, and gave him a little wave, and he caught that shot, then said, ‘Come on, stand up here next to your clothes rack.’ He took some shots, and then motioned to Kate. ‘Join the fun, Kate! Come and stand near the rack, and do me a favour, please…point a finger at her name, point to the M.’ He grinned. ‘Some name. So short.’

Kate did as he asked, remarked, ‘I understand from Peter that the press turnout is staggering.’

Luke threw her an odd look. ‘And why does that surprise
you
? If anybody’s ever stage-managed anything, it’s you, Kate.’

Before she could think of an appropriate answer, Kate spotted Jean-Louis out of the corner of her eye, and turned around to face him, smiling broadly. ‘There you are, J.-L. I was just wondering what had happened to you.’

He inclined his head graciously, smiled at her, murmured, ‘Kate,’ and turned to look at M. Taking her hand, he kissed it. ‘Mademoiselle. You are looking…
superb.
I know you will be the grand success. I have no doubt at all. And I will be applauding you the loudest.’

‘Thank you, monsieur, I won’t let you down.’

He smiled at her, his admiration showing in his eyes, then shook Luke’s hand, and said, ‘
Bonne chance
with the photography, Luke. I owe Mademoiselle to you.
Merci beaucoup.
’ He nodded, strolled off, went to speak to the other girls, as always the most courteous of men. Unexpectedly, he swung around and beckoned to Kate.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, and followed him.

Luke said, ‘You’re not frightened, are you, M?’

‘No, I’m fine, honestly. I had a flutter of nerves earlier, but Kate kind of put the fear of God into me. I don’t dare have any nerves. I’ve got to go out there and be…nerveless.’

‘No,
fearless,
’ Luke corrected, and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Here comes your dresser, Claude. I like her a lot. She’ll get you into the clothes with the greatest of ease.’ He grinned. ‘See ya out there, kid! Break a leg!’

Peter Addison appeared at M’s side as Luke left, and he said swiftly, in a quiet voice, ‘I won’t keep you, M, I know the dresser’s waiting to help you into your first outfit. But I did want to wish you the very best.’

She gave him a huge smile. ‘Thanks so much, Peter, that’s kind of you.’

‘A word of advice,’ he now said. ‘Be prepared for the flashbulbs going off. The best thing to do is to keep your head up high, look towards the back of the room, staring straight ahead. That way you’re not blinded
too
much. There’s a lot of photographers out there, I must warn you, waiting for that first glimpse of you…so be ready.’

‘I will, and thanks for the tip, Peter.’

A moment later Kate was taking hold of her arm. ‘Let’s get you into the hot pink, sweetie.’ As they walked over to Claude,
who was waiting with the outfit, Kate added, ‘Jean-Louis is contradicting himself again. I know last night he said he wanted you to go out first, but he’s now changed his mind. He feels we need the audience to be warmed up a little, and also by not seeing you immediately there’ll be more anticipation about you out there. So you’ll go after the first two models. Be relaxed, M, don’t worry, it’ll all be fine.’

M could only nod; her mouth was dry, her chest tight.

Waiting in the wings, M watched the first two models go onto the runway, one after the other, both walking at a relatively steady pace. She felt suddenly slightly sick to her stomach, a feeling of nausea rising, and then she stood up straighter, pushed the peculiar sensation away. She was taut, and she knew she would be until her feet hit the catwalk. It was impatience and pent-up excitement that was making her so terribly tense. But she was certain the moment she was out there she would be perfectly fine.

Kate whispered, ‘
Now!
Go! Knock ‘em dead!’

As M walked out of the wings and into the middle of the stage, she thought of her mother, her eldest sister, and Birdie.
She had to succeed.
For the three of them. She had to make them proud of her. Then she erased all thoughts, wiped the slate clean, focused entirely on the job she had to do.

Walking forward, adopting a rapid pace, stepping boldly onto the catwalk, M did not hear the music or the number of her outfit being announced. The only thing she heard was the applause. It was deafening.

She moved with her usual grace and fluidity, slowing slightly at times, then turning, swirling, strutting, showing off the impeccably cut hot pink wool coat, making sure it flared out behind her for full effect. And all the time she kept her head high, stared
out into space, avoiding eye contact with everyone. The flashing camera bulbs did not stop, but they did not bother her.

Sliding the coat off her shoulders, but holding it tightly to her chest, she turned, walked slowly back, again turned and took the coat off completely, held it in one hand, now displaying the purple silk dress and its flurry of pleats. The smashing colour combination of purple and pink coupled with the superb tailoring were impressive. And so was she. They let her know that, clapped until she left the catwalk, dragging the coat behind her as Jean-Louis had shown her last night.

Claude, full of smiles, was waiting for her with a white silk suit and a black and white polka-dot blouse. ‘
Fantastique,
M,’ she said, admiration glowing in her dark eyes. ‘You have the knack,’ she added. M was out of the purple dress and into the white suit, and out on the catwalk again, everything done in record time.

And so it went on. All manner of day suits, coats and dresses for afternoon, and cocktail outfits were shown, and applause for M and the clothes was overwhelming. During this time she held one thought in her head:
self-confidence.
That’s the key, she reminded herself—and she kept hers. And was happy she had always had enormous self-assurance, which she attributed to her upbringing. It stood her in good stead.

Time was running on, and M knew that they would probably run late, but it was not her fault. There had been a snag with another model that had delayed them briefly. Still, they might catch up.

Soon it was the moment for her to appear in her first evening gown, and the crowd went wild when she flew onto the catwalk amidst swirls of pastel-coloured chiffon. The gown was a confection of spring colours, which looked as if they’d been borrowed from a bunch of sweet peas. Pink, lilac, white, pale blue, yellow and rose were combined in the delicate floral pattern; M appeared a dreamlike creature in clouds of chiffon skirts below a strapless top and pale pink pearls.

Suddenly it was the finale. When M appeared on the edge of the stage before gliding forward onto the catwalk, she received a huge round of applause. She was wearing the extraordinary white taffeta wedding gown in which Luke had photographed her in New York, for the cover of the April issue of
Bazaar.
The net-and-lace veil, pinned on the crown of her jet-black head, was draped over her shoulders and fell gracefully to the floor. Holding herself as tall as she could, she moved forward slowly, not wanting to trip, and knowing that this particular gown seemed to have a life of its own.

M was elegance personified as she stepped slowly down the runway, her back straight, her head high. She was regality itself, in fact.

M received a standing ovation at the end of the show. And so did Jean-Louis Tremont when he stepped out onto the stage to join M and the other models. The show had run twenty minutes longer than anticipated, for a full hour, but nobody seemed to care. In fact, everyone seemed to be delighted.

And Jean-Louis Tremont knew that he had a triumph on his hands; there was no doubt in his mind about that. Two triumphs, if he counted his collection of clothes.

Larry, slightly dazed, and still sitting in his chair, had been mesmerized by his wife’s ‘performance’. Because that was what it had been. She had all the qualities that made a star: beauty, self-assurance, utter belief in herself and an hauteur that was undoubtedly bred in the bone. Kate Morrell may well have stage-managed everything, and for months, but it had only worked because of what M herself was.

‘So be it,’ he said to no one in particular. It was Geo who answered him.

‘That’s right, Larry, she’s going to be a star. An overnight sensation. That’s what you meant, isn’t it?’