Satin Dreams (18 page)

“
Vite, vite!
” the Arab porter ordered. He pushed Christopher Forbes toward the wooden doors, and Alix followed. Abdul slammed them shut behind them.
 

In the tunnel, Christopher dabbed at his bleeding mouth gingerly. “That son of a bitch,” he said under his breath. “I had my chance to fix him for the other night, and I blew it.”
 

“He’s crazy.” Alix leaned against the stones of the tunnel wall, still wondering if anyone else inside the Maison Louvel had heard them. “Are you hurt?”
 

When she peered at him in the semi-darkness, she saw that he was grinning. “My dentist will be happy to know,” the writer said indistinctly, “that I still have all my front caps.” He wiped away a trickle of red dripping down his chin.
 

“Don’t look so sad, beautiful,” he told her. “It was worth it. Because now I know who you are.”
 

“It’s a touchy situation,” Jack Storm admitted.
 

He lifted his expensively shod feet to the corner of his desk and leaned back to study the newly plastered ceiling of the executive office. The hammering of the carpenters had given way the last few days to the sharp, astringent odor of paint, which meant they were in the last stages of renovations.
 

Peter Frank looked worried. “You know, Jack, we could have a real kinky situation here. I’ve been trying to track down a rumor that they had a fight a few weeks ago and he tried to tear off her clothes.”
 

Jack Storm shook his head. “He’d never touch his wife, I know that for a fact. No, it’s the sewing machines. Yeah, I know some of the big houses, Cardin, Lacroix, are calling it ‘demi couture,’ but that’s just a buzz word for partly machine-made. If they can do it,
we
can do it.” He shrugged. “So he’ll have his fit. He’ll get over it. The girls have to use sewing machines, at least for the seams. It’s cost-effective. Hell, we’re trying to bring this place into the twentieth century!”
 

Peter Frank looked puzzled. “Jack, I thought we were talking about the—ah, backer. Nick Palliades. And our model, Alix.”
 

Jack took his feet down from the desk. “I’m talking about
Gilles Vasse.
Our designer. Not some young stud who has a thing for models.” He paused. “So what about them?”
 

Peter rubbed his bald spot, a sure sign that he was perplexed. “Jack, please—you’re doing the same with this you do with a lot of other things. You’re just closing your eyes to trouble. For one thing, Alix hates him.”
 

“She went to lunch with him, didn’t she? I didn’t exactly see her spit in his face.”
 

“Did she have a choice?” Peter never liked to see Jack operate without Mindy Ferragamo somewhere closeby. But Mindy was tied up in New York. “What about Gilles? What’s he going to do if Alix gets mad and takes a walk?”
 

Jackson Storm smiled benignly. “She’s not going to take a walk, Pete. Believe me, this Greek kid is going to treat her like a queen, give her anything she wants. It’s just that as an independent American girl, Alix has a little adjusting to do. These European types are very macho—you know, like Italians. But I’m convinced this girl can handle it.”
 

Peter Frank wasn’t so sure about Alix. Just as he wasn’t sure about Gilles. Jack had failed to tell their young designer about the sewing machines. And Gilles had assumed he was working in the same traditional couture atmosphere as at Rudi Mortessier’s.
 

It was legendary that you could tell haute couture by turning it inside out; that it was so beautifully finished it could almost be worn that way. Since every inch was hand done, including the seams, “sewing machine” was a dirty word. But times were changing.
Prêt-à-porter,
the expensive designer boutiques’ ready-to-wear, was now partly machine-made.
 

However, the situation had been nothing short of traumatic when their young designer discovered the rows of sewing machines in a room beside the atelier. Gilles had hit the roof.
 

“Jeez, I don’t know.” Peter shook his head doubtfully. “We’re in deep, Jack. How are we going to handle all this before opening time in the spring? And on top of everything else,” he groaned, “there’s the princess.”
 

Jack Storm’s famous urbane expression altered. The subject of Princess Jacqueline was touchy.
 

“Jack, this isn’t Seventh Avenue,” Peter Frank went on. “You can’t just let some kid come in announcing she’s going to be a designer’s apprentice.” He took a deep breath. “Gilles has a point, nobody’s been asking him anything.”
 

“I have plans,” Jack Storm said, “that will take care of all this. Trust me, Peter.”
 

“Great. We’re going to send Princess Jackie home.”
 

The world-famous Storm King frowned. “Peter, remember when we had the princess’s PR person here, Miss Goodman, and she suggested some kind of a big bang to get the Maison Louvel off the launch pad? Because it’s too late for us to bring out the spring line, and too early for fall? Well, I’m dreaming up a really unique idea. It will amaze you, it will be the most ambitious, totally ‘now’ project Jackson Storm has ever done.”
 

“Jack—” Peter Frank began uneasily.
 

“Listen.” He held up his hand. “Just
listen.
We’re going to let Gilles do what he does best—create some wild designs he can have a ball with, without having to worry about commercial appeal. I’m thinking of a show.”
 

Peter Frank wished even more fervently that Mindy Ferragamo were with them. “Jack, have you seen the figures this quarter for western wear? Look, we’re showing profit problems in our U.S. mass market that are cause for concern. Not that I want to throw cold water on any kind of promotion,” he added hastily, “but a show—any kind of show—is going to cost a lot of money, especially in Paris.”
 

“I see a very light,” Jack went on, ignoring him, “fantastical play on the spirit of fashion. A
dream
of an extravaganza that would pay off in worldwide media exposure. We’ll hire the Paris opera and have a formal ball, everybody dress up for charity. In the middle of it we’ll have a—” He lifted his hands, fingers wiggling in a give-it-to-me gesture. “Come on, what do the French call it—’
fantaisie?
’“
 

“Hey, Jack,” Peter said anxiously, “have you discussed this with Gilles?”
 

“Will you just listen a moment?” Jackson Storm sat up in his chair abruptly, his feet hitting the carpet with an audible thud. “In my plan, Gilles designs dream creations—Jesus God,
headdresses!
” he exclaimed. “The French go nuts for headdresses. The last time Marianna and the girls were here, it was years ago, we went to a costume ball at the Crillon with headdresses and masks.” He was suddenly Seventh Avenue’s Jake Storm, consumed by a brilliant idea. “‘The Ball of the White Birds.’ How do you say that in French?”
 

“I don’t know.” Peter Frank grimaced. “But whatever you do, Jack, for God’s sake, promise me you’ll ask Gilles. Look, his wife is going to have a baby any day now, the guy’s really pushed, and he hates the kid princess.
Ask
him,” Peter pleaded. “Ask Gilles if he wants to do costumes for a white bird ball. Okay?”
 

“Get off my back, will you?” Jack Storm fixed his international development director with a stern look. “Gilles is going to design beautiful numbers for the ‘fantaisie.’ Trust me. I’m also going to take care of the princess at the same time.”
 

“She’s not pulling publicity like she was supposed to.” Peter Frank had never been high on their royal apprentice designer; Candy Dobbs had already filled him in on the details of Princess Stephanie’s stint at Dior. “Nobody’s going to be interested until the princess actually designs some clothes, and that’s months away. If ever,” he added.
 

“You haven’t been listening, Peter.” Jackson Storm tapped the surface of his desk with a pencil lightly. “Our Greek moneyman has his beautiful dolly, Alix, to play with, which keeps him happy and out of our hair. Gilles is going to design
a fantaisie
of the white birds, which is going to make Gilles more famous than Christian Lacroix. And the princess we can definitely deal with,” he said firmly. “Princess Jackie’s going to make us a bundle of money, too.”
 

Peter Frank looked skeptical. “Jack, look, uh—a lot of people say Prince Medivani had her in a drug treatment facility here in Paris the early part of this year.” He plunged on. “I’m not saying she’s into drugs now, but she’s only, what—seventeen? So her record’s not exactly clean, is it?”
 

“Peter, let me remind you we’re dealing with Prince Medivani’s own PR person, a smart chick, Brooksie Goodman. She’d know better than to throw us a curve like that,” Jack assured him. “Lighten up! Think positively, Pete. We’ve got it made here, everything’s working out just like I said. No problems at all!”
 

Ten

WOMEN’S WEAR DAILY,
December 17th:
 

New York
—In answer to the question, What will fashion mogul Jackson Storm’s recently acquired couture house, the Maison Louvel, do for a spring showing this year? the Paris office of Jackson Storm International has just announced the focus has been shifted to a fall-winter haute couture collection, traditionally shown in Paris in July.
 

Dropping a spring line from the couture house’s schedule leaves the way open for Storm’s just-announced mid-winter extravaganza,
Le Bal des Oiseaux Blancs
, featuring one-of-a-kind costumes designed by the Maison Louvel’s new couturier, Gilles Vasse. Vasse, formerly assistant designer at Rudi Mortessier, was winner of last year’s
Prix de d’Or
of the French Haute Couture Award as Most Promising Young Designer.
 

According to Jackson Storm in a telephone interview from the yet-to-be-opened Maison Louvel in Paris, the masked ball will benefit the Heart Fund of France and the Musicians’ Retirement Home at Brest. Entertainment will feature music by the Paris Chamber Orchestra, the British rock group Motley Crue, and Lester Lanin’s Orchestra of Washington, D.C. The event will be held in mid-February in the grand foyer of the Paris Opera. The international invitations list will be handled by Prince and Princess de Polignac-Brun, co-chairpersons of the French Heart Fund.
 

Particularly exciting are the creations to be displayed in a special
son et lumière
fashion show. Jackson Storm emphasizes the costumes are “fantasy interpretations” of exotic bird themes, including the white owl, Japanese crane, egret, etc., etc.
 

Jackson Storm International’s purchase last year of the old fashion house in the rue des Benedictines created considerable controversy, with established Paris couturiers divided as to its impact on French haute couture. The recent announcement that Princess Jacqueline Medivani, teenage daughter of Balkan Prince Alessio Medivani, had been added to the staff as “assistant designer” (a position held at Dior by Princess Stephanie of Monaco a few years ago), caused a minor sensation.
 

Since then, the Jackson Storm corporation has hailed its Maison Louvel as the flagship operation of the company’s worldwide mass-market fashion empire. President Jack Storm has announced plans to develop franchise-signature couture ($10,000 and up) and mini-couture (under $10,000), as well as a lower-priced “Storm King Boutique” line.
 

“Christ!” Mindy Ferragamo, just in from New York, looked around the salon floor landing. “This place is a mad-house.”
 

She stood with her Vuitton carry-on luggage at her feet, a rigid figure in a gray tweed business suit, surveying the traffic surging up and down the Maison Louvel’s marble grand stairs. The porter, Abdul, descended with his son, the tall boy still in his university soccer clothes. Both men were carrying armfuls of ancient pipe from the remodeled toilet on the second floor. Nannette, the fitter, raced past them going up, answering the call of Sylvie in the cutting room.
 

“Where the hell is Jack?” his vice president and CEO wanted to know.
 

Recognizing a familiar voice, Candace Dobbs leaned over the second-floor railing. “Oh, God, is that really you, Mindy? When did you get in? Did you read about the
fantaisie
in the International
Herald-Trib?
It’s a disaster. We can’t get any models!”
 

Mindy shoved her gold-rimmed glasses back with one finger as she peered up the stairwell. “Call Bettina or Sophie Litvak,” she said tersely.
 

“The top agencies won’t return our calls!” The public relations woman started down the stairs. Months in Paris dealing with the French press and electronic media, all of them resistant to what they saw as Jackson Storm’s less-than-couth invasion, had worn pounds from Candy’s lank frame, and she looked haggard. On the second-floor landing she had to press against the wall for two delivery men carrying new cutting tables for the atelier. “We’re getting blitzed by the French,” she complained breathlessly as she reached Mindy at the foot of the stairs. “We can’t get models for the
fantaisie
, the opera’s being bitchy about a date—would you believe a
Wednesday night
?” She groaned out loud. “
Nobody
goes anywhere in Paris on a Wednesday night!”