Scruples (38 page)

“Say, Miss O’Neill, the receptionist told me to get all of these things of yours out of the office. Where do you want ’em?” he called.

“Over here and right away,” Billy Ikehorn ordered.

“Bon Dieu d’un bon Dieu!”
Valentine heard herself groaning.

“Parfaitment!”
Billy replied, smiling wickedly. It was her first smile of the day.

If Valentine had entertained the most unrealistic prayer that John Prince would not find out what had happened while he was away, the hope was demolished by the look on his face when he called her into his office two minutes after his return. He was almost unrecognizable in his fury. She would never have believed that the generous man she had worked for for three years was capable of such uncontrolled rage. He could hardly articulate for anger, screeching words at her in a voice she didn’t know.

“Conniving little cunt—ungrateful little bitch—filthy, underhanded, deceitful, always knew you couldn’t be trusted—a knife in my back,” he ranted, brandishing a piece of paper at her.

“It wasn’t my fault—she insisted—” Valentine started to say.

“Don’t try to lie to me, you thieving slut! Read this!” And he almost rubbed the paper in her face. It was a letter from Billy Ikehorn, scribbled in her large, elegant handwriting on her personal notepaper.

John my pet
,

Such a pity you weren’t there when I came. I was sorry to miss you, but perhaps it was all for the best, since, I’m embarrassed to say, there just didn’t seem to be anything in the collection I felt I simply
had
to have. I’m sure
that
won’t happen again—Just one of those things. I did adore seeing all of Valentine’s own designs—so charming and
fresh
and
new—
and I’m desperate to hear that she can’t sell them to me. Won’t you let her, for pity’s sake? I never realized how brilliant that girl is. You should be very proud of her, instead of hiding her talent
.

Will you be at Mary Lasher’s party for Dr. Salk? I’m thinking of flying back for it. If you’re going, perhaps we might join forces?
Did
miss you, sweet—

Billy

“You don’t understand how it happened—it wasn’t the way you think—I didn’t want to show her—” Valentine stopped, aware that he wasn’t paying any attention to her.

“You’re through!” Prince spat at her. “Through here, through on Seventh Avenue when they hear what you’ve done to me—I never want to see you again. When I think that I took you in and taught you everything you know—I’ve never been so betrayed, so shit on—”

“Assez?”
Valentine’s lusty temper finally snapped.

“What did you say, you guttersnipe, you—”

“I said ‘enough!’ I would not stay here for anything. You will find out that you’re wrong, but nobody may talk to me like that—never! I do not stand for it!” Valentine ran to her office, picked up her handbag, and left the office without speaking to anyone she passed on the way. She found a cab and gave him her address. Only then did she begin to shake. She didn’t cry—just shook and shook. It was all so fucking silly, all so fucking sad.

“Aren’t we the fun couple?” Spider said brightly.

“Who do you think you are, Elliott, Woody Allen?” Valentine answered.

“No moxie, that’s your trouble—why do foreigners never have a sense of comedic irony?” he complained.

“If you sounded any more jolly, I’d take you out and shoot you.” Valentine tried to joke, but she was more concerned about the way Spider was lacerating himself than about her own jobless situation. Her crazy Elliott, so resilient, so skillful, so valiant, was like a fearless bullfighter who had just been badly gored for the first time. Even demolished as he was, he still wanted to sound hard-boiled.

“Do you know you’ve got great tits?”

“Elliott!”

“Just trying to change the subject—cheer you up. And they are—small but great, perky, pointy, piquant—lots of nice words that start with a ‘p.’ ”

“Piss off!”

“Aw, come off it, Valentine. How about some tender, loving care?”

“Red or white?”

“Whichever is open.” He leaned back in her big chair and drank a glassful of wine in one long gulp. He had started on vodka at home—quite a lot of vodka—but then he remembered, thank God, that Valentine was in her room—he’d hate to get drunk by himself. He had burned Melanie’s letter, but every word of it crawled through his mind like endless subtitles to a very bad German horror movie. And this had been going on for three days and nights. Valentine, even Valentine, especially Valentine, must never know what had happened.

“More wine?” she said.

“Since you insist. Hey, I delivered a job today.” Valentine raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Would I kid you? My first job in almost three weeks. Girl drifted in, couple, three days ago, and wanted me to take test shots for modeling. Gorgeous but hopeless, a numero uno hooker if ever I saw one; no way she could work except for
Hustler
. But I shot three rolls anyway. The sexiest pictures I’ve done in my life. Why the fuck not? She came back to pick them up today and
plotzed
for joy all over the studio. It was Make-a-Hooker-Happy Day. I wouldn’t let her pay—at least I can still give it away. Why don’t I open another bottle?” he said, opening it as he spoke.

“Elliott. Some food?”

“You have a fetish about nourishment, my tootsie. Let’s talk about you. I don’t like the way you’re behaving.”

“What!” She sat up, feisty.

“Yeah—you should be out looking for a job instead of just sitting here drinking all that wine. Bad for the liver. Prince isn’t the only game in town. I’m not going to play agent this time—you don’t need one.”

“Stuff that.”

“Stuff ’em all—stuff ’em all, the long and the short and the tall,” Spider sang to himself.

“I have no intention of ever working on Seventh Avenue again. Enough is enough! It’s finished—you couldn’t drag me there.”

“Can’t say as I blame you. But what’ll you do?”

“Take in washing. Look, I’ve saved my money. It’s nothing I have to decide today.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Spider looked dismal. If some jobs didn’t come in his agent had warned him that he couldn’t afford to keep the studio—in fact, his agent was about to jump ship; he could see all the signs. Oh, what the fuck! “I wanna propose a toast—to the two most talented people in New York who are not yet on Welfare.” Spider drained another glass of wine and poured out some more, slopping it on the floor. “Sorry ’bout that—I’ll just drink from bottle—easier that way.” He weaved over to the bed and flopped down, taking a long pull on the bottle.

The phone rang. Valentine was startled. She’d only been out of work a week. She wondered who would be calling her here so late in the afternoon of a working day.

“Yes?”

“Valentine, it’s Billy Ikehorn. I’m in California. I don’t know what to say—I simply could
not
be more upset. I just heard what happened last week from one of my sales staff who’s an old buddy of Jimbo’s. It’s incredibly unfair and it’s all my fault. Entirely.”

“You don’t say?”

“Of course you think I’m a bitch and I certainly was a prize that day. But nothing is going right out here. Scruples is the most beautiful store in the world and I’ve got nothing to sell, no one to organize it. I was in that rotten, stinking mood because the whole thing is falling apart—you can’t imagine how awful it is.”

“Dear me.”

“I don’t blame you for being bitter, Valentine, but you’ve got to believe that when I wrote that letter I thought it might do you some good.”

“Wrong.”

“I know that now. Prince and I have made up. You’ll be hearing from him—that’s what I wanted to tell you—he just doesn’t know how to approach you after—”

“I won’t talk to him.”

“It was that bad?”

“Worse.”

“Your mind is made up?”

“Absolutely.”

“I was hoping you’d say that! Valentine, come out here and work for me. You can write your own ticket. I’m desperate for a designer—without couture we’re just another expensive store. And you’ll go to Paris for the collections. Of course, I’d want you to be my buyer too. You can go to New York as often as you want to. I’ve decided that I’m just not about to spend my entire life in those elevators on Seventh Avenue—too grim.”

“You don’t want much, do you? A designer, a buyer—how about a lady’s maid?”

“At least listen to my offer, Valentine. Eighty thousand dollars a year and five percent of the profits.”

Valentine, stunned, didn’t answer. Then her wild Irish spirit took over. “A hundred thousand. Who knows if there will be any profits?”

“Well, in that case it would be straight salary, no profit participation,” Billy answered.

“No way, Mrs. Ikehorn. Why not be optimistic? Maybe there will be profits. The five percent stands.”

“But that’s a fortune!”

“Take it or leave it. Either you need me or you don’t.”

“Oh, all right—it’s a deal.”

“And, of course, my partner gets seventy-five thousand and two and a half percent.”

“Your partner?”

“Peter Elliott. The best salesman in the world, lots of retailing experience. He will be able to reorganize Scruples to your complete satisfaction, I have not the slightest doubt.”

“Since when do you have a partner, Valentine?”

“Since when have we exchanged confidences, Mrs. Ikehorn?”

“But I’ve never even heard of him.”

“Since when are you a retailer? Excuse me, but it is necessary to face facts.”

Billy was momentarily silenced by Valentine’s effrontery. Still, anyone who thought she could afford to speak to her that way must know what she was doing.

“All of this goes very much against my grain, Valentine, but I’m simply too busy to quibble. I’ll hire the two of you, and believe me, I expect you to produce. There won’t be any contracts.”

“We must have one-year contracts, Mrs. Ikehorn. After that—I’m not worried.”

Billy didn’t hesitate. Scruples was losing money at an almost incredible rate. Not that it made the slightest difference to her; she could afford it indefinitely, but the figures would look so embarrassing when they were published in
Women’s Wear
. It was worse than embarrassing—it was a waking, unending nightmare. People would laugh at her and the one thing in the world she must never be, never again as long as she lived, was a figure of fun. She had to turn the operation of Scruples into a success. Scruples must be
faultless
.

“When can the two of you get here?” the asked. Valentine calculated rapidly. Today was Wednesday. If they started getting ready now and took the plane Sunday—

“Next Monday. Will you please make hotel reservations for us? At your expense, of course. But just until we find places to live.”

“I’ll get rooms for you at the Beverly Wilshire. It’s just down the street from Scruples.”

“Indeed? That will be convenient for a twelve-hour day,” Valentine said.

“Eighteen hours,” Billy laughed, having gotten her way.

“Until Monday then, Mrs. Ikehorn.”

“Good-bye, Valentine. I feel so much better about your losing your job now. All it’s cost me is a couple hundred thousand dollars.”

“Not quite all that much. But don’t forget the seven and a half percent.”

“Prince will shit a brick,” Billy said with a giggle.

“He’ll probably enjoy it,” Valentine answered, and hung up.

She had been so engrossed in the conversation that she hadn’t paid any attention to Spider. Now she was afraid to face him. His silence was accusing. How had she dared to make such decisions for him? Why didn’t he say anything? Valentine glanced carefully through her lashes to where he lay on her bed. He was sound asleep. Obviously, he had been throughout the conversation. One thing was incontestable. He did not snore.

S
pider Elliott was as little prepared to like or even approve of Billy Ikehorn as she was of him. He had burned with anger at every detail of the high-handed and arrogant way she had treated Valentine, carelessly causing her to lose her job with Prince. The fact that Valentine had managed to con the woman into giving him a job as, God help us all, a retailer, made him suppose that she must be fundamentally stupid, a woman with such a need to grasp whatever she wanted that it destroyed her good sense.

Billy, on the other hand, had checked with those of her women friends who read
Women’s Wear
as carefully as she did and none of them had ever heard of a well-known figure in retailing named Peter Elliott. And if
WWD
didn’t mention him, he couldn’t exist. Valentine had pulled a fast one; the guy, whoever he was, must be her lover, and Billy had no intention of letting him get away with it. She’d wait just long enough for him to make a fool of himself and then confront him. A “contract” indeed. If Valentine wanted him as some sort of half-assed assistant, she could have him, but not for the salary she had promised. Not for a tenth of it. One of the most annoying things about having money was the way people never stopped trying to separate you from it.