Spring Collection (4 page)

Necker looked around and found himself in the Rue de Monceau, near the Parc de Monceau. Excellent, he thought, directing his steps toward a familiar doorway, on which a simple brass plaque read Kraemer et Cie. This would do perfectly. He rang the bell of the magnificent yet anonymous mansion with many tall, curtained windows looking out on the quiet street.

“Is Monsieur Philippe at home?” he asked the manservant who opened the door.

“Of course, Monsieur Necker. Monsieur Laurent and Monsieur Olivier are here as well.”

“Good.”

The father and his two sons were among the most important dealers in the fine French furniture in the world. Nothing they possessed and displayed, in their nine salons of furniture and objects, was less than perfect.

Their philosophy was that in matters of antiques, since they could discriminate clearly about such questions as authenticity, condition and artistic beauty,
literal
perfection was indeed attainable as it was in no other field except perhaps that of diamonds. And who, they often asked each other, would be so lacking in mellow judgment, in a feeling for beauty, as to prefer to buy a handful of crystals, no matter how flawless, when they could possess a pair of matching Boulle cabinets for twenty million dollars, cabinets that had belonged to two kings of France? Who would prefer to live with cold stones created by the unthinking passage of eons when they could spend their days amid the warmly glowing shapes of great furniture, created by men of genius?

“Jacques, it’s good to see you,” said Philippe
Kraemer entering the reception room, a twinkly-eyed, round-faced man with a charming smile and exceptionally bushy eyebrows under a half-bald dome. His grandfather, Lucien Kraemer, had founded the business in 1875. “Come in and let me offer you something to drink.”

“No, Philippe, no, thank you. Ordinarily, of course, yes. But today I have serious business with you and no time to chat.”

“No time to chat? Well, well! I’ll do my best to accommodate you, but Jacques, it won’t be easy. Dealers only go into the business to chat, surely you know that. How serious is this business?”

“A present for a lady.”

“Ah.” He paused, reflectively. “I see. Of course. The most serious of all business, I agree. Shall we look around?”

“Please,” Necker answered impatiently, striding into one of the salons. He knew the house intimately for he had long collected great French furniture. Both generations of Kraemers lived and did business there as well. Among them they occupied four apartments and they had installed two elevators and an indoor pool, as well as the nine showrooms where their magical wares filled every nook.

“Are you looking for something from the seventeenth century or the eighteenth century, my friend?” Philippe Kraemer asked, for they carried no other merchandise.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll recognize it when I see it,” Necker said distractedly, threading his way between a gloriously inlaid Louis XV secretary and a gilded armchair made for Versailles, in order to inspect a clock that was cleverly hidden in a bronze-mounted celadon vase.

“Perhaps something small?” Kraemer suggested. “For a gift an object is often the best choice. Furniture is less easy to place, unless, of course, you have the room in mind.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Necker answered absently,
busily scouting about, picking up candlesticks, inkstands, boxes, decorative urns and vases, looking at them intently and then replacing them with a negative shake of his head. He lingered for a contemplative minute over a Limoges chocolate service, and quickly ran his eye over the wealth of small pictures, plaques and sconces that hung on the paneled walls. He walked from one salon to another in which nothing was for sale that had been made after 1799, seeing dozens of rare pieces he might be tempted to buy for himself, but nothing right for Justine.

Kraemer, preserving a courtly silence, followed him in growing wonder. This was not the Jacques Necker he knew who sometimes returned four or five times to spend hours slowly walking around a single piece of furniture, examining it with a true collector’s knowledge, before committing himself to its purchase. Today he was like an uncertain child let loose in a toy shop, unable to settle down to a single choice. He had already turned down a hundred objects that any woman on earth would be enchanted to receive.

“Ah!” Necker stopped abruptly. “Here it is. I knew you’d have the perfect thing.” He pointed at a small writing desk, a piece of cabinet making that looked as if it could have floated into the Kraemers’ mansion. It was delicate beyond delicacy, and rich beyond richness, for it was ornamented wherever ornamentation could be placed so that the richly carved wood had almost disappeared. The upper level of the desk and the front panels of its drawers were covered with inlaid medallions of Sèvres porcelain in pastel shades of pink, green and blue on which a wealth of small flowers and wreaths had been magnificently painted. “This is right for her, those are her colors.”

Kraemer said nothing, gazing reflectively at the piece he had just bought at auction in Geneva. It was a
bonheur-du-jour
, a boudoir writing desk, made in the middle of the 1700s, shortly before the death of its owner, Madame de Pompadour. The desk was among the most perfect examples of furniture created in a time
when every single one of the great
ébénistes
of France had devoted themselves to pleasing the exacting, exquisite taste of the marquise who had long ruled the heart of Louis XV.

“Yes,” Necker said in delight, running his hands carefully over the surface of the desk. “It’s a perfect size. Small enough to go anywhere. Philippe, can you please have this sent at once? Here, I’ll write down the name and address. It’s to go as soon as possible, by air, you understand, with a courier, to New York. Can you do that? Good. Do you have a plain card, Philippe? Excellent, thank you.” He thought for a minute, wrote a short message, and put the card in the center drawer of the desk. “Now, forgive me, but I have to get back to the office.” Necker shook hands hurriedly with the antiques dealer and strode back through the salons.

As Kraemer heard the front door close behind Jacques Necker he realized that, unthinkably, his old friend had not even bothered to ask the price or the provenance. This particular desk, he told himself, would have given him many a delightful hour as he recounted its history to the numbers of people among his exalted clients who would admire it but who, on reflection, would find that even they did not choose to spend quite so many millions on such a small piece, no matter how great its delicate charm. This gem had been installed in his showrooms only two days ago, no one in Paris had yet seen it, and now, poof, it was gone. And to New York! Of course, he’d always said that buying the best was a good investment at any price, but decidedly there were disadvantages in having to sell. He felt as if someone had just kidnapped a lovely woman he’d only now met.

But, on the other hand, how good it was to see a man he liked and admired so madly in love.

A
fter Justine gave me the job of assembling our three new models so that we could tell them the astonishing news about Paris, I was immobilized for at least ten minutes. I just stood there, right inside my office, taking deep breaths, muttering
caramba!
like a mantra, and trying to regain my composure—Justine had given me the surprise of my young life. Finally I emerged and managed to give rapid instructions to the bookers who were, at last, busy at their computers.

Get April, get Tinker, get Jordan in here the instant they’ve finished whatever they’re doing, send Town Cars to pick them up, I ordered, giving no one a chance to ask me what the rush was about. I could tell that my voice must be at its normal level of bossiness, for no booker glanced at me with a question in her eyes, but a veil had been drawn between me and the familiar scene. I felt as if I were watching a play, as if the entire agency, and everyone in it, were on a stage behind a transparent scrim and I was alone in the audience, distanced from it all, only an observer.

I kept trying to process the fact that Justine was Necker’s daughter
—
I realized that it had to be true because she said so—but I couldn’t seem to
feel
anything. Not surprise, not normal curiosity abut how long she’d known or how it had come to happen. I was in a paralysis of astonishment too deep to allow room for any other emotions.

Somehow I was able to operate on autopilot until all three of the girls were sitting in Justine’s office. They looked apprehensive, for it was unprecedented to be picked up right after finishing a job and driven back to the agency. When they saw both of us waiting for them, heaven knows what they thought they’d done wrong. But Justine didn’t keep them in suspense.

“Tinker, April, Jordan, you’ve all been picked to go to Paris for the Lombardi show,” she told them, forcing a big smile. “Congratulations. We’re thrilled for all of you.”

They did that sort of tribal thing that girls do when they win the Miss America Contest—or a Miss Weight Lifting Contest for that matter—hugging and kissing and crying and jumping up and down, wailing, “Oh no, I don’t believe it!” over and over again. Justine sat there and watched them without expression while I restored order.

“Ladies, ladies, sit down and listen,” I shouted. Technically models are always called “girls” but I address them as “ladies” whenever I get a chance, just to remind them that there’s a whole other world out there.
“Ladies!
Okay, now there are a lot of details we won’t bother you with right now, but Justine is going to be with you in Paris the whole time so you have nothing to worry about. You’ll leave New York three days from now and you’ll have two weeks to get to know the city and work with Lombardi. Let your families know right away and be sure to pack your warmest clothes. You’re prohibited from going out of town or even out on a date,
not one
, from now on. Forget about men and consider yourselves grounded until the plane takes off. And I mean that very, very seriously. Grounded!”

I watched them closely, waiting for the one who was going to start in sniveling about having to say good-bye to her boyfriend or her mother. Not an eye blinked, not a smile dimmed. Necker, forget his reasons, had gotten himself three very ambitious girls, I thought, avoiding Justine’s grim eyes and frozen face.

•   •   •

Last night Justine called me into her office.

“All packed?” I asked her. “Ready to leave tomorrow?” She’d been avoiding me for the last few days, although she should have known better than to think I’d try to drag any more information out of her. Now I was just waiting anxiously for her to go to Paris and get this whole thing over with. She couldn’t hide from her father forever, and maybe Necker would prove not to be the monster she considered him. To be honest, I was rooting for a change in her attitude toward dear old Dad. How bad can a guy be who cooks up a twelve-million-dollar scheme just to get a look at you?

Obviously Justine too must be feeling better about this whole thing, I thought with relief as I entered her office and felt a lighter, more relaxed atmosphere in the air. My old buddy was coming back to normal, I decided, as I glanced at her.

She looked up at me as I brandished the screwed-up booking file I’d taken away from one of the bookers who was almost in tears. It belonged to one of our stars who’d just had the nerve to book out for three weeks merely to get married. If you ask me, the very concept of a right to a honeymoon should be specifically forbidden in every model’s contract.

“Surprise!” Justine said, crinkling her eyes at me in a bigger smile than I’d seen on her face since Gabrielle’d phoned.

“Don’t
do
that, Justine! I’ve had all the surprises I can handle for 1994 and it’s still the first week of the year.”

“You’re going to Paris, Frankie. Tomorrow.”

“You know I can’t possibly come with you and hold your hand. Somebody’s got to watch the store.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll carry on, right here,” she said with a shit-eating grin.

“YOU CAN’T NOT GO!”

“Says who?”

I sputtered away with a list of good reasons until I realized that I didn’t have a chance of changing her mind. As far as Justine was concerned, she’d been most
basely and crassly deceived, and she owed Necker less than nothing. To give her credit, she presented me with two new suitcases filled with clothes she’d gone to buy for me at Donna Karan, things she told me were necessary for my trip and my new official position as duenna to our girls. Apparently my comfortable dancer’s clothes that Justine had forced herself to endure for so long were no longer suited to represent the agency, not quite “grown-up” as she put it, trying to be tactful, as if I didn’t know how much she disapproved of the way I dressed.

All I had to do was go home and pack my cosmetic case, she told me brightly. How was I going to explain to Necker? Simple. She planned to fire off a fax to d’Angelle that would reach Paris after we were safely en route, saying that a bad ear infection prevented her from flying and she was sending me in her place. Everybody knew you couldn’t fly with an ear infection, her own doctor had assured her of that when she called him, looking for the most convincing medical cop-out she could plead short of putting herself into a full body cast.

What could I say in the end? First of all, Justine was my boss and she was giving me orders. In addition, wouldn’t you have decided that, since there was nothing you could do about it, flying off to Paris simply had to be more of a kick than staying behind in New York? So help me, I had almost forgiven Justine before she finished explaining. Those suitcases … from the second I learned about them I’d been busy wondering if wearing Donna Karan might not be a seriously good career move after a lifetime of leotards and leg warmers. I’d guess I’d always been too cheap to spring for a whole new wardrobe. Okay. I’m easy.

We’d reached our cruising altitude, according to the pilot’s announcement, when I put the copy of
Allure
I’d been brooding over in the seat pocket in front of me and snuggled back with my eyes closed, thinking how much I hate Paul Mitchell. I don’t even know if there is a real human being named John Paul Mitchell, but if
there is, someday I’ll get him good, right between the eyes. You know those ads for his products, usually in sepia, full-bleed photographs of the head of a model tossing around hair so luscious that it
could not possibly grow
on any human being? Hair you want to eat, like candy, or pull out by the handful. And the copy—who writes that stuff? “Hair … hair that is free-flowing like the sea. Living in Harmony with light; dancing in its shadows, Fit, vibrant hair … nourished and cared for by the elements of our Earth. This … is Paul Mitchell hair.” Level with me, does your hair rhumba and cha-cha in the shadows? How can hair be “fit,” as if it had muscles and was in training for a triathlon?