The chatter in the ballroom began to die. The music grew louder, and the lights on the stage behind the runway came up on a moody
Gradually the figures of the models became visible. They draped the set in their filmy dresses-their breasts, elbows, and knees jutting out in exaggerated angles like the figures in a Thomas Hart Benton painting. Some held palmetto fans frozen in midair. One bent forward, her hair trailing toward the floor like the branches of a willow, a hairbrush poised in her hand. Fleur heard whispers coming from the audience, sidelong glances to gauge the reaction of others, but no one seemed anxious to commit until they knew which way the tide was turning.
Suddenly one figure moved away from the others, growing visibly upset as she stepped into a pool of blue light. She looked at the audience for a moment, then blinked her eyes as if she were trying to make up her mind whether or not to confide in them. Finally she began to talk. She told them about Belle Reve, the plantation she’d lost, and about Stanley Kowalski, the subhuman her dear sister Stella had married. Her voice was agitated, her face weary and tortured. Finally she fell silent and lifted her hand toward them, wordlessly begging for understanding. The bluesy music began again. Defeated, she faded back into the shadows.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then the audience began to applaud, slowly at first, but gradually growing stronger. Kissy’s extraordinary monologue as Blanche DuBois in
She nodded, then held her breath, hoping they loved Michel’s designs as much. No matter how inspiring Kissy’s performance had been, the afternoon was ultimately about fashion.
The tempo of the music picked up and one by one the models broke their poses and moved out from behind the gauze curtain to walk down the runway. They wore filmy summer dresses that called up memories of scented flowers, hot Southern nights, and a streetcar named Desire. The lines were soft and feminine without being fussy, delicately fashioned for women who were tired of looking like men. New York hadn’t seen anything like it in years.
Fleur listened to the murmurs around her and heard the scratch of pens on notepads. The applause was polite for the first few dresses, but as one followed another and the members of the audience slowly began to absorb the beauty of Michel’s designs, the applause built until the sound engulfed the great ballroom.
As the final dress cleared the runway, Charlie let out his breath in a long, tortured exhalation. “I feel like I’ve lived a lifetime in the last fifteen minutes.”
Her fingers cramped, and she realized she’d been digging them into his knee. “Only one?”
Two more tableaux followed, each greeted more enthusiastically than the last. A steamy
When the show was over, Fleur watched Michel and Kissy take their bows. Life would never be the same for either one of them. She couldn’t have found a better way to thank Kissy for her unwavering friendship and Michel for all those years of misplaced hatred than by making sure they each received the public recognition they deserved. As she hugged Charlie, she realized the success of her two clients would impact her own career, too. This afternoon had given her a giant shot of credibility.
The audience began to swarm around her, and she caught sight of Jake at the very back of the ballroom. Just before he slipped away, he gave her a silent thumbs-up.
The next week passed in a whirlwind of telephone calls and interviews.
“The Savagar brats haven’t done too badly for themselves, have they, Big Sis?”
“Not badly at all, Little Bro.” She touched the poplin sleeve of the safari jacket he wore over a burgundy silk shirt, French commando sweater, and Swiss Army necktie. “I love you, Michel. Big heaps. I should tell you more often.”
“Me, too. Even bigger heaps.” He was quiet for a moment, then he cocked his head so that his hair brushed his shoulder. “Does it bother you that I’m gay?”
She propped her hand on her chin. “I’d rather see you live happily ever after with someone who’d give me a tribe of nieces and nephews, but since I’m not going to have that, I want to see you in a stable relationship with a man who’s worthy of you.”
“Someone like Simon Kale?”
“Now that you mention it…”
He set down his menu and looked at her with sad eyes. “It’s not going to work, Fleur. I know you’ve been counting on it, but it’s not going to happen.”
She was embarrassed. “I’ve stepped over the line, haven’t I?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “And do you know how much it means to me that somebody cares whether I’m happy?”
“I’m going to take that as a free license to interfere in your life.”
“Don’t.” He took a sip from his wineglass. “Simon is a special person, and we’ve developed a solid friendship, but that’s all it’ll ever be. Simon is strong and self-sufficient. He doesn’t really need anybody.”
“That’s important to you, isn’t it? Being needed?”
He nodded. “I know you don’t like Damon. And you’re right. He can be selfish, and he’s not the most intellectual person I’ve met. But he loves me, Fleur, and he needs me.”
Fleur swallowed her disappointment. “I never said Damon didn’t have good taste.”
She thought about Jake. His erotic pull on her grew stronger every time she saw him. She didn’t trust him, but she wanted him. And why couldn’t she have him? She turned the idea over in her mind. No emotional commitment. Just good, dirty sex. That’s all her attraction to him had ever been about. And wasn’t that the essence of real liberation? Women didn’t have to play games. They shouldn’t play games. She should look Jake straight in the eye and tell him she wanted to-
To what? “Go to bed” was too wishy-washy, “make love” had implications, “screw” was tacky, and “fuck” was just plain awful.
Was she going to buckle under just because of a language barrier? How would a man do it? How would Jake do it?
Why wouldn’t Jake do it?
Right then she knew she could never be the sexual aggressor, no matter how much she wanted him. Whether her reluctance was rooted in cultural conditioning or biological instinct made no difference because women’s liberation got all tangled up when it hit the bedroom door.
Fleur tried to tune out the typewriter. Instead she concentrated on sending Kissy from one audition to the next and attempted to figure out what Alexi’s next move would be. All the people who’d been dodging her phone calls now wanted to talk to her, and by the first week of December, a month after Michel’s showing, Kissy was signed to appear in a limited run of
She and Kissy hadn’t talked about anything but business for weeks, and she was more than happy one evening to open her front door and see her friend standing there with a pizza and a big bottle of Tab. Before long, they were settled in the living room around Fleur’s new coffee table.
“Just like old times, huh, Fleurinda?” Kissy said as “Tequila Sunrise” played in the background. “Except now that we’re rich and famous, maybe we should switch to beluga, although I can’t imagine trading in an all-American pepperoni pizza for Commie fish food.”
Fleur took a sip from one of the Baccarat goblets Olivia Creighton had given her. “Do you think we’re hypocrites because we drink diet soda with pizza? It seems like we should commit ourselves one way or the other.”
“You worry about ethics while I eat. I haven’t had anything since breakfast, and I’m starved.” She bit into the piece she’d just pulled from the box. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in my life.”
“You really do love pizza.”
“It’s not the pizza.” Kissy sank her teeth into another bite, but this time she swallowed before she spoke. “It’s
