their feet in spontaneous applause as the debonair Enrico cruised down the catwalk surrounded by beautiful, stunningly-dressed women.
As the applause finally died down the Compere continued, “And now, let’s hear your appreciation of ‘Classique’ Fashions, an exciting new design house, headed by its designer/owner, Ms. Francine Dubois!”
The heartwarming applause, at least to the finely tuned ears of Francine was like pure adrenaline as she made her way down the catwalk with all her models stepping jauntily alongside.
As they approached the ‘vulture pit’, she could see the polite applause from at least a third of those seated there, but even if not a single person were applauding, it would not have made a scrap of difference. Francine was on a cloud, a cloud that nobody was going to knock her off!
When they turned and headed back towards the stage, Francine noticed Gerard for the first time. He was standing there smiling at her, a strange look in his eye as though he were suddenly seeing her for the first time. Francine had not realized that this was the first time that the handsome business tycoon had actually seen her with her hair down, looking more beautiful and radiant than ever.
Next to Gerard, Jeri was applauding wildly as Francine gave her the tiniest of waves before they went back through the curtain.
But why wasn’t Gerard applauding? Did he not like her fashions? Was she still not measuring up in his eyes? All of a sudden, it didn’t seem to matter as Vince was pushing a bubbly glass of champagne into her hand with a huge grin on his face.
“Well, Princess,” he beamed. “That sure beat the hell out of the Dallas Show!’
She smiled ruefully. “And then some!” she hugged all the models briefly and then saved the biggest hug for Vince. “Well done, you guys!” she beamed.
Almost as she finished speaking, it seemed as if the Press were now on the move. Reporters and photographers were buzzing around everywhere backstage with Verucci and Iliac in the far corner being totally besieged as flash bulbs popped non-stop.
As the champagne and caviar continued to abound, Francine found herself being confronted by one of the middle-aged fashion mavens she had noticed in the ‘vulture pit’. He fixed her with a beady eye, almost like a bird about to dissect a worm. Francine in turn, flashed her best smile.
The man was down to earth, matter of fact, a no nonsense kind of reporter who looked like he had done this a thousand times and each time it had become more boring.
“Christopher Matlin - New York Times.” he began.
“How do you do, Mr. Matlin.” Francine answered politely.
“Chris will do,” he sounded the soul of brevity. “So, first time, hey?”
She kept her best smile switched on. “First time for what, Chris?”
A twinkle appeared momentarily in his eye before it disappeared. “First time in New York, I mean?”
She kept smiling. “Yes, that’s right.”
He stroked his chin lazily, as if thinking out loud. “Not bad, Kid. Not bad!” he continued stroking. “Needs a bit more polish, more pizzazz, but okay! You heading for Monte Carlo?”
Inwardly, she was screaming with joy as outwardly she tried to keep a polite calm face. So he thought it was okay. Heck, she would take ‘okay’ any day over the inconsiderate Gerard Cinclare’s mention of needing ‘major surgery’ back in Dallas.
She replied in a friendly, low voice. “As a matter of fact, yes, we’ll be in Monte Carlo. I take it you’ll be there also, Chris?”
He gave a wry smile. “You’re damned right I’ll be there,” then he looked around and leaned a little closer. “A word of advice, Ms. Dubois.”
She looked him straight in the eye unflinchingly. ‘Here it comes! ’ she braced herself.
In a quieter voice he simply added. “The finale needs work. Try and come up with something that’ll knock ‘em dead in the aisles!”
She smiled, at least inwardly, knowing full well that if her
Marina Chapman, Lynne Barrett-Lee