him to dinner. He always declined.
‘I’m busy that evening.’
His evenings seemed to be full, but they had no idea what he was doing with them.
Tyler isn’t interested in anything but the law,’ one of the judges explained to his wife. ‘And he’s just not interested in meeting any women yet. I heard he had a terrible marriage.’
He was right.
After his divorce, Tyler had sworn to himself that he would never become emotionally involved again. And then he had met Lee, and everything had suddenly changed. Lee was beautiful, sensitive and caring – the one Tyler wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Tyler loved Lee, but why should Lee love him? A successful model, Lee had dozens of admirers, most of them wealthy. And Lee liked expensive things.
Tyler had felt that his cause was hopeless. There was no way to compete with others for Lee’s affection. But overnight, with the death of his father, everything could change. He could become wealthy beyond his wildest dreams.
He could give Lee the world.
Tyler walked into the chambers of the chief judge. ‘Keith, I’m afraid I have to go to Boston for a few days. Family affairs. I wonder if you would have someone take over my caseload for me.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange it,’ the chief judge said.
‘Thank you.’
That afternoon, Judge Tyler Stanford was on his way to Boston. On the plane, he thought again about his father’s words on that terrible day: I know your dirty little secret.
It was raining in Paris, a warm July rain that sent pedestrians racing along the street for shelter or looking for nonexistent taxis. Inside the auditorium of a large gray building on a corner of Rue Faubourg St Honoré, there was panic. A dozen half-naked models were running around in a kind of mass hysteria, while ushers finished setting up chairs and carpenters pounded away at last-minute bits of carpentry. Everyone was screaming and gesticulating wildly, and the noise level was painful.
In the eye of the hurricane, trying to bring order out of chaos, was the maîtresse herself, Kendall Stanford Renaud. Four hours before the fashion show was scheduled to begin, everything was falling apart.
Catastrophe: John Fairchild of W was unexpectedly going to be in Paris, and there was no seat for him.
Tragedy: the speaker system was not working.
Disaster: one of the top models was ill.
Emergency: two of the make-up artists were fighting backstage and were far behind schedule.
Calamity: all the seams on the cigarette skirts were tearing.
In other words, Kendall thought wryly, everything is normal.
Kendall Stanford Renaud could have been mistaken for one of the models herself, and at one time she had been a model. She exuded carefully plotted elegance from her golden chignon to her Chanel pumps. Everything about her – the curve of her arm, the shade of her nail polish, the timbre of her laugh – bespoke well-mannered chic. Her face, if stripped of its careful make-up, was actually plain, but Kendall took pains to see that no one ever realized this, and no one ever did.
She was everywhere at once.
‘Who lit that runway, Ray Charles?’
‘I want a blue backdrop …’
The lining is showing. Fix it!’
‘I don’t want the models doing their hair and make-up in the holding area. Have Lulu find them a dressing room!’
Kendall’s venue manager came hurrying up to her. ‘Kendall, thirty minutes is too long! Too long! The show should be no more than twenty-five minutes.’
She stopped what she was doing. ‘What do you suggest, Scott?’
‘We could cut a few of the designs and –’
‘No. I’ll have the models move faster.’
She heard her name called again, and turned.
‘Kendall, we can’t locate Pia. Do you want Tami to switch to the charcoal gray jacket with the trousers?’
‘No. Give that to Dana. Give the cat suit and tunic to Tami.’
‘What about the dark gray jersey?’
‘Monique. And make sure she wears the dark gray stockings.’
Kendall looked at the board holding a set of Polaroid pictures of the models in a variety of gowns. When they were set, the pictures would be placed in a precise order. She ran a practiced eye over the board. ‘Let’s change this. I want the beige cardigan out first, then the separates, followed by the strapless silk jersey, then the taffeta evening gown, the afternoon dresses with matching jackets …’
Two of her assistants hurried up to her.
‘Kendall, we’re having an argument about the seating. Do you want the retailers together, or do you want to mix them with the celebrities?’
The other assistant spoke up. ‘Or we could mix the celebrities and press together.’
Kendall was hardly listening. She had been up for two nights, checking everything to make sure nothing would go wrong. ‘Work it out yourselves,’ she said.
She looked around at all the activity and thought about the show that was about to begin, and the famous names from all over the world who would be there to applaud what she had created. I should thank my father for all this. He told me I would never succeed …
She had always known that she wanted to be a designer. From the time she was a little girl, she had had a natural sense of style. Her dolls had the trendiest outfits in town. She would show off her latest creations for her mother’s approval. Her mother would hug her and say, ‘You’re very talented, darling. Someday you’re going to be a very important designer.’
And Kendall was sure of it.
In school, Kendall studied graphic design, structural drawing, spatial conceptions, and color coordination.
‘The best way to begin,’ one of her teachers had advised her, ‘is to become a model yourself. That way, you will meet all the top designers, and if you keep your eyes open, you will learn from them.’
When Kendall had mentioned her dream to her father, he had looked at her and said, ‘You? A model! You must be joking!’
When Kendall finished school, she returned to Rose Hill. Father needs me to run the house, she thought. There were a dozen servants, but no one was really in charge. Since Harry Stanford was away a good deal of the time, the staff was left to its own devices. Kendall tried to organize things. She scheduled the household activities, served
