Arelquin had been slim and straight as a reed then, with a matchless style that was all her own. She’d favored pencil-slim skirts topped with flyaway jackets cut very full in the sleeve, immense hats designed to cast an air of mystery, over-the-elbow gloves, and clutch purses.
The Arelquin house had presided over the last era of elegance. After that, it was Courrèges and then Carnaby Street mod and then hippies, until Yves St. Laurent took the look and invented the rich gypsy.
Madame Arelquin had chosen not to fade away, developing a line of facial rejuvenation creams that seemed to work, even though she’d announced in the notoriously catty fashion press that every woman had to choose between her face and her behind at some point. Madame had let the latter get big and round, so that the former would not look starved and sick.
The strategy had worked, Odette noticed. Madame Arelquin had to be over eighty, but she had very few lines on her face. She gave her granddaughter a double air-kiss, not wanting to disturb Marie’s maquillage or her own carefully applied red lipstick. Odette smiled.
The young man managed a half-bow that was charming and not gauche in the least as he gave up his seat to the grande dame. So he had manners. That was a nice plus.
Odette found herself wondering who had taught him to be so respectful of women, and decided that his mother must have instructed him. Whoever she was, she had raised her son right.
Madame Arelquin gave him an imperious nod in return and seated herself next to Marie, crossing her legs elegantly at the ankle as she did.
Odette’s other assistant bustled up and looked over her boss’s shoulder at the restless crowd through the small opening in the curtain.
“See and be seen. It is always the same,” Lucie murmured. “Ah, there is the winner of the raffle.” She pointed the pink eraser end of her pencil at the man now standing behind the Arelquin women, then flipped through her seating chart and made a note on the front row using her own hieroglyphic.
Odette could not read it but it didn’t matter. Lucie was a wizard of organization and good at seating the rich and the famous, who slept with each other somewhat indiscriminately. No one who had recently broken up could be put next to an ex, or there was sure to be a cat fight. Amusing, but not good for business.
“I was wondering who he was,” Odette said.
“His name is Bryan Bachman. The story is that he spent his last euro on a raffle ticket for your charity and won that seat,” Lucie replied.
“Is it true?”
“The reporter says it is.” Lucie gave a very French shrug that communicated her doubt. “I am sure he has an ATM card somewhere in those jeans. It is all one needs these days.”
“What interest does he have in fashion? Does he want to be a model?”
Lucie shook her head. “I overheard the reporter from Bonjour Paris interviewing him in the lobby before the show. Apparently not. He has a degree in science from a California university and is known in his field. Her poor little slave of an assistant went wi-fi and confirmed everything he said on her laptop—I looked over her shoulder while she was doing it. The article will be online in a few hours if you want to look at it.”
Odette nodded. She didn’t want to wait to read it. “Is he in Paris by himself?”
“I think that is what he said—”
“Where is he staying?” Odette asked, not caring how shamelessly interested she sounded.
“He didn’t say, she didn’t ask, but I don’t think he will sleep on the streets,” Lucie said dryly. “Not with that face and that body. He could have his pick of the women here, don’t you think?”
“You ask too many rhetorical questions, Lucie. Let’s stick to the facts,” Odette said.
“I have told you what I know. I thought he looked like a cyclist or a climber, traveling through Europe before he returns to college.” Lucie paused to look at him again. “So I was surprised when he said he had a degree. He seems too old to be a student. But he is certainly an athlete.”
“I thought the same thing. And Marc did too.”
Lucie permitted herself a polite chuckle. “Marc can read the meaning of people’s clothes like a detective.”
Odette smiled. “Of course. He is a devotee of Hercule Poirot.”
“Who is that?” Lucie turned her head in response to a softly voiced call for her assistance. “Zut. I am needed. Excuse me.”
“Of course,” Odette murmured. Every seat was now full, and more people had squeezed in along the walls in back.
Her bouncers were examining invitations and steering a few people who proffered faked ones to the exits. Other assistants scrambled to find folding chairs but inevitably some onlookers would remain standing.
The crowding added to the excitement. So it went. This was her fifth show in as many years. Each one had been more popular than the last.
Odette sighed inwardly as the house lights went down. The walls reflected a deep blue that suggested an undersea realm. She felt at the moment as if she were looking into an aquarium filled with colorful fish, very chic fish with rolling eyes and mouths that opened and closed as they moved about, sometimes in unison and sometimes wriggling frantically when they found themselves alone.
Bryan Bachman seemed out of place among them, but not at a loss. He was self-assured and confident, studying everything he saw with interest. A scientist, hmm? She would not have taken him for one, but she supposed California intellectuals dressed differently.
The Arelquins were doing their best to make conversation with him. Marie Arelquin seemed to be explaining something. Bryan nodded as if he understood and looked up suddenly at the curtain.
At Odette.
She had fancied herself invisible. Apparently not. Odette took a step back. He had to have seen her, so penetrating was his look. Standing there staring, now that the house lights had gone down, she must be visible behind the curtain.
Not that it mattered. Would he even know who she was?
Most likely not. Of course, Lucie saw to it that the creative head of the firm got plenty of publicity, and Odette was photographed often. Still, Bryan Bachman didn’t look like someone who read Vogue or Details or W.
The models were lining up not far away behind the curtain, nervous and clumsy in their high heels. They had very little in the way of material to conceal any stumbles or awkward turns on the catwalk, adorned only in the scantiest bras and panties ever seen, and fanciful feather trains and headdresses, which Marc and his team had provided, that harked back to the show-girls of the Folies Bergère.
Ready or not, they had to step out. Two or three girls glanced her way, and Odette gave them an encouraging smile.
She let the gap in the curtain fall closed, and went to confer with her makeup people, attending to last-second details, feeling rather distracted.
As soon as the parade down the catwalk was underway, she could escape and watch most of the show from a distance, as she usually did.
