Legacy of Lies Read Free Page B

mere draper, she was in the lower echelons of the profession.
    But Sophie Friedman had already proved herself to be one of Debord’s more eccentric clients. Unwilling to accept the idea that man was meant to fly, Sophie eschewed airline travel. The first day in the fitting room, she’d explained how she’d taken a private Pullman from Los Angeles toGrand Central Station, then the QEII to Cherbourg, thence to the Avenue Montaigne by Rolls-Royce.
    The woman might be eccentric, Alex thought. But she was no fool. “Madame is correct about black being slimming,” she hedged.
    â€œSo I won’t look fat?”
    Alex didn’t want to alienate Marie Hélène. Those who dared question the directress were summarily dismissed. Without references.
    A tendril of unruly hair escaped the chignon at the back of Alex’s neck. Buying time, she unhurriedly tucked it back into place. “You’re certainly not fat, Madame Friedman.”
    Actually, that was the truth. So far as it went. If she was to be totally honest, Alex would suggest that Debord was not the right designer for this middle-aged woman. The designer believed women came in two categories: polo ponies—those who were short and round—and Thoroughbreds—tall and slender. He prided himself on designing for the Thoroughbreds.
    Using Debord’s criteria, Alex decided he would probably consider the tall, robust Mrs. Friedman to be a Clydesdale.
    â€œI’ve always had big bones,” Sophie agreed. “But I still think this dress makes me look fat.”
    Alex’s innate sense of honesty warred with her common sense. As she’d feared, honesty won out.
    â€œPerhaps,” she suggested, ignoring Marie Hélène’s sharp look, “if we were to use a softer material than satin, perhaps a matte jersey. And draped it, like this.” With a few quick changes she concealed the woman’s short waist and broad hips and emphasized her firm, uplifted bustline.
    Sophie Friedman’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s just what it needed.” She turned to the directress. “Would Monsieur Debord be willing to make the changes?”
    â€œOf course.” Marie Hélène’s words were tinged withice, but her tone remained properly subservient. “It is Madame’s prerogative to alter anything she wishes.”
    â€œThen Madame wishes.” That settled, Sophie looked down at her diamond-studded watch. “ Madame is also starving.”
    â€œWe will take a break,” Marie Hélène murmured on cue. “It will be my pleasure to bring you lunch, Madame Friedman.”
    â€œNo offense, Marie Hélène,” Sophie said, “but I could use something more substantial than the rabbit food you serve around this place.” She looked down at Alex. “How about you?”
    â€œMe?”
    Startled, Alex dropped the box of pins, scattering them over the plush gray carpeting. Marie Hélène immediately knelt and threw three handfuls of pins over her shoulder. Alex had grown accustomed to the superstitions accompanying the business. Baste with green thread and you kill a season. Neglect to toss spilled pins over your shoulder and you’ve guaranteed a dispute. Lily Dache, legendary hat designer, would show on the thirteenth or not at all. Coco Chanel would wait for Antonia Castillo’s numerologist to schedule Mr. Castillo’s shows, then schedule her own at the same time. The irate designer was rumored to have used a Coco doll and pins for retaliation. Debord himself was famous for not shaving before a show.
    â€œI could use some company, Alexandra,” Sophie announced. “It is Alexandra, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes, Madame Friedman,” Alex answered from her place on the floor as she gathered up the scattered pins.
    â€œWell, then,” Sophie said with the no-nonsense air of a woman accustomed to getting her way, “since I hate